Lines of Obsession

Cold Front

Eliana’s House / Medville Hospital

POV: Eliana Woods

A sharp, rhythmic pounding echoed through the silence of my bedroom, dragging me upward from the first deep sleep I’d had in days. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow as my brain struggled to identify the sound. My alarm wasn't supposed to go off for another twenty minutes.

The knocking persisted, followed by the muffled sound of a voice through the heavy oak of my front door.

I stumbled out of bed, my vision slightly blurred and my hair a tangled halo. I pulled on a silk robe, cinching the belt as I peered through the security camera. Leo stood in the hallway, looking disgustingly bright-eyed for four in the morning, holding two paper cups and a small brown bag.

I unlatched the door, the cool air of the corridor hitting my skin. "Leo? What are you doing here?"

"I figured since we both have the early shift, I’d save you the trouble of a cab," he said, holding up a cup with a triumphant grin. "Extra shot of espresso, oat milk, dash of cinnamon. Just like you like it."

I leaned against the doorframe, a tired smile tugging at my lips. "You’re a dangerous man, Leo. Bringing caffeine to a sleep-deprived surgeon is a form of bribery."

"Consider it a follow-up to a great date," he said softly. "Go get dressed. I’ll wait."

Ten minutes later, I was back in my navy scrubs, my hair pulled into a tight, professional knot. The warmth of the coffee was a welcome heat against my palms as we rode down the elevator together. In the close confines of the car, Leo’s presence was easy and uncomplicated. He talked about a new podcast he’d started, his hand resting casually on the small of my back as he guided me toward his car.

It was the "normal" I had asked for. It was steady. It was safe.

The drive to Medville was quiet, the streets of Vancouver slick with the remnants of the night’s rain. Leo parked in the staff lot, and we walked toward the ambulance bay entrance together, laughing about a particularly ridiculous medical drama we both secretly hated.

As we pushed through the double doors, the familiar roar of the hospital took over. But as I reached the central nursing station to check the morning’s vitals, I felt the temperature of the room plummet.

Alistair was standing by the charts, his back to us. Even from behind, his presence was a physical force—broad shoulders beneath a freshly pressed white lab coat, his dark hair perfectly styled despite the hour.

"See you at lunch?" Leo asked, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.

"Definitely," I replied, my voice sounding a bit too loud in the quiet of the station.

Leo turned and headed toward the Internal Medicine wing, and I took a breath, bracing myself. I walked toward the charts, reaching for the one on top of the pile.

"Dr. Woods."

The voice was ice. It wasn't the raw, desperate whisper from the parking garage or the heated growl from the driveway. It was the voice of a man who had slammed a steel door shut and locked it from the inside.

I looked up, but Alistair didn't meet my eyes. He was focused on a tablet in his hand, his jaw set in a line so rigid it looked like it would snap.

"Good morning, Chief," I said, my heart beginning a slow, heavy thrum.

"It is 05:03," he stated, his British accent sounding more like a weapon than a lilt. "You are three minutes late for the pre-op briefing. In my service, that is unacceptable. Go to Ward 4 and begin the drain checks. I want a full report on my desk in twenty minutes. Do not speak to the families; do not linger at the stations. Just do the work."

I froze, the chart half-out of the rack. "Chief, I was just—"

"I didn't ask for a narrative, Doctor," he snapped, finally cutting his gaze toward me. His hazel eyes were void of any gold flecks, looking like flat, cold stones. There was no recognition of the night before, no trace of the man who had cupped my neck in the rain. "I asked for results. If your social calendar is interfering with your punctuality, I suggest you re-evaluate your priorities before I re-evaluate your position on this rotation."

The sting was immediate, a sharp burn in my chest that made my eyes prickle. I forced myself to stand tall, my own jaw tightening. "I understand. I'll have the reports on your desk."

The rest of the morning was a masterclass in professional torture. Alistair moved through the wards like a ghost of a man, his instructions brief and biting. Every time I presented a finding, he dismissed it with a curt nod or a sharp correction that felt like a slap. He didn't look at me when I spoke; he looked at the monitors, the charts, or the floor.

In the OR for a minor procedure at 10:00 AM, the tension was suffocating. He didn't offer a single word of guidance. He simply held his hand out for instruments, his movements so fast and efficient I had to scramble to keep up.

"Suction, Woods. You’re lagging," he barked as we worked on a shunt replacement.

"I'm right here," I whispered, my fingers cramping around the tool.

"Then act like it."

When the surgery was over, he stripped his gloves off and walked out before I had even finished the final dressing. He didn't wait for the debrief. He didn't check in. He was a statue again—colder and more untouchable than the day we met.

I stood over the patient, the silence of the OR ringing in my ears. The "fire" he had talked about in the driveway felt like it had been extinguished, replaced by a deep, biting frost.

I walked toward the scrub room, my hands shaking as I reached for the tap. I had what I wanted. I had Leo, I had coffee, and I had a normal morning. But as I looked at my reflection in the chrome, I felt utterly alone.

Alistair Vance hadn't just returned to being the Chief. He had become a stranger. And the worst part was, I didn't know how to fight a man who wouldn't even look at me.