sophie

There’s this flash of headlights—way too bright, way too close—and the screech of tires that sounds like a banshee screaming in your ear. You barely have time to suck in a breath before the world just… folds. The impact is a sickening, metal-crunching jolt that spins your car like a top. Glass sprays everywhere, a glittery, sharp rain inside your own vehicle, and for a split second, you feel weightless. Then gravity catches up, slamming you back into the seat as the car grinds to a final, jolting halt.

Everything stops.

Silence follows the chaos, heavy and ringing, before it’s punctured by the distant, rising wail of sirens. Your vision is swimming, blurring at the edges until the streetlights turn into long, smeary streaks of neon. You try to move your hand, but it’s like it belongs to someone else. Darkness creeps in from the corners, hungry and fast, swallowing the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the last shred of your consciousness.

"BP is crashing! Systolic is eighty and dropping."

"Get the fluids going. I need a line in now."

Voices. They’re frantic, tight-edged, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the trauma bay. You’re a passenger in your own body, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching them rush around with your limbs. There’s the smell of antiseptic and ozone—so sharp it burns—and the rhythmic, annoying *beep-beep-beep* of the monitor that’s somehow the loudest thing in the room.

"CT's up. Look at that displacement."

The door swings open, the hinges hissing. Someone walks in, and the energy in the room shifts instantly. It’s that weird, heavy calm that only happens when someone who actually knows exactly what they’re doing shows up.

Dr. Piastri glides. He’s still in his theatre blues, his cap slightly askew, looking like he just finished performing a miracle on someone else and was ready to do it again for you. He doesn't look stressed, he doesn't look hurried, even though every second counts. He moves with this annoying, enviable precision, his eyes locked onto the screen of the monitors.

He leans in, his brow furrowed just enough to let you know he’s concentrating, those cool, clinical eyes scanning the grayscale map of your own skull. He’s seen a hundred of these, maybe a thousand. To him, you’re not a person right now; you’re a puzzle, a series of physiological problems that need a solution before the clock runs out.

He turns, and for a fleeting moment, he looks straight at you—or, well, through you. His voice is steady, low-pitched, and completely devoid of panic.

"Prep OR One," he commands, already stripping off his gloves and reaching for a fresh pair. "We don't have time."

— ​✦

Lights in the OR are blinding, humming with a frequency that vibrates right behind your eyes—or where your eyes would be if you weren't essentially off the grid. You are a series of vitals on a screen, a jagged mountain range of heart rate spikes and dips that Oscar is trying desperately to level out.

​Time doesn't exist in here. There’s just the rhythmic hiss-clack of the ventilator, the wet sounds of surgical instruments, and the low, steady murmur of the team. Oscar is a machine. He hasn't moved from his spot in hours, his posture rigid, his hands—those insanely steady, infuriatingly precise hands—dancing through the mess that used to be your brain.

​"BP is dipping again, Dr. Piastri. Forty over twenty," a resident stammers, their voice cracking.

​"Increase the pressors. Keep her MAP above sixty," Oscar barks back, not even looking up. He’s deep in the trenches now, staring into the cavernous opening of your skull, navigating around delicate tissue like he’s threading a needle in a hurricane. "Suction. No, the smaller tip. Watch the bleeders."

​You’re a project, a high-stakes bet he’s playing with, and he’s holding all the cards. Sweat is beading on his forehead, catching in his eyelashes, but he doesn't blink. He can’t afford to. Every time your pressure drops, the room freezes. You can practically feel the oxygen levels in the air thinning out, the way everyone holds their breath, waiting for the monitor to either stabilize or flatline. He’s the anchor. If he slips, you're gone.

​Twelve hours later, the constant beep of the monitor settles into a steady, rhythmic pulse. The sharp, metallic tang of blood finally starts to fade, replaced by the sterile, biting smell of closing sutures.

​"Bleeding is controlled. I've got the hematoma evacuated," Oscar says, his voice raspy, sounding like he’s been shouting for days. He pulls his hands back, finally breaking the trance, his shoulders dropping about three inches. He looks wrecked, honestly, but in that quiet, intense way that makes you think he’d do it all over again without a single complaint.

​Dr. Norris, standing near the head of the bed, lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He wipes his own brow, his eyes crinkling behind his mask as he glances at the monitor. "Nice save, mate. She’s stable."

​Oscar doesn't smile. He doesn't even look like he’s heard the praise. He’s already turning away, starting to peel off the layers of gore-covered plastic and latex. He grabs a fresh gauze pad and begins wiping his brow, his gaze still fixed on the heart monitor as if he’s trying to telepathically command your brain to start firing again.

​"It's not over," Oscar mutters, staring at you—really looking at your unconscious face—with a focus that’s almost terrifying. "She’s not out of the woods until she wakes up. Keep her sedated, monitor the swelling, and if the ICP rises by even a single point, you wake me up. Don't call the resident. Call me."

​He walks toward the scrub sinks, his steps heavy, looking like he’s carried the weight of the world—or at least your life—on his shoulders for the last half-day. You’re just a patient, a collection of variables, yet as he turns the corner out of the room, he keeps glancing back at the monitor, just to make sure the rhythm doesn't break.

— ​✦

Sunlight is aggressively poking through the ICU blinds, turning the room into a weird, dusty orange. You’re somewhere between "nothingness" and "the worst headache of your life."

​Oscar walks in with that same focused energy as before. He’s traded his blood-streaked scrubs for fresh ones, his hair looking slightly more ruffled than yesterday. He leans over the bed, checking the ventilator settings and reading the charts with a frown. He’s efficient, cold, and entirely focused on the data points shifting across your chart.

​"She’s still stable," he says to the nurse, his voice low and devoid of any extra fluff. "If she shows any signs of agitation, adjust the sedation. I’ve got rounds to finish."

​He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t reach out to smooth your hair or check your pulse manually unless he has to. You’re a success story in the making, a patient who didn’t crash, and he’s already moving on to the next one. He turns on his heel and disappears into the corridor.

​Four hours later, things change.

​You’re fighting through a thick, syrupy fog. Your limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, and your chest feels heavy, but your fingers—they’re twitching. A nurse notices it immediately, tapping the call button.

​"Dr. Piastri, please report to the ICU. Patient is waking up," she says, her voice echoing in the small room.

​He’s there before the nurse has even finished hanging up the phone. He’s got that same calm, unbothered expression, stepping to your bedside like he’s just checking the weather. His eyes lock onto yours, and he immediately shines a penlight in them, checking for pupillary response.

​"Can you hear me?" he asks, his tone clinical. "I need you to tell me your name. What’s your name?"

​You blink, the harsh light of the ICU stinging, but when your vision clears, you see him. Him. Your heart does this weird, fluttery thing, like it’s trying to jump out of your ribs. A huge, goofy, incredibly relieved smile stretches across your face, making your cheeks hurt.

​"You stayed," you whisper, your voice sounding like you’ve been swallowing gravel. You reach out, your fingers shaking, and manage to hook your hand around his. "I knew you wouldn't leave."

​The nurse standing by the monitor exchanges a worried look with Oscar. Anesthesia, definitely, she whispers.

​Oscar doesn’t even blink. He gently pries his hand away from yours, placing it back on the railing of the bed with a cool, detached efficiency. "I’m your surgeon," he says, repeating the line like he’s reading a script. "You were in an accident. You’re in the ICU. Can you tell me your name?"

​You let out a laugh, but it turns into a wet cough, so you just settle for shaking your head, your smile widening. "No, you’re not."

​He pauses, just for a second. His brow furrows, that tiny, precise line of annoyance appearing between his eyes. He’s a guy who likes facts, and right now, you’re not giving him any.

​"I’m Dr. Piastri," he says firmly, his voice dropping an octave as he moves to check your reflexes with a reflex hammer. "I operated on you. You need to focus. What is your name?"

​"Stop being so serious, baby," you giggle, ignoring the way he’s tapping at your knees to check your nervous system. You aren't even sure where you are, or why your head feels like it’s been hit by a truck, but you’re certain of one thing: he’s yours. "You look so cute when you’re pretending to be a doctor."

​Oscar stops mid-tap. He looks at you, then at the monitor, then back at you. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t blush. He just sighs, a short, sharp intake of breath, and scribbles something on your chart.

​"She’s disoriented," he says to the nurse, not even looking at you anymore. "Likely post-traumatic confusion mixed with residual anesthesia. Let's run a blood panel. I need to be sure the pressure hasn't spiked again."

​He goes back to poking and prodding, completely ignoring your attempts to grab his sleeve. He’s all business, and he’s clearly not playing your game.

— ​✦

Hours crawl by, each one marked by the rhythmic, soul-crushing drip of IV fluids and the incessant, mechanical chatter of machines that seem to have more to say than you do. You’re floating in a sea of static, your brain feeling like a scrambled radio frequency, trying to tune into a channel that keeps cutting out. Every time a nurse glides in to check your vitals—adjusting the drip, poking at your IV line, or checking the dressing wrapped tight around your skull—you’re searching. Your eyes dart toward the doorway, desperate for that one specific silhouette.

​"Where's my boyfriend?" you ask, your voice raspy and thin. The nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a tired expression, stops mid-task. She looks at you, then at the monitor, then slowly toward the door.

​"Honey, you need to focus on resting," she says softly, smoothing the sheets. "Your brain has been through a lot. Just breathe."

​Before you can protest, a man in a white coat breezes into the room. He’s got an easy, almost breezy confidence about him, his hair perfectly styled, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Dr. Russell. He offers a friendly, practiced smile, stepping toward the foot of your bed.

​"Morning. How are we feeling today?" he asks, reaching for the chart clipped to the railing. "Any headaches? Sensitivity to light? Let's just run through a few simple tests."

​You squint at him, your brow knitting together as you try to reconcile this person with the image currently burned into your retinas—the image of someone much more stoic, someone who looks at you like you’re the most important puzzle he’s ever had to solve.

​"No," you say, pushing his hand away when he reaches for your pupils with a penlight. "Not you."

​George stops, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "Pardon?"

​"I want him," you insist, your voice gaining a bit of impatient edge. "The one who was here. Why did you send him away? He was just here, he was checking on me, and then you just walked in like you own the place. Where is he?"

​The nurse and George exchange a look—one of those silent, professional conversations that feels like a heavy door slamming shut in your face. It’s patronizing, really. You know what you saw. You remember the way he leaned over you, the way his cool fingers felt against your skin, that intense, quiet focus he held you with.

​George clears his throat, his professional mask slipping back into place. "Alright. Let's just try to track my finger, okay? Follow it with your eyes. Don't move your head."

​He does his little dance—tracing circles in the air, asking you to name colors, asking you to count backward from a hundred. You do it, mostly because you’re bored and exhausted, but you don't take your eyes off the door. You’re waiting for Oscar. You’re waiting for the only person in this sterile, echoing building who makes sense.

​Once George is done, he scribbles a few final notes and retreats from the room, looking significantly more grave than when he entered. You hear the muffled murmur of voices in the hallway—George’s quick, rapid-fire tone, and a lower, more clipped response that makes your pulse jump. That’s him. That’s his voice.

​Out in the corridor, George leans against the nurses' station, lowering his voice. "She’s not tracking the logic, Oscar. She’s completely convinced you’re her partner. It’s classic post-op agitation, but the facial recognition is shot to hell. She sees you as her safety anchor because you were the first thing she focused on when she came to."

​Oscar stands there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his lab coat. He’s listening, his head tilted slightly, his face completely unreadable. He’s not laughing, he’s not brushing it off—he’s processing the data. "Is it purely associative?"

​"Seems like it," George replies, gesturing toward your room. "The trauma to the temporal lobe is likely disrupting her ability to categorize people correctly. She’s mapping 'safety' and 'familiarity' directly onto you. It’s a temporary synaptic misfire."

​Oscar stays silent for a long moment, staring through the glass at your prone form. He’s a man of science, a man who relies on the absolute predictability of neural pathways, and the idea that your brain is malfunctioning so spectacularly—and so specifically—seems to irritate him as much as it intrigues him. He doesn't see a "boyfriend." He sees a misfiring neuron, a broken circuit that needs him to bridge the gap.

​"Right," Oscar says finally, his voice clipped. "I’ll handle the next assessment. If she can't distinguish me from a significant other after another twenty-four hours, we'll need to schedule a follow-up MRI to check for secondary swelling."

​He turns back toward your room, his walk steady and purposeful. He knows what’s going on now—the "why" of your weird, desperate attachment—and he’s decided to tackle it with the same clinical, detached precision he used to crack your skull open and fix your brain. He’s not your boyfriend, and he’s clearly determined to remind you of that, one diagnostic question at a time.

—

Plastic tray sits on your bedside table, the hospital-grade porridge looking like sad, grey paste. You stare at it with genuine hostility. A nurse tries to nudge it closer to you, her expression hopeful, but you just cross your arms over your chest and lean back into the pillows, pointedly ignoring the steaming cup of tea.

​"Not happening," you say, your voice firm despite the headache that still pulses behind your temples.

​"You need your strength, honey," the nurse sighs, adjusting the monitor cables near your shoulder. "The doctors need you eating if we're going to get you out of this unit."

​"I'm not eating until he gets here," you reply, keeping your eyes glued to the doorway. "He knows I like my eggs a certain way. If I eat this, he’ll think I’m settling."

​"Who? Dr. Russell?"

​You roll your eyes so hard it makes your head spin. "Don't be dense. You know who. My boyfriend. The guy who saved me. Tell him I’m waiting."

​The nurse bites her lip, looking toward the hallway. She’s dealt with head trauma patients before, but this specific brand of stubborn delusion—paired with your absolute conviction—is making everyone on the floor twitchy. She eventually gives up and slips out into the hall, and you hear her soft, hurried footsteps clicking away toward the main station.

​Five minutes later, she returns, looking slightly frazzled. She picks up the phone on the wall and dials a sequence of numbers, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she explains the situation.

​Across the hospital, in the bustling neuro-trauma lounge, Oscar is currently staring down a wall of monitors. He’s already pushed through rounds for a dozen people, and he’s staring at a daunting list of twenty-three other patients who all need him for something different—a post-op check, a scan review, a shunt adjustment. He rubs the back of his neck, his thumb digging into the muscle, feeling the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders.

​The phone rings, and he snatches it up, his tone already weary. “Piastri.”

​"Dr. Piastri, I’m so sorry to bother you," the nurse starts, her voice tight with apology. "It’s the patient in room 412. The subdural hematoma."

​Oscar’s grip on the phone tightens. "I just saw her four hours ago. Has the pressure spiked? Is she showing signs of neurological decline?"

​"No, nothing like that, she’s physically stable," the nurse says, pausing. "But she’s refusing to eat. She won’t touch a single thing unless you’re here. She says you’re her boyfriend and she’s waiting for you to supervise her meal."

​Oscar lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds more like a growl of frustration than a sigh. He leans against the counter, staring at the list of twenty-three names still waiting for his attention. "You’ve got to be kidding me. I have twenty-three other patients in various stages of critical care, and she’s holding her breakfast hostage for a social visit?"

​"I know, Doctor, I’m sorry," she whispers. "But she’s stubborn. She’s not moving."

​Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a split second as he tries to summon the patience that usually defines him. He’s a surgeon; he deals with trauma, with blood, with the cold, hard reality of biology. He doesn't do "emotional support," and he certainly doesn't do "boyfriend."

​"Fine," he snaps, though there’s a flicker of something else beneath the irritation—maybe a begrudging realization that if you’re stubborn enough to refuse food after a brain bleed, you’re just stubborn enough to cause yourself secondary harm through sheer force of will. "Tell her I’m coming. And for god’s sake, make sure her charts are updated. If she gets dehydrated, that’s on you."

​He slams the phone down, grabs his tablet, and starts walking. He’s not going because he wants to play along. He’s going to make sure your brain doesn’t decide to swell up just because you’re being impossible.

​When he pushes through your door a few minutes later, he looks every bit the busy, annoyed professional. His lab coat is crisp, his stride long and purposeful, and he doesn't even bother with a greeting. He walks straight to the foot of your bed, checks the monitor, and then crosses his arms, looking down at you with a brow arched so high it’s almost mocking.

​"I’m told there’s a hunger strike," he says, his voice flat. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do right now, or are you just trying to see how much of my time you can waste?"

The grin spreading across your face is wide enough to make your jaw ache, but you don't care. Seeing him standing there—all sharp lines, no-nonsense posture, and that infuriatingly stoic expression—is exactly what you needed to snap out of the fog. You don't see a neurosurgeon with a list of twenty-three other patients; you see the guy who’s supposed to be holding your hand, not a chart.

​"You came," you say, your voice bright and airy, completely ignoring the fact that you’ve got a catheter taped to your arm and your skull feels like it’s being held together by hope and surgical glue. You reach out, fingers splayed, and lean toward him. "You look exhausted, though. Have you been sleeping, baby? Even with those dark circles, your eyes are still ridiculous. Is it part of the job requirement to be this handsome, or are you just showing off for me?"

​Oscar doesn’t even blink. He doesn't soften. He stands there like he’s made of granite, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his coat. Behind him, a small cluster of interns—mostly young, eager-looking faces hiding behind clipboards—hover in the doorway. They’re watching you with a mix of morbid curiosity and professional terror.

​"Focus," Oscar says, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he uses when he’s trying to keep a situation from spiraling. "You are not here to critique my appearance. You are here to demonstrate adequate cognitive recovery, which, so far, you are failing."

