Loving family
The Architecture of Society
The silk bowtie was a diabolical instrument of administrative torture, and George O’Malley was fairly certain it had been patented by someone who actively hated residents.
"Hold still," Alex muttered, his breath warm against George’s collarbone as his thick, calloused thumbs wrestled with the black satin ribbon. "Stop twitching your neck, O'Malley. If I choke you to death before we hit the valet, Izzie’s gonna make me wear your cufflinks as a penance."
"I am not twitching," George protested, his voice slightly strangled as he stared into the gilded mirror of the master bedroom. "I am exhibiting an involuntary sympathetic nervous response. Tachycardia, peripheral vasoconstriction, diaphoresis. Chief Webber personally signed that invitation envelope, Alex. With gold foil lettering. Do you know what gold foil lettering means in hospital administration?"
"It means some overpaid fundraiser in public relations had an unused budget line," Alex grunted, giving the knot a sharp, authoritative jerk that pulled the starched wing collar flush against George’s throat. Alex stepped back, his dark eyes sweeping down George’s frame with a slow, appraising heat.
George looked utterly transformed. The rented black tuxedo fit his shoulders with bespoke precision, the crisp white pleats of the shirt setting off the warm tan of his throat, his brown curls styled back with pomade, and his wire-rimmed glasses polished to an immaculate, diamond shine.
Alex reached out, his knuckles lightly brushing against the side of George’s jaw, catching the faint scrape of fresh shaving cream and sandalwood. "Look at you. Little Irish prince. Sloan’s gonna choke on his scotch."
"I don't care about Mark Sloan," George murmured, his chest swelling with that quiet, unshakable heat that always bloomed whenever Alex looked at him like that—not as the fumbler, not as the boy who dropped an organ, but as an equal partner in blood and bed. George’s hands came up, smoothing the satin lapels of Alex’s midnight-blue tuxedo jacket.
Alex was devastating. The broad, muscular width of his shoulders filled out the tailored wool so completely he looked less like a surgical resident and more like a high-end bodyguard hired by foreign royalty. The contrast of his rough, broken knuckles against the immaculate French cuffs of his sleeves was pure, feral elegance.
"You look ridiculous," George whispered, his lips curving into a slow, private smile.
"Shut up," Alex growled, but he caught George’s wrist, pressing a firm, bruising kiss against the pulse point just below his cufflink. "Stevens is taking twenty minutes on her eyelashes. If she spends another five, Leo’s gonna finish his second jar of mashed squash and throw it at the wallpaper."
As if summoned by the mention of his culinary preferences, a loud, wet, concussive raspberry echoed through the nursery monitor on the dresser.
From the hallway, Louise O’Malley’s serene, amused voice drifted down the stairs: "Oh, no, you don't, Leo Harold! Squash is for your tummy, not for your grandmother’s Sunday cardigan!"
George and Alex exchanged a glance of profound, synchronized amusement.
At eight months, Leo Harold Stevens-Karev-O'Malley was no longer the fragile, translucent infant who had fought for air in an isolation pod. He was a solid, twenty-two-pound juggernaut of pure energy. He possessed Alex’s stubborn, squared-off jaw, George’s wide, searching blue eyes, and Izzie’s bright, sunburst laugh that could dismantle an entire room. He had four sharp little front teeth, a crawling speed that bordered on a vehicular violation, and an obsession with pulling dog ears and surgical pens out of lab coat pockets.
The master bathroom door clicked open.
A sudden, fragrant cloud of sweet jasmine, crushed rose petals, and warm hairspray rolled into the bedroom.
Both men turned on their heels simultaneously.
The breath vanished from George’s lungs in an audible, sharp gasp. Alex’s hand, resting on the mahogany bureau, tightened so hard against the polished edge that the wood groaned under his grip.
Izzie stood on the threshold.
She was wearing a floor-length gown of liquid champagne silk that pooled around her silver-heeled feet like melted starlight. The neckline was an elegant, draped cowl that skimmed across her collarbones before plunging down her back into a breathtaking, scandalous expanse of ivory skin, ending just above the curve of her hips. Her waist—curved and feminine, softened by the magnificent labor of bringing their son into the world—was cinched by an embroidered band of micro-pearls. Her golden hair was swept up into an intricate, cascading chignon, leaving long, tender tendrils brushing against her bare shoulders, and her diamond-drop earrings caught the low amber light of the bedroom lamps.
