Chapter 4 - Starting Treatment
1078 Words
Adrian's POV
"You don’t sugarcoat, huh?"
Her voice was defiant, clipped. But underneath, I heard it, that thread of exhaustion, of someone trying to stay sharp while the world blurred around her.
I liked her immediately. Not in the way Nathan might assume. I liked her resilience. Her sarcasm. The way she didn’t flinch from directness, even when it came sharp-edged.
"Never," I said.
She gave the faintest smile before sitting down.
Elena Hart. Romance novelist. aged twenty-six, Diagnosed keratoconus and now post-herpetic corneal scarring from shingles. Declining vision. A creative mind trapped in a body giving out on her.
It was the kind of case I didn’t take often anymore. Not unless it challenged me. Not unless it pulled at something deeper than procedure and this one did.
The next morning, she was early.
I walked into the prep suite at 6:52 to find her sitting on the treatment recliner, legs crossed, cane at her side, dark glasses perched low on her nose.
"Seven a.m., right? I’m here. No star taken off for being too prompt, I hope," she said.
"You’ll earn it back in pain tolerance."
"Great. Torture and sass. You're full service."
I smirked. "Let’s begin."
Maria, my ophthalmic nurse, handed her a gown and led her to the prep room. Elena moved slower than yesterday, more cautiously. The first procedure was a non-invasive diagnostic mapping and custom tomography. No pain yet. But that would change.
Back in the chair, I sat beside her. "This will feel odd. Cold drops first. Then light pressure. I need you to stay very still."
"Define 'odd'," she asked.
"Like someone poking your eyeball with a popsicle stick. But medically."
She grinned. "You're not big on comfort metaphors."
"Not big on sugarcoating, remember?"
I applied the anesthetic drops. She didn't flinch. Her fingers gripped the chair arms tightly. I noted her vitals on the monitor.
"You're breathing too fast."
"Gee, wonder why."
"You can still walk out."
She exhaled. "No. I just need to not scream. I haven’t screamed in front of a man since my first boyfriend ghosted me over text."
I paused, glanced at her.
"Really?"
"I was sixteen and dramatic. But I grew out of the scream-crying thing. Mostly."
"Good to know."
The first scan took less than ten minutes. She stayed absolutely still.
When it was done, I reviewed the images, heart sinking.
"It’s worse than I thought," I murmured.
She removed her glasses. "Well that’s comforting."
"You’ve lost significant corneal integrity in your right eye. The left is salvageable. But we need to start tomorrow. Full crosslinking. We’ll also begin antiviral nerve modulation."
"How painful are we talking?"
"Seven out of ten for the first two days. Dropping to a four."
"And the chances?"
"I don’t gamble. But if I did? I’d bet 70% improvement. Maybe more."
She nodded slowly. "Then we start."
Over the next week, she became routine. Morning procedures. Midday rest. Evening check-ins.
"Still alive?" I'd ask.
"Barely," she’d groan. "You ever think about a career in sadism?"
"Only on Tuesdays."
We bickered. Bantered. Fell into a rhythm I hadn’t felt with a patient in years.
By Thursday, she was moving slower. Sensitive to light. Eyes swollen and bandaged.
I knocked once before entering her private recovery suite.
"Hey," she mumbled.
"Pain?"
"Six. But emotionally? Like... a twelve."
I sat beside her bed. She was curled up under the blanket, dark hair spilling across the pillow.
"Tell me something good," she said.
"Your corneal response is better than projected."
She peeked through a swollen eye. "No, I mean like... tell me about yourself. Something not medical."
I hesitated.
She noticed. "Do you ever talk to patients like people? Or are we just... corneas and charts to you?"
"I used to," I admitted.
"What changed?"
"I lost someone. Someone I couldn’t save."
Silence.
Then she said, "Yeah. That kind of grief... it rewires you."
I met her gaze. "Who did you lose?"
"My dad. Last year. He was the only one who believed I could do this full time. Be a writer. Everyone else thought I was chasing a fantasy."
I nodded. "He would be proud."
She blinked fast. "Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I do."
The next day, during the transplant prep mapping, her hand brushed mine. Just briefly.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
She whispered, "You have really steady hands."
"I’d hope so. It’s kind of my job."
"No, I mean... I trust them. That’s rare for me."
Something tightened in my chest. A warmth I hadn’t invited.
I looked away, refocusing on the scan. Professional. Detached. But her words stayed with me. Trust.
From someone who’d been betrayed by someone she was ready to marry. And she was offering it to me?
I wasn’t sure I deserved it. But I wasn’t going to let her down.
By the weekend, she walked into the clinic unassisted.
"No cane?" I asked.
She grinned. "Not today. I can see shadows more clearly. Light. Some shapes. It’s not much, but it’s something."
I felt that same warmth again.
I cleared my throat. "It means the therapy is working. But don’t push yourself."
"You know I will."
I shook my head. "Stubborn."
"Pot, meet kettle."
We locked eyes. There was a tension building now. Not medical. Not clinical. Something hotter. Closer.
"Dr. Cole," she said, voice suddenly soft. "Why did you really take my case?"
I hesitated. Then said the truth. "Because I couldn’t stop thinking about your file. And then, after meeting you... I couldn’t stop thinking about you."
Her breath hitched. She looked away, a smile playing at her lips.
"Good," she said. "Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you either."
I took a step closer but stopped myself. I was standing in the space between professionalism and temptation, and one wrong move could unravel us both.
"This... whatever it is... we can't cross that line. Not yet," I said, my voice hoarse.
She nodded, slowly. "But you feel it too. Right?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "Every damn second."
She stepped back, creating space again. "Okay. Two more days of procedures. Then maybe... maybe we talk about it."
"Deal."
I watched her leave the room. The swing of her hair. The soft tap of her heels. The fact that she hadn't used the wall for support.
Something inside me shifted. I wasn’t sure what this was. But I knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t just clinical anymore. And that terrified me.
- Writer
