Chapter 12 Sebastian
Sebastian
The medical journal in front of me might as well be written in Sanskrit for all I'm comprehending.
The words blur together, a jumble of clinical terminology that usually fascinates me but now just sits there, mocking my inability to focus on anything but her.
I toss the journal onto the growing pile of unread literature on my desk and rub my temples.
It's been a week since I showed up at Mia's apartment, a week of deliberate cruelty disguised as professional distance, and I've never felt more like a complete asshole in my life.
My foot taps a staccato rhythm against the floor, the only sound in the too-quiet office besides the occasional grind of my teeth.
I've been sitting here for over an hour, accomplishing exactly nothing.
The empty coffee mug at my elbow—my third of the afternoon—bears witness to my attempt to caffeinate my way into productivity.
It hasn't worked.
I glance at the case files spread across my desk, patient histories and lab results that should command my full attention.
Mrs. Reeves' unexplained tachycardia. The Chen twins' matching rashes.
Cheryl DuBois' continued weight loss despite nutritional intervention.
All fascinating medical puzzles that would normally have me engrossed, firing neurons and making connections.
Instead, my mind keeps circling back to the way Mia's face fell when I cut her off during rounds yesterday. The hurt that flashed in those green eyes before she masked it with professional indifference. The way her shoulders stiffened when I assigned Harper to a case she'd clearly wanted.
"Fuck," I mutter, shoving away from the desk with enough force to send my chair rolling backward.
I stand, pacing the length of my office like a caged animal.
This wasn't the plan. When I left her apartment that night, I'd intended to give in to whatever this is between us, professional consequences be damned.
But then I saw her the next morning, all bright eyes and soft smile, and panic seized me by the throat.
So I retreated. No, more than retreated, I fucking attacked. Like some wounded animal lashing out, I've spent a week systematically undermining her confidence, dismissing her ideas, treating her like she's barely qualified to change bedpans, let alone diagnose complex cases.
I stop at the window, staring out at the hospital parking lot without really seeing it. I've been unnecessarily cruel. That truth sits heavy in my gut, a weight I can't dislodge.
"Her differential diagnosis lacked rigorous analytical foundation," I mimic my own pompous tone from this morning's rounds.
What bullshit. Her diagnosis was spot-on, more insightful than Harper's by a mile, but I couldn't bear to acknowledge it.
Couldn't risk that moment of connection, that flash of pleasure on her face that would inevitably lead to me wanting more.
My jaw aches from clenching. I consciously relax it, rolling my neck to release some of the tension knotted there.
It doesn't help. Nothing helps. Not the coldness I've wrapped around myself like armor.
Not the professional distance I've tried to maintain.
Not even the brutal workout routines I've been punishing my body with every morning.
Because every night ends the same way. Alone in my immaculate apartment, hand wrapped around my cock, Mia's name a whisper on my lips as I come harder than I have any right to.
The memory of last night's session heats my skin despite the office's aggressive air conditioning.
I'd barely made it through the door before my hand was down my pants, desperation overriding any pretense of control or dignity.
I didn't even make it to the bedroom, just braced against the hallway wall and stroked myself to the memory of Mia in that worn Johns Hopkins t-shirt, those endless legs bare and beckoning.
In my mind, she'd been on her knees, those wild red curls wrapped around my fist as I guided her mouth onto my cock. The fantasy was so vivid I could almost feel the wet heat of her tongue, the slight scrape of teeth, the vibration of her moans around me as I thrust deeper.
I'd come with her name on my lips, spilling into my hand with an intensity that left my legs shaking. And then... nothing. Empty release followed by the hollow echo of my breathing in an apartment that feels more like a hotel room than a home.
The routine is always the same. Pleasure, momentary bliss, then disgust creeping in as I clean up. Disgust at my lack of control, at fantasizing about a woman who works for me, who deserves better than to be the unwitting star of my nightly masturbation sessions.
My reflection in the window shows a man I barely recognize. This isn't who I am. I'm controlled. Disciplined. The doctor who makes the impossible diagnoses, who never lets emotion cloud his judgment.
Except when it comes to Mia Phillips.
