A Prescription to My Heart

1. Talia

Chapter 1

Talia

T he moving truck rumbles away, leaving me standing in the driveway of my new house with hands on my hips, surveying the mess. Boxes are stacked inside, furniture half-assembled. The air smells of cut grass and warm pavement, the early evening sun stretching shadows across the sidewalk. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

This street is nice—clean, quiet. Too quiet. The kind of neighborhood where people peek through their blinds instead of stepping outside to say hello.

And then there’s my neighbor.

Dr. Soren Calloway.

Even if I hadn’t already known who he was, the way the moving crew whispered about him would’ve clued me in. Infamous, brilliant, and apparently colder than the scalpels he wields. Some say he’s a genius. Others say he’s impossible.

I say he’s standing right there.

The man himself steps out of a sleek, black BMW parked in the driveway next door. Dressed in dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks like he belongs in a high-end medical drama. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly good-looking with his dark, auburn hair neatly combed, his expression unreadable.

I take my shot.

“Hey there!” I call out, walking toward him, hands loose at my sides. “I’m your new neighbor. Talia Vance.”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

I press on, undeterred. “I think we work at the same hospital, actually. Pediatrics?”

Still nothing. He strides toward his front door, moving like a man with exactly zero interest in small talk.

Okay, so he’s one of those doctors. The kind that treat social interaction like an unnecessary complication.

Fine.

I pick up my pace, cutting the distance between us before he can disappear inside. “Listen, I don’t need a housewarming gift or a welcoming committee, but a simple hello wouldn’t kill you.”

He stops. Turns his head slightly, just enough for me to see the sharp edge of his profile.

His voice is cool, detached. “Hello.”

That’s it. No warmth. No curiosity. Just a begrudging acknowledgment before he starts moving again.

I scoff. “Wow. A man of many words.”

His fingers tighten around the keys in his hand, knuckles briefly flexing. It’s the only sign I’ve gotten that he’s even remotely affected by my presence.

He doesn’t look back when he responds. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Vance.”

And then the door slams in my face.

I blink. Then laugh, shaking my head. “Charming.”

I head back inside my own house, kicking the door shut behind me. That man has the social skills of a brick wall.

And yet, somehow, he’s one of the most sought-after pediatric cardiothoracic surgeons in the city. Patients’ parents request him. Nurses tiptoe around him. His reputation precedes him.

But here’s the thing. I’ve worked with doctors like him before. I know their type. They’re not nearly as intimidating as they think they are.

I set my bag down on the kitchen counter and glance out the window. His house is nearly identical to mine—same modern design, same floor-to-ceiling windows. But through those windows I can see the only difference is that his place looks like a showroom. No clutter. No warmth. Just sleek, sterile perfection.

Figures.

I shake my head and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I should be unpacking, but instead, I find myself walking to the stove where a tray of cookies cools on parchment paper. A home doesn’t smell like a home without a fresh baked batch of homemade cookies, so I took the time to whip up a quick recipe in-between moving boxes.

I place a few on a plate and head for the front door again, drawn by the ridiculous urge to push Soren Calloway’s buttons.

I open it and step outside, breathing in the cool evening air. The sky is a deep blue now, the sun dipping below the horizon. Streetlights flicker on, casting pools of yellow onto the pavement.

And there he is.

Through his window, I catch a glimpse of Soren moving inside—washing his hands at the kitchen sink.

I don’t know why I do it, but before I can talk myself out of it, I step onto his porch, balancing a plate of homemade cookies in one hand.

I raise my hand and knock.

The sound is firm, unapologetic.

A pause.

Then the door swings open.

Soren stands in the doorway, one brow raised, his expression hovering somewhere between annoyed and bemused.

“Yes?”

I lift my chin. “You slammed the door in my face.”

He exhales, slow and measured. “I closed my door. There’s a difference.”

I arch a brow. “Right. And I’m sure you were just about to invite me in for coffee and a friendly chat.”

