Love At first Strike

Chapter 3: Whispers and Wounds

Gossip spreads through a hospital faster than any virus. By the time my shift starts a week after the Martinez incident, I've heard no fewer than five different versions of why our new Head of Cardiac Surgery is called the Ice Prince.

"I heard he made a resident cry during rounds," whispers Katie, a new nurse, as we restock trauma supplies. "Just destroyed her over a minor charting error."

I focus on counting gauze packs, trying to ignore the way my stomach twists. I've been carefully professional in my interactions with Devon since our confrontation—pleasant but distant, like handling a particularly volatile medication. But I can't stop thinking about that folder of resources, the hours of work he'd done without fanfare.

"That doesn't sound right," I say finally, marking the inventory sheet with perhaps more force than necessary. "Dr. Richards is demanding, sure, but—"

"Oh honey, you haven't heard the best part," interrupts Sophia, materializing with the supernatural timing that all veteran nurses seem to possess. "Word is he left his last hospital because of some scandal with another doctor. Something about a relationship gone wrong?"

My hand stills over the supply cart. "We shouldn't—"

"Marcus! Thank god you're here." Amy's voice cuts through the gossip like a scalpel. She's slightly breathless, her scrubs wrinkled from running. "Need you in bay four. Now."

The urgency in her voice has me moving before she finishes speaking. As we hurry down the corridor, I catch fragments of continued whispers: *ice prince... heartless... ruthless...*

Bay four holds a familiar face—Mr. Thompson, our frequent flyer with severe anxiety. He's curled into himself on the bed, breathing rapid and shallow, while Devon stands at his bedside reviewing his chart. The sight stops me short.

"Mr. Thompson's anxiety attack isn't responding to his usual medication," Amy explains quietly. "But he won't let anyone touch him except you, and Dr. Richards needs to check his heart."

I nod, understanding the challenge. Moving slowly, I approach the bed. "Hey, Mr. Thompson. Remember me? It's Marcus."

His eyes dart to my face, recognition bringing slight relief. "M-Marcus. Can't... breathe..."

"I know. We're going to help you, okay?" I slide closer, establishing the trust we've built over many similar episodes. "Dr. Richards needs to listen to your heart. He's very good at his job, I promise."

Devon's eyes meet mine over Mr. Thompson's huddled form, something unreadable in their depths. He doesn't speak, letting me lead this dance.

"The Ice Prince is actually pretty warm," I continue softly, earning a sharp look from Devon that I pretend not to notice. "Did you know he set up a whole support system for one of my patients last week? Spent hours making sure they'd get the help they needed."

Mr. Thompson's breathing slows slightly as I talk, distracted by the story. Devon moves carefully closer, his stethoscope ready.

"Deep breath for me," I murmur, demonstrating. "Like we've practiced. That's it. Now, Dr. Richards is going to listen to your heart, okay? Just keep breathing with me."

Devon's hands are gentle as he positions the stethoscope, his movements deliberately slow and unthreatening. Mr. Thompson tenses but doesn't pull away, focused on matching my breathing.

"Excellent breath sounds," Devon says quietly, his voice warmer than I've ever heard it. "Your heart's strong, Mr. Thompson. The anxiety is scary, but it's not harming your heart. We're going to help you through this."

I stare at him, something warm unfurling in my chest. This isn't the Ice Prince of hospital gossip. This is a doctor who knows exactly how to reassure an anxious patient, who modulates his voice and presence to put them at ease.

It takes another twenty minutes to get Mr. Thompson fully calm and settled. I'm documenting his vitals when I hear it—Devon's voice drifting from around the corner.

"—completely unprofessional to spread rumors about staff members. If you have concerns about my medical decisions, raise them through proper channels. Otherwise, I suggest you focus on patient care rather than gossip."

I peek around the corner to see Katie and Sophia looking thoroughly chastised. Devon's back is straight, his voice cold enough to justify his nickname, but I notice the tension in his shoulders.

"Quite a performance back there," I say quietly once they've scattered. "The whole 'warm and caring doctor' routine."

Devon turns, and for a moment I see exhaustion in the lines around his eyes before his mask slips back into place. "It wasn't a performance."

"No," I agree, studying him. "It wasn't. Just like the Ice Prince isn't real either, is it?"

Something flickers across his face. "Careful, Nurse Chen. People might think you're defending me."

"Would that be so terrible?"

He steps closer, and my breath catches. "It might damage your reputation, associating with the heartless Ice Prince."

"Good thing I don't put much stock in reputations." I meet his gaze steadily. "Or gossip."

For a moment, I think I see something crack in his careful facade—vulnerability or gratitude or maybe both. But then his pager beeps, shattering the moment.

"Cardiac consult," he says, checking it. "Thank you for your help with Mr. Thompson."

"Just doing my job."

He pauses before leaving. "The coffee offer still stands, you know. If you want to discuss patient care. Properly this time."

My heart does that complicated flutter again. "I'll keep that in mind."

I watch him walk away, thinking about masks and rumors and the way his hands had been so gentle with Mr. Thompson. Amy appears at my elbow, because of course she does.

"So," she says, grinning. "Still think he's completely cold?"

I think about the way he'd defended himself against the gossip—not by denying it or getting angry, but by redirecting focus to patient care. I think about the warmth in his voice as he reassured Mr. Thompson, the careful way he'd moved to avoid triggering more anxiety.

"No," I admit quietly. "I think he's just wounded. And really good at hiding it."

Amy squeezes my arm. "You always did have a thing for fixing broken things."

"He's not broken," I protest automatically. "He's just... complicated."

"Mm-hmm. And the fact that he's gorgeous and keeps offering to have coffee with you has nothing to do with your sudden insight?"

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. "Don't you have patients to check on?"

Her laughter follows me down the hall, but I can't stop thinking about Devon's words: *It wasn't a performance.* Neither was the Ice Prince, I suspect. They're both armor of different kinds, protecting whatever wounds he's hiding underneath.

The question is: do I really want to know what those wounds are? And more importantly: can I trust myself not to get hurt trying to heal them?

The answer should be simple. But as I catch a glimpse of Devon through the window of the cardiac ward, his head bent over a patient's chart, his presence somehow both commanding and lonely, I know it's anything but.

Because the truth is, I'm already invested. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.