She looked radiant. She looked magnificent. She looked like every fantasy a tired resident had ever dared to conjure during thirty-hour trauma shifts.
And she was chewing the knuckle of her left index finger with raw, manic intensity.
"It’s too much," Izzie announced, her blue eyes wide and swimming with pre-gala panic as she backed toward the bathroom mirror. "It’s too revealing. I look like a Vegas showgirl who wandered into an orthopedic conference. The Chief is going to look at my back and think, *There goes Isobel Stevens, she has no boundaries and she probably doesn't know how to perform a Whipple.* I should change into the navy velvet. George, where is the navy velvet with the turtleneck?"
Alex crossed the room in three strides.
He didn't speak. He reached out, caught both of her wrists in one of his massive hands, and pulled her gently but firmly against his chest. His other hand settled into the bare, dipping silk at the small of her back, his warm palm splaying wide against her skin.
"Breathe, Stevens," Alex commanded, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly vibration that resonated straight into her sternum. "Look at me. Look at my face."
Izzie sucked in a trembling breath, her blue eyes locking onto his. "Alex, we’re going as a... as a *throuple*. A triad. A polyamorous surgical circus. Up until now, it was an open secret in the breakroom. Bailey knew. The Chief knew. But tonight, there will be trustees. There will be board members from the University of Washington who write million-dollar checks. There will be photographers from the *Seattle Post-Intelligencer*! What if someone asks for a photograph of 'Dr. Stevens and her partner'?"
"Then we stand on either side of you, clamp our hands onto your hips, and tell them to take the damn picture," Alex growled, his lips brushing against her bare collarbone, lingering against the perfumed hollow. "You’re Isobel Stevens. You survived forty staples in your gut. You’re second in our class. You look like a million bucks, and anyone who doesn't like who you’re sleeping with can go swallow a Foley catheter."
George walked up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her exposed shoulder. His hands flattened over the smooth silk of her stomach, his thumbs tracing the gentle curve of her hip.
"Alex is right, Izzie," George whispered, his breath warm against her earlobe. "We signed the adoption papers. We won the court decree. We’re in the daycare registry. We survived RSV, we survived eclampsia, and we survived my brothers trying to eat your Christmas goose. We are an iron fortress. A ballroom full of doctors eating cold prime rib isn't going to break us."
Izzie closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as the heat of her two men enveloped her. The terror that had been drumming in her temples began to dissolve, replaced by that ancient, magnificent warmth that only lived when the three of them were breathing the same air.
"You both look absurdly handsome," Izzie murmured, leaning her head back against Alex’s chest while her fingers tangled with George’s on her waist. "Like two movie stars who accidentally became surgeons."
"Yeah, well, we clean up nice," Alex muttered, though the tips of his ears flushed a dark, pleased pink. He leaned down, catching her mouth in a slow, deep, possessive kiss that tasted of mint and vanilla gloss, before turning his head to press a hard, affectionate kiss against George’s lips across her bare shoulder. "Come on. Let’s go kiss the squirt before my mother covers him in another layer of knitted yarn."
***
In the nursery, Leo Harold was sitting on a plush navy quilt on the floor, holding a plastic red reflex hammer in both hands and banging it against a wooden block with surgical enthusiasm.
He was wearing a miniature black tuxedo onesie—complete with a printed satin lapel and a soft felt bowtie—that Cristina Yang had begrudgingly dropped on their porch two days ago with a note reading: *If he spits up on this, it’s Karev’s fault.*
"Look at this gentleman," George smiled, dropping to his knees on the rug, his rented trousers stretching over his thighs.
Leo’s head snapped up.
At the sight of George’s wire-rimmed glasses, the baby let out a triumphant, piercing shriek of pure joy—*"Dah!"*—and abandoned his hammer, scrambling across the quilt on all fours with terrifying speed. He hauled himself up onto George’s knee, using George’s starched cuff as a lever, his chubby legs wobbling with proud, eight-month-old balance.
"Hey, buddy," George laughed, gathering the warm, solid weight of his son into his arms, burying his nose into Leo’s soft, dark curls. The scent of chamomile lotion and squash hit him like a physical comfort. "Look at you. You’re the real doctor in this house."