​You ignore the lecture, shifting your hand until your fingers catch his sleeve. "I’m focused. I’m focusing on you. I mean, look at you—scrubs, coat, that little furrow in your brow. It’s a lot, honestly. How do you keep it together? Is it hard being the best-looking guy in the entire hospital?"

​You try to drag his hand toward yours, your fingers brushing against his skin, warm and insistent. You want the contact. You need it. It’s the only thing that makes the world feel solid again.

​He reacts instantly, but it’s not the reaction you’re hoping for. He doesn't recoil, he doesn't flinch—he just gently, methodically peels your fingers off his sleeve and places his hands back at his sides, out of your reach. The move is practiced, surgical, and utterly devoid of warmth. It’s the kind of rejection that would hurt if you weren't so convinced he’s just playing hard to get.

​"I’m your doctor," he says, the words clipped and flat. He turns to the intern standing closest to the door, gesturing toward your IV line with a sharp flick of his chin. "Increase the saline drip; she’s bordering on dehydrated. And chart the patient’s continued confusion. She’s still presenting with clear signs of postoperative social disinhibition."

​"Social disinhibition?" you repeat, letting out a laugh that sounds a bit too sharp in the quiet room. You look at the interns, who are staring at the floor with intense interest, and wink at them. "He’s such a tease, right? He gets shy when he’s on the clock. Don't worry, baby, I know you can’t act like this in front of your little students, but we can talk about it later, yeah?"

​One of the interns coughs, a strangled sound that’s clearly an attempt to hide a laugh, and Oscar’s eyes snap toward them. That’s enough to kill the room’s energy instantly. He turns back to you, his face a perfect mask of clinical indifference.

​"Your condition is a result of trauma to the brain, not a romantic comedy," Oscar says, leaning in just enough so that you have to look directly into his eyes. There’s no affection there—just a stark, terrifying level of focus. "You are experiencing a misfire in your emotional processing centers. Your brain is trying to assign 'safety' to the person who performed the surgery, and it’s manifesting as an irrational emotional attachment. It is not real. It is not happening. Now, I need you to lift your left leg. Follow the command, or I will have to increase your sedation."

​He stares at you, waiting. No smile, no softness, no sign that he’s ever even heard the word 'baby' before in his life. He is the picture of professional distance, and as you look at him, you realize he’s going to hold this line until you finally start acting like a patient and not a partner.

​You sigh, dropping your leg back onto the bed, but you still keep that smile fixed on your face. "Fine, keep playing the part. I know the truth."

​"There is no part," he says, pulling his penlight out to check your pupils for the third time that morning. "There is only recovery. Lift your leg."

— ​✦

Physical therapy is a nightmare, mostly because your head feels like it’s being held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. A therapist—some guy named Miller with an infuriatingly cheerful disposition—is standing there with a clipboard, asking you to perform basic balancing exercises that make you feel like a newborn giraffe. You’ve been staring at the wall for twenty minutes, refusing to move a muscle.

​"I’m not doing this," you say, crossing your arms and glaring at the empty hallway.

​"Come on, just a few steps," Miller pleads, his voice thin with exhaustion. "Your motor functions need the stimulation, or we’re going to be looking at a much longer recovery time."

​"He said he’d be here," you mutter, stubborn as hell. "My boyfriend said he’d watch me do the first session. He doesn't like it when I do things without him, and I’m not breaking his heart by doing this while he’s not looking."

​Miller sighs, a long, rattling sound. He looks like he’s ready to toss his clipboard through the window. "I don't have a record of any visitor authorization for a boyfriend. Do you mean Dr. Piastri?"

​"Yes, exactly," you beam, as if Miller finally caught onto the obvious. "Go get him. Tell him I’m waiting, and I’m not taking a single step until he’s in the room to make sure I don't fall."

​He turns to walk out, but he stops dead in his tracks. Oscar is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes unreadable. He’s been standing there for at least five minutes, just watching the stalemate. He doesn't look like he’s enjoying it—he looks like he’s observing a particularly difficult lab specimen.

​"Dr. Piastri," Miller says, sounding relieved. "She won't start."

​Oscar doesn't say a word. He just walks into the center of the room, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the space. He doesn't look at Miller; he keeps his eyes locked directly onto yours. There’s no warmth in his expression, just that familiar, high-stakes intensity.

​"You want me to watch?" Oscar asks, his voice low and raspy. He doesn't offer a hand, doesn't offer a smile. He just stands there, a silent sentinel waiting for a performance.

​You feel a sudden, electric jolt of motivation. You don't know why, but with him standing there, the ache in your head seems to dim. You stand up, your legs wobbling, and start the sequence of exercises. You don't trip. You don't stumble. You finish every single movement with a focus that makes Miller look like he’s forgotten how to breathe. When you’re finally done, you’re breathless, leaning on the railing, looking at Oscar for approval. He gives a single, sharp nod—the bare minimum—and turns on his heel, exiting the room without a word.

​Lunch in the breakroom is a cacophony of clattering trays and low-level gossip, but the mood shifts the second Oscar drops his bowl of salad onto the table. George and Lando are already seated, and they’ve been waiting for him.

​"You’re late," Lando says, grinning around a forkful of pasta. "Must be busy doing your rounds of emotional support, huh?"

​George snorts into his coffee. "Seriously, Oscar. Your girlfriend was asking for you again. She wouldn't move until she had an audience for her PT session. It’s becoming a bit of a legend on the floor."

​Oscar doesn't look up from his salad. He stabs a piece of lettuce with clinical precision. "She’s not my girlfriend."

​"You sure?" Lando asks, his eyebrows dancing in a way that suggests he knows exactly how much this is bothering his friend. "Because I heard she told the entire nursing staff that you promised to supervise her. That sounds like a 'boyfriend' thing to do."

​"She’s suffering from post-traumatic cognitive displacement," Oscar says, his voice flat and perfectly rehearsed, the way he’d explain a diagnosis to a nervous intern. "She’s mapping her survival onto the first person she saw when she woke up. It’s an involuntary neurological response. It has absolutely nothing to do with me personally."

​"You’re very sure about that?" George needles, leaning back in his chair, a smug glint in his eyes. "Because most neurosurgeons don't go to PT sessions just to act as an audience for a patient who thinks they're dating."

​"I was checking on her progress," Oscar replies, his tone icy. "It was a clinical observation. Nothing more."

​He keeps his face perfectly blank, staring at his lunch as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But he doesn't see the salad. In his mind, he’s replaying the way you stood up—the way your eyes lit up when he walked in, the sheer, irrational trust you placed in him. It’s absurd. It’s medically incorrect. It’s a complete violation of every boundary he’s spent his entire career building.

​As Lando and George launch into a debate about the weekend race results, the conversation drifts away from you. The table goes quiet for a second as someone grabs a napkin. Oscar, thinking he’s shielded by the low light of the corner booth and the chatter of the room, lets his guard drop for just a fraction of a second.

​A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—a brief, soft expression that he quickly hides by taking a sip of his water. It’s a look of secret, begrudging amusement, a flicker of humanity that betrays everything he just told his friends. She’s a disaster, she’s a scientific anomaly, and she’s the most frustrating patient he’s ever had—but for the first time in years, he’s not just thinking about the work. He’s thinking about the way you called him 'baby' in front of the interns, and for a fleeting, impossible moment, he doesn't hate the sound of it at all.

— ​✦

Strolling down the ICU corridor, Oscar catches himself doing it again. It’s supposed to be a random rotation, a methodical check of every bed from 401 to 415, but his boots are already heading for 412 before he even finishes charting the last case. It’s an automated response, like a muscle memory, and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.

​Why are you here first? he thinks, his jaw tightening. You’re not the most critical patient—the guy in 405 has a much higher risk of secondary hemorrhaging—but here he is, staring at your door.

​A small, stupid smile is plastered on his face before he can catch it, and he feels a sharp, hot prick of guilt in his chest. He’s a doctor. He’s a neurosurgeon. He is not supposed to be looking forward to these sessions like a schoolboy. He immediately wipes his expression clean, scrubbing the amusement away until his face is just a blank, clinical slate. He takes a breath, checks his watch to remind himself of the clinical reality, and pushes the door open.

​You’re sitting up, looking much more alert than yesterday, and the second you see him, that signature grin of yours lights up the room.

​"Hey, handsome," you chirp, not missing a beat. You don’t even wait for a greeting. "I was starting to think you forgot about me. What took you so long? Did those other patients hold you hostage with their boring medical problems?"

​Oscar keeps his eyes firmly fixed on your IV bag, walking past you to check the monitor settings. "I was busy, as I have been all morning. We have a lot to cover today. How’s the headache level? One to ten."

​"Zero, as long as you're in the room," you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You’re watching his every movement, your eyes tracking the way he leans over the bedside table. "Seriously, though, have you eaten? You look like you need a break. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell me something about yourself? Like, do you have a favorite color? Does it match your scrubs?"

​He reaches for his penlight, his movements sharp and efficient. "Eyes on me, please. I need to check your pupils."

​You lean in, way closer than is professional, and he has to consciously pull back to maintain the barrier. You aren't making this easy. You never make it easy.

​"I have a favorite color," you tease, ignoring his request and staring right at his lips instead of the penlight. "It’s whatever color your eyes are when you’re looking at me. They’re kind of intense right now, don't you think? Is it the job? Or are you just happy to see me?"

​"Pupils," he says, his voice flat, not giving you an inch. He shines the light, watching the way they contract. Everything is perfect—too perfect. His medical assessment confirms you are physically recovering, but your social radar is still completely haywire. "Your tracking is sluggish. Stop the chatter and follow the light."

​"I am following it," you whisper, your voice dropping to a playful, intimate register that has no business being in a hospital room. "I’m following you everywhere you go. You know, you’re really bad at hiding how much you like this, Dr. Piastri. You’re doing such a good job at being the stoic, serious surgeon, but I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention."

​Oscar clicks the penlight off with a sharp snap. He records the result on your chart, his hand steady even though the heat in the room feels like it’s spiked. "You are not seeing anything, because there is nothing to see. You are a patient, and I am the one managing your recovery. That is the beginning and the end of our dynamic."

​He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, he’s not just a doctor. He’s a guy trying to keep his composure while you try your hardest to dismantle it. "Don't mistake clinical concern for anything else. Keep your focus on the recovery exercises, or I’ll have to move you to a room closer to the nursing station where you can have 'supervision' twenty-four-seven."

​"Is that a threat?" you giggle, undeterred, reaching out to pat his hand. "Because it sounds like you just want me closer to you. I’d love that."

​He pulls his hand away before you can make contact, tucking it back into his pocket. He is a wall. He is a fortress. He is the best neurosurgeon in Australia. But as he turns toward the door to check on the next patient, he feels that tiny, annoying smile threatening to break through his defenses all over again.

"Tell me something that isn't about my brain," you say, propping your chin on your hand as he finishes jotting down the day’s final neurological findings. "I’m sick of talking about hematomas and cranial pressure. What do you actually do when you aren't busy being a genius with a scalpel?"

​Oscar pauses, his pen hovering over the chart. He looks up, clearly surprised that you’ve managed to shift gears from romantic delusion to actual conversation. He’s tired—you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, just a fraction—but he doesn't immediately shut you down this time.

​"I don't really have a 'when'," he admits, his voice dropping that clinical edge for something a little more human. "My schedule is… well, it’s basically an impossibility. Between the surgeries, the rounds, and the emergency call-outs, most of my 'hobbies' are just trying to find enough time to sleep or catch the Formula 1 highlights."

​"F1? Really?" You sit up straighter, your eyes widening. "Don't tell me you're one of those people who spends their Sunday nights obsessing over tire degradation and team radio drama. Because if you are, I might actually have to forgive you for being such a stick-in-the-mud."

​A ghost of a smirk actually touches his face. "Maybe. It’s hard to watch live, obviously, but I keep up. I like the engineering side of it. The precision. It’s not that different from what I do, really."

​"Except you get to save lives instead of just chasing a championship trophy," you counter, grinning. "So, what’s your favorite food, then? And don't say hospital cafeteria salad. I know you're better than that."

​"Pizza," he says, almost too quickly, then seems to realize he’s revealed something personal. "Simple. Reliable. Doesn't require much thought after a fourteen-hour shift."

​"See? That wasn't so hard," you tease. "We’re practically compatible already. If we weren't dating, we’d have to invent a reason to start."

​Oscar’s face instantly hardens, that professional wall slamming back into place like a steel shutter. "We’re not dating. We have never been dating. And we are not going to start."

​You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the sterile room, making him blink in genuine confusion. "You’ve said that so many times now, Oscar. It’s like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. I just like seeing you blush—you’ve got this weird, patchy color that creeps up your neck whenever I get under your skin. It’s actually kind of adorable."

​He flushes a deep, frustrated crimson, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the muscle jump. He snaps your chart shut, his eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and something he refuses to name. "Assessment is over. Eat your dinner, keep your head elevated, and try to get some actual sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow."

​He turns on his heel and marches out of the room, his stride a little less controlled than usual.

— ​✦

Oscar is walking toward his car, keys already in his hand, when George falls into step beside him. George looks like he’s just finished a grueling shift, but his eyes are sharp and far too observant.

​"You’re playing a dangerous game, mate," George says, his voice low as they navigate between rows of parked vehicles. "I’ve seen the way you talk about her. And I’ve seen the way you act when you think no one is watching. You’re starting to get too invested."

​Oscar doesn't even look at him. He just keeps walking, his eyes fixed on the taillights of his car. "I know, George. I’m a neurosurgeon. I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s a patient-doctor dynamic, and I’m maintaining the necessary distance."

​"Are you?" George asks, stopping by the driver’s side door. "Because you're coming in on your days off, Oscar. That’s not 'maintaining distance.' That’s choosing to be there."

​Oscar just opens his car door, his expression an absolute mask of deadpan indifference. "It’s called monitoring a recovery. I’m thorough."

​Before George can respond, a frantic, high-pitched thud-thud-thud of running footsteps echoes through the lot. Lando Norris comes sprinting around the corner, his stethoscope swinging wildly around his neck and his lab coat flapping in the wind. He catches up to them, doubled over, panting, with a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

​"Wait… for… me!" Lando gasps, slapping a hand onto the roof of Oscar’s car. He looks up at Oscar, his eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. "I just walked past the nurse’s station, and I heard something interesting. Something about a certain neurosurgeon who’s supposedly 'just doing rounds' but is actually spending forty minutes debating the merits of thin-crust pizza with a patient."

​Oscar stares at him, his face completely unreadable. "It was a clinical discussion about dietary recovery."

​"Oh, 'clinical discussion', is it?" Lando laughs, elbowing him in the ribs. "Since when does clinical mean you’re checking if she likes pepperoni? You’re cooked, Oscar. You’re absolutely, completely cooked."

​Oscar doesn't even bother to deny it anymore. He just gets into his car, tosses his bag onto the passenger seat, and rolls the window down just enough to look at his friends. "I’m going home. If either of you mentions this again, I’m putting you on the emergency trauma roster for the rest of the month."

​"Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow, lover boy!" Lando shouts as the engine turns over.

​Oscar pulls away, his car lights cutting through the darkness, but as he checks his rearview mirror, that small, impossible smile finds its way back onto his face. It’s quiet, it’s secret, and it’s entirely yours.

— ​✦

Days start blurring together, a repetitive cycle of vitals, medication, and the slow, agonizing process of remembering who you are. The fog in your head is finally lifting, dissipating like steam off a mirror. You’re starting to recognize the faces that drift in and out of your life, the blurry shapes turning into distinct, familiar features.

​Your mom and sister walk into the room one afternoon, their arrival marked by the scent of fresh flowers and that specific, overwhelming sense of "home" that makes you want to cry. They hover over you, touching your hair, asking a thousand questions about your recovery. It’s comforting, solid, real. You remember them. You know their names, their voices, the way your mom laughs when she’s nervous. It’s a massive win, a sign that the worst is truly behind you.

​But then, the door hinges creak, and the air in the room shifts instantly. Oscar walks in. He looks exhausted, his tie loosened, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead, and your heart does that familiar, traitorous flip-flop.

​"Dr. Piastri!" you chirp, your face lighting up as if he’s brought the sun with him. You turn to your mom, your eyes bright with pride. "Mom, meet Oscar. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s basically a hero. He saved me, literally."

​Your mom glances at him, her face full of genuine gratitude. She steps forward, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Dr. Piastri, I don't know how to thank you. We’ve heard everything—about the surgery, the long hours, how you wouldn't leave her side. You’ve given us our daughter back. Truly, we are so, so grateful."

​Oscar stands there, stiff as a board. He doesn't look at you, and he doesn't look at your mom. He keeps his gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past her shoulder, his expression a masterpiece of professional restraint. "It was my job, ma'am. I’m just glad she’s recovering so well."

​"He’s so humble," you add, beaming at him. You reach out, your fingers sliding into his, your grip firm and possessive. "He’s been taking care of me every single day. I don't know what I’d do without him."

​He doesn't pull away this time—maybe because your mom is right there, maybe because he’s too tired to fight the battle—but he doesn't squeeze your hand back, either. He just stands there, a hollow shell of a man playing the part of a saint, while you look at him with a devotion that’s equal parts sweet and heartbreaking.

