When Phoebe Harper’s Sharp Tongue Turns Surprisingly Warm and Real

An Unexpected Tuesday Morning

It was around 9:30 a.m. when I walked into Greywood Medical, my left ankle still swollen like a balloon from a weekend soccer injury. I wasn’t even sure why I’d booked with Dr. Phoebe Harper. Google reviews said she had “a sharp tongue” and “questionable bedside manner,” but she was the only one with an opening today.

The waiting room smelled faintly like antiseptic and burnt coffee. I flipped through an old magazine until my name was called.

“Alex Williams?” a nurse called. I stood up, limping slightly.

Meeting Dr. Phoebe Harper

The exam room was one of those sterile boxes with the fake wood cabinets and faded posters of the human skeletal system. After a couple of minutes, the door swung open and in walked Phoebe Harper.

Tall, dark hair pinned back in a slightly messy bun. Her lab coat was crisp, but her expression said she’d rather be literally anywhere else.

“Morning,” she said, not looking up from her tablet. Her voice had that dry, deadpan thing going on. “Ankle, yeah?”

“Yeah, twisted it playing soccer,” I said.

She finally looked up, her eyes sharp like she was sizing me up. “Soccer. Right. And I’m guessing no X-ray yet?”

“Nope.”

She clicked her tongue, scribbled something, then leaned down to check my ankle. Her hands were surprisingly gentle, but her mouth kept moving.

“People never learn,” she muttered. “Stretch, warm up, tape it if you’ve got weak joints. But no, let’s all run around like idiots.”

I laughed awkwardly. “Is that your medical advice?”

Phoebe quirked an eyebrow. “If sarcasm was a billable service, I’d be rich.”

The Shift in Her Mood

After poking and prodding, she straightened up, crossed her arms. “Not broken. Ligament strain, maybe. You’ll need ice, compression, all that boring stuff.”

“Thanks, Doc.” I grabbed my phone, already pulling up Uber.

But then—this was weird—she didn’t leave right away. Usually doctors bounce as soon as they’re done, but Phoebe kind of lingered by the counter, fiddling with some alcohol wipes.

“Where do you usually play?” she asked suddenly. Her voice was more casual now, like she was actually interested.

“Huh? Oh, uh... just down at Millbank Park. Sunday league stuff.”

Phoebe nodded slowly. “Used to play there too. Years back. Before med school wrecked my knees.”

That surprised me. “You played soccer?”

A dry chuckle. “Yeah. I wasn’t always stuck in a lab coat, believe it or not.”

For a second, there was an actual smile on her face—not that tight, insincere grin I’d seen at first. A real one. And I realized, maybe the reviews weren’t the whole story.

Hanging Around Longer Than Expected

I ended up sitting there another ten minutes. We talked about teams—she was Arsenal, I was Spurs, which got an eye-roll out of her—and then about coffee shops near the clinic.

At some point I asked, “Do you always trash-talk your patients like that?”

Phoebe shrugged, leaning back against the counter. “Only the ones who look like they can handle it.” Her eyes flicked to me, and there was definitely something warmer in them now. Not flirty exactly, but... less clinical.

“Anyway,” she said eventually, pushing off the counter. “Don’t die on the way home, yeah?”

“Not planning on it.”

As I limped out, I glanced back. She was already scribbling on her tablet again, expression unreadable. But for a moment there, I’d swear she didn’t look as insincere as the reviews said. Maybe you just had to catch her on a Tuesday morning when the coffee machine was working.