Izzie knelt beside them, the champagne silk of her gown pooling over the rug. She took Leo’s tiny, sticky hands into hers, kissing each knuckle with meticulous devotion. "No fevers. No retractions. He had four ounces of breast milk at five, Louise. There's another four in the fridge if he wakes up before ten."
"Isobel, darling," Louise O’Malley said from the rocking chair, her needles clicking steadily as she worked on a miniature wool sweater the color of heather. "I raised three boys who once tried to baptize the neighbor’s golden retriever in a kiddie pool. This sweet angel has spent the last forty-five minutes trying to eat his own toes. We are having a wonderful evening. Now go put your coat on before I tell Jerry to come over here and drive you to the hotel himself."
Alex knelt down, his massive frame dwarfing the rug. He reached out, his thumb gently catching Leo’s chin, tilting the baby’s face upward.
Leo immediately lunged for Alex’s bowtie, his tiny fingers grabbing the satin knot with a surprisingly vicious grip.
"Hey, easy with the hardware, Karev," Alex grunted softly, though a wide, helpless smile split his face as he let the baby tug on the ribbon. Alex leaned in, his rough, stubbled cheek scraping gently against Leo’s soft cheek until the baby giggled, a rich, bubbling sound that made Alex’s throat tighten. "Be good for your grandma, Leo. Don't pull her yarn. And don't let anyone from the surgical floor baby-talk you."
"Alex, he's eight months old," George chuckled, handing Leo over to Louise, who received him with the practiced, effortless gravity of a master.
"Doesn't matter," Alex said, standing up and offering a hand to haul Izzie effortlessly to her feet. "Standards start early."
Izzie took one last, lingering look at her son—so bright, so safe, bouncing happily against Louise’s floral bosom—before she squared her bare shoulders, lifted her chin, and let her men lead her toward the door.
***
The Four Seasons Olympic Hotel in downtown Seattle was an ocean of crystal, ice sculptures, and high-society hum.
The Grand Ballroom was bathed in dramatic sapphire uplighting that reflected across hundreds of champagne flutes, mirrored pedestals, and towering floral arrangements of white hydrangeas and silver branches. A five-piece chamber jazz ensemble was playing a lush, syncopated version of Gershwin from a raised platform near the dance floor.
At the bottom of the grand curved marble staircase, the heavy brass doors parted, and the Seattle Grace contingent arrived.
The trio didn't sneak in through the side doors.
Alex wouldn't allow it.
He walked down the center of the crimson runner, his broad shoulder brushing against George’s right sleeve, while Izzie walked between them, her arm threaded securely through Alex’s elbow, her other hand held lightly, elegantly in George’s palm.
The three of them moved with an absolute, breathtaking coordination—a triad of health, ambition, and unapologetic glamour that caused a perceptible ripple through the crowded room.
Near the central ice sculpture, Cristina Yang paused with a crab claw halfway to her mouth.
Beside her, Major Owen Hunt—resplendent in his crisp Army dress blues, his ginger hair cropped short, his posture carrying the rigid, lethal stillness of a trauma surgeon who had spent three years in field hospitals—lowered his glass of sparkling cider.
"Well," Cristina muttered, her dark eyes darting over Izzie’s champagne gown, taking in the cut of the back and the glittering drop earrings. "Barbie brought her Ken dolls. Both of them. And she looks like she stepped out of a damn perfume commercial."
"They look formidable," Owen observed, his gravelly voice low and approving. His pale blue eyes tracked the way Alex’s gaze swept the room, cataloging exits and potential threats with instinctual, military vigilance. "That’s a united front. You don't see that kind of perimeter discipline outside of a forward operating base."
"It’s not a base, Owen, it’s a polyamorous tax deduction," Cristina snorted, though there was an undeniable, protective pride in her sharp features. She stepped closer to him, her black silk slip dress brushing against his dress uniform. "Though I have to admit, Karev in a tux almost looks like he knows what a fork is for."
Across the ballroom, standing near the oyster bar, Callie Torres choked on her champagne.
"Holy mother of God," Callie whispered, clutching her glass with white-knuckled intensity.
Beside her, Dr. Arizona Robbins turned, a silver cocktail fork balanced delicately between her fingers. Arizona looked like an absolute dream—wearing an off-the-shoulder gown of emerald velvet that made her blonde curls look like spun sunlight and her blue eyes shine with incandescent brilliance.