​Later that evening, when the room is quiet and the visitors have left, he returns to check your neurological status one last time. You’re tired, your eyelids heavy, but you still smile when you see him.

​"They seem nice," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual clinical edge. He’s looking at your chart, not at you.

​"They are," you agree, shifting in the bed. "They love you, too. My mom said you’re 'very impressive.' I told her that was an understatement."

​He finally looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’s spent weeks fighting this, weeks telling everyone who would listen that you were confused, that your brain was misfiring, that it was all just a symptom. Now, as your memory returns and you start to piece the world back together, he realizes that the "symptom" is fading. Soon, you’ll look at him and see just a doctor—a guy in a white coat who did his job and moved on to the next patient.

​He should be relieved. This is the medical goal. This is the success story. But looking at you now, with the memory of your mom thanking him for being your 'boyfriend' still ringing in his ears, he feels a cold, sinking sensation in his gut.

​"Is the headache getting better?" he asks, though he sounds like he’s forcing the words out.

​"Yeah," you say, your voice soft. "Everything’s getting clearer. I think I’m almost back to normal."

​He nods slowly, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s… that’s good. That’s what we want."

​He turns to leave, his movements heavy and uncharacteristically sluggish. He reaches the door and stops, his hand lingering on the frame for a heartbeat too long. He’s terrified. He’s a man who has mastered life-or-death scenarios, who can slice into the human brain without a tremor, yet the idea that you might wake up tomorrow and look at him with simple, clinical indifference scares him more than anything he’s ever faced in the OR.

​He doesn't want you to be 'normal' if 'normal' means you stop looking at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters. He’s supposed to be the one who saves you, but as he steps out into the hallway, he realizes you’ve managed to do something far more dangerous: you’ve made him hope that he isn't just your surgeon. And that, he knows, is a problem he can't fix with a scalpel.

— ​✦

"So, here’s the plan," Oscar says, his voice is professional as he taps the tablet in his hand. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, not leaning, not lingering, just delivering the data like he’s reading a report on a standard post-op recovery. "Your vitals have remained consistent for seventy-two hours. Neurological markers are within the normal threshold. Assuming your CT scan tomorrow shows no unexpected shifts in the tissue, we’re looking at discharge in about two days."

​He looks up, expecting you to start with the usual banter, maybe a comment about his appearance or a playful jab about him 'forgetting' to bring you something from the canteen. But you’re silent. You’re really looking at him—not through the haze of medication, not through the lens of that weird, desperate feeling of safety you’ve been clinging to, but with actual, objective clarity. You look at the sharp line of his jaw, the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the sterile blue of his scrubs, and then you look around the room.

​White walls. The relentless, rhythmic beep of the monitor. The tray of sad, congealed food. The IV stand. The reality of it hits you like a physical force, cold and jarring.

​"...Wait," you whisper, the word barely escaping your throat.

​Your mind starts to race, the connections sparking in your brain like short-circuited wiring. You think about the way you’ve been acting, the way you’ve been talking to him—the way you’ve been possessing him. The memories slam back into you in a chaotic, Technicolor montage.

​There you are, calling him 'baby' in front of a group of terrified-looking interns who were just trying to take your blood pressure. You recall yourself leaning over the side of the bed, trying to kiss his cheek while he was holding a reflex hammer, acting like it was a casual, everyday occurrence for you to flirt with the man who had just finished performing invasive brain surgery on you. You picture yourself introducing him to your mother—your own mother—as your boyfriend, seeing the way he stood there, frozen and stoic, trying to balance his professional duty with the absolute absurdity of your claims.

​It all comes rushing back: the hunger strikes because he wasn't there, the refusal to do physical therapy unless he was watching, the way you’d grab his hand and hold onto it like he was a lifeline you were afraid to lose. It wasn't love. It wasn't destiny. It was a massive, humiliating, high-speed collision of post-operative confusion and a desperate, misdirected need for comfort.

​You feel the heat rising up your neck, a wave of mortification so intense it makes your skin prickle. You can’t even hold his gaze anymore. You look down at your hands, then at the sheets, then at the pillow. You can’t handle the weight of the realization.

​Without a word, you lunge forward, grabbing the closest pillow and burying your face into it, muffling a groan that comes from the very bottom of your soul. You press your forehead into the soft fabric, wishing you could just burrow into the mattress and vanish into the hospital floor.

​"Oh my God," you wail, the sound distorted by the pillow. "Oh my God, no."

​Oscar stops. His tapping on the tablet halts abruptly. He stands there, his posture shifting from rigid to slightly baffled. He’s spent weeks bracing himself for your antics, for the next bizarre comment, the next attempt to hold his hand or pull him into a 'date.' This reaction? This genuine, soul-crushing wave of embarrassment? This wasn't in the manual.

​"Hey," he says, his voice dropping into a much softer, more tentative register. "What happened? Are you feeling dizzy? Is the pressure spiking again? Talk to me—I need you to tell me what’s wrong."

​"I did it," you mumble into the pillow, your voice thick with shame. "I literally… I called you baby. In front of the interns. I told my mom we were dating. I refused to eat my porridge like a toddler."

​You roll onto your back, finally pulling the pillow down to your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your face is probably as red as a fire engine, and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

​"I am so sorry," you breathe out, staring at the ceiling. "I was… I don't even know what I was. I was out of it. And you just—you just stood there. You let me do all of that, and you didn't even stop me. You must think I’m the most insane person you’ve ever had to treat."

​Oscar stays where he is, his hands still holding the tablet, but his thumbs have stopped moving. He looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, his guard isn't just lowered—it’s completely dismantled. He isn't the stoic, impenetrable surgeon anymore. He looks almost… relieved.

​"You're not insane," he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—not pity, not irritation, but a strange, quiet warmth. "You were dealing with a severe brain injury, and your brain was trying to figure out how to make sense of the situation. It was a neurological response, not a personality flaw."

​"Still," you insist, letting out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "It’s beyond humiliating. I’m so sorry, Oscar. Truly. You’ve been trying to do your job this whole time and I’ve been treating you like… like I was writing a fanfiction about you in real-time."

​Oscar lets out a low chuckle, a sound so rare and genuine that you find yourself turning your head to look at him properly. He looks less like a doctor and more like a guy who’s just been let out of a very long, very exhausting cage.

​"It was," he says, pausing to find the right word, "certainly an unconventional recovery, I’ll give you that."

​"Are you ever going to let me live this down?" you ask, finally managing a weak, shy smile.

​Oscar watches you, and that familiar, secret smile starts to tug at the corner of his mouth again—the one he usually hides when he thinks you aren't looking. He doesn't look away this time.

​"Well," he says, his voice soft, "you're being discharged in two days. Maybe I’ll start by forgetting most of it. But don't count on me forgetting the bit about the porridge."

— ​✦

Sunlight is streaming in, but you’d honestly prefer to be buried under the covers like an ostrich. You stare intently at your fingernails, studying your cuticles like they hold the secrets to the universe, anything to avoid looking at the man standing at the end of your bed.

​Oscar is checking your charts, his movements precise and familiar. Click, scribble, pause. It’s the same routine as always, but today, it feels like he’s performing an autopsy on your dignity.

​"I’m so sorry," you mutter for the tenth time since he walked in, your voice small and tight. "Seriously. It’s never going to happen again. I’ve reached peak levels of cringeworthy, and I’m genuinely mortified."

​Oscar doesn't look up from the clipboard. He just keeps reading, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to apologize. I’ve told you, it was a medical side effect. It’s not something you had control over."

​"I absolutely do need to apologize," you counter, finally glancing up—but only to his chin, because meeting his eyes is still a bridge too far. "You’re a world-class neurosurgeon, and I spent a week treating you like a character in a bad soap opera. I’ve been far more embarrassed than this, but I think this officially takes the gold medal."

​He stops reading. He sighs, a sound that isn't quite annoyed but definitely sounds weary. He finally meets your gaze, and his expression is unyielding—the same professional mask he’s worn since the first day.

​"If we’re going to discuss this, let’s get it out of the way so we can focus on your actual health," he says, his voice steady. "Yes, the behavior was unconventional. But in the context of what you went through? It’s completely irrelevant. My focus is, and has always been, on your recovery. The rest of it… it’s just background noise."

​It’s the most "doctor" thing he could possibly say. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it feels like a bucket of ice water. Of course, it’s background noise to him. He’s the professional. You’re just the patient who had a public breakdown.

​"Right," you say, forcing a nod. "Background noise. Got it. I’ll keep it professional from here on out."

​He gives a curt, sharp nod, his face going completely blank. There’s no hint of that secret, fleeting smile from yesterday. He’s back to being Dr. Piastri, the man who saves brains and doesn't have time for social misfires.

​"I’m going to have the nurses continue monitoring your vitals throughout the day," he says, already backing toward the door. "We’ll do one final neuro assessment tomorrow morning. If everything is clear, you’re cleared for discharge."

​"Sounds good," you manage, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears.

​He turns on his heel, his white coat fluttering slightly as he exits without a backward glance. He’s gone, and the room feels instantly, aggressively empty. You sink back into the pillows, feeling like you’ve successfully purged the "crazy," but for some reason, you’ve never felt more like an idiot in your entire life.

— ​✦

Discharge day is a weird mix of excitement and absolute dread. You’ve spent two weeks staring at the same four walls, and the idea of actual sunlight without fluorescent hum is almost overwhelming. You’ve packed your single bag—mostly just the clothes you arrived in, now feeling a bit too big, and a stack of paperwork that looks like a legal dissertation.

​You make a point to stop by every desk, every station, and every nurse that had to deal with your post-op delirium. You shake hands, offer awkward but sincere thank-yous, and apologize for the hundredth time for the whole "I think you’re my boyfriend" fiasco. By the time you reach the end of the hall, your heart is thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. You know he’s going to be there. You know he’s the one who has to sign the final release.

​He’s standing near the main ICU bay, reviewing a stack of files with that same intense, unbothered posture. He’s in a crisp white shirt today, sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms—a detail you definitely don't need to be noticing right now, but you do anyway.

​You walk up, trying to keep your steps steady, even though your brain feels like it’s vibrating. "So," you say, stopping a few feet away. "This is it. The end of the road."

​Oscar looks up, his expression guarded. He checks the clipboard, nods to himself, and hands you the final discharge slip. "Everything looks perfect. The swelling has subsided, your motor skills are back to baseline, and your cognitive tests are solid. You're clear to go."

​You take the paper, your fingers brushing his—an accident, you tell yourself, even if it feels electric. You look at him, really look at him, and you realize that all that embarrassment from yesterday is still sitting in your chest like a stone, but something else is there, too. A bit of courage you didn't know you had.

​You swallow hard, your voice dropping. "I know you have to say no to this. I know the ethics board, the hospital policy, the whole 'doctor-patient' boundary thing. I know exactly what you’re going to say."

​Oscar goes still. He sets the clipboard down, his hands folding neatly behind his back. He’s already bracing himself, his face shifting into that familiar, unreadable mask.

​"But," you continue, refusing to look away, "can I ask anyway?"

​He doesn't interrupt, but he doesn't encourage you either. He just waits, his eyes narrowing slightly, those sharp, blue irises cutting right through the space between you.

​"Dinner?" you say, the word feeling small and heavy in the sterile hall. "Just dinner. Not a date. Just... food. Once I'm officially not on your patient roster anymore. I just want to thank you properly, for, you know, not letting me die."

​Oscar’s mouth twitches. For a fleeting second, the professional mask slips, replaced by a soft, almost imperceptible smile. It’s not the cold, clinical one, and it’s not the dismissive one. It’s proud—genuinely proud. He looks at you, and you can tell he sees the progress you’ve made, the way you’ve pulled yourself back from the edge of that dark, confusing place. He looks like he’s watching a race car cross the finish line, satisfied that the machine held together.

​"No," he says, his voice low, firm, and completely devoid of wiggle room.

​You let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping your shoulders. "Knew it. Absolute classic. I thought I’d try my luck, but honestly, I expected that."

​"You’re still officially my patient," Oscar says, his tone softening just a fraction as he gestures toward your chart. "You have follow-up checkups scheduled for the next six months. You’re not out of the woods just because you’re walking out those doors today. My duty of care remains until I sign off on your final neurological clearance."

​You feel a little sting, but you don't let it knock you down. You’ve been through a literal brain injury; a simple rejection from a neurosurgeon is small potatoes. You lean against the counter, crossing your arms, and that old, familiar spark of confidence—the one that made you flirt with him while you were still high on anesthesia—starts to flicker back to life.

​"Okay," you say, grinning up at him. You turn to walk away, the discharge papers tucked firmly under your arm, but you pause and look back over your shoulder, winking. "I'll ask again."

​Oscar watches you go, his jaw tightening just enough to betray how much that simple, playful challenge is bothering him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't go back to his files either. He just stands there, watching you walk toward the elevator, his eyes tracking your every move until the doors slide shut and the world—at least for today—finally goes quiet.

— ​✦

Steam rises off a massive plate of pasta, but Oscar is mostly just moving it around with his fork. His brain is still stuck on the sterile hum of the hospital, even though he’s miles away in a restaurant that doesn't smell like antiseptic. Lando is currently mid-story, waving a breadstick around like a conductor’s baton, complaining about a patient who woke up from surgery convinced they were a professional race car driver.

​"So there I am," Lando says, practically vibrating in his chair, "trying to explain that, no, you are not in the paddock at Silverstone, and you certainly cannot reach the pedals from a surgical bed. The guy was trying to 'downshift' the IV pole. Absolute chaos."

​George laughs, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. "Better than the lady who tried to convince me that my stethoscope was a magical listening device for her future. Neuro is weird, man. It’s all brain trauma, all the time. Right, Oscar? You’ve been dealing with that, uh, 'special' case in 412 for the last two weeks. How’s that going?"

​Oscar takes a sip of water, keeping his face intentionally blank. "She’s been discharged. Went home this afternoon."

​He expects that to be the end of it. It’s a factual statement, a tidy little conclusion to a clinical case. He puts his fork down, clearly signaling that he’s ready to move on to literally any other topic—Formula 1, the weather, the miserable state of the hospital cafeteria coffee.

​Lando, however, has no intention of letting this slide. He stops mid-chew, his eyes widening with mock shock. "Oh, is that all? Just, 'she’s discharged'? Nothing else to add? Like, say, the part where she tried to ask out her neurosurgeon?"

​George smirks, the look of a man who has been waiting all day to pounce. "Oh, we heard, Oscar. The nurses’ station is basically a gossip column with scrubs. Apparently, she pulled a total power move. Asked you to dinner right in the middle of the ward. Bold. I’m impressed."

​Oscar feels the familiar, annoying heat creeping up his collar. He hates that they know. He hates that your little moment of bravery—the one that made his heart stutter for reasons he still hasn't fully unpacked—has become public record. "It was an inappropriate request made during a clinical sign-off. I handled it. End of story."

​"You 'handled it'?" Lando mimics, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I bet you got all awkward and started talking about the 'ethics of doctor-patient dynamics' while your face turned three different shades of red. Did you stutter? Tell me you stuttered."

​"I did not stutter," Oscar bites back, his voice low and sharp. "I informed her that she is still under my care for follow-ups and that the request was, and will remain, denied."

​George chuckles, clinking his beer glass against Oscar's water. "Denial is a funny thing, mate. You sound like a guy who’s protesting a little too much. Look at you—you’re twitchy. Usually, when a patient crosses a line, you’re the first one to file a report or have them moved to a different unit. But here you are, two weeks later, and you’re still looking like you’ve just run a marathon."

​"I’m tired, George," Oscar snaps, though there’s no real bite in it. "It was a complex recovery. Subdural hematomas are tricky. You know that better than anyone."

​"Yeah, yeah, complex recovery," Lando teases, stabbing his pasta again. "And totally unrelated to the fact that she’s got a personality that could charm the paint off a wall. Come on, don't play the 'cold, detached surgeon' card with us. We’ve known you since residency. You haven't looked this rattled since you tripped on stage at graduation."

​Oscar glares at them, but it’s a losing battle. He knows exactly what they’re thinking. He knows that they’ve clocked every single extra minute he spent in your room, every time he checked the charts before he had to, and every time he looked just a little bit too happy after finishing your rounds.

​"She’s a former patient," Oscar says, his voice final, though he can't quite scrub the tension out of his shoulders. "That is the boundary. That is the rule. We are not talking about this anymore."

​"Fine, fine," Lando says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though he’s still grinning. "But for the record? I saw the way you looked at her during the last round. If you didn't have that stupid 'do not touch' sign tattooed on your forehead, I’d bet money she’d have had you at that dinner."

​Oscar just sighs, looking down at his plate. He doesn't say that he wanted to say yes. He doesn't say that the image of you, walking out of that room with your bag over your shoulder and that defiant, playful look in your eyes, has been playing on a loop in his mind for hours. He just eats his pasta, ignores the teasing, and pretends he’s completely unaffected—even though every time he thinks of your invitation, he feels a pull that no amount of professional distance can fix.

— ​✦

Follow-up appointments became a rhythmic, slightly annoying part of your life. You’d trek back into the hospital every few weeks, navigating the labyrinthine corridors that still smelled like that specific, sharp blend of sanitizer and floor wax. You’d sit in the waiting room, leafing through outdated magazines, watching the clock tick, and every single time, you’d steel yourself to ask him one more time. You’d rehearse it in your head—Hey, Oscar, how about that drink now that you aren't legally bound to keep me alive?—but every time he walked in, clipboard in hand, face set in that infuriatingly professional mask, the words died in your throat. He was always so efficient, so focused on the scan results and the reflexes, that the gap between you seemed to widen with every visit.

