Chapter 6 Sebastian
Sebastian
The darkness of the supply closet wraps around us like a shroud, the only light a thin slice beneath the door that casts Mia's tear-stained face in ghostly relief.
I didn't plan to step inside, didn't intend to close the door behind me, but here I am, standing in near-total darkness with a broken-looking woman huddled on the floor at my feet.
My eyes slowly adjust, and I can make out more of her now—knees drawn to her chest, red curls escaping her braid to frame her face, those usually vibrant eyes dulled with grief.
Something shifts in my chest, an uncomfortable tightness that I refuse to examine too closely.
"Dr. Phillips," I say again, my voice too loud in the confined space.
She sniffles, wiping frantically at her face with the sleeve of her lab coat. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick with tears. "I know this is unprofessional. I just needed a minute."
I should leave. I should tell her to pull herself together, that emotional outbursts have no place in a hospital. But my feet remain rooted to the floor, my body betraying my better judgment.
"Your patient," I say, the words coming out gentle. "Ellis."
She nods, fresh tears spilling over. "He has—had—a little girl. Emma." Her voice cracks on the name. "Her picture was right there on his phone the whole time we were working on him."
The closet is small, barely enough room for the shelves of supplies and the two of us. I shift, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the space, with the scent of her shampoo—something citrusy—mingling with the antiseptic smell of the hospital.
"Sometimes we lose them," I say, the platitude tasting stale on my tongue.
"I know that," she responds, a flash of her usual fire breaking through the grief. "I'm not naive, Dr. Walker. It's just—"
She stops and presses her lips together as if holding back words she doesn't trust herself to say. In the dim light, I can see the pulse at her throat, rapid and fluttering like a trapped bird.
"It reminded you of your father," I finish for her.
Her head snaps up, those green eyes widening. "How did you—"
"You mentioned it yesterday. Outside Cheryl's room.
" I slide down to sit against the opposite wall, my knees nearly touching hers in the tight space.
It's an unexpected move, putting us at the same level, and I don't examine too closely why I've done it.
"You said your father died because doctors didn't listen to him. "
She stares at me for a long moment, like she's trying to decipher a particularly complex puzzle. "I didn't think you were actually listening to me."
"I listen to everything, Dr. Phillips." The words come out low. "It's part of being a good diagnostician."
"Mia," she says softly. "If we're sitting on a supply closet floor together, you might as well call me Mia."
Something about the way she says it, like we're sharing a secret, makes my skin feel too tight.
She wipes at her eyes again, leaving a smudge of mascara beneath the right one. Without thinking, I reach out and lightly brush my thumb against her cheekbone to remove it. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my touch, and I feel her breath catch.
I pull back immediately, clenching my hand into a fist at my side. "You had..." I gesture vaguely at my own face.
"Oh," she says, touching the spot where my thumb just was. "Thanks."
The silence that follows feels charged, the air between us thick with something I don't want to name. Desperate to regain some semblance of professional distance, I clear my throat.
"My third year of residency, I lost a twelve-year-old boy," I say, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them.
"Cancer. We thought we had it beat, but it came back more aggressively than before.
I spent twenty-two straight hours at his bedside, trying everything, breaking every protocol.
" I stare at the floor between us, unable to look at her as I continue.
"He died anyway. I nearly quit medicine that day. "
"What stopped you?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
Looking up, I meet her gaze. "His mother. She thanked me for fighting so hard for her son. Said she'd never seen a doctor care so much." My mouth twists in a humorless smile. "I learned my lesson, though. Caring that much is a liability. It clouds judgment and leads to mistakes."
"Is that why you're so..." she gestures at me, at the space between us.
"So what?"
"Controlled. Distant." She tilts her head, studying me. "Like you've built walls so high no one can see over them."
The observation cuts too close to the bone, and I physically recoil from it. "You don't know me, Dr. Phillips."
"Dr. Phillips? Right." A hint of a smile curves her lips, despite the lingering tears in her eyes. "And you're right, I don't know you. But I'd like to."
