Chapter 29
Sebastian
Mia’s still deep in sleep, one arm flung across my stomach, her breathing slow and even against my skin.
The sheet has slipped down to her waist, revealing the pale curve of her back and the freckles across her shoulders that I traced with my tongue last night.
My cock stirs at the memory, but I push the desire aside, content just to watch her for now.
Last night replays in my mind but what lingers most is the moment she guided my hand back to her throat and told me she trusted me. Three words that shouldn't hit harder than a declaration of love and yet they do. Because trust isn't given easily. Trust is earned, built slowly over time.
My chest tightens and I carefully extract myself from her grip, easing my body away from hers with slow, deliberate movements that won't disturb her sleep.
She makes a small sound of protest, her hand instinctively reaching for the warmth I'm taking away, but she doesn't wake.
Instead, she burrows deeper into my pillow, nose crinkling slightly before her features smooth out again.
Standing beside the bed, I take a moment just to look at her. At the tangled mess of curls spreading across my sheets like wildfire. At her lips, lush and pink, parting on a soft exhale.
Something unfamiliar and dangerously close to tenderness unfurls in my chest, and I force myself to turn away before I climb back into bed and wake her in ways that would definitely make us both late for work.
The kitchen is still spotless from yesterday's cleaning service, gleaming surfaces and empty countertops that highlight how rarely I actually cook here. I pull ingredients from the refrigerator, moving with quiet efficiency as I crack eggs into a bowl and drop bread into the toaster.
As the eggs cook and the bread toasts, I slice an oranges and squeeze fresh juice into two glasses.
I'm just sliding the food onto two plates when I hear the soft pad of bare feet against hardwood. Looking up, I nearly drop the spatula.
Mia stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but my shirt from last night, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh. The top three buttons are undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of collarbone and the curve of her breast. Her hair is a mess, and her face is soft with sleep.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my kitchen. In my apartment. In my life.
"Morning," she says, voice still groggy. "Something smells amazing."
"Just eggs and toast," I reply, suddenly self-conscious about the simplicity of the meal. "And juice."
Instead of heading for the breakfast bar where I've set out plates, she walks directly to me. Before I can react, she wraps her arms around my neck and presses her body against mine.
"Showoff," she murmurs against my lips. "Making breakfast like some domestic god while I drool into your pillow."
Then she presses her mouth against mine in a kiss that sucks the air from my lungs.
My hands find her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
The kiss deepens, her tongue sliding against mine with a languid intensity that short-circuits my brain.
And all I can think about is carrying her right back to bed and forget about breakfast entirely.
Before I can act on that impulse, I pull back slightly, needing to ask the question that's been nagging at me since I woke up.
"About last night," I start. "Was it too much?"
She cuts me off with another quick kiss, her green eyes bright and clear as she looks up at me. "It was absolutely perfect," she says without hesitation. "All of it." Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing against my stubble. "I meant what I said, Sebastian. I trust you."
The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost embarrassing. I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear those words again, how much I needed confirmation that I hadn't crossed a line I can’t uncross.
"Thank you," I say, turning my head to press a kiss against her palm.
Her smile widens, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. "Though if you're planning a repeat performance, maybe we should discuss your technique. There's always room for improvement."
The tension breaks, and I laugh, genuinely laugh, before guiding her toward the breakfast bar. "Eat your eggs, Trouble. You'll need your strength for what I have planned later."
She hops onto one of the stools, those long legs swinging slightly before her feet hook around the metal rungs. "Is that a promise?"
"Absolutely not." I hand her a fork. “It’s a guarantee.”
She demolishes her eggs with surprising enthusiasm, scraping the plate clean while I sip my juice and watch her with barely concealed amusement.
There's something disarming about Mia's complete lack of pretense—the way she eats when she's hungry, laughs when something's funny, calls me on my bullshit when I deserve it.
It's refreshing after years of carefully calculated interactions, of relationships built on what people can get from each other rather than genuine connection.
"What?" she asks when she catches me staring. A strand of hair falls across her face, and she tucks it back behind her ear.
"Nothing." I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "You just... really like eggs."
"I really like food cooked by someone else," she corrects, reaching for her orange juice. "My culinary skills end at pouring cereal and occasionally not burning toast."
"That explains the disaster in your kitchen and the takeout containers in your refrigerator."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You were snooping in my fridge?"
"I was looking for water," I defend, hiding my smile behind my glass. "Hard to miss the architectural wonder of stacked containers."
"Hey, those containers are arranged by expiration date, thank you very much." She points her fork at me accusingly, but her eyes dance with humor. "Some of us don't have time to be breakfast chefs between saving lives and having mind-blowing sex."
The casual way she references last night sends a wave of heat through me, but before I can respond, she's already shifting topics, telling me about a medical journal article she read last week that contradicts my approach to Cheryl's case.
