Chapter 10 Mia
Mia
I spent an embarrassing amount of time on my appearance this morning, taming my wild curls into a neat French braid with only the most strategically placed tendrils allowed to escape, putting on mascara, eyeliner, and even coating my lips with a color one shade darker than my natural pink.
Not that I'm trying to impress anyone. Definitely not.
I'm just... presenting myself professionally.
"Morning, Dr. Phillips," calls a nurse from reception, and I wave back, smiling wide enough that she raises an eyebrow. Okay, maybe I need to dial back the giddiness a notch.
But it's hard not to feel a little victorious. Sebastian ran the tests I suggested. He proved I was right about Marcus Ellis. And he didn't just email me the results or wait until today, he drove to my apartment after hours.
That has to mean something.
I step into the elevator, punching the button for the fourth floor and using the mirrored doors to check my teeth for lipstick smudges.
The memory of last night plays like a movie in my head—Sebastian backing away from me, his usual control fractured just enough that I could see something raw underneath.
The way his eyes had darkened when I said his name.
How he'd practically bolted from my apartment like a man being chased.
The elevator dings and I step out, headed toward the diagnostics department. My mind is racing with possibilities for what today might bring. Maybe things will be different now. Maybe that cold professional veneer has finally cracked.
Rounding the corner toward the nurses’ station, I slam straight into what feels like a brick wall. Except brick walls don't have heartbeats or smell like expensive cologne. Brick walls don't have warm, solid chests that momentarily press against mine before pulling away.
"Whoa, sorry, I wasn't…" The words die in my throat as I look up into Sebastian's face.
His body goes rigid, jaw tightening as he takes a deliberate step back. In the space of a heartbeat, his expression transforms from surprise to something cold.
"Good morning, Dr. Phillips," he says, the words formal enough to give me frostbite.
I blink, momentarily thrown by the Arctic blast where I expected at least a hint of warmth. But I recover quickly, offering a smile that I hope doesn't look as confused as I feel.
"Morning, Sebastian," I reply, my tone casual, friendly. Normal.
His jaw tightens visibly, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "That's Dr. Walker to you," he corrects, each syllable dripping with formality.
My smile freezes, then falls away entirely as I process the complete one-eighty from last night.
The man who sat across from me in a supply closet and shared his deepest professional regret, who drove to my apartment to show me test results that proved I was right, is gone.
In his place stands this distant stranger who's looking at me like I've committed some grave professional sin by using his first name.
"What the hell?" I demand, keeping my voice low but sharp. I'm acutely aware of the nurses pretending not to listen, of Dr. Kim hovering awkwardly by the medication cart, clearly unsure whether to approach.
Sebastian merely raises one eyebrow, his expression so perfectly controlled it might as well be carved from marble. Without another word, he steps around me and walks away, white coat flaring slightly with the movement.
I stand there with my mouth open, feeling the curious eyes of at least five staff members burning into my back.
The nurse behind the station isn't even pretending not to watch, her pen hovering forgotten over a chart.
Dr. Kim suddenly becomes very interested in studying a medication label.
Two orderlies exchange a look that makes my cheeks burn.
My shoulders slump before I can stop them, the buoyant feeling from earlier popped like a balloon.
Confusion and hurt swirl inside my chest, quickly giving way to something hotter and sharper.
Anger. Who does he think he is, playing hot and cold like this?
Last night he's at my apartment, looking at me with those dark eyes like he wanted to press me against the nearest wall, and today I'm Dr. Phillips again?
I square my shoulders, forcing myself to breathe evenly. I will not let him see how much his coldness stings. I will not give the gossip mill the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. And I will absolutely not spend another minute trying to decode Sebastian Walker's emotional constipation.
"Everything okay, Dr. Phillips?" asks the nurse, her concern seemingly genuine despite the curiosity etched across her face.
"Perfect," I reply, flashing a smile that feels more like baring teeth. "Just a little miscommunication. You know how doctors can be."