His lips press together. If he were any other man, I’d think he was fighting back a smirk. But this is Dr. Soren Calloway. He probably hasn’t smiled in years.

“Was there something you needed, Ms. Vance?”

I tap my fingers against my elbow. “Just curious—do you always greet new neighbors like that, or am I just special?”

His gaze flickers over me, assessing. “I don’t do small talk.”

“No kidding.”

Silence stretches between us. I hold his stare, refusing to back down even from those depthless, dark orbs.

Finally, he exhales sharply, stepping aside. “Would you like to come in?”

It’s clearly a test. He thinks I won’t. That I’ll shrink back, apologize for bothering him, and leave him alone.

Not a chance.

I step inside.

His house is immaculate, minimal, and entirely devoid of personality. The air smells faintly of soap and coffee. Clean but impersonal.

I glance around. “Wow. Cozy.”

He ignores the sarcasm. “Why are you here, Ms. Vance?”

“Talia.”

He exhales. “Talia.”

I grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

His jaw tightens. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I tilt my head. But the scowl on his face suggests he has absolutely no interest in playing nice.

I force a smile. “I just moved in next door, like I said, and since we work at the same hospital, I thought I’d introduce myself.”

Silence.

His expression doesn’t change.

I clear my throat. “I also brought cookies.”

Nothing.

I glance at the living room, catching a glimpse of a little girl with blonde curls peeking around the corner of the couch. Marigold Calloway. His eight-year-old daughter. I recognize her from when she came into the pediatric ward for her vaccines. She’s a sweet kid, always running up and down the hallways whenever she visits her dad’s office.

She gives me a little wave and a smile, but before I can even offer her a cookie, Soren exhales sharply.

“I don’t have time for,” he snaps. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with the rest of my night.”

All this is said as he gestures back toward the door still open behind me. I can’t even utter a word before I’m ushered out, and he is firmly in my face. Again!

Twice is the charm indeed.

Well. That went well.

***

Pediatrics hums with controlled chaos. The steady beeping of monitors, the murmur of parents asking questions, the occasional burst of a child’s laughter—this is my world. It smells like antiseptic and baby lotion, a weird mix of sterile and soft.

I check the time. Nearly noon. I’ve been on my feet since six, moving from patient to patient, charting vitals, soothing nervous parents. It’s a busy day, but I thrive on this. I love the rhythm, the energy, the small victories—like getting a toddler to take their meds without a full-scale meltdown.

And then, like a shift in the air pressure, he walks in.

Dr. Soren Calloway.

The temperature seems to drop as he strides down the hall, long legs eating up the distance, a clipboard in one hand. His lab coat is crisp, his scrubs pristine, his expression unreadable.

Every nurse in the ward stiffens. A few exchange glances. One disappears into a supply closet.

I don’t blame them. The Dr. Calloway Effect. Nurses fear him, interns stammer in his presence, and residents scramble to keep up.

“Page Dr. Myers again. If he doesn’t answer in the next sixty seconds, I’ll do the procedure myself,” he barks orders to a nurse.

I glance up just as he passes the nurses’ station, his dark blue scrubs perfectly fitted to his tall frame. His jaw is sharp, his expression unreadable.

His eyes flicker over, briefly landing on me. No recognition. Not even a hint of Oh, hey, sorry I shut the door in your face. Twice.

I cross my arms.

“Dr. Calloway.” My voice is pleasant, polite. “Nice to see you again.”

He doesn’t even break stride. “Do I know you?”

I bristle. Wow.

“Nurse Talia Vance,” I say before he can get out of earshot. “Your new next-door neighbor. The one with the cookies!”

He doesn’t even look back.

Unbelievable.

“Right,” I say, biting back a sigh. “Well, great chat. Have a wonderful day, Dr. Calloway.”

And as I watch him disappear down the hall, I come to a single, undeniable conclusion: Soren Calloway is a grump .

And unfortunately for me, he’s my neighbor.

I watch him disappear into one of the patient rooms.

I let out a slow breath, pushing away the annoyance curling in my gut.

