"Sebastian, there you are," Arjun's voice cuts through our bubble, his cheerful tone oblivious to the tension he's interrupting. "And Dr. Phillips. What a surprise." His eyes dart between us, widening slightly as he registers our proximity.
"Dr. Patel," Mia acknowledges, taking a step back that feels like miles. "Nice to see you." She gestures vaguely between us, her shoulders straightening as she makes a visible decision. "Enjoy your night, gentlemen. I'm leaving."
Before I can respond, she turns and pushes through the crowd, the green of her dress visible for a few moments before it disappears into the sea of bodies. I watch her go, feeling something vital slipping away with each step she takes.
"Go after her, you idiot," Arjun says in my ear, giving me a not-so-gentle shove in Mia's direction. "Or are you planning to spend another week torturing everyone at the hospital with your unresolved sexual tension?"
He's right. I know he's right. But my feet remain rooted to the spot for one more heartbeat, fear and desire waging their familiar war inside me.
Then I move, shouldering through the crush of bodies, following the path I saw her take toward the exit. I can't let her go. Not like this.
By the time I break free of the club's entrance, stumbling onto the sidewalk where the night air hits me like a slap of clarity, I spot her halfway down the block—that green dress a beacon under the streetlights, her red curls bouncing with each angry stride she takes away from me.
"Mia!" I call after her. She doesn't slow down. If anything, her pace quickens, those long legs eating up the distance between her and whatever escape she's seeking. "Mia, stop!"
She ignores me, of course. Why wouldn't she, after a week of me ignoring her? The irony isn't lost on me as I break into a jog. The sidewalk is crowded with weekend revelers, but they part around my determined approach like water around a stone.
I catch up to her at the corner, my hand closing around her upper arm before she can step into the street. "Mia, wait."
She whirls to face me, jerking her arm from my grip with enough force that I let go immediately, not wanting to hurt her. "Don't touch me," she hisses, eyes flashing with the same fire I've been trying to extinguish all week in the hospital.
Without thinking, I guide her away from the curious onlookers on the sidewalk, into the narrow alley between the club and the building next door. The bass from Pulse thumps against the brick wall, a steady heartbeat that matches the one pounding inside my chest. The alley is dim, lit only by the spill of a security light near a service door and the ambient glow from the street.
"What do you want?" she demands, backing away until she hits the opposite wall. She crosses her arms over her chest, a physical barrier between us. "Haven't you done enough this week?"
I open my mouth to respond, but she's not finished.
"You know what? No. You don't get to follow me out here and say whatever rehearsed apology you've concocted." Her voice rises and trembles with emotion. "You've been nothing but cold to me for an entire week. Dismissing my ideas, humiliating mein front of patients, treating me like I'm some first-year resident who doesn't know basic medicine."
Each accusation lands with pinpoint accuracy, striking the guilt I've been carrying all week. I stand rigid, jaw clenched, unable to deny any of it.
"And now you're what? My knight in shining armor? Rushing in to save me from the big bad club guy?" She laughs, the sound sharp and brittle. "I don't need saving, Sebastian. I need consistency. I need to know which version of you I'm dealing with on any given day."
I take a step closer, drawn to her fury like a moth to flame. "I know," I admit, the words scraping my throat on their way out. "I know I've been... difficult."
"Difficult?" she repeats incredulously. "Try cruel. Try unprofessional. Try emotionally constipated and completely fucking impossible." Her chest heaves with each word, her breathing quick and shallow with anger.
That last one stings in a way the others don't, cutting straight to the core of who I am. Or who I've become.
“I hate you,” she spits, though her voice lacks conviction. “One minute you’re ice-cold, the next you’re acting like you—”
“What?” I murmur. “Say it.”
Her chin lifts, eyes bright with challenge. “You don’t get to demand anything. Not after the way you—”
Her words cut off as I close the distance between us in one fluid movement. My hands frame her face, fingers threading through those wild curls I've been fantasizing about for weeks, and I crush my mouth to hers with all the desperation I've been fighting since that night in her apartment.
She goes rigid against me, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but I don't pull away. Can't pull away. Not when her lips are softer than I imagined, not when the taste ofher floods my senses and short-circuits every rational thought in my head.
For a heartbeat, she remains frozen, her body caught between resistance and surrender. Then something breaks in her, and she's kissing me back with a ferocity that steals my breath. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away, and I groan against her mouth as she opens for me.
Pressing her back against the brick wall, I cage her in with my body as one hand slides down to grip her waist. The thin fabric of her dress does nothing to hide the heat of her skin beneath, and I want to tear it away, to map every freckle with my tongue until she's gasping my name.
She bites my lower lip, hard enough to make me hiss, and I retaliate by sliding my tongue along hers in a way that makes her arch against me. The small sound she makes goes straight to my cock, and I press closer, letting her feel exactly what she does to me.
"Shit," she breathes against my mouth, her voice shaky and breathless. "Sebastian, we can't—"
"We are," I correct her, my voice rough as gravel. I trail my lips down the column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my mouth. "We're doing exactly what we both want."
