Chapter 8 Sebastian
Sebastian
I've been standing outside Mia's apartment door for seven minutes.
I know this because I've checked my watch exactly four times since I got here, each glance confirming what I already know—this is a mistake.
The paper in my hand feels heavier than it should, the test results I could have easily shared tomorrow morning at the hospital burning a hole through my palm.
Professional boundaries exist for a reason, and here I am, demolishing them one by one.
I pace three steps to the left, three steps to the right, my hand clenching and unclenching around the folded paper. This could have waited until morning. Should have waited.
The trip here wasn't planned. After leaving the hospital, I drove home with every intention of reviewing case files over a glass of Macallan and going to bed early.
Instead, I sat in my car in the parking garage, staring at the test results I'd run for Marcus Ellis.
Guillain-Barré syndrome, just like she suspected.
She'd been right, and something about that fact had propelled me out of the garage and onto the road, my car seeming to drive itself to her address.
The address I pulled from her personnel file before leaving the hospital like some part of me knew this would happen.
What the hell am I doing here? I'm her supervisor.
I don't make house calls to fellows with test results that could easily wait twelve hours.
This is a violation of every professional boundary I've established over the years.
Distance. Control. Objectivity. The pillars I've built my career on.
Coming here undermines all of that, and for what?
To see her face light up with vindication?
To prove that I'm not the cold, protocol-obsessed doctor she thinks I am?
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I need to leave. Now. Before she answers the door, before I do something else I'll regret. I turn on my heel, shoving the test results into my pocket, when I hear movement inside her apartment.
I freeze, caught in the act of retreat like a teenager about to bolt from a girl's front porch. For a wild moment, I consider actually running, but my feet remain rooted to the worn hallway carpet as I hear the unmistakable sound of a lock turning over.
The door swings open, and all the air leaves my lungs in a silent rush.
Mia stands in the doorway, her expression a mixture of confusion and something else I can't decipher.
Her red curls are piled high on top of her head.
Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, and a constellation of freckles are visible across the bridge of her nose that I've never noticed before.
But it's what she's wearing that makes my mouth go dry.
A faded Johns Hopkins t-shirt hangs loose on her frame, the fabric worn thin enough that I can make out the shadow of her breasts beneath it.
The neckline dips to reveal her collarbone, a delicate structure I want to trace with my fingertips.
The shirt just about reaches her hips, leaving miles of pale, freckled leg exposed below.
Her sleep shorts—if they can even be called that—are barely visible beneath the hem of her shirt, a glimpse of soft cotton that makes my hands itch to discover exactly where fabric ends and Mia begins.
I force my eyes back to her face, but that's no safer. Her lips are slightly parted in surprise, pink and full and utterly fucking kissable.
"Dr. Walker?" she says, and I realize I've been staring far too long without speaking. "Is everything okay? Did something happen at the hospital?"
I open my mouth to respond, but my brain seems to have disconnected from my vocal cords. She shifts her weight from one bare foot to the other, and I helplessly track the movement, my eyes drawn down her legs again before I can stop myself.
"I'm sorry for the intrusion," I finally manage, voice rough. "I know it's late. This was—" Impulsive. Inappropriate. "—unprofessional of me."
"Okay..." she draws out the word, clearly waiting for me to explain myself. But I remain rooted in place, unable to step forward into her apartment or retreat down the hallway.
"Are you going to tell me why you're here?" she prompts, shoving a stray curl behind her ear in a gesture that somehow manages to be both innocent and the most erotic thing I've seen in months.
My jaw clenches involuntarily, my pulse kicking up as I try to remember why I thought this was a good idea.
"I have something for you," I say, my voice dropping lower despite my best efforts to maintain some semblance of professional distance. "Something that couldn't wait until morning."
Her eyebrows lift slightly, those green eyes widening with curiosity.
She leans against the doorframe, and the movement pulls her shirt tighter across her chest, revealing the outline of her nipples against the thin fabric.
My hands tighten into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I fight to keep my gaze on her face.
"Must be important if you're here at ten o'clock on a work night."
I should just hand her the results and leave. That was the plan. Give her the vindication she deserves and go before I do something unprofessional. But standing here, looking at her in the dim light of her apartment doorway, all my carefully constructed walls feel like they're crumbling at my feet.
"It is," I say, and I'm not sure anymore if I'm talking about the test results or something else entirely.
"Well, since you're here, you might as well come in.
" Mia steps back from the doorway, a half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Otherwise Mrs. Gonzalez down the hall will have you starring in her morning gossip rotation.
The last guy who visited made it into her prayer circle announcements. Apparently, he was my drug dealer."
I hesitate, one foot hovering between the hallway and the threshold of her apartment. Stepping inside feels dangerously significant, like crossing some invisible line I can’t uncross.
A soft click from down the hall makes the decision for me. A door cracks open, and I catch sight of an elderly woman's curious face peering through the narrow gap.
"Speak of the devil," Mia mutters, then raises her voice. "Evening, Mrs. Gonzalez. Just a colleague dropping by."
