I stand quickly, straightening my tie and lab coat. "Dr. Phillips was just... We were discussing a case."
The nurse's raised eyebrow makes it clear she doesn't believe me for a second. Mia rises more slowly, her lab coat wrinkled, her face still bearing traces of tears despite her attempt to compose herself.
"I'll let you get what you need," she tells the nurse, slipping past her through the doorway. Outside, she pauses and glances back at me with an unreadable expression. "Thank you, Dr. Walker."
She's gone before I can respond, the echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor. I stand there for a moment longer, trying to process what just happened, what almost happened. The nurse busies herself gathering supplies, stealing curious glances my way.
"Found everything you need?" I ask, my voice clipped and professional once more.
"Yes, Doctor," she replies, not quite hiding her smirk.
I leave without another word, the memory of Mia's tear-stained face and the feel of her skin beneath my thumb following me like a shadow I can't outrun.
What the hell was I thinking, sitting down beside her, sharing that story about the boy I lost? Worse, what was I about to do before that nurse interrupted us? The memory of leaning toward her, drawn by some invisible force I can't explain, makes my collar feel suddenly tight. I adjust it with one finger, ignoringthe looks from passing staff. I don’t comfort crying fellows. And I absolutely do not almost kiss them, no matter how compelling their tear-brightened eyes might be.
Forcefully punching the button for the elevator earns me a startled look from a passing orderly. But I don’t care.
Seriously. What the fuck was I thinking?
The doors slide open, and I step inside, grateful for the momentary solitude. As the elevator descends, I catch my reflection in the polished steel doors. I look like a man who's been through something, which is ridiculous. Nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen.
Except that's a lie, and I know it. If that nurse hadn't walked in when she did...
The elevator stops at the third floor, and I compose my features into their usual mask of professional detachment as the doors open. I need to focus on work, on medicine, not on the softness of Mia's skin beneath my thumb or the way her voice caressed my name.
I check my watch. I have an hour before my next patient consultation; time I'd planned to use reviewing case files. Instead, I head toward the lab. I tell myself it's to check on test results for Cheryl, not because I'm avoiding the diagnostics department where I might run into Mia. Not because I'm afraid of what I might do if I see her again so soon.
As I round the corner toward the nurses' station, I hear Harper's voice, the smug tone unmistakable even before I can make out his words.
"Can you believe Dr. Phillips wanted to test for Guillain-Barré?" He laughs, the sound grating against my ears. "What a waste of resources."
I freeze mid-stride, something hot and dangerous unfurling in my chest. The nurse he's talking to—petite, dark-haired,and clearly uncomfortable with the conversation—spots me over Harper's shoulder. Her eyes widen slightly.
"Dr. Langston," she says, a warning in her tone. "Perhaps we should—"
But Harper continues, oblivious to my presence. "She was a mess after Ellis coded. Completely unprofessional. Crying in a supply closet, can you imagine? If she can't handle losing patients, she's in the wrong—"
I step forward deliberately, making my presence known. Harper's words die in his throat as he turns, his expression shifting from smug superiority to cautious neutrality when he sees me.
"Dr. Walker," he says, straightening. "I was just discussing the Ellis case with—"
"Don’t," I say, my voice clipped. “If you have issues with your co-workers, you’ll discuss them with me and me alone. I won’t tolerate idle gossip during work hours.” Without waiting for a response, I continue past them.
My original destination forgotten, I head down to the morgue instead. It’s quiet, as it always is, the hushed atmosphere a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the upper floors. The familiar scent of disinfectant and the underlying sweetness of decay greet me as I push through the double doors.
The attendant looks up from his desk. "Dr. Walker. Something I can help you with?"
"Ellis," I say, moving toward the bank of refrigerated units along the far wall. "Marcus Ellis. I need tissue samples."
He consults his clipboard, then nods. "Bay four. He's scheduled for autopsy tomorrow morning."
"I need samples now," I say, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves from the dispenser on the wall. "I'll do it myself."
The attendant raises an eyebrow but knows better than to question me. He unlocks the appropriate drawer and slides it open, revealing Ellis's body, already prepped for examination.
I work methodically, my movements precise as I collect what I need. The kinds of specimens that would show Guillain-Barré syndrome.
I have no logical explanation for why I'm doing this. No explanation except the image of Mia's tear-stained face.