I return to my desk, dropping heavily into the chair. The motion disturbs a stack of patient files, sending one sliding to the floor. I don't immediately pick it up, just stare at the scattered papers, a physical manifestation of my mental state.
This has to stop. The cruelty isn't working.
It's only making me hate myself while still wanting her with an intensity that borders on obsession.
And it's unfair to her. She's brilliant, compassionate, exactly the kind of doctor who belongs in diagnostics.
She doesn't deserve to be punished because I can't control my own desires.
I finally bend to retrieve the fallen file, forcing myself to focus on the patient information inside. Mrs. Shaw, fifty-two, presenting with unexplained seizures and tremors. The same symptoms that stumped three other doctors before she was referred to our department.
For a moment, the familiar puzzle captures my attention. But then I notice the preliminary workup notes, written in Mia's distinctive handwriting. Her observations are thorough, insightful, with connections I hadn't immediately made myself.
And I'd dismissed them yesterday without even a proper review, just because looking at her handwriting made my chest tight.
"Pathetic," I mutter, disgusted with myself. I close the file, unable to face the evidence of my own unprofessional behavior.
A soft knock at my door snaps me out of my self-loathing spiral. I straighten, assuming a mask of professional detachment that's become second nature.
"Come in," I call, voice steady despite the turmoil churning beneath the surface.
The door swings open, and I brace myself, half-expecting—half-hoping—to see Mia standing there. Instead, Arjun's familiar face appears, and I'm not sure if the feeling that floods my chest is relief or disappointment.
"You look like shit," he announces as he strolls into my office like he owns the place.
He tosses a file onto my desk and drops into the chair opposite me, crossing one leg over the other with the casual grace that's always annoyed and impressed me in equal measure.
His eyes, sharp behind fashionable glasses he doesn't need, scan my face with the clinical assessment of a doctor and the knowing look of a friend who's seen me at my worst. "Correction.
You look worse than shit. You look like shit that's been stepped on, set on fire, and then extinguished with more shit. "
"Thanks for the detailed analysis," I mutter, leaning back in my chair. "Did you need something, or did you just come by to critique my appearance?"
Ignoring my irritation, Arjun picks up a pen from my desk and twirls it between his fingers. "The Atwood case. Thought you might want my thoughts on the endocrine angle."
I gesture vaguely at the file he's tossed on my desk. "Leave it. I'll look at it later."
"No, you won't." He sets the pen down with deliberate precision. "You'll continue to sit here, brooding like some discount Gothic novel protagonist, accomplishing nothing but perfecting that scowl that's been terrorizing the residents all week."
My jaw tightens. "I have work to do, Arjun."
"Clearly." His eyebrow arches as he surveys the mess of papers on my desk. "Is that why you've been holed up in your office for—" he checks his watch, "—approximately one hour and seventeen minutes?"
"You been monitoring me?" I demand, irritation flaring. "Don't you have your own patients to terrorize?"
"Please. As if I need to monitor you to know when you're in one of your moods." He waves a hand dismissively. "The entire fourth floor is walking on eggshells. Harper's strutting around like he's your anointed heir. Kim looks like he might cry if someone speaks too loudly. And Phillips—"
"Don't," I cut him off.
Arjun's eyes narrow, that dangerous intelligence focusing fully on me now. "Interesting."
"What's interesting is your apparent lack of actual medical work to do," I deflect, shuffling papers on my desk in a poor imitation of productivity.
"Oh, I'm fully caught up on my cases, which gives me plenty of time to psychoanalyze my oldest friend.
" He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"So, are we going to discuss why you've been treating Dr. Phillips like she ran over your dog, or should I just start making increasingly outlandish guesses until you snap? "
I close my eyes briefly, praying for patience. "There's nothing to discuss. I've been treating her like any other fellow."
"Bullshit. I saw you correct her in front of a patient yesterday. You've never done that to any doctor, let alone a fellow who—by the way—had the correct diagnosis."
Heat creeps up my neck. "She needs to learn to—"
"Be perfect? Read your mind?" Arjun shakes his head. "The woman graduated top of her class. Yet suddenly she can't seem to do anything right in your eyes." He tilts his head, studying me. "The question is why."