The clinical details flow from her lips with the same passion she showed in my bed, her hands gesturing animatedly as she outlines alternative treatment protocols.
I’m engaged in the discussion despite the early hour, countering her points, adding my own observations. It's invigorating, this back and forth, this meeting of minds that somehow feels as intimate as the meeting of bodies.
When we finish eating, I gather the plates while she perches on the stool, legs swinging slightly, watching me move around the kitchen.
"We should get going," I say reluctantly, glancing at the clock. "Your place first so you can change?"
She looks down at herself and laughs. "Probably a good idea."
"Absolutely. Wouldn’t want anyone else getting this magnificent view," I tell her, only half-joking as I pull her to her feet. "Go get dressed."
Twenty minutes later, we're in my car, Mia back in her jeans and green tank top from the night before, hair somewhat tamed.
The morning traffic flows around us as I navigate toward her apartment, the familiar routes suddenly interesting with Mia beside me, with her scent filling the enclosed space, her hand occasionally brushing mine on the center console.
"You're quiet," she observes as we stop at a red light.
I glance over, catching her studying my profile with those perceptive eyes. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"How different this is." The light changes, and I focus back on the road. "Driving to work with someone else. It's been a while."
"A while since you've had a carpool buddy, or a while since you've had someone stay over?" Her voice is light, but I can hear the genuine curiosity beneath the question.
"Both," I admit. "It's... nice."
Her hand finds mine on the gearshift, fingers sliding between mine for a brief, warm moment before retreating. "Yeah," she says softly. "It is."
When we reach her apartment building, I pull up to the curb and shift into park. "I'll wait here."
She hesitates, hand on the door handle. "You can come up if you want."
The invitation is so fucking tempting. But I know myself well enough to recognize what would happen if I followed her into that plant-filled sanctuary again.
"If I come up, we won't make it to work," I tell her, keeping my voice deliberately light despite the heat behind the words. "Go. I'll be here."
She grins, a flash of understanding in her eyes before she slips out of the car with a promise to hurry.
Alone in the silence, I check my phone, scrolling through emails and texts that accumulated overnight.
Arjun has sent three messages, each more suggestive than the last, clearly fishing for details about what happened in my office yesterday.
I ignore them all, focusing instead on a message from Kim about Cheryl's latest lab results.
The numbers aren't good. We're missing something, some crucial piece of the puzzle that would make all these disparate symptoms make sense. The frustration sits heavy in my chest, a counterpoint to the lingering contentment from the morning.
My thoughts are interrupted by Mia's return, fresh-faced and dressed in clean scrubs, her hair now neatly braided. She slides into the passenger seat with a gust of cool air and the scent of something floral and clean.
"That was fast," I tell her as I pull away from the curb.
"I've perfected the three-minute shower and five-minute professional transformation." She buckles her seatbelt, adjusting the strap across her chest. "Essential skill for doctors who sometimes sleep through their alarms."
The drive to the hospital passes in a comfortable blend of conversation—discussions about patients, debates about treatment options, interspersed with more personal revelations.
She tells me about her father teaching her to change a car's oil when she was twelve.
I share a story about Bradley and me getting lost in the woods behind the ranch when we were kids.
It feels dangerously easy, this exchange of histories and thoughts. Dangerously natural.
As we approach the hospital, I deliberately take a longer route, circling around to the far side of the parking lot where staff rarely park this early. Away from the main entrance, away from curious eyes and gossiping coworkers.
"Hiding me already, Dr. Walker?" Mia asks, her tone teasing even as her eyes study my face.
I park in a spot partially obscured by a large oak, its branches casting dappled shadows across the windshield. Turning to her, I choose my words carefully.
"Being cautious," I correct. "For both our sakes."
Her expression softens with understanding. "Professional boundaries. I get it."
"This," I gesture between us. "Is too new to throw into the hospital rumor mill. I'd prefer to figure out what we are without an audience."
"And what are we?" The question is light, but her eyes are serious, searching mine for answers I'm not sure I have yet.
Instead of responding with words, I lean across the console and capture her mouth with mine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, a stark contrast to the heated exchanges of the night before. Cupping her face, my thumb strokes the soft skin of her cheek as our lips move together with growing familiarity.
When we part, her eyes remain closed for a moment, lashes fanning against her cheeks before they flutter open.
"That wasn't really an answer," she murmurs, but she's smiling.
"It's the best I've got right now," I admit, brushing my thumb across her lower lip. "But I'd like to figure it out. Together."
"Together sounds good."
The moment is shattered by the sudden, insistent beeping of my pager. I pull it from my belt and glance down at the screen. The four words there make my blood run cold.
"What is it?" Mia asks, immediately alert to the change in my demeanor.
I meet her gaze and force the words out. "Cheryl is coding."