The simple honesty in her statement catches me off guard.
I can't remember the last time someone looked at me the way she's looking at me now—like I'm a person worth knowing, not just a brilliant mind or a convenient body.
It makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I haven't allowed myself to be since Debra.
"You should get back to work," I say, my voice rough. "Harper will be looking for you."
"Harper's an ass," she says with unexpected vehemence. "He barely looked at Marcus, just his chart. Like he wasn't even a person."
"That's how some doctors cope," I say, feeling oddly defensive of Harper despite knowing exactly what she means. "Detachment is a survival mechanism."
"Is that what you're doing right now? Detaching?" She leans forward slightly, closing the already small gap between us. I can see flecks of gold in her green irises, can count each individual freckle dusting her nose and cheeks. "Because it doesn't feel like detachment to me, Sebastian."
My name on her lips sends a jolt through me, electric and unwelcome. I shouldn't let her use it, shouldn't let her push past the boundaries I've carefully constructed. But I can't seem to summon the will to correct her.
"What does it feel like?" The question escapes before I can stop it, my voice dropping to a whisper.
She doesn't answer immediately, her gaze briefly drops to my mouth before returning to my eyes. The air between us crackles with tension and… possibility. Drawn by some magnetic pull I can't explain, can't resist, I lean forward.
Just then the supply closet door swings open abruptly, light flooding the small space. We both jerk back, blinking in the sudden brightness. A nurse stands in the doorway, her expression shifting from surprise to poorly concealed interest as she takes in the scene before her.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I just needed some gauze," she says not sounding sorry at all.
I stand quickly, straightening my tie and lab coat. "Dr. Phillips was just... We were discussing a case."
The nurse's raised eyebrow makes it clear she doesn't believe me for a second. Mia rises more slowly, her lab coat wrinkled, her face still bearing traces of tears despite her attempt to compose herself.
"I'll let you get what you need," she tells the nurse, slipping past her through the doorway. Outside, she pauses and glances back at me with an unreadable expression. "Thank you, Dr. Walker."
She's gone before I can respond, the echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor. I stand there for a moment longer, trying to process what just happened, what almost happened. The nurse busies herself gathering supplies, stealing curious glances my way.
"Found everything you need?" I ask, my voice clipped and professional once more.
"Yes, Doctor," she replies, not quite hiding her smirk.
I leave without another word, the memory of Mia's tear-stained face and the feel of her skin beneath my thumb following me like a shadow I can't outrun.
What the hell was I thinking, sitting down beside her, sharing that story about the boy I lost?
Worse, what was I about to do before that nurse interrupted us?
The memory of leaning toward her, drawn by some invisible force I can't explain, makes my collar feel suddenly tight. I adjust it with one finger, ignoring the looks from passing staff. I don’t comfort crying fellows.
And I absolutely do not almost kiss them, no matter how compelling their tear-brightened eyes might be.
Forcefully punching the button for the elevator earns me a startled look from a passing orderly. But I don’t care.
Seriously. What the fuck was I thinking?
The doors slide open, and I step inside, grateful for the momentary solitude. As the elevator descends, I catch my reflection in the polished steel doors. I look like a man who's been through something, which is ridiculous. Nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen.
Except that's a lie, and I know it. If that nurse hadn't walked in when she did...
The elevator stops at the third floor, and I compose my features into their usual mask of professional detachment as the doors open. I need to focus on work, on medicine, not on the softness of Mia's skin beneath my thumb or the way her voice caressed my name.
I check my watch. I have an hour before my next patient consultation; time I'd planned to use reviewing case files.
Instead, I head toward the lab. I tell myself it's to check on test results for Cheryl, not because I'm avoiding the diagnostics department where I might run into Mia.
Not because I'm afraid of what I might do if I see her again so soon.
As I round the corner toward the nurses' station, I hear Harper's voice, the smug tone unmistakable even before I can make out his words.
"Can you believe Dr. Phillips wanted to test for Guillain-Barré?" He laughs, the sound grating against my ears. "What a waste of resources."