​Eventually, the novelty of the crush just… eroded. It was like a pair of shoes that looked great in the store but gave you blisters every time you wore them. You stopped checking the hallway to see if he was around. You stopped lingering by the nurses' station after your appointments. The "what-ifs" quieted down, replaced by the mundane reality of getting back to your own job, your own stress, and your own life.

​Six months post-op, you sat in his office for the final time. Oscar was staring at your latest MRI on the lightbox, his brows furrowed in that familiar, studious line. He looked tired—that deep, bone-weary fatigue that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his life—but he was as precise as ever.

​"Everything looks perfect," he said, turning to face you. He didn't smile, but his voice was lighter than usual. "The tissue has healed, the pressure is stable, and there’s absolutely no sign of secondary complications. You’re effectively a clean slate. You don't need to come back here anymore."

​You blinked, surprised by how final it sounded. "So… that’s it? No more penlights? No more reflex hammers?"

​"That’s it," he confirmed, closing your file with a decisive thud. "You’re done."

​"Well," you said, standing up and smoothing down your skirt, suddenly feeling very strange. "Thanks, Dr. Piastri. For everything. Seriously."

​"You’re welcome," he replied, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the beeper on his belt vibrated, cutting the moment short. He glanced at it, sighed, and shifted back into 'on-call' mode. "Take care of yourself out there."

​You left the office, walking out into the bright, unfiltered afternoon sun, feeling the weight of the last six months slip off your shoulders. You didn't look back. You didn't wonder if he was watching. You just started walking toward the parking lot, already thinking about what you were going to have for dinner.

​Inside the hospital, Oscar watched you go. He was already pulling up the file for his next patient, a young man with a complex spinal injury, and by the time he’d reached the end of the first page, your name had already started to drift into the background. His brain was a sieve of medical emergencies and high-stakes surgeries, and you were just another success story filed away in the cabinet. He didn't think about the dinner invitation, or the "baby" jokes, or the way you’d looked at him those first few days in the ICU. He had twenty patients to stabilize, two surgeries to prep for, and a life that didn't leave room for lingering thoughts. He turned to the door, his mind already shifting gears, and by the time he reached the nurses' station, the memory of you was just a blurred line in a sea of data.

— ​✦

Blue badge clipped to your shirt feels a little heavy, but it’s a good kind of weight. Volunteering in the rehab ward is harder than you expected, but seeing the look on someone’s face when they realize they can lift their own arm again—that’s the kind of high you can’t get anywhere else. You spend your days listening to the same fears you once had, translating the terrifying medical jargon for patients who are too exhausted to process it, and generally just being the person you wished you’d had around when you were staring at the ceiling in room 412.

​One afternoon, your legs are screaming for a break, so you duck into the café. It’s a cramped, noisy disaster of a room, smells like burnt espresso and desperation. You’re weaving through the tables, intent on grabbing a tea, when you turn a corner too fast and slam directly into a solid wall of starched white cotton.

​Coffee sloshes violently over the rim of a paper cup. You reach out to steady the person you bumped into, and your hand makes contact with a forearm that’s lean, firm, and familiar.

​"Whoa, easy there," you mutter, looking up.

​It’s Oscar. He’s standing there, his lab coat slightly rumpled, looking like he’s been awake for forty-eight hours straight. He’s managed to keep the coffee from spilling, but he’s staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. For a second, he just stands there, frozen, his eyes scanning your face as if he’s trying to verify your medical history in real-time.

​"Oh," he says, his voice a bit rusty. "It’s you. I almost wore that for you, by the way. Very generous of me."

​You look down at his sleeve, where a dark brown stain is already beginning to seep into the white fabric. You start to laugh, a genuine, bubbling sound that makes the tension in his shoulders drop about an inch.

​"I’m sorry, I’m a menace," you say, grabbing a napkin from a nearby table and dabbing at his sleeve. "I guess I haven't lost my knack for causing trouble in this building."

​Oscar watches you work, his expression shifting from startled to that low-key, amused look you haven't seen in months. He steps back, clearing his throat and tucking his coffee cup safely against his chest.

​"No apology necessary," he says, his eyes tracing the line of your face. He looks at your volunteer badge, then back at your eyes. "I didn't know you were back. I thought you were done with this place—for good."

​"I missed the ambiance," you joke, gesturing vaguely at the fluorescent lights and the general clinical chaos. "No, seriously, I wanted to help out. Being a patient here is a hell of a learning curve. I figured I could make it a little less terrifying for the next person."

​Oscar stares at you for a long beat, his gaze thoughtful. "That’s… actually quite admirable. Most people run as far away from here as they can once they get their discharge papers."

​"Yeah, well, I like to do things differently," you say, a playful glint entering your eyes.

​He cracks a small, genuine smile—not the professional, doctor-in-the-hallway version, but a real, crooked one that lights up his entire face. He looks like he’s fighting off a joke, his head tilting slightly as he leans against the counter.

​"So," he says, his voice dropping into a teasing register that catches you completely off guard. "No neurological confusion this time? You’re sure you know exactly who you’re talking to?"

​You feel a heat rise up your neck, but this time, it’s not out of mortification. It’s a warm, comfortable sort of recognition. You look him dead in the eye, squaring your shoulders.

​"None whatsoever," you say, your voice steady. "Though, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I was planning on being a bit more chaotic today, but you’ve ruined my schedule."

​"Is that so?" he asks, his eyebrows arching in that familiar, challenging way.

​"Yep," you reply, feeling that familiar spark of chemistry flare up, but this time it’s grounded in reality—no anesthesia, no brain fog, just you and a guy who happens to be a neurosurgeon. "Unfortunately, I remember everything. Every single ridiculous thing I said. Every time I tried to hold your hand. Every 'baby' I dropped in front of your poor, traumatized interns."

​Oscar actually laughs out loud. It’s a bright, sharp sound that makes a few people in the café turn to look, but he doesn't seem to care. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and something much warmer.

​"I remember," he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "And for the record, the interns still bring it up in rounds. You’re a legend in the neuro department. They’re still wondering if you were faking the amnesia just to mess with me."

​"And were you?" you ask, leaning in, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Did you think I was faking it?"

​He looks at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a level of focus that makes your stomach do a series of flips. He doesn't pull away. He doesn't make a joke about doctor-patient boundaries. He just stands there, holding his coffee cup, looking at you like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s had to solve in years.

​"I stopped thinking a long time ago," he admits, his voice so soft you barely hear it over the roar of the café. "I just started wondering if you were going to ask me again."

— ​✦

Hallway encounters stop being coincidental and start feeling like an unspoken appointment. You’re always somewhere on the fourth floor, usually lugging a stack of paperbacks toward the neurology ward, and he’s always—inevitably—striding out of a consult or rushing toward an OR. Every time you see his lanky frame moving through the sea of scrub-clad staff, your pulse does this annoying, predictable kick.

​"Third book this week, Piastri," you call out, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms as he brushes past you. "I’m starting to think you just like hearing me talk about the plot twists."

​He stops, pivots on his heel, and waits for you to catch up. The exhaustion that usually clings to his features has softened just enough for him to look human, and he takes the top two books from your pile without asking, lightening your load.

​"I don't have time to read," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I just like making sure you don't drop these on your foot. You’re a liability, remember? I operated on you. I have a vested interest in your continued physical stability."

​"Right, the 'vested interest,'" you tease, matching his pace. "Is that what they’re calling it now? I thought it was because you were craving that burnt-tasting sludge from the vending machine down the hall."

​He glances down at the lukewarm paper cup in his hand, grimacing. "It’s not sludge. It’s… efficient fuel. I don't have a thirty-minute window to walk to the local café, get an actual barista-made flat white, and walk back. This stuff at least keeps the brain firing."

​"It’s an insult to coffee, Oscar. Honestly, it’s a health violation." You stop at a patient's room, hand him back the books, and lean against the wall. "How many have you had today? Be honest."

​He sighs, looking at the cup like it’s a clinical failure. "Four. Maybe five."

​"You’re going to vibrate out of your skin," you laugh, shaking your head. "I’m telling you, if you didn't spend all your time trying to be the hospital's most stoic martyr, you’d realize that life exists outside these sliding glass doors. There’s decent espresso three blocks over. I know because I walk there every morning before my shift."

​He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the playfulness in his eyes is replaced by something heavier, more contemplative. He’s standing close enough that you can smell the faint, clean scent of antiseptic and the sharper, more grounding scent of his cedarwood cologne. It’s a sensory detail that’s become way too familiar over the last month.

​"I don't get 'three blocks over' time," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "I get fifteen-minute windows between consults and the occasional three hours of sleep. It’s not exactly a life that leaves room for… external activities."

​"Sounds miserable," you say, but there’s no judgment in it, just a quiet invitation.

​"It’s not miserable," he retorts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "It’s just… work. It’s what I signed up for."

​You watch the way his gaze lingers on your face, drifting down to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back up to your eyes. It’s a tell. He’s tired, he’s stressed, and he’s clearly overworked, but he’s also clearly not in a rush to leave this hallway.

​"You know," you say, your voice dropping, "I’m not a patient anymore. I’m a volunteer. Technically, that means we’re colleagues. And colleagues have to go to lunch sometimes, right?"

​You hold your breath, the air in the hallway suddenly feeling incredibly thin. You’ve been dancing around this for weeks, and you’re tired of the choreography.

​Oscar doesn't answer immediately. He shifts the books in his arms, his knuckles whitening slightly. He’s thinking about the ethics, the hierarchy, the ridiculous, stubborn lines he’s drawn for himself, and the way your existence has managed to blur every single one of them. He’s been waiting for you to say it again—praying you would, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself. Every time you walk away after a conversation, he finds himself feeling a sharp, cold sting of regret that he didn't just reach out and stop you.

​"Colleagues," he repeats, the word tasting strange on his tongue.

​"Yep. Colleagues. Which involves eating actual, non-vending-machine food." You take a half-step closer. "I’m off shift in twenty minutes. The café three blocks away closes at five. If you can manage to escape the neuro-trauma siren for an hour, I’ll buy you a coffee that actually tastes like coffee."

​He looks at his beeper, then at the empty hallway, then back at you. The internal struggle is visible—the meticulous, rule-abiding surgeon fighting against the man who’s been secretly hoping you’d stop being so polite.

​"Twenty minutes?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

​"Twenty minutes," you confirm, your heart hammering against your ribs.

​"I’ll see if I can clear my desk," he says, his voice thick with a sudden, intense focus. He starts to turn away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. That soft, proud, secret smile is back, and this time, it’s unmistakably expectant. "Don't leave without me. I’m serious. If you walk out that door before I get there, I’m putting you on the 'permanent nuisance' list."

​"Wouldn't dream of it, Doctor," you grin, watching him stride away with a little more speed in his step than he had a moment ago.

​He’s finally going to say yes. You can see it in the way he walks, in the way he’s already checking his watch to see how he can condense his paperwork. You’ve spent months thinking you’d gotten over this, that you were just a person who’d moved on, but as you stand there in the quiet of the hallway, you realize you haven't moved on at all. You were just waiting for him to catch up.

Twenty minutes felt like an eternity of pacing, but you managed to keep your cool, hovering near the main lobby entrance. When Oscar finally appeared, he’d ditched the white coat, opting for a dark, fitted sweater that made him look less like a looming authority figure and more like a normal, incredibly handsome man who just happened to be chronically sleep-deprived. He was moving with purpose, his phone tucked into his back pocket, and the moment his eyes landed on you, he slowed his pace just enough to let you know he wasn't running away.

​He didn't make it five feet before Lando and George intercepted him. They were coming down the opposite corridor, probably heading out to grab their own post-shift meal, and when they saw Oscar walking toward you, their collective stride hitched. George stopped dead, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline, while Lando did a dramatic, slow-motion pivot, his jaw dropping in a way that would have been hilarious if it didn't make your face burn.

​"Well, well," George drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief on his face. "Look who finally decided to prioritize something other than a shunt replacement."

​Lando didn't even try to hide his grin. He looked from Oscar to you, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, his face twisted into an expression of absolute glee. "Is that a jacket? And you’re leaving the building? Before midnight? What kind of black magic is this?"

​Oscar didn't even blink, though he did offer them a faint, resigned smile that suggested he’d already accepted his fate—namely, that he’d be hearing about this for the next decade. He didn't offer an excuse, didn't stammer, and certainly didn't try to play it off as a clinical meeting. He just tucked his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight, and looked at his friends with a look that essentially told them to get lost.

​"We have plans," Oscar said, his voice level and entirely unbothered.

​Lando shot you a wink—a quick, cheeky flick of his eyes that made you want to dive behind the nearest plant—before clapping Oscar on the shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm. "Plans. Right. Go on then, Romeo. Don't worry, George and I will keep your patients alive. Or, you know, we’ll just tell everyone in the cafeteria you’re off having a secret tryst."

​"Get out of here," Oscar deadpanned, though his smile deepened just a fraction. He didn't wait for them to finish their teasing. He reached out, gently cupping your elbow to steer you toward the revolving doors, his touch brief but warm.

— ​✦

​The cafe was small, a quiet, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and the smell of roasting beans. It was blissfully free of monitors, sirens, and that underlying hum of human suffering that seemed to permeate every wall of the hospital. You took a seat by the window, watching the city lights blur as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. When the waiter brought over a pot of steaming black coffee and a small plate of pastries, Oscar actually exhaled—a long, shuddering breath that seemed to dump months of stress into the floorboards.

​"You look like you might actually sleep for a full hour tonight," you joked, sliding the sugar toward him.

​"Only if the pager stays quiet," he muttered, finally letting his shoulders drop. He took a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes for a second as if he were drinking nectar of the gods. "You were right. This is infinitely better than that vending machine disaster."

​"I’m always right," you said, leaning back. "It’s a personality trait. You’ll have to get used to it if you’re going to be my colleague."

​He chuckled, a low, easy sound that made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with brain injury. "I’m learning. It’s a steep curve, but I think I’m adjusting."

​The conversation drifted away from the hospital, peeling back layers of the rigid, clinical exterior he wore like armor. You discovered that he had a dry, sarcastic wit that he usually kept under lock and key—the kind of humor that slipped out in deadpan observations about bad movies or the sheer absurdity of hospital politics. It was intoxicating. You spent an hour debating the merits of different travel destinations, realizing that beneath the man who could perform a craniotomy in his sleep was someone who actually liked to hike, hated mornings, and had a surprisingly deep appreciation for bad 80s pop music.

​"You know," he said, staring at his coffee cup as he swirled the liquid, "I spent most of that month after your surgery wondering if I’d lost my mind. I’m used to patients who follow a script. Wake up, stabilize, rehab, discharge. You… you kind of threw the script into the fire."

​"I was a bit much, wasn't I?" You looked down, picking at the napkin. "I still cringe whenever I think about it. I flirted with you in front of half the hospital, Oscar. I don't know how you didn't have me moved to a psych ward."

​He looked up, his gaze catching yours. There was no mockery there, just a strange, intense sincerity. "I’m aware. And I didn't want you moved. To be completely honest, that month was brutal. We had a string of cases that didn't go well—losses that stay with you—and every time I walked into room 412, it was like the only part of my day that wasn't grey."

​Your heart skipped a beat, the air in the small room feeling suddenly charged. "Really?"

​"Really," he said, his voice dropping. "You were a disaster, and it was the best part of my schedule."

​You were just about to respond, to say something brilliant and flirtatious, when his phone screeched—a sharp, shrill vibration that jarred the table. He didn't reach for it immediately. He looked at it, then at you, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face before he sighed and pulled it from his pocket.

​The screen lit up with a name that made his jaw tighten. He glanced at the display, the surgeon in him instantly overriding the man having a coffee.

​"I have to take this," he said, his eyes darkening as he stood up. "It’s the trauma unit. They’ve got a head-on collision coming into the bay in ten minutes. I'm sorry."

​"Go," you said, standing up with him, your voice steady even as a wave of disappointment hit you. "I know how this works. Go save them."

​He looked like he wanted to say more, to reach out, but the siren was already wailing in his mind, pulling him back to the world of life and death. He grabbed his coat, gave you a quick, searching look, and was already moving toward the door before the phone had even stopped ringing. "I’ll text you," he promised, his tone tight with regret.

​"Go, Dr. Piastri!" you called out, smiling despite yourself. He was already out the door, disappearing into the night, but for the first time in your life, you weren't waiting for him to check your reflexes. You were just waiting for him to come back.

— ​✦

Midnight quiet of the hospital parking lot has become your second home. You’re sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off, dashboard lights casting a soft, amber glow against your face while you scroll through your phone. You’re waiting for the double-set of glass doors to slide open. You’ve got a greasy paper bag from that late-night burger joint sitting on the passenger seat—the one with the decent fries that Oscar actually likes—and you’re listening to the muffled static of a podcast, counting the minutes.

