Chapter 7 Mia
Mia
My apartment door clicks shut behind me and my shoulders slump in relief.
Home. Finally. I drop my messenger bag on the floor and toss my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.
The day clings to me like a second skin—the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the weight of Marcus's death, the heat of Sebastian's gaze in that supply closet—all of it follows me into my sanctuary, refusing to be left at the threshold where it belongs.
I kick off my shoes, nudging them half-heartedly toward the rack that's supposed to keep my entryway organized. My feet sink into the plush rug I splurged on last month, the soft fibers a welcome change from the hard hospital floors I've been standing on for twelve hours straight.
"What a fucking day," I mutter to the empty apartment.
The silence answers me, comfortable and familiar.
My place isn't large—a one-bedroom with windows that face east because Dad always said morning light was nature's way of giving you a fresh start.
But I've made it mine in ways that matter.
Walls painted in soft sage and cream. Bookshelves stuffed with medical journals and the romance novels I pretend not to read.
Photos everywhere—Dad and me at the Grand Canyon, at my med school graduation, fixing the old Chevy in our driveway.
And plants. So many plants.
They're clustered by the windows, a green welcome committee that doesn't judge my long absences or my tendency to talk to inanimate objects. I shuffle toward them now, grabbing the blue watering can from beneath the sink as I pass through the tiny kitchen.
"Well, hey there, babies," I say, filling the can at the tap. "Miss me? Soil's looking a little dry, Fitzwilliam."
Fitzwilliam is my Boston fern, dramatic and high-maintenance like his literary namesake. I water him first, careful not to oversaturate his delicate roots. The simple ritual of caring for something living soothes the jagged edges of my nerves.
"So," I continue, moving to the African violet I've managed to keep alive against all odds. "I killed someone today. Or rather, failed to save them. Same difference."
I shift to my row of pothos plants, their vines trailing down the bookshelf in vibrant green cascades. The watering can tilts as I pour, the gentle splash of water on soil an odd counterpoint to the heaviness of my words.
"And then I lost it. Completely fucking lost it.
Found a supply closet and just... broke down.
Like some first-year resident who'd never lost a patient before.
" I shake my head, embarrassment warming my cheeks at the memory.
"So unprofessional. Dad would've told me to feel it, then let it go. Not hide in a closet sobbing."
The rubber plant gets an extra pour for listening so well. I've named him Bob. He seems like a Bob.
"But that's not even the worst part," I continue, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Sebastian found me there."
Just saying his name makes something flutter in my chest, an annoying biological response I wish I could switch off. I move to the windowsill succulents, carefully measuring out just enough water for their desert-adapted systems.
"Sebastian fucking Walker walked in on me having a complete emotional meltdown. My boss. The man who already thinks I'm trouble." I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window for a moment. "And now he probably thinks I'm unstable on top of being reckless."
I pull back, watching a drop of water make its way down a succulent leaf.
The memory of the supply closet returns in vivid detail—the darkness, the cramped space, Sebastian sliding down to sit across from me.
His voice as he told me about the boy he lost. The unexpected vulnerability in those dark eyes.
And me stupidly calling him by his first name.
"I'm going to have to apologize tomorrow," I tell my favorite jade plant as I give it a careful drink. "Claim temporary insanity or something. 'Sorry for the emotional breakdown, Dr. Walker. It was a momentary lapse in professional judgment. Won't happen again.'"
With a sigh I move on to the potted herbs in the kitchen window. “He already thinks I'm too emotional, too invested. I need to show him I can be objective… detached when necessary."
The memory shifts, replaying like a film I can't stop watching.
Sebastian sitting across from me in that dark closet, his knees almost touching mine.
His voice, rough with an emotion I couldn't name as he shared his own loss.
The way his thumb felt against my skin when he brushed away that smudge. Me leaning in.
And then...
Water splashes onto the counter as I freeze with the can tilted at a dangerous angle. The memory suddenly sharpens into crystal clarity. He leaned in. Sebastian leaned toward me in that moment before the nurse opened the door. If she hadn't walked in...
