The assessment is too close to the truth. Something about Dr. Phillips had indeed unsettled me from the moment I saw her performing compressions in the lobby. Not just her disregard for protocol—though that was certainly part of it—but the fierce determination in her eyes when she'd looked up at me. The way she hadn't backed down. The unwavering certainty that she was right.
It reminded me of someone I used to be. Before Debra. Before I learned the cost of letting people get too close.
"She's reckless," I finally say. "Impulsive. Operating on instinct rather than procedure."
"Some would call that courage," my supposed friend counters. "Medicine isn't just about following flowcharts, Sebastian. You used to know that."
The implied criticism stings. "I know exactly what medicine is about. Which is why I need fellows who understand boundaries."
"Boundaries." he slowly repeats the word. "And that's really all this is about? Professional boundaries?"
Before I can answer, my pager beeps. Grateful for the interruption, I check it. "I need to get to the lab. Results on Ms. DuBois."
Arjun studies me for a moment longer, then nods. "Go. Run away from this conversation. But Sebastian?"
I pause, already half-turned to leave.
"Try not to crush that girl's spirit on her first day just because she makes you feel something you're not ready to examine."
I could argue. Could tell him he's wrong, that Dr. Phillips is nothing but trouble with a medical license. That whatever I feel toward her is purely professional frustration.
But Arjun would see through it. He always does.
So I nod curtly and turn to go, feeling his knowing smirk following me down the hall like a silent accusation. As I walk away, I try to push thoughts of Dr. Phillips from my mind—her fierce green eyes, the escaped curl that had brushed her flushed cheek, the steady confidence in her hands as she worked to save a life.
Trouble. That's all she is. All she can be.
I repeat it to myself like a diagnosis I need to memorize, even as something deeper whispers that I might be wrong.
***
Cheryl's room sits at the far end of the wing, away from the constant beeping and bustle of the nurses' station. I pause at the threshold, taking in the transformation she's managed in the standard-issue hospital space. A silk scarf drapes over the harsh lamp, casting the room in a warm glow that softens the clinical edges. Photos line the windowsill—younger versions of Cheryl in various dance poses, limbs extended in perfect lines that defy gravity. The familiar scent of lavender essential oil battles valiantly against the antiseptic hospital smell. It's amazing how quickly patients try to reclaim these sterile spaces, to press their identities into rooms designed to be impersonal.
Cheryl herself looks more fragile today, propped against a stack of pillows that make her seem smaller than yesterday. Her once-athletic frame has thinned considerably over the past two weeks. The bones of her wrists jut sharply as she turns the page of her worn paperback, a raunchy romance if the shirtless man on the cover is anything to go by. Her silver-blonde hair is pulled back in a loose bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face in a way that's deliberately elegant despite her circumstances.
She looks up as I enter, those sharp eyes missing nothing. "You look like you've been chewing on lemons, Dr. Walker. Bad morning?"
I approach her bed, reaching for the chart hanging at the foot. "Good morning to you too, Ms. DuBois."
"Cheryl," she corrects for perhaps the twentieth time as she sets her book aside. "After two weeks of you prodding at me, I think we've earned first names, don't you?"
"Hospital policy," I respond automatically, though it's more habit than adherence to rules at this point.
She watches me review her chart, her head tilting slightly. "Someone's got you worked up today. A woman, if I had to guess."
I glance up, keeping my expression neutral. "And what makes you think that?"
"That particular tightness around your jaw." She gestures vaguely toward my face. "I've seen it on practically every male dancer I've ever worked."
I return to the chart, noting the overnight vitals with a frown. Her temperature spiked again around midnight. "Your imagination is remarkably active for someone who's been confined to a hospital bed."
"My body may be failing, but my powers of observation remain intact." Her smile turns wry. "What else do I have to dobesides analyze the micro-expressions of my doctors? It's better entertainment than daytime television."
I move to check her IV line, noting the fresh bag of fluids. "Have you been able to keep anything down today?"
The shift to medical questions sobers her slightly. "Toast, for about twenty minutes this morning. Then the usual drama." She gestures toward the bathroom with a graceful flick of her wrist. "The nurses have started a betting pool on whether I'll make it through a full meal by the end of the week."
"And did you place a bet?" I ask, my fingers pressing gently against her wrist to take her pulse manually, despite the monitors tracking it.