​When he finally emerges, he’s a wreck. His scrubs are rumpled, his hair is a chaotic mess, and he’s moving with that heavy, robotic gait that tells you he’s been on his feet for eighteen hours straight. He doesn't see you at first, just walks toward his own car like he’s sleepwalking, but when you tap your horn—a soft, singular beep—he stops. He looks over, his eyes squinting into the darkness, and then his shoulders drop. That stiff, defensive posture he wears in the hallways just melts away.

​He walks over to your car, drops his bag into the backseat, and collapses into the passenger seat with a groan that sounds like it’s vibrating from his soul.

​"I have reached the point," he mumbles, his head leaning back against the headrest, eyes closing instantly, "where I am fairly certain I have forgotten how to sit on a chair. I feel like I’ve been vibrating for a decade."

​"Here," you say, pushing the paper bag toward him. "Eat. If you don't consume at least three hundred calories of processed beef, I’m going to personally file a complaint with the hospital board for your lack of self-preservation."

​He chuckles, a dry, raspy sound, and starts tearing into the bag. He doesn't even use a napkin, just takes a massive bite of the burger like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Watching him eat, even in this exhausted, messy state, gives you a jolt of warmth that’s hard to describe. You’ve moved past the "patient" phase, past the "crush" phase, into something that feels steady and lived-in. It’s quiet. It’s comfortable.

​"You’re a lifesaver," he says, mouth half-full. "Not even kidding. I think I would have started eating the charts if you hadn't shown up."

​"Good to know I’m more important than your medical records," you tease, reaching out to brush a stray crumb off his sweater. He leans into your touch instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut again. "Movie night tonight? Or are you planning on passing out the moment we hit my couch?"

​"Movie night," he insists, though he sounds like he’s talking through a thick blanket. "I promised. I want to see how that thriller ends, even if I only get to see the first ten minutes before I lose consciousness."

​That’s how it goes. You get to your place, and he’s asleep before the opening credits of whatever suspense-filled mystery you’ve picked out even finish rolling. He’s slumped against you, his breathing deep and rhythmic, the weight of him pressing against your shoulder a grounding, heavy reality. You don't move. You just sit there, watching the screen, letting his exhaustion bleed into your own peacefulness, thinking about how strange it is that this man, who holds people's lives in his hands every single day, just wants to be a person when he’s with you.

​The next morning, while he’s rushing through the kitchen grabbing his gear for another 30-hour block, you slide a bright yellow sticky note into his lunchbox. It’s a silly little thing—a crude drawing of a stick figure with a stethoscope and a caption that reads, Don't be a hero today, drink water, you idiot. You don't tell him you put it there, and he doesn't say anything when he finds it, but days later, when you’re helping him organize some paperwork in his home office, you open his top desk drawer to look for a pen.

​They’re all there. Every single one. A rainbow stack of neon paper, each one with a note about his coffee intake, his sleep schedule, or just a reminder that he’s better than the hospital politics. He’s kept them all. He catches you looking, and for a second, he looks almost embarrassed, his ears turning that familiar, endearing shade of pink. He doesn't apologize, and he doesn't try to hide them. He just clears his throat and says, "They’re for… diagnostic reference. To track your recurring harassment."

​You laugh, and he smiles that genuine, soft smile that only you get to see.

​Of course, the pack never lets you get away with it. Lando and George have fully adopted you into their orbit, mostly because they’ve realized that you’re the only person in the hospital who can actually force Oscar to stop and eat a vegetable. You’re always showing up in the breakroom with an extra sandwich, or cornering Lando to make sure he’s had a lunch break that lasted longer than five minutes.

​"You’re doing the lord’s work," George says one afternoon, watching as you forcefully hand Oscar a container of actual, home-cooked pasta instead of the cafeteria slop. "I don't know how you do it. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he folds the second you look at him with that 'I’m disappointed in your blood sugar' face."

​"It’s about persistence," you say, grabbing Oscar’s hand and giving it a squeeze. "He thinks because he’s a genius, he doesn't need to eat. He’s wrong."

​"She’s right," Oscar admits, taking the container and actually opening it, much to Lando’s shock.

​"See? The beast is tamed!" Lando crows, leaning back in his chair. "Next thing you know, he’ll be taking a whole hour for lunch and actually joining us for a weekend out."

​Oscar just shakes his head, though he’s looking at you with a look of quiet, profound gratitude. "Don't push your luck, Norris. We’ve got an emergency neuro-trauma call in twenty minutes."

​It’s the life, though. You know the reality. There are days—hell, weeks—where the hospital eats him whole. You’ll be in the middle of a text conversation and he’ll vanish for six hours because someone’s ICP went haywire in the middle of the night. You’ve learned not to take it personally. You’ve learned that when he comes back to you, even if he’s hollowed out by the weight of a surgery that didn't go his way, he’s yours. You’re the one who keeps him tethered.

​"You look tired," you say one night, leaning against the door of his office after a brutal shift.

​"I am tired," he says, rubbing his eyes. He looks like he’s aged ten years in a day. He stands up, his movements stiff, and walks over to you. He doesn't say a word, just pulls you into a hug that feels like he’s trying to disappear into you. You hold him, feeling the sharp edges of his exhaustion, and you know he doesn't need a snack, or a note, or a movie. He just needs to know that when he steps out of that hospital, there’s a world that doesn't demand perfection from him.

​"I’m here," you whisper into his sweater.

​"I know," he mumbles, his voice barely audible against your hair. "I know. Thank you for… everything."

​He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, that intense, surgical focus now entirely aimed at you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a room full of chaos. "I couldn't do this without you. Seriously. It’s just too much on my own."

​You don't need him to say more. You take his hand, the same hand you once tried to grab when you were high on anesthesia and confused, and you lead him out of the hospital, away from the sirens, and into the quiet of the night. You’re not his patient anymore, and he’s not just a doctor, and even if tomorrow brings another thirty-hour shift, tonight, it’s just the two of you, navigating the world one step at a time.

— ​✦

Saturday afternoon sun is streaming through the living room blinds, casting long, dusty stripes across your laptop screen. You’re deep in the weeds of a quarterly report, juggling spreadsheets and half-finished emails, when the sound of a key turning in the lock makes you stop. It’s a familiar sound, a slow, metallic click followed by the heavy, weary thud of a man who has been carrying the weight of the world for thirty-six hours straight.

​Oscar doesn't call out. He doesn't announce his presence because he doesn't have the energy to spare. He just drifts into the room, his tie already long gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are tensed with residual stress. He looks like he’s aged five years since he left this morning, his eyes rimmed with red and his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. He drops his bag near the door with a dull thud and stares at the floor as if he’s trying to decide if he has the physical capacity to walk the remaining ten feet to the couch.

​"Rough day?" you ask softly, closing your laptop and abandoning the report without a second thought.

​He looks up, his gaze unfocused, drifting over your face for a second before he sighs. It’s a sound that seems to deflate his entire frame. He looks so raw, so stripped of that invincible, calm persona he projects in the OR, that it makes your chest ache. He’s spent the last few months living in this apartment in every way that counts; his toothbrush is in your bathroom, his favorite oversized hoodie is perpetually draped over your armchair, and he’s long since stopped remembering the last time he stepped foot in his own sterile, lonely condo. He’s here, he’s yours, and right now, he’s absolutely spent.

​You don't wait for him to answer. You get up, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and open your arms. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't try to maintain his composure or play the stoic surgeon. He just walks into your embrace and drops his head onto your shoulder, his entire body going limp. He’s trembling, just a fraction, the kind of micro-tremors that only come after a day of life-or-death decisions and standing over an operating table for hours on end.

​"I can't," he whispers, his voice so thin it’s almost lost in the room. He breathes in against the crook of your neck, his hands gripping the back of your sweater like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. "I’m done, I’m just… I’m so done, everything is just… noise."

​You tighten your hold, running a hand up his back, feeling the tension locked tight in his shoulder blades. You’ve let the relationship move at its own pace, a slow, careful dance around his impossibly demanding schedule, figuring out how to love a man who is often married to his work. You haven't rushed anything, but in this quiet moment, the air feels heavy, charged with all the things you’ve been feeling but haven't quite found the right space to articulate.

​He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s no professional distance left, no masks, no medical terminology—just a man who has spent all his reserves saving others and now has nothing left for himself but you. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw with a gentle, shaky reverence.

​"I love you," he whispers.

​The words land in the silence of the room, simple and absolute. It’s the first time, a secret you’ve both been holding onto, afraid that saying it out loud might somehow break the fragile rhythm you’ve built around his career.

​"I love you too," you say, and the weight of it feels like a promise, like the only solid thing in a world that is otherwise constantly shifting.

​He lets out a shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving his face, replaced by an expression of pure, relieved vulnerability. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing, and for the first time in a long time, the hospital feels like a thousand miles away.

​"I don't think I could do this without you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "I go into that building, I deal with the chaos, and the only reason I’m still standing at the end of the day is knowing I’m coming back here. To you."

​"You don't have to do it alone," you tell him, pulling him back down toward the couch. "Not anymore."

​He doesn't argue. He just sinks into the cushions, pulling you down with him, his head finding its usual spot on your shoulder. He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing evening out into the deep, heavy rhythm of a man finally allowed to let go. You sit there, listening to the quiet of the apartment, watching the light fade from the window, and you realize that this—this messy, tired, quiet love—is the most important thing you’ve ever had to work for. You reach over, covering him with the throw blanket from the end of the couch, and just hold him, knowing that when he wakes up, you’ll be there to help him face the week all over again.

— ​✦

Sunlight is already hitting the edge of the curtains when you stir, but you don't open your eyes just yet. You feel the heavy, familiar warmth of a body pressed against your back—a solid, grounding weight that makes your heart do that stupid, happy flutter even when you’re half-asleep. Oscar is still dead to the world, but he’s shifted enough to press his chest against your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

​You’re still wearing your pajamas, but he’s still in the wrinkled, grey undershirt he passed out in last night after you managed to drag him into the bedroom. You remember the chaotic, semi-conscious shuffle, him mumbling something about neuro-pathways while you practically carried him to bed.

​He moves, the bed frame creaking, and you feel the weight shift as he sits up. He’s quiet—always quiet—and you hear him sliding out of the room, his footsteps muffled against the floorboards. You drift back into a light, lazy sleep for another twenty minutes before you hear the hum of the shower, then the soft, rhythmic clicking of his toothbrush.

​A few minutes later, you feel the mattress dip again. The air smells like his cedarwood body wash and a hint of the coffee he must have just started brewing. You don't turn around, just wait for him to close the distance.

​He leans over, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, then tracking down the line of your neck. It’s a slow, deliberate wake-up call. "Morning," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and low.

​You shift, turning around to face him, and see he’s finally ditched the work clothes for a pair of sweatpants. He looks like a completely different person when he’s not vibrating with stress or clutching a hospital pager. He looks relaxed, his hair a mess, his eyes clear and focused entirely on you.

​"Morning," you whisper back, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt. He kisses you, a soft, lingering thing that tastes like toothpaste and that specific kind of calm that only exists on a Saturday morning with nowhere to be.

​"Did you sleep?" you ask, running your hands up his arms.

​"Best sleep I’ve had in months," he says, resting his forehead against yours. He’s smiling—a real, lazy grin that makes him look ten years younger. "And guess what? No beeps. No emergency pages. No trauma calls. I checked the schedule three times just to be sure—I’m actually, properly off."

​"No way," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow. "The great Dr. Piastri is off-duty on a Saturday? Does the hospital know? Will the city collapse without you?"

​"I’ve already accepted that the world might end today," he jokes, nudging your nose with his. "But I’ve decided I’m okay with that. I’m planning on spending the entire day not thinking about craniotomies."

​"What’s the plan, then?"

​He pulls back, looking at you with that boyish excitement that he usually keeps hidden behind his professional exterior. "Camping. I know you’ve been saying you needed a break from the city, and I found a spot a few hours out. I’ve already done a sweep of the gear. I’ve got the tent, the stove, the sleeping bags—it’s all in the car."

​"You did all that while I was sleeping?" You laugh, reaching up to mess with his hair. "You really are an overachiever."

​"I just wanted to make sure we actually made it out the door," he says, kissing your temple. "You stay in bed, get another half-hour. I’m going to finish packing the cooler. I’ll make pancakes, then we’re leaving."

​"You’re making pancakes?"

​"I’m making pancakes," he confirms, standing up and heading for the door. He pauses, looking back at you one last time, his eyes bright with a rare, unfiltered happiness. "Stay put. Don't go anywhere. I’m not letting you spend this day doing reports."

​You watch him walk out, feeling a wave of genuine disbelief. A whole day of camping, with no hospital in sight, and the man you love is currently downstairs trying to master the art of breakfast. You sink back into your pillows, listening to the clatter of pots and pans and the muffled sound of him humming a song under his breath. It’s perfect. It’s better than perfect. It’s real.

— ​✦

Road winds through the pine trees, tires crunching over loose gravel as the city finally dissolves into the rearview mirror. You’re watching Oscar drive, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh. He looks like a completely different person in cargo shorts and a faded vintage t-shirt, completely detached from the clinical sterility he usually inhabits. When he pulls into the campsite—a secluded spot tucked behind a dense thicket of spruce—he’s out of the car and moving before the engine even stops ticking.

​You lean against the trunk, sipping a lukewarm coffee, watching him navigate the site. He works with an unnerving, practiced efficiency. He doesn't just put up a tent; he engineers it. He hammers stakes into the ground with surgical precision, measuring the tension on the guy lines as if he’s calibrating a piece of hospital equipment.

​"You know, you’re allowed to just hammer it in," you call out, watching him adjust a corner for the third time. "It doesn't have to be anatomically perfect."

​He laughs, wiping a smudge of dirt off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Habit. If I don't set it up right, it’ll be a disaster in a windstorm. Everything has a structural integrity, you know."

​"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Neurosurgeon," you tease, walking over to help him unfurl the tarp. "I’ve been meaning to ask, though—how did you even end up here? Did you wake up one day and decide you wanted to spend your life staring at gray matter, or was there some sort of traumatic incident involving a toy microscope?"

​He stops, glancing at you with a wry expression before going back to the tent poles. "Nothing that dramatic, honestly. I was never the kid who wanted to play doctor. I played piano, did a lot of woodworking, tinkered with old watches—my dad taught me how to handle the gears without stripping the threads. One day, a mentor of his watched me setting a microscopic balance wheel and joked that I should look into surgery because my hands didn't shake. I laughed it off, but the thought just… stuck. By the time I hit med school, I was already looking for something that required that kind of fine-motor control."

​"So, you’re basically a glorified watch repairman, but for brains?"

​"Basically," he grins, sliding a pole through the canvas sleeve. "Although, brains are significantly harder to source parts for."

​You sit down on a folding chair, watching him work, the ease of the conversation smoothing out the edges of the day. "Was it hard? At the beginning?"

​His face loses a bit of that lightheartedness, his expression turning distant as he focuses on the tent frame. "The first time I lost someone? It was hell. I was a junior resident, and I had done everything by the book. Perfect prep, perfect incision, textbook closure. But the patient just didn't wake up. I spent weeks replaying every second of that surgery, convinced that if I had just moved a millimeter to the left or been a second faster, they’d still be here. I didn't understand how someone could be so physically sound and yet just… gone."

​"That sounds soul-crushing," you say softly.

​"It was," he admits, pausing to hammer the final stake into the ground. "But you keep losing people. You realize that sometimes, you’re just playing the hand you’re dealt, and nature doesn't always care about your best intentions. You stop trying to play God and start trying to be the best possible mechanic for a failing system. It’s a harsh lesson, but you have to learn it or you won't survive the specialty."

​"So, why neuro? Why the most unforgiving, high-stress, 'impossible' specialty in the hospital?"

​He stands up, brushing the dirt off his hands and looking at you with a sharp, competitive glint in his eyes that you recognize all too well. "I’ve always been competitive. When I was starting out, people told me it was the hardest, the most exclusive. That was all the motivation I needed. I wanted the hardest cases, the ones that everyone else said were 'inoperable.' I thrive on that pressure—the adrenaline, the clock, the razor-thin margin between a complete recovery and a catastrophic outcome. I wanted to be the best because, at the time, I thought being the best meant proving I was the smartest person in the room."

​"And now?"

​He walks over, leaning against the tree beside your chair, his posture relaxing as he looks out into the trees. "Now? I know that medicine isn't a competition. It’s a service. The 'impossible' cases are just people who deserve one more shot. The board of directors keeps trying to push me toward a professorship, wanting me to teach the next generation, but I don't have the patience for it. I’m not built to stand at a podium and lecture. I’d rather be in the OR where things are tangible."

​You let out a loud, incredulous laugh, shaking your head. "You don't have the patience? Are you kidding me? You spent weeks handling me while I was literally hallucinating that you were my boyfriend. If that doesn't qualify as 'having patience,' I don't know what does."

​He chuckles, a low, melodic sound that warms the cool air around you. He reaches down, taking your hand and pulling you up from the chair. "That was different. You were a unique clinical anomaly. Besides, you weren't an intern asking me a thousand questions about the anatomy of the thalamus for the fifth time in a row. You were just… you."

​"A unique clinical anomaly, huh? Is that what I was?"

​"You were the only thing that kept me sane during the one of my worst month," he admits, his voice dropping as he draws you closer, his eyes focused entirely on yours. "And you still are."

​He pulls you into the shelter of the tent, the nylon flapping gently in the breeze. The competitive, high-stakes surgeon is gone, replaced by the man who just wanted a Saturday off with the person he loves. He reaches into his pack, pulling out a small, compact stove, his movements steady and calm.

