I head toward the door, where Sebastian hasn't moved an inch, forcing me to squeeze past him. The moment I step into the hallway, I turn to face him but misjudge the distance. My shoulder bumps against his chest, sending a jolt of awareness straight through me. I take a quick step back, but he's already moving forward, and suddenly the corridor feels impossibly narrow.
"Sorry, I—"
"What exactly do you think you're doing?" he interrupts, his voice pitched low enough that it won't carry back to Cheryl's room.
"Checking on a patient," I answer, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. This close, I can see the flecks of amber in his otherwise dark eyes, can catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that shouldn't make my stomach tighten the way it does.
"Your shift ended an hour ago," he says, stepping closer. I refuse to retreat, even though his height forces me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You're here to be a doctor, Dr. Phillips. Not a friend."
"I can be both," I counter, annoyed at how my pulse quickens with his proximity. "Connecting with patients helps me understand their symptoms better."
"It clouds your judgment," he says, jaw tightening. "Creates emotional attachments that compromise objective diagnosis."
"With all due respect, Dr. Walker, that's bullshit." The words escape before I can filter them.
His eyebrows lift slightly, the only indication that I've surprised him. "Excuse me?"
"Connecting with patients doesn't compromise my judgment, it enhances it," I say, standing my ground even as he looms over me. "Cheryl told me things about her symptom progression today that aren't in any of her charts because no one bothered to ask her about how her dance performances changed before her diagnosis."
His eyes narrow, but there's something beyond irritation there, something that might be curiosity. "And you think these insights will lead to a diagnosis where board-certified specialists have failed?"
"I think ignoring the human element of medicine is why we miss things," I say quietly. "My father died because doctors kept looking at his tests instead of listening to him."
Something shifts in his expression, a momentary softening that's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Establish boundaries," he finally says. "For your sake and hers. Ms. DuBois' prognosis isn't good without a diagnosis, and getting emotionally involved will only make it harder when—" He stops abruptly.
"When what?" I challenge.
"When difficult decisions need to be made," he finishes, stepping back slightly. "Go home. Rest. I need you clear-headed tomorrow."
He turns and walks away before I can respond, his long strides carrying him down the corridor with an efficiency that somehow still manages to look graceful. I watch him go, irritation and something more complicated swirling inside my chest.
"Difficult decisions," I mutter to myself as I head toward the elevator. "Like deciding whether to admit when you're wrong?"
But even as I punch the elevator button with enough force to send sparks of pain up my fingers, I can't ignore the lingeringwarmth where my shoulder brushed against his chest, or the way my skin still tingles from his proximity.
It’s still tingling when I walk into Sal’s Bistro. The restaurant sits just close enough to Sierra Mercy to be convenient but far enough that you don't feel like you're eating in the cafeteria annex. I spot Laney immediately, her two messy buns like exclamation points above the crowd, her hand already waving frantically as if I might somehow miss the only person in the place wearing scrubs with tiny cartoon dinosaurs on them.
"Over here, sunshine," she calls, loud enough that several nearby diners glance our way. Laney has never understood the concept of volume control, especially when excited.
I weave between tables, nodding at a few familiar faces—nurses I met today, a lab tech who processed my orders, even Dr. Kim huddled in a corner booth looking like he's trying to become one with the upholstery. When I reach our table, Laney jumps up and engulfs me in a hug.
"First day survivor," she exclaims, pulling back to examine me. "I ordered you wine. The good kind, not the eight-dollar special that tastes like grape-flavored punishment."
"You're an angel," I say, collapsing into the chair opposite her. My body feels like it's made of lead and rubber bands, somehow heavy and unstable at the same time.
Laney settles back into her seat, brown eyes sparkling with anticipation. Her caramel-colored hair is escaping from both buns, creating a chaotic halo around her face. Despite working a twelve-hour shift, her eyeliner remains perfect—a skill I've never mastered and deeply envy.
"So?" she prompts, leaning forward. "How was it? Did you meet the legendary Dr. Walker? Is he as brilliant and broody as everyone says? Did you dazzle him with your big brain and fiery curls?"
I groan, letting my head fall forward until it thunks against the table.
"That good, huh?" She nudges my wine glass closer. "Drink. Then talk."
I lift my head, take a generous sip, and sigh. "You know how sometimes you build someone up in your head, and then reality just—" I make a squishing motion with my hands. "Flattens everything?"
"Uh oh." Laney's expression turns sympathetic. "What happened?"