She laughs, and the tension breaks slightly. I adjust my messenger bag, every movement deliberate as I head toward the conference room where morning rounds will begin. My body moves on autopilot while my mind replays Sebastian's cold dismissal on a torturous loop.
Fine. If that's how he wants to play it, I can be Dr. Phillips.
I can be the perfect, professional colleague who never stepped foot in a supply closet with him, who never saw the vulnerability behind those dark eyes, who never stood in her doorway while he looked at her like she was something he was starving for.
I reach the conference room door, pausing to collect myself before I have to face him again. "Game on, Dr. Walker," I mutter under my breath. "Game fucking on."
The room feels like a pressure cooker by the time Sebastian strides in, exactly two minutes late.
The other fellows straighten imperceptibly in their chairs—Harper adjusting his already perfect tie, Naima smoothing her hijab, Jonah nearly knocking over his coffee in his rush to look attentive.
I keep my eyes fixed on my tablet, refusing to give Sebastian the satisfaction of seeing me jump to attention like the others.
My fingers grip the edges so tightly my knuckles turn white, but I force them to relax.
Deep breath in, slow breath out. I can do this.
I can be the picture of professional detachment, even if it kills me.
"Good morning," Sebastian says, his voice clinically neutral as he surveys the room. His eyes skip over me like I'm part of the furniture. "Let's begin rounds."
We fall into formation behind him like ducklings following their mother, the established hierarchy so clear it might as well be painted on our foreheads.
Sebastian leads, Harper positioned strategically at his right shoulder, Naima and Jonah flanking, and me bringing up the rear.
It's a position that wasn't assigned but somehow feels deliberate.
Our first patient is a thirty-eight-year-old woman with unexplained abdominal pain that's stumped three specialists already. Sebastian presents the case with surgical precision, outlining symptoms, previous treatments, and current status. When he finishes, he looks at each of us expectantly.
"Differential diagnoses?" he asks the group, though his eyes settle on Harper.
I scan through the chart on my tablet, piecing together symptoms and lab results. There's a pattern here that reminds me of something I saw during my ER rotation, a case that presented as standard IBS but turned out to be something rarer.
"I'd suggest we consider mesenteric ischemia," I say, stepping forward slightly. "The post-prandial pain pattern, weight loss, and elevated D-dimer all point to potential vascular compromise. If we start with a CT angiography—"
"That approach lacks evidence-based support," Sebastian cuts me off mid-sentence, his tone dismissive. He doesn't even look at me as he continues, "The symptoms more clearly indicate small intestinal bacterial overgrowth secondary to partial obstruction."
The interruption is so abrupt, so public, that I almost step back in shock. I've been in enough medical discussions to know the difference between healthy debate and deliberate undermining. This was the latter, delivered with surgical precision.
"But the timing of the pain in relation to eating suggests—" I try again, determined to finish my thought.
"We'll order an abdominal ultrasound and hydrogen breath test," Sebastian says to the group, effectively silencing me. "Dr. Langston, you'll oversee this case."
Harper nods with barely concealed satisfaction, shooting me a sideways glance that makes my teeth clench. I force myself to breathe normally, to not show how much this public dismissal stings. There's a flush creeping up my neck that I can't control, but I keep my expression neutral.
The next few patients go no differently. This man is purposefully ignoring my suggestions and handing out cases to everyone except me. It’s pissing me the hell off.
So when he announces a fifteen-minute break before continuing to the next wing, I feel like I can finally breathe again.
I use the moment of freedom to head toward Cheryl's room.
I genuinely want to check on her, partly because I'm concerned about her nutrition intake given her continued weight loss, and partly because I could use a friendly face after the morning from hell.
I'm almost at her door when a tall figure materializes in front of me, blocking the entrance like a human barricade. Sebastian stands there, arms crossed over his chest, expression impassive except for the slight tightening around his eyes.
"Patient visits are for medical necessity only, Dr. Phillips," he says, his voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby nurses to hear. "Not social calls."
The humiliation burns hotter than the anger, knowing that we have an audience for yet another public reprimand. I straighten my spine, refusing to shrink under his gaze.