I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper.
Tuesday is worse.
"The patient presents with recurring joint pain, unexplained rashes, and fatigue," I explain during rounds, carefully laying out my differential diagnosis. "Given the butterfly pattern of the facial rash and positive ANA, I believe we're looking at systemic lupus erythematosus."
Sebastian, who's been scrolling through his tablet, suddenly looks up. His eyes narrow, not with interest but something colder.
"And you based this conclusion on...?" His voice carries just enough edge to make the other fellows shift uncomfortably.
"The clinical presentation plus bloodwork showing elevated—"
"Did you consider mixed connective tissue disease?" he interrupts, his tone suggesting I've overlooked something painfully obvious. "The speckled ANA pattern and elevated RNP antibodies would indicate—"
"I did," I counter, refusing to shrink under his gaze. "Page three of my workup includes MCTD in the differential, but the absence of Raynaud's phenomenon and the consistency of the rash pattern made me prioritize lupus."
The silence that follows feels loaded, like a gun pointed at my professional reputation. Sebastian's jaw ticks once, the only indication that I've surprised him.
"Review the literature on atypical presentations of MCTD," he finally says. "I want a full report by tomorrow."
Harper smirks beside him. I want to kick them both in the shins.
Wednesday brings the special torture of paperwork prison. While the others present interesting cases, I'm stuck updating charts and running labs. I push through the monotony with aggressive efficiency, finishing early enough to join the team for the final consult of the day.
"Dr. Phillips," Sebastian says when he spots me entering the patient's room. "I wasn't aware you'd completed those discharge summaries."
"All done," I reply with a smile so professional it makes my face hurt. "I thought I'd observe the Wilson case, given the unusual neurological symptoms."
"We have it covered," he says, voice flat. "Why don't you get a head start on tomorrow's intake files?"
I retreat with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn't much when Naima gives me a look that might actually be pity.
Thursday, I catch him watching me.
I'm explaining a treatment plan to a patient when I feel that prickling awareness of being observed. Glancing up through the glass wall of the exam room, I spot Sebastian standing at the nurses' station, eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin heat. The moment our gazes connect, he looks away.
Later, during a patient handoff, our fingers brush as he passes me a tablet. The contact lasts less than a second, but it's electric. A jolt that runs straight from my fingertips to parts of me that have no business responding to Sebastian Walker. He jerks back as if burned, eyes briefly meeting mine with something that isn't coldness at all but raw and unmistakable heat.
"Mind the vitals on three," he says, voice rougher than usual. "They've been fluctuating."
Then he's gone, leaving me standing there with a tablet in my hands and confusion burning in my veins.
By Friday, I'm a live wire of frustration. Everything sets me off—the way Harper hovers at Sebastian's elbow like an eager puppy, the way Naima gets asked her opinion while mine is ignored, the way Sebastian can somehow fill an entire hospital with his presence even when he's not in the same damn room.
I'm at the nurses' station, aggressively clicking my pen as I review a chart, when Jonah appears beside me with two cups of coffee.
"Thought you might need this," he says, sliding one toward me. "You're about to wear a hole through that pen."
"Thanks," I mutter, accepting the peace offering. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to everyone with eyes," he replies with a small smile. "What did that pen ever do to you anyway?"
The unexpected joke startles a laugh out of me—a real one, not the polite chuckle I've been faking all week. Jonah looks pleased, launching into a story about a patient who tried to diagnose himself using WebMD and became convinced his indigestion was actually alien implantation.
I'm mid-laugh when I feel it that familiar prickle at the back of my neck again. Sebastian stands at the end of the corridor, staring at us with an expression I can't decipher. His eyes are dark, jaw tight, something almost predatory in the way he watches me laugh with Jonah. Then Naima calls his name, and the moment shatters. He turns away, but not before I catch a flash of something that looks uncomfortably like jealousy.
That can't be right. Men who publicly humiliate you all week don't get to be jealous when you laugh with someone else.
By afternoon, I'm at my breaking point. I slam my locker door with enough force to make nearby residents jump. In the afternoon meeting, I click my pen so aggressively that Harper actually asks me to stop. I mutter under my breath as I fill out yetanother form that could easily be handled by someone with half my training.
