𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓒𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓷, ᴏꜱᴄᴀʀ

Your husband, Oscar Everett, had built a sterling reputation as a high-paying doctor. His career was a testament to his dedication and skill, having saved countless lives over the years. He had faced immeasurable challenges and met people from all walks of life, each experience shaping his wisdom. Despite the demands of his profession, he was still the most kind and attentive husband you could ask for.

But even doctors are only human.

And here he was now, the ever-composed and professional Oscar, clinging onto you with surprising desperation. His usual strength seemed to have crumbled under the weight of his illness. The irony wasn’t lost on you. Most days, you were the one left behind, watching him rush off to the hospital to save lives. But today, the tables had turned.

“Don’t go,” he murmured hoarsely, his grip on your wrist firm but gentle as he tried to pull you back toward the bed.

You sighed with a soft smile, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Oscar, you need rest, and I need to grab some things for you.”

He shook his head like a stubborn child, his usual air of authority replaced by sheer vulnerability. “I don’t need anything but you. Just stay here... please.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of the infamous Dr. Everett—the best of the best—reduced to dragging you back to bed for nothing more than a comforting hug.

“All right, all right,” you relented, letting him guide you back under the covers. As you settled into his arms, he buried his face in your neck, his sigh of relief warm against your skin.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice heavy with drowsiness. “You’re the only medicine I need.”