I freeze mid-stride, something hot and dangerous unfurling in my chest. The nurse he's talking to—petite, dark-haired, and clearly uncomfortable with the conversation—spots me over Harper's shoulder. Her eyes widen slightly.
"Dr. Langston," she says, a warning in her tone. "Perhaps we should—"
But Harper continues, oblivious to my presence. "She was a mess after Ellis coded. Completely unprofessional. Crying in a supply closet, can you imagine? If she can't handle losing patients, she's in the wrong—"
I step forward deliberately, making my presence known. Harper's words die in his throat as he turns, his expression shifting from smug superiority to cautious neutrality when he sees me.
"Dr. Walker," he says, straightening. "I was just discussing the Ellis case with—"
"Don’t," I say, my voice clipped. “If you have issues with your co-workers, you’ll discuss them with me and me alone. I won’t tolerate idle gossip during work hours.” Without waiting for a response, I continue past them.
My original destination forgotten, I head down to the morgue instead.
It’s quiet, as it always is, the hushed atmosphere a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the upper floors.
The familiar scent of disinfectant and the underlying sweetness of decay greet me as I push through the double doors.
The attendant looks up from his desk. "Dr. Walker. Something I can help you with?"
"Ellis," I say, moving toward the bank of refrigerated units along the far wall. "Marcus Ellis. I need tissue samples."
He consults his clipboard, then nods. "Bay four. He's scheduled for autopsy tomorrow morning."
"I need samples now," I say, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves from the dispenser on the wall. "I'll do it myself."
The attendant raises an eyebrow but knows better than to question me. He unlocks the appropriate drawer and slides it open, revealing Ellis's body, already prepped for examination.
I work methodically, my movements precise as I collect what I need. The kinds of specimens that would show Guillain-Barré syndrome.
I have no logical explanation for why I'm doing this. No explanation except the image of Mia's tear-stained face.
I seal the samples, label them with meticulous care, and sign the requisition forms for the specialized testing. The attendant watches me curiously but says nothing as I finish my work.
"Rush these," I tell him, handing over the samples. "I want results as soon as possible."
"Yes, Doctor."
As I strip off the gloves and wash my hands in the large stainless steel sink, I catch my reflection in the polished surface of a nearby cabinet.
I look the same as always—controlled, composed, and professional.
But something has shifted internally, some fundamental plate has moved beneath the surface of who I thought I was.
Why am I doing this? The question nags at me as I dry my hands. Why does it matter so much that Mia might be right? Why do I care what Harper thinks of her?
The uncomfortable answer hovers at the edges of my consciousness, refusing to be fully acknowledged.
There's something about her—her fierce determination, her emotional intelligence, her refusal to back down—that gets under my skin in ways I can't explain, can't control. And control is everything to me.
I head back toward the elevator, my thoughts still tangled around Mia Phillips and the mystery of Marcus Ellis's death.
As the doors close, sealing me in once more, I allow myself to admit what I've been avoiding: I want her to be right.
Not only that, I want to be the one to tell her she was right.
I want to see her face light up with that mixture of surprise and satisfaction I know would follow. I want...
The realization hits me with the force of physical impact, and I actually reach out to steady myself against the elevator wall.
I want her. I want Mia Phillips in ways I haven't allowed myself to want anyone since Debra betrayed me.
In ways that terrify me because they feel so inevitable, so beyond my careful control.
The elevator chimes as it reaches my floor.
I straighten, adjusting my tie and fixing my expression into its usual mask of professional detachment.
I have patients to see, a department to run, and fellows to evaluate.
I can't afford distractions, especially not ones with wild red hair and eyes that see too much.
But as I step out into the corridor, I check my watch, calculating how long until the test results will be back. Imagining Mia's reaction when I tell her that I ran the test she suggested, that I listened when no one else would.
It's a dangerous path I'm walking, and I know it. But for the first time in years, danger feels like something other than a threat. It feels like possibility.