Chapter 11 Mia
Mia
Monday morning arrives with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to my optimism.
I stride into Sierra Mercy with my game face on.
Last night's resolve feels like armor as I hit the elevator button, mentally rehearsing casual greetings that don't sound desperate for his approval.
I've got this. I can be Dr. Phillips, badass professional who definitely doesn't think about her boss in the shower.
That armor cracks the moment I step into the conference room.
Sebastian is already there, discussing something with Harper in low tones.
When I enter, he doesn't even glance up.
Not a flicker of recognition, not a pause in his sentence, nothing.
It's as if I've suddenly developed the superpower of invisibility, but only to the one person I can't stop noticing.
"Good morning, Dr. Walker," I say, my voice steady despite the stupid flutter in my chest. “Dr. Langston.”
Sebastian finishes his sentence to Harper before looking in my general direction. Not at me, but through me, like I'm made of glass. "Dr. Phillips." Then he's back to Harper, dismissal complete.
I take my seat, smiling at Jonah who offers a sympathetic grimace in return. The meeting proceeds with Sebastian addressing every fellow except me. When it's time to assign cases, I'm handed a stack of charts for follow-up paperwork while the others get actual patients.
"Questions?" Sebastian asks the room at large, his gaze sweeping past me like I'm part of the furniture.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper.
Tuesday is worse.
"The patient presents with recurring joint pain, unexplained rashes, and fatigue," I explain during rounds, carefully laying out my differential diagnosis. "Given the butterfly pattern of the facial rash and positive ANA, I believe we're looking at systemic lupus erythematosus."
Sebastian, who's been scrolling through his tablet, suddenly looks up. His eyes narrow, not with interest but something colder.
"And you based this conclusion on...?" His voice carries just enough edge to make the other fellows shift uncomfortably.
"The clinical presentation plus bloodwork showing elevated—"
"Did you consider mixed connective tissue disease?" he interrupts, his tone suggesting I've overlooked something painfully obvious. "The speckled ANA pattern and elevated RNP antibodies would indicate—"
"I did," I counter, refusing to shrink under his gaze. "Page three of my workup includes MCTD in the differential, but the absence of Raynaud's phenomenon and the consistency of the rash pattern made me prioritize lupus."
The silence that follows feels loaded, like a gun pointed at my professional reputation. Sebastian's jaw ticks once, the only indication that I've surprised him.
"Review the literature on atypical presentations of MCTD," he finally says. "I want a full report by tomorrow."
Harper smirks beside him. I want to kick them both in the shins.
Wednesday brings the special torture of paperwork prison. While the others present interesting cases, I'm stuck updating charts and running labs. I push through the monotony with aggressive efficiency, finishing early enough to join the team for the final consult of the day.
"Dr. Phillips," Sebastian says when he spots me entering the patient's room. "I wasn't aware you'd completed those discharge summaries."
"All done," I reply with a smile so professional it makes my face hurt. "I thought I'd observe the Wilson case, given the unusual neurological symptoms."
"We have it covered," he says, voice flat. "Why don't you get a head start on tomorrow's intake files?"
I retreat with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn't much when Naima gives me a look that might actually be pity.
Thursday, I catch him watching me.
I'm explaining a treatment plan to a patient when I feel that prickling awareness of being observed.
Glancing up through the glass wall of the exam room, I spot Sebastian standing at the nurses' station, eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin heat.
The moment our gazes connect, he looks away.
Later, during a patient handoff, our fingers brush as he passes me a tablet.
The contact lasts less than a second, but it's electric.
A jolt that runs straight from my fingertips to parts of me that have no business responding to Sebastian Walker.
He jerks back as if burned, eyes briefly meeting mine with something that isn't coldness at all but raw and unmistakable heat.
"Mind the vitals on three," he says, voice rougher than usual. "They've been fluctuating."
Then he's gone, leaving me standing there with a tablet in my hands and confusion burning in my veins.
By Friday, I'm a live wire of frustration.
Everything sets me off—the way Harper hovers at Sebastian's elbow like an eager puppy, the way Naima gets asked her opinion while mine is ignored, the way Sebastian can somehow fill an entire hospital with his presence even when he's not in the same damn room.
