We fall into formation behind him like ducklings following their mother, the established hierarchy so clear it might as well be painted on our foreheads. Sebastian leads, Harper positioned strategically at his right shoulder, Naima and Jonah flanking, and me bringing up the rear. It's a position that wasn't assigned but somehow feels deliberate.
Our first patient is a thirty-eight-year-old woman with unexplained abdominal pain that's stumped three specialists already. Sebastian presents the case with surgical precision, outlining symptoms, previous treatments, and current status. When he finishes, he looks at each of us expectantly.
"Differential diagnoses?" he asks the group, though his eyes settle on Harper.
I scan through the chart on my tablet, piecing together symptoms and lab results. There's a pattern here that reminds me of something I saw during my ER rotation, a case that presented as standard IBS but turned out to be something rarer.
"I'd suggest we consider mesenteric ischemia," I say, stepping forward slightly. "The post-prandial pain pattern, weight loss, and elevated D-dimer all point to potential vascular compromise. If we start with a CT angiography—"
"That approach lacks evidence-based support," Sebastian cuts me off mid-sentence, his tone dismissive. He doesn't even look at me as he continues, "The symptoms more clearly indicate small intestinal bacterial overgrowth secondary to partial obstruction."
The interruption is so abrupt, so public, that I almost step back in shock. I've been in enough medical discussions to know the difference between healthy debate and deliberate undermining. This was the latter, delivered with surgical precision.
"But the timing of the pain in relation to eating suggests—" I try again, determined to finish my thought.
"We'll order an abdominal ultrasound and hydrogen breath test," Sebastian says to the group, effectively silencing me. "Dr. Langston, you'll oversee this case."
Harper nods with barely concealed satisfaction, shooting me a sideways glance that makes my teeth clench. I force myself to breathe normally, to not show how much this public dismissal stings. There's a flush creeping up my neck that I can't control, but I keep my expression neutral.
The next few patients go no differently. This man is purposefully ignoring my suggestions and handing out cases to everyone except me. It’s pissing me the hell off.
So when he announces a fifteen-minute break before continuing to the next wing, I feel like I can finally breathe again. I use the moment of freedom to head toward Cheryl's room. I genuinely want to check on her, partly because I'm concerned about her nutrition intake given her continued weight loss, and partly because I could use a friendly face after the morning from hell.
I'm almost at her door when a tall figure materializes in front of me, blocking the entrance like a human barricade. Sebastian stands there, arms crossed over his chest, expression impassive except for the slight tightening around his eyes.
"Patient visits are for medical necessity only, Dr. Phillips," he says, his voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby nurses to hear. "Not social calls."
The humiliation burns hotter than the anger, knowing that we have an audience for yet another public reprimand. I straighten my spine, refusing to shrink under his gaze.
"I want to check on her nutrition intake," I respond, somehow keeping my voice level despite the fury bubbling beneath my skin. "She's lost another two pounds since admission, and I wanted to see if we need to adjust her supplement regimen."
It's a perfectly legitimate medical reason, and we both know it. For a moment, something flickers in Sebastian's eyes—something that might be regret or might just be annoyance at being challenged. Then it's gone, replaced by that same clinical detachment.
"Dr. Langston is handling Ms. DuBois's nutritional assessment today," he says, gesturing down the hall. "The team will be reconvening in seven minutes."
The dismissal is so clear, so final, that arguing would only make me look more unprofessional. I nod once, a sharp movement that probably gives away more of my anger than I intend and turn on my heel. As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on my back.
Seven minutes. I have seven minutes to pull myself together, to push down the hurt and confusion and rage, to become the professional doctor he apparently expects me to be despite his own wildly inconsistent behavior.
I duck into the nearest bathroom, grateful to find it empty. Leaning against the sink, I stare at my reflection. "Get it together, Mia," I whisper to myself. "Don't let him see you break."
But as I splash cold water on my face, I can't help wondering what changed between last night and this morning. What made Sebastian Walker go from looking at me like I was something he desperately wanted to treating me like something he couldn't wait to be rid of.
That thought never dissipates, even as I walk into my building long after my shift ended, it’s still there, unanswered.
My apartment key misses the lock twice before I jam it in with enough force to risk breaking it. The door swings open and I step inside, letting it slam behind me with a satisfying bang. The day clings to me like a second skin I can't shed. I want to scream, to throw something, to call Laney and rant until my throat is raw. Instead, I kick off my shoes with enough force to send one flying across the room where it knocks over a stack of books.
"Fuck," I mutter, not bothering to pick them up. The mess somehow matches my mood—chaotic, disordered, and completely undone.
My scrub top comes off next, yanked over my head and thrown over the couch. The pants follow, peeled off like they're contaminated with something toxic. In a way, they are—the residue of humiliation that seeped into the fabric with each of Sebastian's cutting remarks, each cold dismissal, each moment he looked through me instead of at me.
By the time I reach the bathroom, I'm down to my underwear, skin prickling with goosebumps and leftover anger. I crank the shower handle to its hottest setting, not caring that it'll turn my skin lobster-red.
I step under the spray and hiss as it hits my skin, just shy of scalding. Perfect. I want it to burn away everything. Water streams down my face, mingling with tears I didn't realize I was shedding until I taste salt on my lips. Fuckity fuck. I refuse to cry over Sebastian Walker. I scrub at my face with both hands, as if I can physically wipe away the emotion along with the tears.
"He's not worth it," I tell myself. "He's just another arrogant doctor on a power trip. Nothing special."
The lie tastes bitter even as I say it. Because he is special, that's the problem. I've worked with difficult attendings before—medicine is full of outsized egos in white coats—but none ofthem got under my skin like Sebastian. None of them made me feel this strange cocktail of fury and fascination, of wanting to prove myself and wanting to run away.
