Another Round
1086 Words
The Alibi Room – Gastown, Vancouver
POV: Eliana Woods
The third pitcher of IPA arrived with a heavy thud, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass.
The pub had thinned out, the post-work crowd replaced by the late-night dwellers of Gastown and a few lingering souls who looked like they were hiding from the rain.
In our corner booth, the air felt thick and insulated, a private bubble where the "Woods" and "Vance" legacies couldn't reach us.
"I'm telling you," Sarah slurred slightly, leaning her chin on her hand as she watched the bubbles rise in her glass. "There is a literal manual for being a Chief of Surgery. Step one: grow a brooding brow. Step two: forget how to smile. Step three: develop an accent that makes people want to apologize for breathing."
Mark let out a bark of a laugh, his head lolling back against the leather. "Vance definitely skipped the 'how to be a human' chapter. I saw him in the hallway today, Eliana. He didn't just walk past the nursing station, he colonized it. He’s six-foot-five of pure, unadulterated ego."
"It's not ego," Eliana heard herself say, the social butterfly in her fluttering toward a defense she wasn't sure she should be making. "It's... armor. Think about it, Mark. His father is Sterling Vance. My father is Arthur Woods. We weren't raised to be 'humans.' We were raised to be icons. If he lets his guard down for a second, the Board will tear him apart."
Sarah squinted at her, her eyes drifting over Eliana’s face with a newfound intensity. "You’re doing it again, Woods. You’re analyzing him like a pathology slide. You spend ten minutes in an OR with the man and suddenly you’re his biographer?"
I spent four hours watching his hands save a man’s life, Eliana thought, her pulse quickening. I watched him give me a protein bar because he knew I was starving, even while he was calling me a liability.
"I’m just saying," Eliana replied, taking a long, cooling sip of her beer. "The bylaws aren't just for us. They’re for him, too. He’s the youngest Chief in Medville history. He’s almost thirty-eight, got the information from his own father and already sitting at the top of the mountain. That’s a lonely place to be."
"I'd be happy to be lonely with his salary and that jawline," Mark muttered, though there was no malice in it. He reached for a stray, cold fry. "But seriously, Eliana. The rumor mill is already spinning. People saw you two in the ICU. They saw the 'Double-Check' protocol showdown in the lecture hall. They think you're the only one who can talk back to him without getting your head bitten off."
"I’m the only one with a father who owns thirty percent of the hospital," she countered, her voice dropping an octave. "That’s not talent, Mark. That’s a shield. And Alistair... he hates that shield as much as I do."
"Alistair?" Sarah pounced on the name, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across her face. "First name basis already? Since when did the 'Ice King' become 'Alistair' to the new intern?"
Eliana felt the heat rise from her chest to her cheeks, a flush that was becoming far too familiar. "It’s just a name, Sarah. Don't perform a biopsy on a slip of the tongue."
"Uh-huh," Sarah hummed, leaning closer until Eliana could smell the salt and malt on her breath. "You’re a genius, Eliana. You’re a social butterfly. You can read any room in this city. So tell me... what did you read when he looked at you today? Because from where I was sitting in the third row, it didn't look like he was thinking about bylaws."
Eliana looked down at the table, tracing the deep scratches in the wood. She remembered the scent of cedar and espresso in the ICU. She remembered the New York edge in his voice when he told her he was protecting her.
"I read a man who is tired of being a statue," she whispered, almost to herself.
Mark and Sarah exchanged a look—a silent, knowing glance that made Eliana want to retreat back into the sterile safety of the hospital. Here, in the amber light of the pub, everything felt too exposed.
The eleven-year age gap, the professional boundaries, the crushing expectations of their fathers—it all felt like it was shifting, turning into something more dangerous.
"Well," Mark said, breaking the tension with a heavy sigh. "If the statue ever decides to crumble, I hope I’m not the one on call. I don't think Medville is ready for an Alistair Vance who actually feels things."
"None of us are," Sarah added, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
The conversation drifted into lighter territory—the horrific fashion choices of the vascular surgeons, the best places to hide for a ten-minute nap on the fifth floor, and the mysterious disappearance of the good coffee filters in the lounge.
For another hour, they were just three twenty-somethings in Vancouver, avoiding the inevitable return to reality.
But as the bartender began flipping stools onto the bar and the lights flickered in a silent warning, Eliana felt a strange sense of foreboding.
"One more round?" Sarah asked, her hand hovering over the empty pitcher.
"We have to be back in four hours, Sarah," Mark groaned, though he didn't move to stand up. "We’re going to be zombies."
"Better to be a happy zombie than a sober one," Sarah countered.
Eliana leaned back, her eyes fixed on the door.
For a second, she imagined Alistair walking through it—not as the Chief, but as the man who grew up in New York, his black hair wet from the rain, his hazel eyes looking for the only person in the city who understood the weight he carried.
He wouldn't come here, she told herself. He’s probably at home in some glass-walled penthouse, quoting bylaws to his reflection.
"Fine," Eliana said, her social butterfly side winning out as she signaled the bartender. "One more. For the 'assets' who are still standing."
`
As the fresh glasses arrived, the rain outside Gastown intensified, drumming against the pavement. Inside, the three of them toasted to the night, unaware that the rules they had spent the day learning were about to be rewritten entirely.
- Writer
