The hospital has a page I occasionally monitor for PR purposes. Tonight, I scroll through it mindlessly, watching updates about community outreach programs and staff accomplishments without really seeing them. It's just noise, something to occupy the surface of my mind while the depths continue to churn with thoughts of Mia.
And then suddenly, there she is.
The photo stops my scrolling cold. It's from last month's new staff orientation, a group shot of all the incoming fellows. But while the others blur into the background, Mia stands out like a flame in darkness. Those wild red curls are partially tamed into a braid, but rebellious strands frame her face. She's wearing a simple purple blouse that brings out the green of her eyes, whichare crinkled at the corners from her wide smile. Not the polite, professional smile of her colleagues, but something genuine and a little mischievous, like she's just thought of a joke she can't wait to share.
Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her—so vibrant, so alive, so completely herself even in a formal hospital photo. I click on the image to enlarge it, filling my screen with her face.
There they are—the freckles I noticed tonight, scattered across her nose and cheeks. Her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, giving her an almost perpetual pout that begs to be kissed away. The column of her throat is elegant, and I stare at the place where her pulse would beat, remembering how in my fantasy I'd wrapped my hand around that very spot.
My finger moves of its own accord, hovering over the screen as if to touch her face. I catch myself just before making contact, pulling back with a muttered curse. What the hell am I doing? Mooning over a hospital PR photo like some psychopath?
And yet I don't close the browser. Don't shut the laptop. I keep staring at her image, at the life that radiates from her even in a still photograph. The chaotic energy that seems to fill every space she enters.
The exact opposite of the emptiness that defines my existence.
The contrast is stark enough to make me uncomfortable. Mia Phillips lives in her life—really lives in it, with her mismatched furniture and her plants. Her space feels like an extension of herself, warm and inviting and slightly messy. Mine is just a place I return to between shifts at the hospital.
When was the last time I actually lived somewhere? The ranch, maybe. Before I left for college. Before I decided that emotions were liabilities and connection was a trap waiting to be sprung.
The thought is unwelcome, so I push it away, focusing again on Mia's face on my screen. On the light in her eyes. On the slight tilt of her head that seems to challenge the viewer, challenge me.
I'm not sure how long I sit there staring at her photo. Long enough that my eyes grow heavy as the adrenaline from earlier finally wears off. The last thing I remember is thinking about how many shades of red must be in her hair, wondering if they'd feel as soft between my fingers as they looked, wondering if she'd make that same small gasp from my fantasy if I tugged them just right...
Sunlight slices through a gap in the curtains, painting a bright line across my face. I blink awake, disoriented by the stiffness in my neck, and the weight on my lap. The laptop. I fell asleep with it open, Mia's face still filling the screen in high-definition color that somehow doesn't do justice to the real thing.
Before I can process the implications of falling asleep while staring at my fellow's photo, my phone chimes with a text. Fumbling for it on the coffee table, I squint at the screen.
It's from Bradley. My brother has sent a photo of a spindly-legged foal, so new it looks like it might collapse under its own weight at any moment. There’s a message beneath the image.
Bradley:New addition this morning. Dad helped with the delivery. Said to tell you he’s actually taking it easy and keeping up with his medicine.
Something warm spreads through my chest, displacing some of the tension that's lived there since last night. Three months ago, this text wouldn't have come. Three months ago, I was still the son who left, the brother who didn't call.
Slowly, that’s changing.
My thumbs hover over the phone for a moment before I type.
Me:Good lines on that foal. Can’t wait to come see the little one for myself. Tell Dad I'm glad.
It's not sentimental. It's not emotional. But it's connection, fragile and new, like that foal's legs. And it feels good.
I stand, stretching out the kinks in my back from a night spent on the couch. The laptop slips, and I catch it, Mia's face still smiling up at me from the screen. I need to get my shit together.
Suddenly disgusted with myself, I slap my laptop shut and toss it onto the couch. This is precisely why I've kept my distance from people since Debra. One glimpse of red curls and freckles, and I'm stalking social media profiles like a hormone-driven college student.
I head to my bedroom, stripping off yesterday's sweatpants and dressing with mechanical precision. Dark slacks. Light blue button-down. Navy tie. The routine should be comforting, but today it feels like armor I'm donning against a threat I can't quite name.
Mia Phillips.
Her name echoes in my head as I knot my tie. What is it about this woman that's gotten under my skin so quickly? She's beautiful, yes, but I've worked with beautiful women before. She's brilliant, but so are most of the doctors at Sierra Mercy.
It's something else. Something in the way she challenges me without hesitation. The way she sees the human beneath the symptoms when I've spent years training myself to focus only on the disease. The way she looked at me last night in her doorway, confusion and something else—something dangerous—in those green eyes.
I check my reflection in the mirror, smoothing a hand over my hair. Dark circles shadow my eyes, evidence of a night spent on the couch staring at her photo like some idiot.
"This ends now," I tell my reflection firmly. "She's your fellow. Nothing more."
My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder—staff meeting in an hour. I grab my watch from the nightstand, fastening it around my wrist with a sharp click. Today, I will be nothing but the consummate professional. I will treat Dr. Phillips with thesame detached courtesy I extend to all the fellows. I will not think about her legs or her freckles or the way she says my name like she's testing how it feels on her tongue.
