Chapter 4 Mia
Mia
The last patient file closes with a satisfying click as I update the final notes for the day.
My first shift as an official Sierra Mercy fellow is ending, and I've survived…
barely. My feet ache, my brain feels like it's been wrung out like a sponge, and somewhere between the third and fourth case presentation, I realized I'd forgotten to eat lunch.
But there's one more stop I need to make before I can drag my exhausted body home.
Cheryl's room beckons from the end of the hall.
I shouldn't be doing this. Dr. Walker made it painfully clear that getting personally involved with patients isn't part of the fellowship program.
But something about the former dancer pulls at me.
Maybe because she reminds me of the fierce independence Dad showed during his illness, right up until he couldn't anymore.
I knock softly before pushing the door open wider. "Knock knock. Is this a bad time?"
She looks up from her book, eyes brightening when she sees me.
"Birdie. I was wondering if you'd fly back this way.
" She quickly tucks a bookmark between the pages, but not before I catch a glimpse of the cover—a shirtless man with abs you could grate cheese on, clutching a swooning woman in a period dress.
"Nice reading material," I say, grinning as I step into the room.
"Don't judge," she says, not a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "When your body betrays you, sometimes you need to remember what it feels like to be alive. And trust me, Nathaniel here—" she pats the cover, "—is very life-affirming."
I laugh, pulling the visitor's chair closer to her bed. "How are you feeling? Really?"
"The tremors are worse," she admits, holding out a hand that quivers visibly in the air between us. "But my spirits are better now that fresh minds are on the case. Especially yours."
"I haven't solved anything yet," I remind her, guilt twisting slightly at the hope in her voice.
"You will." Her certainty is almost unnerving. "You see more than test results. You see me."
Taking her hand, I note the cool, paper-thin quality of her skin. "We're going to figure this out," I promise, then immediately regret making a promise I might not be able to keep.
"That handsome boss of yours seemed quite irritated by our little chat this morning," Cheryl says, her expression shifting to something mischievous. "He kept glaring at you like you'd stolen his favorite toy."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Dr. Walker isn't a fan of my approach to, well, anything."
"Dr. Walker," she mimics my formal tone. "Is hot as hell when he's annoyed." She raises an eyebrow when I choke slightly. "What? I'm old, not blind. Those dark eyes, that jaw, those hands..." She sighs dramatically. "If I were thirty years younger, I'd climb him like a tree."
"Cheryl." I try to sound scandalized, but a laugh escapes instead.
"You've noticed too." It's not a question. Her eyes sparkle with an almost predatory amusement. "Of course you have. The air practically crackled when the two of you were in the same room."
"That was the sound of him mentally drafting my termination notice," I mutter.
She shakes her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "You know what they say about the grumpy ones, don't you?"
I shouldn't ask. I really shouldn't. "What do they say?"
Her smile widens to something wicked. "They're always the best in bed. All that control, all that intensity... when it finally breaks?" She makes a small explosive gesture with her fingers. "Volcanic."
My face must be the color of my hair by now. "I think we should discuss your medication schedule," I say, desperately reaching for professionalism like a life raft.
We talk for another ten minutes about her symptoms, the timeline of progression, any patterns she's noticed. I'm scribbling notes, my mind already assembling and discarding diagnostic possibilities, when she suddenly looks past me toward the door.
"Speak of the devil," she murmurs.
I turn, and my heart performs an Olympic-level gymnastic routine inside my chest. Dr. Sebastian Walker fills the doorway like he was designed specifically to make hospital architecture seem inadequate.
His white coat is gone, leaving him in his charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to expose those forearms that shouldn't be as distracting as they are.
He looks tired, a slight shadow deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, but no less intimidating.
"Dr. Phillips," he practically growls. "A word?"
Cheryl squeezes my hand. "Run along, Birdie. But remember what I said."
I stand, smoothing my wrinkled clothes as if that will somehow make me more presentable. "I'll check on you tomorrow," I promise her.
"I'm counting on it," she replies, that knowing glint still in her eye.
I head toward the door, where Sebastian hasn't moved an inch, forcing me to squeeze past him.
