She stops and presses her lips together as if holding back words she doesn't trust herself to say. In the dim light, I can see the pulse at her throat, rapid and fluttering like a trapped bird.
"It reminded you of your father," I finish for her.
Her head snaps up, those green eyes widening. "How did you—"
"You mentioned it yesterday. Outside Cheryl's room." I slide down to sit against the opposite wall, my knees nearly touching hers in the tight space. It's an unexpected move, putting us at the same level, and I don't examine too closely why I've done it. "You said your father died because doctors didn't listen to him."
She stares at me for a long moment, like she's trying to decipher a particularly complex puzzle. "I didn't think you were actually listening to me."
"I listen to everything, Dr. Phillips." The words come out low. "It's part of being a good diagnostician."
"Mia," she says softly. "If we're sitting on a supply closet floor together, you might as well call me Mia."
Something about the way she says it, like we're sharing a secret, makes my skin feel too tight.
She wipes at her eyes again, leaving a smudge of mascara beneath the right one. Without thinking, I reach out and lightly brush my thumb against her cheekbone to remove it. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my touch, and I feel her breath catch.
I pull back immediately, clenching my hand into a fist at my side. "You had..." I gesture vaguely at my own face.
"Oh," she says, touching the spot where my thumb just was. "Thanks."
The silence that follows feels charged, the air between us thick with something I don't want to name. Desperate to regain some semblance of professional distance, I clear my throat.
"My third year of residency, I lost a twelve-year-old boy," I say, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them. "Cancer. We thought we had it beat, but it came back more aggressively than before. I spent twenty-two straight hours at his bedside, trying everything, breaking every protocol." I stare at the floor between us, unable to look at her as I continue. "He died anyway. I nearly quit medicine that day."
"What stopped you?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
Looking up, I meet her gaze. "His mother. She thanked me for fighting so hard for her son. Said she'd never seen a doctor care so much." My mouth twists in a humorless smile. "I learned my lesson, though. Caring that much is a liability. It clouds judgment and leads to mistakes."
"Is that why you're so..." she gestures at me, at the space between us.
"So what?"
"Controlled. Distant." She tilts her head, studying me. "Like you've built walls so high no one can see over them."
The observation cuts too close to the bone, and I physically recoil from it. "You don't know me, Dr. Phillips."
"Dr. Phillips? Right." A hint of a smile curves her lips, despite the lingering tears in her eyes. "And you're right, I don't know you. But I'd like to."
The simple honesty in her statement catches me off guard. I can't remember the last time someone looked at me the way she's looking at me now—like I'm a person worth knowing, not just a brilliant mind or a convenient body. It makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I haven't allowed myself to be since Debra.
"You should get back to work," I say, my voice rough. "Harper will be looking for you."
"Harper's an ass," she says with unexpected vehemence. "He barely looked at Marcus, just his chart. Like he wasn't even a person."
"That's how some doctors cope," I say, feeling oddly defensive of Harper despite knowing exactly what she means. "Detachment is a survival mechanism."
"Is that what you're doing right now? Detaching?" She leans forward slightly, closing the already small gap between us. I can see flecks of gold in her green irises, can count each individual freckle dusting her nose and cheeks. "Because it doesn't feel like detachment to me, Sebastian."
My name on her lips sends a jolt through me, electric and unwelcome. I shouldn't let her use it, shouldn't let her push past the boundaries I've carefully constructed. But I can't seem to summon the will to correct her.
"What does it feel like?" The question escapes before I can stop it, my voice dropping to a whisper.
She doesn't answer immediately, her gaze briefly drops to my mouth before returning to my eyes. The air between us crackles with tension and… possibility. Drawn by some magnetic pull I can't explain, can't resist, I lean forward.
Just then the supply closet door swings open abruptly, light flooding the small space. We both jerk back, blinking in the sudden brightness. A nurse stands in the doorway, her expression shifting from surprise to poorly concealed interest as she takes in the scene before her.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I just needed some gauze," she says not sounding sorry at all.
