Chapter 2
Collins
“Good morning, Dr. Collins,” the patient greeted in her sweet, chipper voice, leaning slightly forward as if hoping for a smile.
I didn’t look up. My pen hovered over the file, cross-referencing lab results, scanning vitals, and making notes with surgical precision.
Not today. I didn’t have the patience for someone who saw every hospital visit as a chance to flirt.
“Dr. Collins?” she tried again.
“Yes, Miss. Fable,” I replied, voice clipped.
“I was wondering about the…”
“The nurses are already onto it. They’ll see you to your medications,” I interrupted, my eyes still on the charts. Without another word, I stood and left the room, not sparing her a glance.
The soft click of the door behind me carried all the finality intended. She remained seated, slightly flustered, realizing she’d been dismissed.
“Who’s that?” a new intern whispered from behind the nurses’ station as I stepped past.
“That’s Dr. Ian Collins. Gorgeous, isn’t he?” another nurse replied, checking her watch.
“Wow…yeah. You should introduce me,” the intern murmured, eyes wide.
“Later,” the nurse said quietly. “He’s heading into surgery soon. Full focus mode.”
I heard the intern sigh. Focus mode. Exactly.
Geez. Do people come here to work, or to hunt for their next hookup? What is wrong with women these days? Self-respect seems optional.
“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” the nurse added. “He’s brilliant, but…cold. Extremely professional. Doesn’t really interact with female patients. Keeps them at a distance. Probably because so many of them end up… infatuated.”
Cold. I straightened my back, pinching the bridge of my nose. Professional. Nothing more.
I didn’t distance myself from female patients because of fear or avoidance.
Some colleagues lingered too long, joked freely, and allowed personal interest to interfere with care.
I didn’t. I adhered strictly to the code of conduct: patients deserved skill, precision, and complete attention. Nothing else.
I returned to my desk, scanning the files again, noting the tumour location, reviewing pre-op labs, calculating every margin, every risk. The whispers of the interns floated past like static, irrelevant. Gossip had no place in my world. Focus did. Accuracy did. Lives depended on it.
I allowed my mind to settle, mentally rehearsing each step of the upcoming procedure. Hands steady, posture unyielding, eyes sharp. No distraction. No indulgence. No emotion.
Because here, in this room, amidst the charts and the monitors, the lives of patients were the only things that mattered. Not the flirtations, not the admirers, not the fleeting sparks of attraction. My work came first. Always.
The rest of the meal passed in quiet conversationTime to head into the operating room.
I changed into clean scrubs, washed my hands with practised precision, and secured my mask. Familiar steps. Familiar rhythm. The kind that grounded me. Today’s case was a male patient in his late forties—a tumour lodged deep in his brain. Complex, but operable. I would be leading the surgery.
Three hours later, I stepped back from the table, shoulders tight, fingers aching faintly beneath my gloves. The final scans confirmed it—complete resection. No complications.
Successful.
Relief came quietly, professionally—no celebration, no excess emotion. Just the knowledge that the procedure had gone exactly as planned.
I exited the operating room and approached the waiting area. The patient’s wife and daughter stood the moment they saw me, faces drawn tight with fear.
“The surgery was successful,” I said calmly. “He’s stable. We’ll monitor him closely, but the prognosis is good.”
The change was immediate. The wife nearly collapsed as she covered her mouth, tears spilling freely. The daughter clutched her, crying openly, joy and relief crashing over them both.
After I gave the family some space, I cleaned up. Tim intercepted me in the corridor.
“Hey,” he said, falling into step beside me. “Lunch?”
I hesitated briefly, then nodded. “Sure.
The cafeteria was loud, crowded, inefficient—but tolerable. We took our seats, trays in front of us.
“So,” Tim said between bites, “how’d the surgery go?”
“He’ll survive,” I replied. “The family’s relieved.”
Tim nodded, then his attention went somewhere over my shoulder. His mouth curved into a grin. “Oh. Someone’s heading our way.”
I didn’t turn. “Who?”
“Chantelle.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Of course she is.”
Tim smirked. “She’s got a crush on you.”
“I know.”
“And she’s not the only one. Mila, too.”
I frowned. “Who’s Mila?”
“The nurse with the curly blonde hair,” he clarified.
Before I could respond, Chantelle appeared beside our table, tray in hand. She slid into the seat next to mine without hesitation.
“Hey, Doc,” Tim said brightly.
She shot him a look. “Please—we’re colleagues. Call me Chantelle.” Then she turned to me, smiling. “Hi, Ian. How are you?”
“I’m well,” I replied. “And you?”
She sighed dramatically. “Could’ve been better.”
I stiffened. “Why?”
“Because you still won’t take me on a date.”
There it was.
“Not this again,” I said evenly. “You know I’m not interested in dating now.”
“Because you’re too devoted to your job?” she pressed.
I didn’t answer immediately. The truth was less flattering than that.
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the low hum of the room.
“Dr. Timothy Reid to Trauma. Dr. Timothy Reid to Trauma. Urgent.”
Tim barely hesitated. He pushed his chair back, already halfway to standing. “Duty calls,” he muttered, glancing between us with a knowing look. “We’ll catch up later.”
I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around my fork.
Chantelle leaned closer. “So? Just coffee. Casual.”
I stared at the table for a moment, choosing the least damaging response.
“I’ll think about it.”
This was obviously the fastest way to end the conversation.
And even that felt like too much.
I completed my rounds methodically, moving from patient to patient.
Bed seven presented with short-term memory loss—still disoriented, still repeating the same three questions. Expected, given the frontal impact. Bed nine was recovering from a car accident, post-op scans stable, swelling within acceptable limits. No deterioration. No surprises.
Routine.
“Dr. Collins.”
I looked up. Nurse Mavis stood with her clipboard tucked against her chest.
“Bed fourteen just regained consciousness.”
I gave a brief nod. “I’ll be there shortly.”
After finishing my assessment on bed nine and updating the chart, I head straight to bed fourteen.
I pulled the curtain aside and stepped closer, eyes already scanning the monitors before meeting the patient's gaze. Vitals steady. Heart rate is normal. Oxygen saturation holding.
Nineteen years old. Female. The patient was admitted the previous night.
She was awake—eyes open, unfocused at first, then slowly tracking movement. Confused, but responsive. That was a good sign.
I checked her pupils, noting the reaction to light. Equal. Responsive. No obvious neurological deficit.
“The helmet did its job.”
The impact hadn’t been severe enough to cause significant brain trauma. There had been swelling, yes—but nothing alarming. No haemorrhage. No immediate surgical intervention required.
I straightened and made a few notes on the chart.
“She’ll remain under observation,” I said to the nurse beside me. “Continue neuro checks every hour. Start her on the prescribed medication. If there’s any change—confusion, vomiting, loss of responsiveness—you call me immediately.”
The nurse nodded.
I took one last look at the patient before stepping back, already mentally moving on to the next case.
Another young life spared by timing, protection, and luck.
I drew the curtain closed and walked away.