It’s fine. He’s just like this. Don’t take it personally.

I return to charting on the computer, but only a few moments later, a voice cuts through the ward. His voice.

“Nurse Vance.”

It’s the first time he’s said my name, and for some reason, it makes me freeze and look up with my full attention.

I see Soren standing in the doorway of the patient’s room, one eyebrow raised, clipboard tucked against his chest.

I force a smile. “Oh, so you do know my name. Thought I imagined introducing myself.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I need vitals and an update in here.”

I blink. “That patient doesn’t need surgery,” I say.

He scowls. “She will if Dr. Liem can’t take five minutes from golf to actually step foot in this hospital. Vitals. Now.”

Of course. The mighty Dr. Soren Calloway thinks he runs this hospital. Surgical patient or not—he’s not about to let a sick child go unattended. Dr. Liem is notoriously flaky. I suppose it’s an endearing sign, a surgical attending showing this much care for all patients.

Still. A “please” would be nice.

I exhale through my nose. “Right. On it, Your Highness. ”

I wasn’t being quiet, but he doesn’t react. Just turns and disappears back into the room.

I finish charting as much as I can on another patient, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

Angela, one of the other nurses, snorts. “You talking about Calloway?”

“Who else? Man’s got the bedside manner of a rock.”

Angela smirks. “He’s not as bad as he used to be.”

I give her a look.

She shrugs. “Okay, maybe he is. But he’s good at what he does.”

I sigh. “Yeah, well, so is a robot.”

By the time I step into Room 7, Soren is at the bedside, flipping through the patient’s chart. The girl in the bed, Olivia, is seven years old, small for her age, with a mop of dark curls and big brown eyes.

“Hey, Liv,” I say, walking in with a bright smile. “How’s my favorite patient?”

She grins. “I learned a new joke.”

“Hit me.”

“What’s a skeleton’s least favorite room?”

I tap my chin, playing along. “Hmm… I don’t know.”

“The living room!”

I burst out laughing, ruffling her hair. “You’re on fire today.”

She beams, pleased with herself. Then her eyes flick to Soren, who’s watching us with that impassive, assessing look of his.

“You don’t laugh much, do you?” Olivia asks him.

I bite back a grin.

Soren, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “No.”

Olivia giggles. “You should. It’s fun.”

I glance at him, curious to see how he’ll respond.

He just nods once. “Noted.”

I shake my head and move to check Olivia’s IV. “Alright, Doc, here’s the rundown. No fever, vitals are stable, pain’s managed, and she’s tolerating fluids.”

He listens, nodding occasionally, his focus absolute. When I finish, he flips the chart closed.

“Good,” he says. “I’ll be back to check on her later.”

Then, without another word, he turns and walks out.

I stare after him. “Seriously?”

Olivia giggles again. “He’s weird.”

“You have no idea.”

I find Soren at the nurses’ station ten minutes later, scrolling through Epic like it’s personally offended him.

I fold my arms. “You ever say thank you ?”

He doesn’t look up from the computer. “For what?”

I scoff. “Oh, I don’t know. For running around, checking vitals, giving you updates so you can do your job without lifting a finger?”

He finally looks at me, those dark, unreadable eyes locking onto mine. “Isn’t that your job?”

My mouth falls open.

Angela, overhearing, picks up her Celsius and scurries away. Traitor.

I lean in slightly. “Okay, I get it. You’re a very important, very busy man. But maybe—just maybe—you could try treating the people who help you like actual human beings.”

Silence stretches between us.

Then, slowly, Soren’s gaze returns to the computer. “Duly noted.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Wow.”

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

“Talia.”

I glance over my shoulder. “What?”

He hesitates. It’s barely noticeable, just a fraction of a second, but I see it.

Soren exhales. “Thank you.”

It’s quiet. Measured. And somehow, it sounds like it costs him something to say.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Soren just watches me, his face infuriatingly apathetic.

I shake my head and walk away, but for some reason, I can still feel his eyes on me long after I’m gone.