​"I’m starving," he says, shifting the subject, clearly feeling he’s revealed enough for one day. "How do you feel about dehydrated camping stew? It’s not exactly a five-course meal, but it’s warm."

​"It sounds like a five-star experience if you’re the one cooking," you laugh, sitting back on your sleeping bag and watching him prep the meal.

​He smiles, that quiet, secret smile you’ve come to crave, and you realize that even if he never stops being the best neurosurgeon in Australia, he’s happy just being here, with you, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to save but a pot of stew.

"Eat up," Oscar says, sliding a steaming plastic bowl toward you. "It’s a gourmet blend of dehydrated carrots and what I am fairly certain is mystery protein, but the chef—that’s me—highly recommends it."

​You dig in, the warmth of the food hitting your stomach like a reset button. "You know, for a man who spends his life working with microscopic precision, your cooking is surprisingly… rustic."

​"Rustic is code for 'I forgot to measure the water,'" he admits, grinning as he sits cross-legged across from you. He’s got that relaxed look again, his hair wind-tousled and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He looks more like a college student than a man who holds people's lives in his hands for a living.

​"So, tell me," you ask, leaning back against a folded blanket, "how on earth do you, Lando, and George actually function as a trio? It’s like watching a chaotic sitcom. Lando is basically a golden retriever in scrubs, George is… well, George is George, and you’re just the silent, brooding professional. It defies all logic."

​Oscar laughs, a genuine, unguarded sound. "It started in residency, honestly. Lando was the only one who could make me laugh when I was three days deep into a rotation, and George… George is just as obsessive as I am, but in a completely different direction. We’re a disaster, really. Lando is constantly trying to sneak pranks into the OR, and George is always trying to debate the best way to organize a tool tray. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and I think it’s the only reason I didn't lose my mind back in my third year."

​"I can picture it," you tease. "Lando trying to play music in the theater, and you just staring at him until he stops."

​"Exactly," he agrees, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea. "But when things go sideways, there isn't another group of people I’d want in the room. We trust each other. That’s the only thing that matters in that environment."

​"You guys have saved so many lives, Oscar. Does it ever stop feeling heavy?"

​He’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the tree line. "It never stops feeling heavy. You just get better at carrying it. And honestly? Having people like Lando and George—and having you—makes the weight feel like something I can actually manage."

​You reach out, resting your hand on his knee, feeling the solid, familiar heat of him. "I'm glad you have them. And I'm glad you have this."

​"I am too," he says, his voice dropping into that soft, low register that always makes your pulse skip. "I really am."

​You’re just about to crack a joke about how he needs to thank Lando for setting the bar so low that he looks like a genius by comparison, when a sharp, white-hot pulse of pain slams into the back of your skull. It’s not just a headache; it’s a sudden, blinding spike that makes the world tilt. You gasp, your hand instinctively flying to your temple, your vision blurring at the edges.

​Oscar is on his feet in a second, the playfulness gone, replaced instantly by the rigid, clinical focus of a surgeon. "What? What is it? Did you hit your head? Tell me, are you dizzy? Is it radiating?"

​He’s already moving closer, his hands framing your face, his thumbs checking your pupils with the speed of an expert. He’s panicked—you can see it in the way his jaw is tight and his eyes are scanning for signs of a hemorrhage or a seizure. He’s not Oscar the camper anymore; he’s Dr. Piastri, and he’s terrified.

​"Oscar, stop, seriously," you manage to choke out, forcing a weak smile despite the throbbing in your head. You reach up, grabbing his wrists to stop him from doing a full neurological workup on you right there in the dirt. "It’s not a hematoma. It’s just a tension headache. I’ve been putting in ridiculous hours at the rehab unit lately, and I haven't been sleeping enough."

​"Are you sure?" he demands, his voice still vibrating with anxiety. "You’re pale. You’re sweating. We should go back. I have my kit in the car, I can—"

​"You can do nothing but sit down," you interrupt, reaching into your bag and pulling out a bottle of painkillers. You shake two out into your palm and swallow them with a gulp of tea. "It happens every time I work back-to-back shifts. The noise in the rehab ward is non-stop, and I haven't been drinking enough water. It’s a classic tension headache. My blood pressure is fine, my vision is clearing, and I definitely don't need to be rushed to the ER, especially not by my own boyfriend."

​He stares at you, his eyes searching yours for a lie. He’s spent months treating actual brain injuries, and he’s clearly struggling to switch off the part of his brain that’s trained to see danger everywhere.

​"I know it looks like an emergency to you," you say softly, tugging on his hand until he sits back down, "but it’s not. I’m fine, Oscar. Truly. It’s just work. Everyone gets headaches, even the people who spend their lives fixing brains."

​He lets out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally dropping as the panic begins to ebb. "You scared the hell out of me. You know that, right?"

​"I know," you say, leaning your head on his shoulder as the medication begins to dull the worst of the ache. "But look at me. I'm breathing, I'm talking, and I'm definitely not having a neurological episode. I’m just a tired human who needs a nap."

​"You’re a pain in my neck," he mutters, though he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, his fingers brushing the hair away from your forehead. "And a massive health hazard."

​"You love me anyway," you murmur, closing your eyes.

​"Yeah," he sighs, his voice barely a whisper. "I really, really do."

— ​✦

Moving into that new apartment was less of a grand gesture and more of a quiet, necessary evolution. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows that catch the afternoon sun, a kitchen big enough for both of you to dance around in, and a bedroom that, for the first time in years, doesn't smell like antiseptic or sound like an ICU paging system. You’ve settled into a rhythm that feels less like a clinical observation and more like a real life.

​Living with a neurosurgeon means you’ve become an expert in reading the room before you even walk into it. You know exactly what kind of day he’s had the second the door clicks shut behind him. If he’s silent—not just quiet, but still—it means he’s spent six hours navigating a cavernoma or a tumor near the brainstem, and he needs space to decompress. You don't ask questions; you just hand him a glass of water, turn down the lights, and let the silence sit there until he’s ready to talk. On those nights, you’re his anchor, and he’s yours.

​He’s just as sharp about your moods. He knows my boss is breathing down my neck before I’ve even said a word, just by the way I’m stabbing at my laptop keys or the way my eyebrows knot together when I’m trying to finish a report. He’s the one who’ll walk by, drop a steaming mug of tea on the desk, and quietly close my laptop before pulling me toward the couch. He even keeps track of my cycle, which is both incredibly sweet and mildly terrifying, regularly restocking the bathroom cabinet with chocolate and heating pads before I’ve even realized I’m on edge.

​Ordinary happiness is everywhere. It’s in the mundane, boring, wonderful stuff—arguing over who left the laundry in the dryer for too long, deciding which grocery store has the better produce, or cooking dinner on a Tuesday night while he tries to explain the difference between a subarachnoid hemorrhage and a subdural hematoma using nothing but pasta noodles and a bowl of salad.

​"You're using the penne as the cranial vault, but that doesn't make any sense, Oscar," you laugh, swiping at a rogue piece of lettuce.

​"It’s a functional model!" he protests, eyes bright with that playful, competitive spark he usually saves for Lando and George. "If you’d just let me explain the pressure differential—"

​"I am not learning neurosurgery via Italian cuisine. Help me with the dishes."

​Then comes the weekend you decide to introduce him to your parents. You’ve been dreading it, mostly because your mom and sister have never quite let go of the "brain injury romance" narrative. You pull up to your childhood home, and Oscar’s hands are actually gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

​"You okay?" you ask, reaching over to pat his arm. "They’re just people. My mom isn't going to perform a neuro-assessment on you."

​"I’m fine," he mutters, though he looks like he’d rather be back in the OR. "It’s just… usually I’m the one on the other side of this. I’m the doctor, they’re the family. Being the guest? It’s unnerving."

​Before he can even fully step out of the car, your mom is on the front porch, beaming. She doesn't wait for introductions; she marches right up and pulls him into a hug that he clearly isn't prepared for.

​"Dr. Piastri!" she exclaims, pulling back to beam at him. "We are so thrilled to finally have you over. Thank you, again, for everything. I still tell everyone at the garden club that we had a saint looking after our daughter."

​Oscar goes stiff, offering an awkward, polite smile. "It was my privilege, really. I’m just glad she’s here."

​Your sister, naturally, can’t help herself. She leans against the doorframe, a wicked grin on her face. "A saint? Mom, please. We all know how this started. We’ve seen the charts. She was practically sedated, calling him 'baby' and trying to propose to him between scans. Honestly, it’s a miracle they’re actually together. She basically manifested him into existence."

​You feel the blood rush to your ears. "I did not manifest him, and I was not trying to propose, I was delirious!"

​"Keep telling yourself that," your sister laughs, ushering you all inside.

​Dinner is a whirlwind of questions and barely suppressed teasing. You’re trying to navigate the conversation toward safe topics—the weather, your new job, the traffic—but your parents are laser-focused on the legend of "The Handsome Neurosurgeon." Oscar handles it like a professional, though his ears are steadily turning a shade of pink that matches the tablecloth.

​As you’re helping your dad with the dishes later, he leans in close, lowering his voice with a twinkle in his eye. "You know, when you told us you’d met someone in the hospital, we were worried you were just being dramatic. But... he’s a good man, honey. And he’s definitely as handsome as you kept saying. I guess you weren't lying about the 'handsome doctor' thing after all."

​You nearly drop a plate, the heat in your face so intense it might as well be a fever. "Dad! Please! Can we just talk about the lawnmower? Anything else?"

​He just chuckles, patting your shoulder. "Relax. I like him. He’s got enough patience to put up with you, and that’s the most important thing."

​You walk back into the living room, feeling like you might spontaneously combust from pure, unadulterated mortification. Oscar is sitting on the couch, laughing at something your mom is saying, looking completely at ease. He catches your eye, and for a split second, that secret, crooked smile—the one that exists just for you—appears. It doesn't matter what your parents think or how much they tease; in that moment, seeing him there, fitting into your life, you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

—

Headaches are becoming a permanent resident in your skull, a dull, throbbing bassline that pulses right behind your left eye. You’re sitting at your desk, staring at a spreadsheet that’s starting to swim, and you press the heels of your hands against your temples, hard.

​"God, I hate this job," you mutter, typing out a quick text to Oscar. Boss is officially trying to kill me with this workload. If I collapse at my desk, tell them to charge my funeral to the company budget.

​You laugh to yourself, but the sound feels thin. A few minutes later, you stand up to grab your coat and head out, but you freeze. Where are your keys? You check your pockets. You check the desk drawer. You check the edge of the printer. Nothing. You spend ten minutes doing a frantic sweep of the cubicle before finding them sitting on top of the copier, right where you had been standing twenty minutes ago.

​Weird, you think, your pulse jumping a little. I definitely picked them up from the desk.

​When you get home, Oscar is already there, leaning against the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you walk in, his expression unreadable. You drop your keys on the counter—you’re sure you put them there—and kiss him on the cheek.

​"Hey," he says, his voice quiet. "How was the day?"

​"Brutal," you say, flopping onto the couch. "My boss is actually delusional. I think I had a conversation with Sarah about the quarterly report, but honestly, my brain is fried. I can't even remember if we talked today or yesterday."

​Oscar doesn't respond right away. He walks over, handing you a glass of water, his fingers lingering on yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze, the clinical, observant stare he usually reserves for patients in the ICU. It makes you feel slightly exposed, but you shrug it off.

​"You should sleep," he says, his tone perfectly neutral. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. It’s affecting your cognitive baseline."

​"My 'cognitive baseline' is fine, Doc," you tease, taking a sip of water. "I’m just overworked and under-caffeinated. My boss is trying to squeeze blood from a stone, and I’m the stone."

​He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He looks down at his phone, then back at you, his thumb tracing the rim of his own glass. You don't see the way his jaw tightens or the way he silently counts the times you’ve misplaced things this week. You don't see him logging your memory lapses in his head, matching them against the timeline of your recovery.

​He’s terrified. He knows exactly what those headaches mean, and he knows exactly what the memory slips imply, but he’s holding his breath, waiting for the right moment. He knows you’ll just fight him on it, calling him a paranoid surgeon who’s projecting his work trauma onto his girlfriend.

​"Yeah," he says finally, his voice soft. "I guess it’s just stress. You’re probably right."

​You look at him, feeling a sudden, strange flicker of unease. He’s usually the first one to crack a joke or push back, but tonight, he’s as still as a statue.

​"Are you okay?" you ask. "You’ve been weirdly quiet since I got home."

​"I'm just tired," he says, walking over to pull you into a hug. He holds you tighter than usual, his chin resting on top of your head. You can hear his heart beating against your chest, steady and fast. "Just really tired."

​You close your eyes, letting the headache recede into the background. You’re fine. You’re just stressed. You’re just a busy person in a busy world, and Oscar is just a guy who spends his life looking for problems where there aren't any. You don't see the look on his face over your shoulder—the look of a man watching his worst fear begin to unfold in slow motion.

— ​✦

Alarm clock screams at 6:00 AM, and your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. You roll over, groaning, and press your palms into your eyes until you see stars. Another day, another headache. You chalk it up to the humidity, the lack of sleep, or maybe just the general soul-crushing weight of adult life. You roll out of bed, your movements sluggish, and shuffle toward the bathroom.

​"Coffee’s already going," Oscar says from the kitchen. He’s already dressed in his scrubs, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s looking at you with that same unreadable, clinical expression he’s worn for the last week.

​"Bless you," you mutter, stumbling into the kitchen. You down the first cup like it’s life-saving medicine, then immediately start frantically checking your bag. "Have you seen my car keys? I swear I left them right here last night. Why is it that the moment I need to leave, my house decides to swallow my belongings?"

​You start tearing through the mail pile, knocking a stack of envelopes onto the floor. You’re annoyed now, the pulsing in your temples picking up speed with every frantic motion. You check the sofa cushions, then the kitchen junk drawer, your heart hammering against your ribs.

​Oscar is standing there, leaning back, his eyes locked on the spot on the counter where your keys are sitting in plain sight. They’re right there—shiny, silver, and utterly obvious. He doesn't move. He doesn't point. He just watches you, his face a mask of carefully controlled concern. He’s counting. He’s weighing the seconds it takes for you to notice the keys that were in your hand five minutes ago. His silence is heavy, bordering on suffocating, but you’re too wrapped up in your own rising frustration to notice.

​"I’m losing my mind," you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "I put them right here! I remember putting them here!"

​Oscar finally speaks, his voice eerily calm. "Are you sure? Maybe you left them in your jacket pocket?"

​"I checked the pockets, Oscar! I checked them twice!" You’re pacing now, your breath coming in short, irritated bursts.

​He takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving your face. He’s looking for the glimmer of recognition, the moment where the memory clicks into place. It doesn't come. You’re genuinely convinced they’ve vanished into thin air. He finally sets his mug down, walks over to the counter, and picks up the keys.

​"These?" he asks, holding them up.

​You stop dead. You stare at the keys, then at the counter, then back at him. A wave of cold, sharp realization washes over you, but you shove it down. "Oh. Right. I... I must have moved them when I was putting the mail away. My brain is just toast today."

​You grab the keys from him, your fingers brushing his. His skin is ice cold.

​"Don't forget your report," he says quietly, gesturing toward the dining table.

​You frown, turning toward the table. Sure enough, your thick binder is sitting right there, smack in the middle of the surface. You had been staring at it for ten minutes while you were complaining about the keys, and you hadn't even registered it was there.

​"Seriously?" You laugh, a dry, nervous sound. "I’m looking right at the thing and it’s like it’s invisible. I need a vacation. Or a new brain. Preferably a new brain."

​Oscar doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. He watches you stuff the binder into your bag, his eyes tracking every movement with a precision that makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

​"You’re working late today, right?" he asks.

​"Yeah, big meeting," you say, heading for the door. You’re already halfway into the hallway before you remember to grab your coat. You swing back, snatching it off the chair. "I’ll probably be home by eight. Don't wait up if you’ve got a late shift."

​"I’ll be home," he says. He’s standing in the doorway, watching you leave, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks like he wants to say something—like he wants to grab you and pull you back into the apartment—but he just keeps his lips pressed into a thin, white line.

​"See you later, Doc," you call out, forcing a bright, casual tone that feels totally fake.

​"See you," he replies.

​You walk down the hallway, the headache roaring to life again. You’re halfway to the elevator when you stop, hit by a sudden, jarring wave of confusion. You reach into your bag to check for your phone, but you realize you haven't checked for your wallet. You turn around to head back, but as you look at your apartment door, you struggle for a split second to remember which unit is yours.

​It’s the one at the end, you tell yourself, your heart doing a sick, slow somersault. It’s the one with the blue wreath.

​You reach your door, unlock it, and walk back in. Oscar is still standing in the kitchen, right where you left him. He looks at you, his expression shifting from surprise to something much, much darker.

​"Left my wallet," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to keep the panic from leaking out. You grab it from the counter, your movements jerky. "Back again. See you later."

​You leave, but you can feel his eyes on your back the entire time. You get to the elevator, the doors slide shut, and you finally let yourself lean against the cold metal wall. You’re fine. You’re just tired. Everyone forgets their wallet. Everyone loses their keys. You’re just stressed, and you’re dating a neurosurgeon who’s making you paranoid by proxy.