The moment I step into the hallway, I turn to face him but misjudge the distance.
My shoulder bumps against his chest, sending a jolt of awareness straight through me.
I take a quick step back, but he's already moving forward, and suddenly the corridor feels impossibly narrow.
"Sorry, I—"
"What exactly do you think you're doing?" he interrupts, his voice pitched low enough that it won't carry back to Cheryl's room.
"Checking on a patient," I answer, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. This close, I can see the flecks of amber in his otherwise dark eyes, can catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that shouldn't make my stomach tighten the way it does.
"Your shift ended an hour ago," he says, stepping closer. I refuse to retreat, even though his height forces me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You're here to be a doctor, Dr. Phillips. Not a friend."
"I can be both," I counter, annoyed at how my pulse quickens with his proximity. "Connecting with patients helps me understand their symptoms better."
"It clouds your judgment," he says, jaw tightening. "Creates emotional attachments that compromise objective diagnosis."
"With all due respect, Dr. Walker, that's bullshit." The words escape before I can filter them.
His eyebrows lift slightly, the only indication that I've surprised him. "Excuse me?"
"Connecting with patients doesn't compromise my judgment, it enhances it," I say, standing my ground even as he looms over me.
"Cheryl told me things about her symptom progression today that aren't in any of her charts because no one bothered to ask her about how her dance performances changed before her diagnosis. "
His eyes narrow, but there's something beyond irritation there, something that might be curiosity. "And you think these insights will lead to a diagnosis where board-certified specialists have failed?"
"I think ignoring the human element of medicine is why we miss things," I say quietly. "My father died because doctors kept looking at his tests instead of listening to him."
Something shifts in his expression, a momentary softening that's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Establish boundaries," he finally says. "For your sake and hers. Ms. DuBois' prognosis isn't good without a diagnosis, and getting emotionally involved will only make it harder when—" He stops abruptly.
"When what?" I challenge.
"When difficult decisions need to be made," he finishes, stepping back slightly. "Go home. Rest. I need you clear-headed tomorrow."
He turns and walks away before I can respond, his long strides carrying him down the corridor with an efficiency that somehow still manages to look graceful. I watch him go, irritation and something more complicated swirling inside my chest.
"Difficult decisions," I mutter to myself as I head toward the elevator. "Like deciding whether to admit when you're wrong?"
But even as I punch the elevator button with enough force to send sparks of pain up my fingers, I can't ignore the lingering warmth where my shoulder brushed against his chest, or the way my skin still tingles from his proximity.
It’s still tingling when I walk into Sal’s Bistro.
The restaurant sits just close enough to Sierra Mercy to be convenient but far enough that you don't feel like you're eating in the cafeteria annex.
I spot Laney immediately, her two messy buns like exclamation points above the crowd, her hand already waving frantically as if I might somehow miss the only person in the place wearing scrubs with tiny cartoon dinosaurs on them.
"Over here, sunshine," she calls, loud enough that several nearby diners glance our way. Laney has never understood the concept of volume control, especially when excited.
I weave between tables, nodding at a few familiar faces—nurses I met today, a lab tech who processed my orders, even Dr. Kim huddled in a corner booth looking like he's trying to become one with the upholstery. When I reach our table, Laney jumps up and engulfs me in a hug.
"First day survivor," she exclaims, pulling back to examine me. "I ordered you wine. The good kind, not the eight-dollar special that tastes like grape-flavored punishment."
"You're an angel," I say, collapsing into the chair opposite her. My body feels like it's made of lead and rubber bands, somehow heavy and unstable at the same time.
Laney settles back into her seat, brown eyes sparkling with anticipation. Her caramel-colored hair is escaping from both buns, creating a chaotic halo around her face. Despite working a twelve-hour shift, her eyeliner remains perfect—a skill I've never mastered and deeply envy.
"So?" she prompts, leaning forward. "How was it? Did you meet the legendary Dr. Walker? Is he as brilliant and broody as everyone says? Did you dazzle him with your big brain and fiery curls?"
I groan, letting my head fall forward until it thunks against the table.
"That good, huh?" She nudges my wine glass closer. "Drink. Then talk."