I seal the samples, label them with meticulous care, and sign the requisition forms for the specialized testing. The attendant watches me curiously but says nothing as I finish my work.
"Rush these," I tell him, handing over the samples. "I want results as soon as possible."
"Yes, Doctor."
As I strip off the gloves and wash my hands in the large stainless steel sink, I catch my reflection in the polished surface of a nearby cabinet. I look the same as always—controlled, composed, and professional. But something has shifted internally, some fundamental plate has moved beneath the surface of who I thought I was.
Why am I doing this? The question nags at me as I dry my hands. Why does it matter so much that Mia might be right? Why do I care what Harper thinks of her?
The uncomfortable answer hovers at the edges of my consciousness, refusing to be fully acknowledged. There's something about her—her fierce determination, her emotional intelligence, her refusal to back down—that gets under my skin in ways I can't explain, can't control. And control is everything to me.
I head back toward the elevator, my thoughts still tangled around Mia Phillips and the mystery of Marcus Ellis's death. As the doors close, sealing me in once more, I allow myself to admit what I've been avoiding: I want her to be right. Not only that, Iwant to be the one to tell her she was right. I want to see her face light up with that mixture of surprise and satisfaction I know would follow. I want...
The realization hits me with the force of physical impact, and I actually reach out to steady myself against the elevator wall. I want her. I want Mia Phillips in ways I haven't allowed myself to want anyone since Debra betrayed me. In ways that terrify me because they feel so inevitable, so beyond my careful control.
The elevator chimes as it reaches my floor. I straighten, adjusting my tie and fixing my expression into its usual mask of professional detachment. I have patients to see, a department to run, and fellows to evaluate. I can't afford distractions, especially not ones with wild red hair and eyes that see too much.
But as I step out into the corridor, I check my watch, calculating how long until the test results will be back. Imagining Mia's reaction when I tell her that I ran the test she suggested, that I listened when no one else would.
It's a dangerous path I'm walking, and I know it. But for the first time in years, danger feels like something other than a threat. It feels like possibility.
Chapter 7
Mia
My apartment door clicks shut behind me and my shoulders slump in relief. Home. Finally. I drop my messenger bag on the floor and toss my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. The day clings to me like a second skin—the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the weight of Marcus's death, the heat of Sebastian's gaze in that supply closet—all of it follows me into my sanctuary, refusing to be left at the threshold where it belongs.
I kick off my shoes, nudging them half-heartedly toward the rack that's supposed to keep my entryway organized. My feet sink into the plush rug I splurged on last month, the soft fibers a welcome change from the hard hospital floors I've been standing on for twelve hours straight.
"What a fucking day," I mutter to the empty apartment.
The silence answers me, comfortable and familiar. My place isn't large—a one-bedroom with windows that face east because Dad always said morning light was nature's way of giving you a fresh start. But I've made it mine in ways that matter. Walls painted in soft sage and cream. Bookshelves stuffed withmedical journals and the romance novels I pretend not to read. Photos everywhere—Dad and me at the Grand Canyon, at my med school graduation, fixing the old Chevy in our driveway.
And plants. So many plants.
They're clustered by the windows, a green welcome committee that doesn't judge my long absences or my tendency to talk to inanimate objects. I shuffle toward them now, grabbing the blue watering can from beneath the sink as I pass through the tiny kitchen.
"Well, hey there, babies," I say, filling the can at the tap. "Miss me? Soil's looking a little dry, Fitzwilliam."
Fitzwilliam is my Boston fern, dramatic and high-maintenance like his literary namesake. I water him first, careful not to oversaturate his delicate roots. The simple ritual of caring for something living soothes the jagged edges of my nerves.
"So," I continue, moving to the African violet I've managed to keep alive against all odds. "I killed someone today. Or rather, failed to save them. Same difference."
I shift to my row of pothos plants, their vines trailing down the bookshelf in vibrant green cascades. The watering can tilts as I pour, the gentle splash of water on soil an odd counterpoint to the heaviness of my words.
"And then I lost it. Completely fucking lost it. Found a supply closet and just... broke down. Like some first-year resident who'd never lost a patient before." I shake my head, embarrassment warming my cheeks at the memory. "So unprofessional. Dad would've told me to feel it, then let it go. Not hide in a closet sobbing."
The rubber plant gets an extra pour for listening so well. I've named him Bob. He seems like a Bob.
"But that's not even the worst part," I continue, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Sebastian found me there."
Just saying his name makes something flutter in my chest, an annoying biological response I wish I could switch off. I move to the windowsill succulents, carefully measuring out just enough water for their desert-adapted systems.
"Sebastian fucking Walker walked in on me having a complete emotional meltdown. My boss. The man who already thinks I'm trouble." I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window for a moment. "And now he probably thinks I'm unstable on top of being reckless."
I pull back, watching a drop of water make its way down a succulent leaf. The memory of the supply closet returns in vivid detail—the darkness, the cramped space, Sebastian sliding down to sit across from me. His voice as he told me about the boy he lost. The unexpected vulnerability in those dark eyes. And me stupidly calling him by his first name.
"I'm going to have to apologize tomorrow," I tell my favorite jade plant as I give it a careful drink. "Claim temporary insanity or something. 'Sorry for the emotional breakdown, Dr. Walker. It was a momentary lapse in professional judgment. Won't happen again.'"