​But deep down, in the back of your mind, a small, terrified voice is whispering that something is fundamentally wrong, and you’re terrified that if you say it out loud, it might actually be true.

Hey, I’m at my desk, you type, your thumbs hovering over the glass. Everything is normal. Stop looking at me like I’m a malfunctioning MRI machine. I’m just tired, I promise.

​You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. You’ve been trying to convince yourself all morning that you’re not a walking disaster. You’re just busy. Everyone gets overwhelmed. But that sinking feeling in your stomach—the one that hit when you couldn't find your own front door—doesn't go away just because you sent a text. You stare at the screen, waiting for his reply, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep slipping through your fingers like water.

​Meanwhile, three miles away, Oscar is staring at a blank wall in his office. His coffee is cold, and he hasn't moved in ten minutes. His phone buzzes, he reads your message, and his jaw just tightens. He knows you're lying. He knows that "normal" for you lately has been a series of small, terrifying cracks in the foundation.

​Lando and George burst in without knocking, as usual.

​"I’m telling you, the patient in 602 is going to be the death of me," Lando is saying, mid-rant, throwing his hands up. "He’s convinced that his post-op headache is actually a microchip the government installed, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to—"

​George stops. He notices the silence in the room. He looks at Oscar, then looks at Lando, and nudges him to shut up.

​"Okay," George says, his voice losing that joking edge. "What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

​Oscar finally turns his chair around. He looks exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep won't fix. "It’s her," he says, his voice dropping. "It’s not just the headaches anymore. It’s the memory lapses. She’s misplacing things, losing track of conversations, even basic navigation. And she’s trying to hide it. She’s trying so hard to act like it’s just stress."

​George leans back against the doorframe, his expression hardening. He’s a neurosurgeon, too; he’s seen the patterns. He doesn't need a textbook to know where this conversation is heading.

​"How long?" George asks.

​"A few weeks," Oscar says. "It started small. I thought it was burnout. But today... she didn't know which apartment was ours. She had to double-back to find the door."

​Lando goes quiet, his usual manic energy completely evaporated. He looks between the two of them, sensing the gravity shift. "Oscar... you’re the lead on her case. You’ve had the follow-ups. You saw the scans six months ago. They were clear."

​"I know," Oscar says, his voice rough. "I’m the one who cleared her. I’m the one who told her she was a clean slate. So now I’m sitting here, wondering... am I overthinking this because I’m biased? Am I seeing things that aren't there because I’m terrified of losing her? Or am I just looking for an excuse to believe it’s not happening?"

​George goes silent. He’s staring at the floor, thinking. He’s not going to lie to his friend, and he’s not going to offer a hollow comfort. He’s a surgeon; he deals in facts, even when they’re brutal.

​"I can't diagnose her, Oscar," George says finally, looking up, his voice steady. "You know that. I haven't seen the charts, and I haven't seen her in months. But... memory retrieval issues, spatial disorientation, persistent cephalalgia? If a patient came to me with that history, I’d be ordering a new MRI within the hour."

​"I can't just drag her in here and force her into the machine," Oscar says, pacing the small room now. "She’s not my patient. She’s my partner. If I push this and I’m wrong, I destroy the trust we’ve built. If I don't push it and I’m right... I don't even want to finish that thought."

​"You’re caught between the doctor and the boyfriend," Lando says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "That’s a hell of a place to be, mate."

​"It’s a nightmare," Oscar corrects. "I operate on people’s brains every day, but I can't even look at the woman I love without wondering if her brain is failing her again. And the worst part? I don't know if I’m looking for the truth or just trying to convince myself I’m crazy."

​George nods slowly. "The fact that you’re scared means you’re paying attention. Keep watching her. And if you’re right, Oscar... you’re going to have to be the doctor, not the boyfriend. You know that better than anyone."

"Mate, you know the policy," Lando says, pacing the small office, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Doctors don't touch their own. Not when it's family, not when it's partners, and definitely not when it’s someone you’re this close to. You’re compromised, Oscar. You’ve been compromised since she walked out of that ICU."

​Oscar rubs his face with both hands, the friction of his palms against his stubble audible in the quiet room. "I know the damn policy, Lando. But she’s mine. If I just hand her over to a random resident or some stranger who doesn't know her history, they’re going to miss the nuance. They’re going to miss the baseline."

​"And if you do the scan yourself?" George pipes up, leaning against the desk, his voice calm but firm. "You’re looking at your partner through a filter of fear. You’ll either see things that aren't there because you're terrified, or you’ll overlook the obvious because you're desperate for her to be okay. It’s bad medicine, Oscar. It’s not just a rule, it’s for your own sanity."

​Oscar lets out a long, jagged sigh, pacing toward the window and looking out at the parking lot where he knows your car is parked. "You're right. Both of you. I know you're right. It’s just... it’s her."

​"I'll do it," George says, his voice dropping the teasing tone entirely. "I’ll run the intake. I’ll order the imaging under my own credentials. You can't be in the room, but I’ll make sure she gets the priority she deserves. I’ll be objective, I’ll be thorough, and I’ll be honest with you about every single pixel of that scan. But you have to step back."

​"George is the best guy for it, Oscar," Lando adds, his hand resting on his friend's shoulder. "He’s as sharp as you, and he doesn't have the emotional baggage. Let him handle the clinical side."

​Oscar stares at the floor, his brain clearly grinding through a thousand different scenarios, trying to find a way to maintain control that he knows he’s already lost. Finally, his shoulders slump. He looks at George and gives a slow, singular nod.

​"Okay," he says, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and begrudging acceptance. "You're right. I can't be objective with her. I'm too close to it."

​"Good," George says, already pulling out his tablet to look at the department’s afternoon availability. "We’ll get her in for an 'unrelated' follow-up. Keep it low-key, don't spook her."

​"I have to talk to her tonight," Oscar says, his eyes focused on the door. "I can't just trick her into an MRI. She’s smart, and she’s going to know something is up the second she sees George instead of me. I need to be the one to tell her why this is happening. I just... I need to figure out how to do it without making her feel like her life is falling apart again."

​"Don't lie to her," Lando says quietly. "She’s been through enough to know when you're bullshitting. Just tell her you’re worried, and that for your own peace of mind, you need a second set of eyes."

​Oscar nods, his expression haunted. "Yeah. I’ll tell her. Tonight."

— ​✦

Door clicks shut behind you, and you immediately drop your bag, stumbling into the kitchen with a hand pressed hard against your temple. "I don't know what it is, but this headache is actually trying to kill me today. I think my boss is actively siphoning my spinal fluid."

​Oscar is standing by the counter, holding a glass of water, his face unreadable. He doesn't offer a joke, and he doesn't tell you to sit down. He just watches you, his eyes tracking every flicker of pain on your face.

​"I need you to see George tomorrow," he says. His voice is flat, devoid of its usual warmth.

​You blink, taken aback. "George? As in, Dr. Russell? The neurosurgeon? For a headache? Oscar, that’s insane. I’m just stressed. I’m not going to waste a specialist's time because I’ve been staring at a screen for eight hours."

​"You aren't just stressed," Oscar says, and his voice spikes with an intensity that stops you in your tracks. He sets the glass down with a sharp clack on the marble. "I’ve been tracking this, and I’m done pretending it’s normal. You forgot your keys three times this week. You lost the thread of a conversation we had five minutes prior. You couldn't find our front door this morning."

​You feel your face go hot, defensive heat rushing through you. "So I’m a little scatterbrained! That doesn't mean I have a tumor, Oscar! You’re looking at me like I’m a lab rat because you’re still obsessed with the surgery you did months ago. You’re projecting, okay? You're just being a paranoid surgeon."

​"I'm being a doctor who is terrified because I know exactly what the red flags look like!" he snaps back, his composure finally fracturing. He steps toward you, his hands gesturing sharply. "Do you think I want to believe there's something wrong? I would give anything to believe you’re just tired. But I’m not blind, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you slip away while you play it off as a 'long week at work.'"

​"Slip away? Really?" You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You’re acting like I’m dying. I’m just human. I’m forgetful, I’m overworked, and I’m currently dating someone who treats every minor inconvenience as a neurological crisis. It’s patronizing, Oscar."

​"It’s not patronizing, it’s care," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet growl. "I’ve been keeping a list in my head of every lapse, every headache, every moment you get lost in your own apartment. And every single time, I’ve prayed that I was wrong. But I’m not. And you’re too stubborn to admit you’re scared, too."

​"I’m not scared!" you shout, though your voice cracks. "I’m just tired of you dissecting my brain every time I misplace my wallet! Why can’t you just be my boyfriend instead of my doctor? I don't need a consult, I need you to just—"

​"I can't be just your boyfriend when your life might be on the line!" he cuts you off, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and raw, exposed pain. "You think I like this? You think I like standing here, forced to act like a professional when my whole world is shaking? I am trying to save us from a disaster, and you are fighting me every single step of the way because you're too proud to admit you aren't okay."

​You stare at him, stunned into silence by the sheer ferocity in his tone. The headache is throbbing in rhythm with your heart, and for a terrifying second, you can't even remember the argument you were just having. You just know that he’s looking at you with a desperation that breaks your heart, even while you want to scream at him to stop.

​"If you won't see George for yourself," he says, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying finality, "then see him for me. Because I can't do this anymore. I can't live in this house, watching you disappear, and pretend like everything is fine."

— ​✦

Hospital hallways seem longer, colder, and infinitely more suffocating when you aren't the one volunteering, but the patient waiting for a verdict. You’re sitting on the edge of the exam table in George’s office, your legs swinging rhythmically, trying to distract yourself from the hum of the overhead lights. Oscar is standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders locked in a grip of iron. He hasn't looked at you since George walked out with the results in his hand, and the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

​George steps back inside, holding the tablet with the scan results. He doesn't look at you first; he looks at the scans. His expression is the professional, inscrutable mask of a man who has delivered thousands of life-altering sentences. He sighs, a quiet, weary sound, and finally turns to face you.

​"The imaging shows a delayed hydrocephalus and some focal compression," George says, his voice steady but heavy. "It’s a direct complication from the initial trauma. It’s what’s causing the memory lapses and the persistent pressure headaches. We need to go back in, and we need to do it soon."

​Everything goes quiet. The words don't seem to make sense. Go back in. Like it’s a routine maintenance check, not a crack in your skull.

​"Surgery?" you ask, your voice sounding small. "Again?"

​Oscar is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping yours so tightly it almost hurts. His eyes are wide, glassy with a sudden, devastating surge of guilt. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I should have seen it. I should have ordered the scans the moment you mentioned the headaches. I was so caught up in being your partner that I failed you as a doctor. I'm so, so sorry."

​"Oscar, don't," you say, reaching out to touch his face. His skin is clammy, his breath coming in uneven hitches. "You didn't know. Nobody knew."

​"I am the expert!" he explodes, his voice rising in panic, the clinical detachment totally shattered. "It’s my specialty! I’m supposed to protect you, and instead, I watched you struggle for weeks while I was too busy being scared. I should have been faster. I should have been better."

​He looks up at George, his eyes fierce and pleading. "I’m doing the surgery. I’m the only one who knows the topography of her brain from the last time. I’m the one who closed her up. I’m doing it."

​George steps forward, his hand coming down firmly on Oscar’s shoulder, forcing him to stand up. He doesn't let go of his grip, anchoring him to the floor. "No. You’re not."

​"George, I am the lead on this—"

​"You’re not the surgeon on this case, Oscar," George interrupts, his tone cutting no room for debate. "You are completely compromised. Look at your hands."

​You look down. Oscar’s hands are shaking—a fine, rapid tremor that would make holding a scalpel a death sentence. He’s white as a sheet, his pupils dilated with shock.

​George looks at you, his eyes softening just a fraction. "I need you to head home and get some rest. There’s paperwork in the front office, and I have a team ready to prep everything for tomorrow. I need to have a private conversation with Dr. Piastri about the specifics of the procedure."

​"But—" Oscar starts, his voice raw.

​"Go home," George repeats, turning his gaze back to Oscar with a look of absolute, immovable authority. "That’s an order, colleague. You need to step out of the surgeon’s chair and be a partner for the next twenty-four hours. Can you do that?"

​Oscar looks at you, his entire body trembling, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to swallow the reality of the situation. He looks terrified—more terrified than you’ve ever seen him in his scrub gear.

​"I'll be right outside," Oscar mumbles, his voice barely audible. He looks like he’s about to shatter.

​"No," George says gently, nudging you toward the door. "Go with her. Stay with her tonight. I’ll call you when I’ve finished the plan. But you are not stepping foot in an OR until this is over."

​You walk out of the office, Oscar trailing behind you like a ghost. He doesn't hold your hand. He doesn't speak. He just follows you out into the corridor, his eyes fixed on the back of your head as if he’s trying to make sure you don't disappear into thin air. You feel like you’re walking toward your own execution, but looking at Oscar—the man who usually holds the world together—crumbling into pieces because he realizes he’s helpless to save you—that’s the part that really hurts.

— ​✦

The Office of the Chief of Neurosurgery is cramped, smelling faintly of old coffee and high-stakes politics. You’re waiting in the car downstairs, but Oscar is currently standing in the center of the Chief’s office, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. The surgical board is watching him, their faces masks of professional neutrality, but he doesn't care.

​"I am the lead on her case history," Oscar says, his voice dangerously steady. "I performed the initial craniotomy. I know the scar tissue, the adhesion patterns, and how her brain responded to the anesthesia. No one else has that data."

​The Chief, a man who has seen it all, sighs and sets his pen down. "Oscar, we all know you’re the best we have. But you are not a neutral party. She’s your partner. You’re far too emotionally compromised, and that is a direct violation of surgical ethics. Russell is a world-class surgeon. He’s taking the case."

​"George is a brilliant surgeon," Oscar concedes, his jaw twitching. "But he hasn't been in that brain. I have. I’m the best person for this procedure, and denying her the best possible chance of recovery because of a policy is a mistake."

​"It's not about the policy, it's about the patient's safety," the Chief fires back. "Your hands were shaking in George’s office earlier, Oscar. Do you think I didn't see the report? If you go into that OR, you’re a liability, not an asset."

​Oscar feels the blood rushing to his ears, a hot, frantic hum that makes it hard to focus. He stops trying to be the calm, calculated surgeon. He lets the mask slide off.

​"You think I don't know that?" Oscar asks, his voice dropping to a jagged, desperate whisper. He leans over the desk, his composure finally collapsing. "I know I’m compromised. I’ve known it for weeks. But she’s my life. You’re asking me to hand over the person I love most in the world to someone else because you’re worried about protocol? I’m not asking you as a surgeon. I’m telling you as a man who is absolutely terrified that if I’m not the one holding the scalpel, she won't wake up."

​"Oscar—"

​"I am one of the best neurosurgeons in this country," he continues, his voice rising, raw and unsparing. "I have saved hundreds of people who were far worse off than she is. And you’re telling me that because I care about her, I’m suddenly incapable of doing my job? I don't care about the board. I don't care about the risk to my career. I just need to know she’s okay."

​"That is exactly why you cannot do it," the Chief says softly, his tone hardening. "If you make one tiny error—one microscopic slip because you were distracted by the fact that it's her face on that table—you will never forgive yourself. And she will never recover. You need to be her partner tonight, not her doctor. George is the one who will be her surgeon."

​Oscar stands there, chest heaving, looking at the older man like he’s just signed a death warrant. The fight is leaking out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. He’s spent his whole life believing that being the best meant being the one in control, but he’s never been more aware of his own limitations.

​"She’s scared," Oscar says, his voice sounding small, lost. "She’s so scared, and she’s trying to be brave for me. I just... I can't be in the waiting room while someone else is working on her. How am I supposed to sit there and do nothing?"

​"You don't do nothing," the Chief says, standing up and walking around the desk to put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "You show up for her. You stay by her side when she wakes up. That is what she needs from you right now. Not a surgeon who is one panic attack away from a catastrophe."

​Oscar closes his eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping him. He knows he’s lost. He knows George is the better choice for the procedure, even if his heart refuses to accept it.

​"Fine," Oscar whispers, the word tasting like ash. "But if there’s a single complication—if George even hesitates—I’m coming into that OR."

​"He won't hesitate," the Chief says firmly. "Go to her, Oscar. She’s waiting for you."

— ​✦

The balcony feels like the edge of the world, a small, concrete rectangle hovering over a city that’s still moving, unaware that your own personal orbit is about to tilt off its axis. You’re huddled in a thick wool blanket, knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the streetlights below. Oscar is sitting right beside you, his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his hand gripping yours so tightly his knuckles are white. He hasn't moved for an hour, his gaze fixed on a distant flicker of neon, his jaw set in a line of constant, suppressed agitation.

​"I’m sorry," you say, the words feeling heavy and thick in your throat. You turn to look at him, searching his profile for that familiar, calm composure, but it’s gone. He’s raw, completely stripped of the professional armor he usually wears like a second skin. "I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. I kept acting like you were just being a paranoid surgeon, like I didn't want to admit something was actually wrong. I should have listened to you. I should have trusted you when you said it wasn't just stress."

​Oscar turns his head slowly, his eyes dark, rimmed with the exhaustion of a man who hasn't truly slept since the MRI. He shakes his head, an abrupt, jerky motion. "No. Don't do that. Don't you dare take the blame for this. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I was the one who did your follow-ups. I was the one who saw you every single day. I told myself it was just fatigue, just the grind, because I wanted so desperately for you to be back to normal. I failed you, and that’s a weight I’m going to be carrying for a long time."

