One things for certain and two things are for sure …. Nothing feels quite like using a new razor to shave. So if you need me today, you can find me in the office rubbing my legs together like a grasshopper 🤣🤣
hi I’m on a Oscar kick and I loveeed the dr oscar au so much I wrote this out of it x happy reading hehehe I giggled when writing the title
The night shift in Ward 3 always smelled like bleach and burnout.
The kind of air that clung to your lungs, sterile and heavy, where exhaustion became a second skin.
Machines hummed like mechanical heartbeats. Footsteps echoed down endless hallways.
Coffee had stopped tasting like caffeine hours ago it was just something to keep your hands busy between crises.
And in the middle of it all was him.
Dr. Oscar Piastri.
The hospital’s star surgeon young, terrifyingly good, and even more terrifyingly cold.
He was brilliance wrapped in a lab coat, the kind of man who could cut through chaos with a single order.
He was all clipped commands, sharp glances, and zero tolerance for anything less than perfection.
He didn’t raise his voice he didn’t need to.
His words were scalpels clean, precise, and cutting deep.
You hated how good he was.
You hated how much space he took up without even trying.
You hated that he made you feel like you were constantly one mistake away from being dissected alive under those cool, assessing eyes.
“Vitals,” he said, his tone flat, eyes on the chart.
You held it out.
“I already logged them in the system.”
He looked up, brow twitching.
“Then why are you giving me a paper chart?”
You bit back a sigh. “Because, Dr. Piastri, the system’s down. Like it’s been for the last two hours.”
His lips parted in irritation or maybe disbelief.
“Of course it is.”
He muttered something under his breath, then flicked the chart open, scanning your handwriting. “Messy.”
“Readable,” you shot back instantly.
His head tilted, eyes narrowing.
“Barely.”
You met his glare without flinching.
“Sorry, didn’t realize penmanship was part of the Hippocratic oath.”
That earned a quiet huff, almost-almost like a laugh.
But he masked it quickly, turning his attention back to the chart.
He drove you crazy.
The arrogance, the authority, the way he moved through the hospital like it belonged to him.
But what infuriated you more was that he never cracked.
Never softened.
Even when everyone else was hanging by a thread, he was calm untouchable.
Everyone adored him.
The nurses called him Ice.
The residents idolized him.
But you?
You were the only one stupid enough to talk back.
And somehow, that seemed to… interest him.
Every shift was a battlefield.
Every patient chart, a weapon.
Every glance, a spark waiting to catch.
“Y/N,” he called from the nurse’s station, voice low but carrying.
You turned, arms crossed. “What now?”
He didn’t even look up from his tablet.
“That patient in 305 — you gave him 4mg of morphine instead of 2mg.”
Your eyes widened.
“I— what? No, I didn’t. Check again.”
He looked up slowly, expression unreadable.
“You sure about that?”
You stepped closer, snatching the tablet.
“That’s not my handwriting.
And that’s not my signature.”
A pause.
His jaw tightened.
He realized it too.
Then, softer almost reluctant he murmured, “You’re right.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I said you’re right.”
You almost wanted to grin.
“Wow. Someone call radiology, I think Dr. Piastri just admitted to being wrong.”
His gaze snapped up, sharp again.
“Don’t push your luck, nurse.”
You walked off, smirking under your breath.
But your heart was pounding.
Because underneath the banter, underneath every clipped tone and cold look there was something else.
Something dangerous. Something magnetic.
You both felt it. Neither dared touch it.
But then came that night.
The one that changed everything.
It was 3:45 a.m., the dead hour between chaos and collapse.
You hadn’t eaten in 12 hours.
The coffee machine had died.
Your body was trembling, but you pushed through it.
That’s what nurses did you kept going until you couldn’t.
You were swapping IV bags when your vision started to blur.
The world tilted, the floor seemed to move.
You gripped the edge of the bed for balance, but it wasn’t enough.
You heard his voice clipped, impatient from behind you.
“Y/N, what are you doing? You’re—”
Then, suddenly, he wasn’t impatient.
He was terrified.
“Hey—hey, look at me,” he said, rushing forward as you swayed.
His hands caught your arms just before you crumpled.
“No, no, no—don’t you dare.”
Your breathing hitched.
Everything went white.
“Hey. Stay with me.”
His voice was lower now, desperate.
One hand cupped your cheek, grounding you.
“You can’t faint on me, alright? You’re my best nurse.”
You wanted to laugh, wanted to tell him he’d never admitted that before.
But the darkness came first.
When you woke up, everything was soft the lights dimmed, a blanket tucked over you.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee.
And there he was, sitting in the chair beside your bed.
Oscar.
His scrub top was wrinkled, his hair slightly messy. He looked for the first time disheveled.
His hands were clasped, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he was trying to convince himself something didn’t just happen.
When your breathing changed, he looked up instantly.
Relief flashed across his face before he smothered it.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low, tired.
“Unfortunately,” you muttered.
He didn’t even scold you.
Just exhaled, shaking his head.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
You tried to sit up, but he stopped you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.
The touch was warm, careful.
“Easy. You’re dehydrated.”
You blinked, confused. “You stayed?”
He ignored the question.
“You need rest. And fluids. And probably a decent meal, though I know the cafeteria’s incapable of providing that.”
He hesitated, then reached forward hesitant, almost afraid and brushed a stray strand of hair off your forehead.
It was barely a touch, but it was enough to make your chest tighten.
“Get some rest,” he murmured.
“You’ve done enough tonight.”
“Is that your way of saying thank you?”
you teased weakly.
His eyes flicked to yours.
“Don’t push it nurse.”
But when he stood, you swore you saw it the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
There was a small pause, then almost awkwardly he reached into his coat pocket and placed something on the bedside table.
A granola bar.
“Eat it when you wake up properly,” he said, like he was giving an order.
But you could hear the softness beneath it.
You stared at him.
“Did you… just bring me food?”
He looked mildly offended.
“Don’t make it weird.”
And then he was gone.
After that, things changed.
Not all at once Oscar Piastri didn’t do all at once but in quiet increments.
You started noticing small things.
The extra coffee cup on the nurse’s station every morning, never acknowledged but always there.
He never said it was for you, but it always matched how you took it two sugars, no cream.
The way he’d pass by you during rounds and mutter, “Eat something,” in that brusque tone that sounded more like a threat than concern until you realized he’d slipped another granola bar into your pocket.
He was still mean, still impossible.
But sometimes, when no one was looking, you caught him watching you like he was making sure you were still on your feet.
