"Come on," Laney wheedles. "When was the last time you did something just for fun? That wasn't reading sappy romance novels or talking to your plants?"
"Low blow," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. She's right. I've been so focused on proving myself in this fellowship that I've forgotten how to just... live.
"Fine," I say, the word coming out like a sigh of surrender. "But I'm not wearing heels, and I'm definitely not going home with anyone."
Laney pumps her fist in victory. "Yes. Operation Get Mia Laid is a go."
"That is not the operation name," I protest, but I laugh as some of the tension from the past week finally eases from my shoulders.
"Operation Make Walker Jealous?" she suggests with another waggle of her eyebrows.
I throw a napkin at her head. "Operation Shut Up, Laney."
Ducking, she grins. "I'll pick you up at nine."
As she launches into detailed planning for our night out, I start to look forward to it. One night away from thoughts of Sebastian Walker and his contradictions. One night to remember that there's more to life than trying to decode the puzzle of a man who runs hot and cold like a broken faucet.
Maybe that's exactly what I need.
Chapter 12
Sebastian
The medical journal in front of me might as well be written in Sanskrit for all I'm comprehending. The words blur together, a jumble of clinical terminology that usually fascinates me but now just sits there, mocking my inability to focus on anything but her. I toss the journal onto the growing pile of unread literature on my desk and rub my temples. It's been a week since I showed up at Mia's apartment, a week of deliberate cruelty disguised as professional distance, and I've never felt more like a complete asshole in my life.
My foot taps a staccato rhythm against the floor, the only sound in the too-quiet office besides the occasional grind of my teeth. I've been sitting here for over an hour, accomplishing exactly nothing. The empty coffee mug at my elbow—my third of the afternoon—bears witness to my attempt to caffeinate my way into productivity.
It hasn't worked.
I glance at the case files spread across my desk, patient histories and lab results that should command my full attention. Mrs. Reeves' unexplained tachycardia. The Chen twins'matching rashes. Cheryl DuBois' continued weight loss despite nutritional intervention. All fascinating medical puzzles that would normally have me engrossed, firing neurons and making connections.
Instead, my mind keeps circling back to the way Mia's face fell when I cut her off during rounds yesterday. The hurt that flashed in those green eyes before she masked it with professional indifference. The way her shoulders stiffened when I assigned Harper to a case she'd clearly wanted.
"Fuck," I mutter, shoving away from the desk with enough force to send my chair rolling backward. I stand, pacing the length of my office like a caged animal. This wasn't the plan. When I left her apartment that night, I'd intended to give in to whatever this is between us, professional consequences be damned. But then I saw her the next morning, all bright eyes and soft smile, and panic seized me by the throat.
So I retreated. No, more than retreated, I fucking attacked. Like some wounded animal lashing out, I've spent a week systematically undermining her confidence, dismissing her ideas, treating her like she's barely qualified to change bedpans, let alone diagnose complex cases.
I stop at the window, staring out at the hospital parking lot without really seeing it. I've been unnecessarily cruel. That truth sits heavy in my gut, a weight I can't dislodge.
"Her differential diagnosis lacked rigorous analytical foundation," I mimic my own pompous tone from this morning's rounds. What bullshit. Her diagnosis was spot-on, more insightful than Harper's by a mile, but I couldn't bear to acknowledge it. Couldn't risk that moment of connection, that flash of pleasure on her face that would inevitably lead to me wanting more.
My jaw aches from clenching. I consciously relax it, rolling my neck to release some of the tension knotted there. It doesn'thelp. Nothing helps. Not the coldness I've wrapped around myself like armor. Not the professional distance I've tried to maintain. Not even the brutal workout routines I've been punishing my body with every morning.
Because every night ends the same way. Alone in my immaculate apartment, hand wrapped around my cock, Mia's name a whisper on my lips as I come harder than I have any right to.
The memory of last night's session heats my skin despite the office's aggressive air conditioning. I'd barely made it through the door before my hand was down my pants, desperation overriding any pretense of control or dignity. I didn't even make it to the bedroom, just braced against the hallway wall and stroked myself to the memory of Mia in that worn Johns Hopkins t-shirt, those endless legs bare and beckoning.
In my mind, she'd been on her knees, those wild red curls wrapped around my fist as I guided her mouth onto my cock. The fantasy was so vivid I could almost feel the wet heat of her tongue, the slight scrape of teeth, the vibration of her moans around me as I thrust deeper.
I'd come with her name on my lips, spilling into my hand with an intensity that left my legs shaking. And then... nothing. Empty release followed by the hollow echo of my breathing in an apartment that feels more like a hotel room than a home.
The routine is always the same. Pleasure, momentary bliss, then disgust creeping in as I clean up. Disgust at my lack of control, at fantasizing about a woman who works for me, who deserves better than to be the unwitting star of my nightly masturbation sessions.
My reflection in the window shows a man I barely recognize. This isn't who I am. I'm controlled. Disciplined. The doctor who makes the impossible diagnoses, who never lets emotion cloud his judgment.
Except when it comes to Mia Phillips.
I return to my desk, dropping heavily into the chair. The motion disturbs a stack of patient files, sending one sliding to the floor. I don't immediately pick it up, just stare at the scattered papers, a physical manifestation of my mental state.