​"You didn't fail me, Oscar," you insist, shifting closer, trying to thread your fingers through his. "You were just… you were too close to it. You were the boyfriend, not the doctor. And honestly? I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to be the one taking care of me those first few months. You saved me then. You gave me back a life that I’m still living."

​He lets out a harsh, jagged laugh, looking away again. "I didn't save you enough, clearly. Now we’re back at square one, and I’m sitting on a balcony while someone else has to go in and fix what I left behind."

​"You trust George, don't you?" you ask, squeezing his hand.

​He goes stiff, his thumb tracing frantic, aimless patterns against your palm. "George is the best. I know that. If I didn't think he was the best, he wouldn't be in my circle, and he certainly wouldn't be allowed anywhere near your surgical chart. He’s meticulous, he’s faster than I am in some areas, and he doesn't have the same emotional baggage. He’s going to be perfect."

​"Then I trust him, too," you say, trying to force a small, watery smile. "And besides, if he messes up, I know you’ll hunt him down and ruin his career. I’ve seen how you and Lando treat him when he loses a bet. I’m in good hands."

​Oscar finally looks at you, his eyes searching yours with such an intense, aching vulnerability that it makes you want to cry. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I know he’s good. I know it with my head, logically, statistically. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that it’s not me. I’m terrified that if I’m not the one holding the instrument, if I’m not the one seeing the tissue, I won’t know if you’re safe until the moment you wake up. I need to be the one to ensure you’re still… you."

​"I’ll still be me," you whisper, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. "I promise. We’re going to get through this, and then we’re going to go on that camping trip you wanted. We’re going to sleep for a week. We’re going to be boring and regular and absolutely nothing will be happening in a surgical theater."

​"I just want you back," he murmurs, his voice cracking. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I don't care about the surgery. I don't care about the success rates. I just want you to wake up and look at me and be you. I’m so scared, more than I’ve ever been in my life."

​"I'm scared too," you admit, the truth finally coming out. You feel him shudder against you. "But we’re doing it together. Even if you’re not in the room, you’re going to be right there the second I open my eyes. That’s all that matters."

​He holds you tighter, as if he can anchor you to the earth, to this specific moment, forever. He knows the risks, he knows the fragility of everything, and he knows that tomorrow morning, he has to hand you over to someone else. It’s a torture he can’t even begin to describe, a helplessness that cuts through all his medical training and leaves him as vulnerable as any of the patients he’s treated. But for now, here on the balcony, in the quiet, he just holds on, and you hold him back, both of you waiting for a morning that feels like a cliff edge you have to jump off, together.

— ​✦

Hospital corridors are a blur of white and antiseptic, but you’re already being prepped, your mind starting to drift under the influence of the initial sedation. You catch one last glimpse of the three of them near the nurses' station—Oscar, George, and Lando. They’re huddled in a tight, frantic circle, completely ignoring the hustle of the floor around them.

​Oscar has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture rigid, shoulders hunched up to his ears. He isn’t talking like a colleague right now; he’s talking like a man whose heart is being held by a string.

​"I know the protocol, I know the drill, I know the fucking anatomy," Oscar is saying, his voice tight and uneven. He looks at George, his eyes wide and bloodshot, desperate for a guarantee he knows he can't actually get. "But you have to watch the adhesion near the temporal lobe. It’s thinner than the imaging suggests. Please. You have to be careful with it. If you nick that, the bleed is—"

​"Oscar," George says, stepping into his space, his hand firm on Oscar’s arm. "Breathe. I’ve seen the scans. I know the terrain. I’m not going to rush, and I’m not going to take any unnecessary risks. I’ve got her."

​"And Lando," Oscar pivots, grabbing the front of Lando’s scrubs, his knuckles white. Lando, usually the one with a joke ready, just looks back with a grim, steady intensity. "Keep her stable. Don't let her pressure spike. If she starts to drift too deep, bring her back immediately. Please, Lando. You’re the best at this—just... just keep her here. Don't let her go anywhere."

​Lando nods, his grip tightening on Oscar’s shoulder. "I’m not taking my eyes off the monitors, mate. I’ll keep her right where we need her. She’s not going anywhere on my watch, I promise."

​Oscar lets out a ragged, choked sound—half-sob, half-breath—and he finally breaks. It’s not the composed, detached surgeon people expect; it’s just a guy, terrified and unraveling in front of his two best friends. He’s crying, openly, his shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his hands for a split second before forcing himself to look back at them.

​"I can't lose her," he pleads, his voice cracking, stripped of all pride and authority. "Please. I’m begging you. Save her. If you save her... I owe you everything. Just... just bring her back to me."

​George looks at Lando, a silent communication passing between them—a vow that goes beyond medicine, beyond career, and into the territory of brotherhood.

​"We’re going to do exactly what we’ve done a hundred times before," George says, his voice low and rock-solid. "We’re going to be perfect, Oscar. Go wait for her. We’ll come find you the second we’re closed."

​"You better," Oscar whispers, his voice trembling. "I’m going to be right outside that door. Do not make me come in there."

​Lando gives Oscar a rough, grounding squeeze on the arm. "Go. Get out of here before you make us all lose our nerve. We’ve got this."

​You see them move toward you then, their faces hardening back into the professional masks they wear to survive. Oscar lingers for a second, catching your eye as the gurney starts to move. He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes. He steps up, leaning over so he’s directly in your line of sight, his face inches from yours.

​"I’ll be right here," he says, his voice barely a tremor. He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek with a gentleness that hurts. "When you wake up, I’m the first thing you’re going to see. I love you."

​"I love you too," you whisper, the sedative already pulling you down into the dark. "Don't be a hover-parent while I'm out."

​He manages a weak, shaky smile, his eyes shining. "No promises."

​He stands back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, watching until you disappear through the double doors of the OR. He doesn't move. He stands there in the silence of the empty hallway, a surgeon without a patient, a partner waiting for his other half, just staring at the wall where the lights have turned to "IN PROGRESS."

— ​✦

Plastic chairs in the waiting area are the most uncomfortable invention known to man. Oscar sat in this room a thousand times as a visitor, a student, or a colleague popping in to deliver a chart, but sitting here now, waiting for you, feels like being skinned alive. Oscar stares at a faded poster on the wall detailing the stages of heart disease, his mind utterly incapable of processing the text. He’s spent years telling families that "no news is good news," but sitting in this chair, those words feel like an insult. Silence isn't absence of pain; it's a suffocating weight that pushes down on his chest.

​His legs won't stay still. He stands, walks to the vending machine, buys a coffee he knows he won’t drink, stares at the humming mechanism, and then walks back to his seat. He’s lived in this world long enough to know exactly what’s happening on the other side of those double doors. He isn't just waiting; he’s hallucinating the surgery in real-time.

​They’ve made the incision by now, he thinks, his eyes tracking a fly buzzing near a fluorescent light. They’re retracting the scalp. They’re burring the bone. They’re getting to the dura.

​A sudden, sharp spike of guilt tears through him. Did he miss a subtle sign in your last check-up? Maybe there was a slight delay in your response time that he chalked up to your exhaustion. Maybe if he’d been more aggressive with the imaging three weeks ago, you wouldn't be under anesthesia right now. He knows the medical reality—complications like yours are statistically rare, impossible to predict, and entirely out of his hands—but his brain refuses to accept the math. He feels like a criminal who got away with a mistake that’s now being paid for in your blood.

​"You need to sit down, Dr. Piastri," a nurse says, walking past him. He doesn't even realize he’s been pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged animal. He just mumbles an apology and sinks back into the chair, clutching his cold coffee cup.

​His fears are spiraling into territory he’s never had to navigate before. It isn't just about survival—that’s the surface-level terror. The real nightmare is the aftermath. What if you wake up and the version of you that loves him is buried under a layer of deficit? What if the spark that made you tease him about his cooking or laugh at his obsession with watch repair is gone? He realizes with a sickening jolt that he isn't looking at a surgical procedure; he’s looking at the potential erasure of the person he’s tethered his life to.

​"Twenty minutes," he mutters to himself. He checks his watch. It’s been forty minutes since the last update he imagined, and the gap is already feeling like a canyon.

​Every time the heavy doors at the end of the hall hiss open, his heart performs a frantic, painful kick against his ribs. He looks up, hope and dread colliding, only to see a transport orderly or a janitor. Each time, the disappointment is almost physical, a lead weight dropping into his stomach.

​He thinks about the hundreds of families he’s stood in front of, delivering updates with that practiced, calm professionalism. He’s always been proud of his ability to remain objective, to stay "the surgeon." Now, he feels like a fraud. He understands, with a sudden, brutal clarity, the look in their eyes—that wild, animalistic desperation that he used to find disruptive. He promises himself that if he ever gets through this, if he ever gets to walk back into an OR, he will never, ever be that detached again. He will touch their arms. He will look them in the eye. He will hold space for the madness they’re enduring.

​"Where are they?" he whispers, his voice cracking. He pulls his phone out, then puts it away, then pulls it out again. No calls. No news.

​He starts counting seconds, trying to distract himself from the vivid imagery of a retractor slipping or a vessel failing to clot. He hates that he knows the terminology. He hates that he knows the risks. Ignorance would be a mercy, but he has to suffer through every step of the procedure in his mind.

​They should be at the lesion by now. He closes his eyes, trying to force his mind to be quiet, to be a surgeon, to be anything other than a man waiting for his life to either start again or end. He realizes, with a crushing sense of humility, that all his awards, all his specialized training, and all his status in the hospital mean absolutely nothing. He’s just a man in a waiting room, praying for a miracle, and for the first time in his career, he’s terrified that statistics don't give a damn about who you are. To the hospital, you’re a case. To him, you’re the only reason he feels like he’s actually living. And the thought of being in this room without you—of walking back into that apartment alone—is a void so dark he can’t even begin to look into it.

— ​✦

Hours have bled into one another, turning the waiting room into a blur of sterile tile and flickering fluorescent hums. Oscar has long since stopped tracking the minutes. He’s just a statue of nerves, eyes glued to the double doors that feel like they’ve been sealed shut for a century.

​When those doors finally hiss open, his heart does that familiar, painful lurch. George is walking toward him. He’s still in his scrubs, his hair matted from the surgical cap, but he’s wiped the worst of the blood off his forearms. Oscar stands up, but he can’t read a damn thing in George’s eyes. They’re tired, guarded, professional.

​"George?" Oscar’s voice comes out as a ragged, desperate rasp. He can't even get the rest of the question out.

​George stops a few feet away, letting out a long, heavy exhale that seems to deflate his entire frame. For a second, he just stares at Oscar, and Oscar feels like he’s about to pass out from the sheer weight of the anticipation. Then, George breaks into a faint, exhausted smile.

​"She’s fine, Oscar," George says, the words simple and clean. "The operation was a total success. We got all the compression relieved, and the tissue looks exactly as we hoped it would."

​The sound that leaves Oscar’s throat isn't even human; it’s a broken, shuddering gasp. The adrenaline that has been keeping him upright for the last twelve hours just evaporates, leaving nothing but hollow space in his chest. His knees give out—completely, unceremoniously—and he hits the plastic chair so hard it clatters against the floor.

​"Is she..." Oscar starts, his hands shaking so violently he has to shove them between his knees to stop them. "Are you sure? Is she awake?"

​"Lando’s still in there," George says, moving closer and placing a steadying hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "He’s doing the reversal now. He’s waking her up, getting the tube out—the standard protocol. He’s taking his time, making sure she’s comfortable before they move her into recovery. She’s stable, Oscar. She’s really okay."

​"Thank God," Oscar whispers, his head dropping into his hands. He’s laughing and crying all at once, a messy, ugly, uncontrollable sound. "You're sure? No complications? No deficit?"

​"She’s stable, Oscar," George repeats, his voice firm, grounding. "I know you’re a surgeon, but try to be a boyfriend for five minutes and listen to me. The surgery went well. She’s safe. Just... let Lando do his job, and in a little while, you’ll be able to see her."

​Oscar nods, his breath coming in sharp, uneven hitches. He’s completely drained, his body feeling like it’s been put through a meat grinder. He can feel the tears tracks on his cheeks, cold and stinging, but he doesn't care. He just leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heart rate finally start to settle back into a rhythm that isn't bordering on cardiac arrest.

​"I need to see her," Oscar says, his voice still shaky. "I need to know it's her. That it's really her."

​"You will," George promises, giving his shoulder a final, firm squeeze. "Go get some water, wash your face, and get yourself together. I’ll come get you when she’s in recovery. But for now? Just breathe, mate. You’re done."

​Oscar nods, closing his eyes. He’s still terrified, he’s still exhausted, and he knows the recovery road is going to be long—but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the world isn't tilting. He’s here. You’re alive. And he’s going to be the first person you see when you open your eyes.

— ​✦

Soft beeping of the monitors is the only thing anchoring you to reality. You feel heavy, like your limbs are made of lead, and every breath takes a conscious effort. Sunlight has long since faded from the room, replaced by the low, amber hum of the night-lights. You blink, your eyelashes sticking together, and struggle to focus on the figures hovering by the end of your bed.

​Oscar is there. He’s slumped in a chair, his scrubs rumpled, his hair a total mess. He looks like he hasn't slept in a month, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s almost painful to witness. Behind him, standing tall and looking every bit the composed, clinical professional, is George. He’s holding your chart, checking the vitals on the wall monitor one last time before he gives a curt, satisfied nod.

​Your brain is still half-submerged in the fog of anesthesia, but as the pieces start to lock back into place, a mischievous, albeit slightly delirious, thought bubbles up. You remember the last time you were in this exact position. You remember the post-op confusion, the weird, fuzzy warmth, and the way you had looked at Oscar and confidently declared him to be your boyfriend.

​You see the way Oscar’s hands are shaking, how he’s leaning forward as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go of the bedrail. The guilt and the raw, unadulterated terror radiating off him are almost too much to bear. You want to fix it. You want to see that rigid, terrified set of his jaw finally break.

​You let out a soft, breathy groan, shifting your gaze away from Oscar. You look directly at George, letting your eyes widen just a bit, playing the part of the beautifully confused patient.

​"Hey," you whisper, your voice raspy and thin. You look at George, blinking slowly. "Who’s he?"

​You tilt your head toward Oscar, who freezes. His entire body goes rigid, his face draining of what little color it had left.

​George catches the flicker of a smile you’re trying to hide, and he doesn't miss a beat. He looks at you, then at the man beside him who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown cardiac event.

​"Who, him?" George asks, his voice smooth and utterly serious. He taps the chart against his palm. "That’s just the resident, I think. Or maybe a guy who wandered in from the cafeteria. Why, do you know him?"

​Oscar’s mouth drops open. "George—what? No! It’s me, it’s Oscar!" He turns to you, his eyes wide and bordering on manic. "Baby, it’s me. It’s Oscar. You’re... you’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Tell me you recognize me."

​You keep your face perfectly neutral, turning your head back to George. You reach out a trembling, IV-bruised hand, pointing a shaky finger at George. "Are you... are you my boyfriend?"

​Oscar lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-sob, his hands fumbling as he tries to grab your shoulders, but he stops himself, terrified to hurt you. "George, tell her! Tell her I’m the one! Don't you dare play along with this, mate, I will end you!"

​George looks at you, his lips twitching into that smug, aristocratic smirk he gets when he’s about to win a bet. He leans in, placing a hand on the bed rail, and looks at you with faux-adoration. "Well, I suppose I could be. I do like to think I’m quite the catch. But we’ve only just met, haven't we? Do you remember our anniversary?"

​"George, I am going to kill you," Oscar hisses, his face turning a shade of red that rivals the exit signs. He looks like he’s caught between wanting to tackle George and needing to keep his hands off you to ensure you’re stable. "She’s post-op! Don't gaslight her! This isn't funny!"

​You can’t hold it anymore. A bubble of genuine, wheezy laughter escapes your chest. It hurts your stitches, making you wince, but the sight of Oscar’s complete and utter breakdown is worth every second of it.

​"Oh my god," you wheeze, laughing until your eyes water. "You should see your face, Oscar. You look like you’re about to call a code blue on yourself."

​Oscar freezes. He stares at you, his breath hitching in his throat as the realization washes over him. He looks at George, who has already retreated to the doorway, suppressing a loud laugh of his own.

​"You," Oscar breathes, his relief so profound he seems to physically sway. He leans his head against the edge of the mattress, his shoulders finally dropping as he lets out a long, ragged exhale. "You absolute menace. I thought... I thought you were serious. I thought the surgery had wiped everything."

​"I’m still me," you say, your voice soft and tired now that the prank has run its course. You reach out, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer so you can rest your forehead against his. "Still me. Still remember you. And still stuck with you."

​Oscar closes his eyes, pressing his face into the side of your neck, his hand coming up to gently, carefully cradle your head. "Don't ever do that again. I mean it. I’ve aged a decade in the last thirty seconds."

​"Worth it?" you whisper.

​He lifts his head, and the look in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered love mixed with the remnants of his terror—is enough to make you ache. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering there for a long time.

​"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Worth it. Just... stay with me. Okay?"

​"Always," you promise, closing your eyes and drifting back toward sleep, his warmth the only thing that matters in the quiet of the room.