"No," I say firmly, righting the watering can and grabbing a dish towel to mop up the spill. "No, no, no. That's not what happened. He wasn't going to… we weren't about to…"
But the memory is insistent, refusing to be rewritten. The way his eyes had dropped to my lips for the briefest moment. The almost imperceptible shift of his body toward mine. The charged silence between us, heavy with… something.
"It was nothing," I tell the basil plant, which seems skeptical. "Just two colleagues having a moment of mutual understanding during a difficult day. Professional empathy. That's all."
The plants, thankfully, don't call me on my bullshit. I set the watering can in the sink with so much force that water splashes onto my scrub top. Great. Now I'm a mess inside and out.
"Even if he was leaning in—which he wasn't—it would be a terrible idea," I continue, talking more to myself than the herbs now. "He's my boss. My mentor. The man who literally decides whether I have a job next year."
And he's gorgeous, whispers a treacherous part of my brain. And brilliant. And when he actually talks about medicine instead of protocol, his eyes light up in a way that makes your stomach flip.
"Shut up," I mutter to my own thoughts, turning away from the plants and toward the refrigerator. I need food, or wine, or preferably both. Anything to quiet the part of my brain that keeps replaying what happened in that closet.
I yank open the fridge door, greeted by the sad reality of my grocery situation—half a carton of almond milk, some questionable Chinese takeout, and a bottle of white wine that's been there for at least a month. Adulting at its finest.
But my mind isn't on food anymore. It's stuck in that supply closet, with Sebastian's dark eyes looking into mine, with the ghost of what might have been hanging between us. And no amount of talking to plants or raiding my pathetic fridge can make me forget it.
Still, I have to try.
Abandoning the fridge, I move to the freezer.
The door sticks when I yank it open, releasing a puff of frosty air into my face.
Behind a stack of Lean Cuisines and a bag of frozen peas I don't remember buying sits the emergency stash—Ben & Jerry's Half Baked.
I grab it, not bothering with a bowl as I snag a spoon from the drawer and shuffle back to the living room.
Some days require direct-from-container ice cream therapy, and today definitely qualifies.
I sink into my couch—a secondhand monstrosity in faded blue that Dad helped me pick out for my first apartment.
It's ugly as sin but feels like a hug when you sit in it, which is all that matters on days like this.
The coffee table in front of me is cluttered with medical journals, a half-empty mug of yesterday's coffee, and the worn leather photo album I've been avoiding for weeks.
My fingers hover over it for a moment before I pull it onto my lap, the familiar weight settling against my thighs as I pop the ice cream lid. The first spoonful melts on my tongue—sweet, cold comfort—as I flip open the cover.
Dad smiles up at me from the first page, his arm around three-year-old me at some forgotten picnic. His red hair—the same shade as mine before gray started creeping in at his temples—catches the sunlight. My chest tightens at his wide grin, the laugh lines around eyes that mirror my own.
I turn the page, and suddenly I'm seven, sitting on a too-big bicycle while Dad holds the back of the seat. My face is a mix of terror and determination.
I remember that day perfectly—the hot August sun, the gravel driveway that threatened road rash with every wobble, and my absolute certainty that I would crash and die. And Dad, steady as always, jogging alongside me.
"You're doing great, Mimi," he'd called. "I've got you."
"But what if I fall?" I'd asked, panic rising as I felt the bike tilt.
"Then you get back up and try again. That's what Phillips do."
He let go a moment later. I didn't realize until I'd made it all the way to the mailbox, turning with triumphant glee only to find him standing thirty feet back, hands on his hips, pride radiating from his smile.
I dig my spoon deeper into the ice cream, the memory so vivid I can almost feel the summer heat on my skin. "That's what Phillips do," I murmur.
The next page shows me at my high school graduation, sandwiched between Dad and my science teacher, holding my acceptance letter to pre-med.
Dad's arm is around my shoulders, his face split in a grin so wide it must have hurt.
I trace the outline of his jaw with my fingertip, remembering how he'd cried in the car afterward—the only time I'd ever seen him cry before his illness.
"You're going to be something extraordinary, Mimi," he'd said, his voice rough with emotion. "You're going to help so many people in ways no one else could."