This has to stop. The cruelty isn't working. It's only making me hate myself while still wanting her with an intensity that borders on obsession. And it's unfair to her. She's brilliant, compassionate, exactly the kind of doctor who belongs in diagnostics. She doesn't deserve to be punished because I can't control my own desires.
I finally bend to retrieve the fallen file, forcing myself to focus on the patient information inside. Mrs. Shaw, fifty-two, presenting with unexplained seizures and tremors. The same symptoms that stumped three other doctors before she was referred to our department.
For a moment, the familiar puzzle captures my attention. But then I notice the preliminary workup notes, written in Mia's distinctive handwriting. Her observations are thorough, insightful, with connections I hadn't immediately made myself.
And I'd dismissed them yesterday without even a proper review, just because looking at her handwriting made my chest tight.
"Pathetic," I mutter, disgusted with myself. I close the file, unable to face the evidence of my own unprofessional behavior.
A soft knock at my door snaps me out of my self-loathing spiral. I straighten, assuming a mask of professional detachment that's become second nature.
"Come in," I call, voice steady despite the turmoil churning beneath the surface.
The door swings open, and I brace myself, half-expecting—half-hoping—to see Mia standing there. Instead, Arjun's familiarface appears, and I'm not sure if the feeling that floods my chest is relief or disappointment.
"You look like shit," he announces as he strolls into my office like he owns the place. He tosses a file onto my desk and drops into the chair opposite me, crossing one leg over the other with the casual grace that's always annoyed and impressed me in equal measure. His eyes, sharp behind fashionable glasses he doesn't need, scan my face with the clinical assessment of a doctor and the knowing look of a friend who's seen me at my worst. "Correction. You look worse than shit. You look like shit that's been stepped on, set on fire, and then extinguished with more shit."
"Thanks for the detailed analysis," I mutter, leaning back in my chair. "Did you need something, or did you just come by to critique my appearance?"
Ignoring my irritation, Arjun picks up a pen from my desk and twirls it between his fingers. "The Atwood case. Thought you might want my thoughts on the endocrine angle."
I gesture vaguely at the file he's tossed on my desk. "Leave it. I'll look at it later."
"No, you won't." He sets the pen down with deliberate precision. "You'll continue to sit here, brooding like some discount Gothic novel protagonist, accomplishing nothing but perfecting that scowl that's been terrorizing the residents all week."
My jaw tightens. "I have work to do, Arjun."
"Clearly." His eyebrow arches as he surveys the mess of papers on my desk. "Is that why you've been holed up in your office for—" he checks his watch, "—approximately one hour and seventeen minutes?"
"You been monitoring me?" I demand, irritation flaring. "Don't you have your own patients to terrorize?"
"Please. As if I need to monitor you to know when you're in one of your moods." He waves a hand dismissively. "The entire fourth floor is walking on eggshells. Harper's strutting around like he's your anointed heir. Kim looks like he might cry if someone speaks too loudly. And Phillips—"
"Don't," I cut him off.
Arjun's eyes narrow, that dangerous intelligence focusing fully on me now. "Interesting."
"What's interesting is your apparent lack of actual medical work to do," I deflect, shuffling papers on my desk in a poor imitation of productivity.
"Oh, I'm fully caught up on my cases, which gives me plenty of time to psychoanalyze my oldest friend." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "So, are we going to discuss why you've been treating Dr. Phillips like she ran over your dog, or should I just start making increasingly outlandish guesses until you snap?"
I close my eyes briefly, praying for patience. "There's nothing to discuss. I've been treating her like any other fellow."
"Bullshit. I saw you correct her in front of a patient yesterday. You've never done that to any doctor, let alone a fellow who—by the way—had the correct diagnosis."
Heat creeps up my neck. "She needs to learn to—"
"Be perfect? Read your mind?" Arjun shakes his head. "The woman graduated top of her class. Yet suddenly she can't seem to do anything right in your eyes." He tilts his head, studying me. "The question is why."
I stand abruptly, needing movement, needing distance from Arjun's too-perceptive gaze. "I don't have time for this amateur psychology."
"Make time." There's an edge to his voice now, the teasing giving way to something more serious. "Because whatever's going on with you is affecting the department, and I'm not goingto stand by while you destroy a promising doctor's confidence because you can't handle your own shit."
I turn to face him, ready to deny it, to defend myself, but the words die on my tongue. He's right, and we both know it.
Fight draining out of me, I sink back into my chair. "It's complicated."
"It always is with you." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Let me guess. You're attracted to her, so you're pushing her away because heaven forbid Sebastian Walker experience a human emotion."