I'm at the nurses' station, aggressively clicking my pen as I review a chart, when Jonah appears beside me with two cups of coffee.
"Thought you might need this," he says, sliding one toward me. "You're about to wear a hole through that pen."
"Thanks," I mutter, accepting the peace offering. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to everyone with eyes," he replies with a small smile. "What did that pen ever do to you anyway?"
The unexpected joke startles a laugh out of me—a real one, not the polite chuckle I've been faking all week. Jonah looks pleased, launching into a story about a patient who tried to diagnose himself using WebMD and became convinced his indigestion was actually alien implantation.
I'm mid-laugh when I feel it that familiar prickle at the back of my neck again.
Sebastian stands at the end of the corridor, staring at us with an expression I can't decipher.
His eyes are dark, jaw tight, something almost predatory in the way he watches me laugh with Jonah.
Then Naima calls his name, and the moment shatters.
He turns away, but not before I catch a flash of something that looks uncomfortably like jealousy.
That can't be right. Men who publicly humiliate you all week don't get to be jealous when you laugh with someone else.
By afternoon, I'm at my breaking point. I slam my locker door with enough force to make nearby residents jump.
In the afternoon meeting, I click my pen so aggressively that Harper actually asks me to stop.
I mutter under my breath as I fill out yet another form that could easily be handled by someone with half my training.
"What was that, Dr. Phillips?" Sebastian asks from directly behind me, making me jump.
"Nothing," I reply, not turning around. "Just reviewing the chart."
"Hmm," is all he says, the sound somehow conveying his disbelief.
The final straw comes as I'm heading to the cafeteria, mind already on the sad salad that awaits me. I round the corner at full speed, my thoughts a jumbled mess of frustration and confusion, and nearly collide with a solid chest in a white coat.
Sebastian's hands shoot out to steady me, gripping my upper arms before I can stumble. The contact is brief but searing, his fingers leaving phantom imprints on my skin even after he quickly releases me. I look up, ready to apologize automatically, but the words die in my throat.
His expression is a contradiction—professionally distant yet somehow burning with something else, something that makes my breath catch.
His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up, darkening with an emotion that can't possibly be desire, not after a week of Arctic treatment.
"Dr. Phillips," he grumbles. "Watch where you're going."
Then he steps around me and continues down the hall, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my body confused about whether to feel angry or turned on. Possibly both.
Definitely both.
As suspected, the cafeteria salad is a sad affair, all wilted lettuce and suspiciously pale tomatoes that have never seen actual sunlight. I stab a cucumber slice with more force than necessary, imagining it's Sebastian Walker's perfect, infuriating face.
It's been a week since he showed up at my apartment.
A week of professional coldness punctuated by moments when I catch him looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin burn.
A week of whiplash between Dr. Walker the Ice King and Sebastian the man who almost…
almost what? That's the question that keeps me up at night, tossing in my sheets, remembering how he'd backed away from me like I was radioactive.
I spear a cherry tomato with enough force to send juice spraying across my scrub top. Great. Another stain to add to my collection. I dab at it half-heartedly with a napkin, my mind still circling the same frustrating track it's been on for days.
Reasons I Should Hate Sebastian Walker:
1. He publicly dismisses my ideas without consideration.
2. He's handed every interesting case to Harper.
3. He corrected my charting in front of a patient.
4. He treats me like I'm incompetent when I graduated top of my class.
5. He has the emotional consistency of a weathervane in a hurricane.
Reasons My Body Doesn't Care:
1. The way his forearms look when he rolls up his sleeves.
2. Those eyes that seem to see straight through me.
3. How his voice drops an octave when he's thinking hard.
4. The rare smile that transforms his entire face.
5. The memory of how he looked standing in my doorway, like a man starving.
My thighs press together involuntarily at the last thought, and I shift in my seat, annoyed at my own physical response. The fact that I'm still attracted to him after a week of professional frostbite makes me want to schedule myself for a brain scan.
"Well, don't you look like someone pissed in your Cheerios."