Chapter 22
Mia
I'm halfway through explaining how Fitzwilliam once survived two weeks without water during my emergency rotation when I catch Sebastian's expression.
He's watching me with a curious intensity, head slightly tilted, eyes warm and focused in a way that makes my stomach flip.
The words die in my throat as heat floods my cheeks.
What am I doing? Introducing my plants like they're old college friends? I sound like a crazy plant lady.
"—and anyway, that's why he gets extra misting on Sundays as a reward for his resilience," I finish lamely, my voice trailing off.
My hands, which had been gesturing animatedly, drop awkwardly to my sides.
Tugging at the hem of Sebastian's shirt, I’m suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must look wearing nothing but his button-down waxing poetic about the emotional fortitude of a houseplant.
Sebastian's eyebrows pull together. "Why'd you stop?"
I shrug, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to mortified. "Just realized I've been rambling about my plants for..." I glance at the clock on the wall, "Shit, almost fifteen minutes straight." My fingers twist nervously in the fabric of his shirt. "It's silly."
"Is it?" He takes a step closer, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "What's silly about caring for something? About giving it a name, a personality, a place in your life?"
My heart does that stupid little flutter again. "Most people don't name their plants," I point out, tucking a wild strand of hair behind my ear. "Most people don't talk to them or give them backstories or..." I trail off again, heat crawling up my neck. "I sound like I need therapy."
"Most people," He murmurs, closing the remaining distance between us. "Aren't you."
His hands come up to cup my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with a gentleness that steals my breath.
For a moment, he just looks at me like he's memorizing every freckle, every fleck of color in my eyes.
Then his mouth is on mine, and I forget all about embarrassment, about silly plant names, about anything that isn't the press of his lips and the heat of his hands.
The kiss is slow, deliberate, and almost reverent. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking rather than demanding, and I open for him with a soft sigh that he swallows hungrily. My hands find his bare chest, palms flat against warm skin and solid muscle.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing harder, and my embarrassment has been replaced by something molten and heavy in my core. Sebastian's eyes are dark, pupils wide with desire, but there's something else there too, a warmth I'm not used to seeing from him.
"Nothing you say is silly," he tells me in a low rumble. "I like that you name your plants. I like that you talk to them. I like that you've created this whole ecosystem of life and personality around you." His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "It's refreshing. It’s real."
I blink up at him, thrown by the sincerity in his voice. How is this the same man who spent a week pretending I didn't exist, who terrifies residents with a single raised eyebrow, who maintains control with the same dedication most people reserve for breathing.
"You're staring at me like I've grown a second head." The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Just trying to reconcile this version of you with the man who made Kim cry last Tuesday because he couldn't recite the complete differential for Behcet's disease from memory."
His smirk widens into something closer to a genuine smile. "That was professional. This is..." he gestures between us. "Something else entirely."
"Clearly," I murmur, letting my fingers trail down his chest to the waistband of his unbuttoned jeans. "So, Dr. Walker likes crazy plant ladies. Who knew?"
Instead of the sharp comeback I expect, his expression softens even further.
His fingers trace idly along my collarbone, following the line to my shoulder and down my arm.
"I grew up with a father who named every horse on our ranch," he says.
"Not just names, but personalities. Histories.
That one's stubborn because his mother was stubborn, he'd say.
This one's skittish because she was born during a thunderstorm. "
My breath catches at this freely offered piece of his past. Sebastian never talks about his family, about the ranch he mentioned in passing once or twice. His fingers move from my arm to his side, absently tracing the scar I'd kissed last night.
"I was ten when I got this," he continues.
"Trying to fix a section of barbed wire fence that had come loose in a storm.
Dad told me to wait for him, but I wanted to prove I could do it myself.
" His mouth twists in a rueful smile. "Slipped on wet grass, fell right into the barbs. Took twenty-seven stitches."
I want to ask more, but I'm afraid to break this spell of openness. Instead, I cover his hand with mine where it rests on his scar.