I quickly step into Mia's apartment, hearing the neighbor's door shut as Mia closes her own. The click of the lock sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet between us.
Her apartment engulfs me immediately—warm, chaotic, and alive in ways my sterile condo could never be.
Plants crowd every windowsill and surface, their green leaves cascading down bookshelves and reaching toward the ceiling from floor pots.
The walls are painted a soft sage that makes the small space feel like something breathing.
Mismatched throw pillows pile on a well-worn blue couch that looks like it's seen a decade of movie nights and study sessions.
What catches me off-guard the most are the personal touches everywhere—framed photos of Mia with an older man who must be her father, their matching red hair and easy smiles a genetic echo.
Medical journals stacked haphazardly beside what I recognize as romance novels, their covers featuring men with improbable muscles clutching swooning women.
It's so completely her that I’m momentarily speechless. Every inch of this space screams Mia—vibrant, warm, and utterly unguarded. The complete opposite of my apartment with its minimalist design and carefully curated emptiness.
"Sorry about the mess," she says, though it's not really mess, just lived in. "Wasn't exactly expecting company tonight."
She tugs self-consciously at the hem of her t-shirt. The movement only draws my attention back to her legs, to the fact that we're alone in her apartment and she's dressed for bed.
"I should have called," I say, my voice sounding unnaturally stiff even to my own ears.
"Do you even have my number?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I don't. Or I do, somewhere in her personnel file.
"It's fine," she continues, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. I remain standing, afraid that settling into her space would make this visit feel even more personal than it already does. "If this is about the supply closet earlier, I wanted to apologize for—"
"It's not," I interrupt, desperate to avoid any mention of that dark, intimate space where I'd nearly crossed a line. My hand moves to my pocket, pulling out the folded paper that's been burning a hole there. "It's this."
I thrust the paper toward her more abruptly than necessary.
Confusion creases her brow as she unfolds it and I can’t help but watch her face intently, cataloging every micro-expression as she reads.
The initial confusion, the dawning realization, and finally the widening of her eyes as understanding hits.
"You ran tests on Ellis," she says, looking up at me. The paper trembles slightly in her hand. "For Guillain-Barré. After he died."
I nod, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. Her eyes search mine, and I barely resist the urge to shift from foot to foot.
"The results were positive," she continues, gaze dropping back to the paper. "Atypical presentation, just like I suggested." Her voice wavers slightly. "How did you know?"
“The how doesn’t matter just that the evidence supported further investigation," I say, the clinical words at odds with the warmth spreading through my chest at the look on her face.
Waving the paper through the air, she steps closer to me. "But why, Sebastian? Why run these tests after he was gone? It doesn't change the outcome."
"Isn't that the question of the day," I mutter, taking an instinctive step backward as she advances. My back hits a bookshelf, sending a small framed photo wobbling. I catch it without looking, my eyes unable to leave her face.
Mia moves closer still, close enough that I can smell the citrus scent of her shampoo, can see the gold flecks in her green irises. We're nearly the same height, putting us eye to eye in a way that feels unbearably intimate.
"Sebastian," she says again. "Why?"
My name in her mouth is my undoing. My heart rate accelerates to a wild gallop as blood rushes to my dick with embarrassing immediacy. Every cell in my body screams to grab her, to crush her lips beneath mine, to push her against the nearest wall and discover if she tastes as good as she smells.
Her eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and I know with sudden, devastating clarity that if I kissed her right now, she'd kiss me back. The realization hits me straight between the ribs.
"I should go," I choke out, setting the photo back on the shelf with unsteady hands. "Early rounds tomorrow. This was... I shouldn't have...We'll discuss the implications for diagnostics tomorrow. At the hospital. During work hours."
I'm babbling, my usual eloquence deserting me as I edge along the bookshelf toward the door. Mia watches me with a mixture of confusion and something that looks dangerously like disappointment.
"You're leaving? Just like that?" she asks, still holding the test results. "You came all this way to show me I was right, and now you're running away?"
"Not running," I correct automatically, even as I reach for the doorknob behind me without turning around. "Strategic retreat."
A flash of amusement crosses her face. "Right."
"Good night, Dr. Phillips," I say, desperately trying to reestablish some professional distance even as I'm literally backing out of her apartment.
"It's Mia," she counters with a challenge in her eyes.
"Tomorrow," I repeat. "We'll discuss this tomorrow."
I step into the hallway, nearly colliding with the wall in my haste to escape. Mia stands in her doorway, test results in hand, watching me with an expression I can't decipher.
"Thank you," she calls after me as I stride toward the elevator. "For checking."
I raise a hand in acknowledgment without looking back, unable to trust myself with another glimpse of her in that threadbare shirt with her hair piled high on her head.
The elevator doors slide open with merciful speed, and I step inside, punching the lobby button before leaning against the back wall as the doors close.
My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.
I came to her apartment to prove something—to her, to myself, I'm not even sure anymore.
Instead, I've only proven how dangerously close I am to shattering every professional boundary I've ever set.
And the worst part?
As the elevator descends, all I can think about is going back up.