I quickly step into Mia's apartment, hearing the neighbor's door shut as Mia closes her own. The click of the lock sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet between us.
Her apartment engulfs me immediately—warm, chaotic, and alive in ways my sterile condo could never be. Plants crowd every windowsill and surface, their green leaves cascading down bookshelves and reaching toward the ceiling from floor pots. The walls are painted a soft sage that makes the small space feellike something breathing. Mismatched throw pillows pile on a well-worn blue couch that looks like it's seen a decade of movie nights and study sessions.
What catches me off-guard the most are the personal touches everywhere—framed photos of Mia with an older man who must be her father, their matching red hair and easy smiles a genetic echo. Medical journals stacked haphazardly beside what I recognize as romance novels, their covers featuring men with improbable muscles clutching swooning women.
It's so completely her that I’m momentarily speechless. Every inch of this space screams Mia—vibrant, warm, and utterly unguarded. The complete opposite of my apartment with its minimalist design and carefully curated emptiness.
"Sorry about the mess," she says, though it's not really mess, just lived in. "Wasn't exactly expecting company tonight."
She tugs self-consciously at the hem of her t-shirt. The movement only draws my attention back to her legs, to the fact that we're alone in her apartment and she's dressed for bed.
"I should have called," I say, my voice sounding unnaturally stiff even to my own ears.
"Do you even have my number?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I don't. Or I do, somewhere in her personnel file.
"It's fine," she continues, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. I remain standing, afraid that settling into her space would make this visit feel even more personal than it already does. "If this is about the supply closet earlier, I wanted to apologize for—"
"It's not," I interrupt, desperate to avoid any mention of that dark, intimate space where I'd nearly crossed a line. My hand moves to my pocket, pulling out the folded paper that's been burning a hole there. "It's this."
I thrust the paper toward her more abruptly than necessary. Confusion creases her brow as she unfolds it and I can’t help but watch her face intently, cataloging every micro-expressionas she reads. The initial confusion, the dawning realization, and finally the widening of her eyes as understanding hits.
"You ran tests on Ellis," she says, looking up at me. The paper trembles slightly in her hand. "For Guillain-Barré. After he died."
I nod, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. Her eyes search mine, and I barely resist the urge to shift from foot to foot.
"The results were positive," she continues, gaze dropping back to the paper. "Atypical presentation, just like I suggested." Her voice wavers slightly. "How did you know?"
“The how doesn’t matter just that the evidence supported further investigation," I say, the clinical words at odds with the warmth spreading through my chest at the look on her face.
Waving the paper through the air, she steps closer to me. "But why, Sebastian? Why run these tests after he was gone? It doesn't change the outcome."
"Isn't that the question of the day," I mutter, taking an instinctive step backward as she advances. My back hits a bookshelf, sending a small framed photo wobbling. I catch it without looking, my eyes unable to leave her face.
Mia moves closer still, close enough that I can smell the citrus scent of her shampoo, can see the gold flecks in her green irises. We're nearly the same height, putting us eye to eye in a way that feels unbearably intimate.
"Sebastian," she says again. "Why?"
My name in her mouth is my undoing. My heart rate accelerates to a wild gallop as blood rushes to my dick with embarrassing immediacy. Every cell in my body screams to grab her, to crush her lips beneath mine, to push her against the nearest wall and discover if she tastes as good as she smells.
Her eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and I know with sudden, devastating clarity that if I kissed herright now, she'd kiss me back. The realization hits me straight between the ribs.
"I should go," I choke out, setting the photo back on the shelf with unsteady hands. "Early rounds tomorrow. This was... I shouldn't have...We'll discuss the implications for diagnostics tomorrow. At the hospital. During work hours."
I'm babbling, my usual eloquence deserting me as I edge along the bookshelf toward the door. Mia watches me with a mixture of confusion and something that looks dangerously like disappointment.
"You're leaving? Just like that?" she asks, still holding the test results. "You came all this way to show me I was right, and now you're running away?"
"Not running," I correct automatically, even as I reach for the doorknob behind me without turning around. "Strategic retreat."
A flash of amusement crosses her face. "Right."
"Good night, Dr. Phillips," I say, desperately trying to reestablish some professional distance even as I'm literally backing out of her apartment.
"It's Mia," she counters with a challenge in her eyes.
"Tomorrow," I repeat. "We'll discuss this tomorrow."