"Bradley, my brother, he's three years younger. Always knew what he was doing on the ranch.” His voice is quiet. “He’s a natural, like my father."
His hand turns under mine to interlace our fingers. There's something fragile about this moment, as if one wrong move might cause Sebastian to retreat back behind those walls he's so carefully constructed.
"Your brother still works at the ranch?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.
Muscle working in his jaw, he nods. "Bradley and my father run it together now. Walker Ranch."
I try to picture it—wide open skies, horses, and rugged landscapes. Sebastian in boots and a Stetson instead of his tailored shirts and designer shoes. The image doesn't quite fit, but I'm starting to understand why.
"My mother died when I was four years old," he continues, surprising me with the voluntary information. "After that, it was just my father, Bradley, and me. And the ranch. And Ruthie, of course."
My heart squeezes at the simple statement. Four years old. A few years older than I was when I lost my own mother. I want to tell him I understand, that I know what it's like to have that emptiness where a mother should be, but I hold back. This is his story to tell.
"Dad threw himself into work after she died. Bradley too, when he was older. They found... peace in it, I think. The physical labor, the connection to the land." He lets out a breath. "It just never was in my blood."
I nod, imagining a young Sebastian—bright, analytical, and so detail-oriented—trying to fit into a world of physical rather than intellectual challenges.
"I fumbled with rope," he continues, a rueful smile touching his lips. "Missed nails. Horses sensed my hesitation and bucked harder. I wasn't soft..." He shakes his head. "But I wasn't them either."
He traces small circles against the back of my hand. "While Bradley wore the ranch like it was his skin, I spent nights hunched over anatomy books. More comfortable peeling back layers of flesh than reading the sky."
There's no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet resignation, an acceptance of difference. I wonder how long it took him to reach that acceptance, how many years of trying to fit into a mold that wasn't shaped for him.
"On the ranch, control came through force," he continues. "But what I wanted was precision. Stillness. It didn't make sense there, but in medicine..."
"It was perfect," I finish for him.
Nodding, his gaze returns to mine. "I got my acceptance letter to pre-med at the University of Washington and just left."
I can see the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders, the regret etched into the lines around his eyes.
"I didn't go back," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Nothing."
My heart aches for him, for the young man so desperate to find his place that he cut himself off from the only family he had. But I don't offer platitudes or tell him I understand. Instead, I simply listen, giving him the space to unburden himself at his own pace.
"I went back a few months ago," he continues after a moment of silence. "First time in almost twenty years."
I watch his face carefully, noting the tightness around his mouth, the way his gaze slides away from mine. Whatever happened during that visit, it wasn't the homecoming either side had hoped for.
"That's a long time," I say softly.
"Too long." The words come out clipped, tinged with something that might be guilt or regret.
His hand tightens slightly around mine, then relaxes with deliberate control.
"My brother wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me.
We fought," he adds, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. "Bad enough that my dad collapsed."
His gaze finally meets mine again. "Atrial fibrillation, he’s okay now. But for a minute there, it felt like everything I touched was going to fall apart.” He exhales slowly. “We’re speaking again. My dad and I. Even Bradley. But it took that scare to make it happen.”
I want to tell him it’s not his fault. That showing up, even messy and broken and late, is still showing up. But I don’t. He doesn't need absolution from me for choices he's still wrestling with himself.
So instead, I let my fingers trace the length of his scar again, this physical reminder of the life he left behind. "Thank you."
His eyebrows pull together in confusion. "For what?"
"For telling me. For letting me see this part of you."
He presses my palm flat against his scar.
"It's strange," he says quietly. "I never talk about this. With anyone."
I offer him a small smile. "Well, apparently my plant-naming habit makes people want to share deep personal secrets. I should put that on my resume."
It's a gentle attempt to lighten the moment, to give him an escape route from the emotional vulnerability if he needs it. His lips quirk upward, a hint of that smirk I've come to know so well.