"What is it, Callie?" Arizona asked, her dimples deepening as she leaned into Callie’s shoulder, her touch light, warm, and entirely unbothered by the eighty hospital attendings surrounding them.
"It’s them," Callie gasped, gesturing with her chin toward the grand entrance. "Izzie Stevens has no right to look that good after pushing out a nine-pound infant. And look at George! He’s... he’s strutting! George O'Malley does not strut! I was married to him, Arizona, he scuffles! He shuffles! He doesn't... *glimmer*!"
Arizona followed her gaze, her smile widening into that brilliant, wicked grin that always made Callie’s knees turn to hot wax. "I think they look gorgeous. Happy, healthy, and completely unbothered. It’s inspiring."
Arizona shifted closer, her velvet-clad hip pressing deliberately against Callie’s thigh, her hand sliding down to lightly link their pinky fingers beneath the edge of the linen-draped cocktail table. "Speaking of gorgeous... you haven't looked at an oyster since we got here, Dr. Torres. You’ve just been staring at my neck."
Callie swallowed hard, a brilliant, sultry flush rising beneath her bronzed skin as she turned her dark eyes toward Arizona. "Your neck is an anatomical marvel, Robbins. Orthopedically speaking, the cervical spine is a masterpiece. Especially when it’s covered in emerald velvet."
"Is that a consult, Dr. Torres?" Arizona murmured, her voice dropping into a smoky, flirtatious hum that sent a shockwave straight through Callie’s pelvic floor.
"It might be," Callie whispered, stepping in closer, completely forgetting the room, the board members, and the entire surgical department.
***
At the center of the ballroom, the ice began to break.
"Stevens."
Chief Richard Webber approached them, flanked by Dr. Miranda Bailey. Webber was in a classic shawl-collar tuxedo, his smile wide, holding a glass of club soda with lime. Bailey was breathtaking in an elegant burgundy gown, her hair swept into soft waves, carrying a small beaded clutch.
Izzie’s fingers tightened slightly on Alex’s arm, but she held her ground, her spine straight as a plumb line.
"Chief," Izzie said, offering a warm, professional smile. "Dr. Bailey. It’s a wonderful event."
"It’s an expensive event," Bailey corrected dryly, her sharp eyes scanning the three of them with clinical thoroughness. She noted the way Alex’s hand rested possessively against the champagne silk of Izzie’s lower back, and the quiet, solid way George anchored her flank. "Though I see the three of you managed to find clothing that does not feature pediatric vomit or Betadine stains. A minor miracle."
"We scrubbed down with chlorhexidine before we left the house, Dr. Bailey," George answered smoothly, a bright, easy confidence in his tone that made Webber’s eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise.
"Dr. O'Malley," Webber said, nodding with genuine warmth. "The board of trustees was just discussing the pediatric surgical grant. Karev, Dr. Robbins mentioned that your protocol on neonatal gastroschisis closure has reduced infection rates by fourteen percent in the step-down unit."
Alex straightened his shoulders, the old, feral defensiveness melting away into the earned authority of a surgeon who knew his value. "The protocol works, Chief. It keeps the bowel moist and cuts down on secondary sepsis. We’re expanding it to all infants under two kilos."
"Good," Webber said firmly. Then, his eyes flicked across the three of them, a slow, patriarchal affection softening the lines of his face. "And how is young Leo Harold?"
The question was spoken clearly, without hesitation, carrying across the small circle of surrounding donors and attendings.
The breath caught in Izzie’s throat for a microsecond before she saw the Chief’s eyes—there was no trap here. There was no administrative censure. There was only respect.
"He's crawling, Chief," Izzie smiled, her voice rich with maternal pride. "And he has four teeth. He tried to eat George’s stethoscope this morning."
"Sounds like an O'Malley," Webber chuckled, tapping his glass against Izzie’s. "Enjoy your evening, doctors. You’ve earned every minute of it."
As Webber and Bailey drifted toward the donor tables, Izzie let out a long, fluttering exhale that made her diamond earrings sway.
"See?" George whispered, his hand coming to rest warm and firm over hers on his arm. "Nobody called the ethics committee. Nobody brought handcuffs."
"Shut up, George," Izzie laughed, though her eyes were shining with a triumphant, electric glow. "I need a drink. A real drink. Something with bubbles and very little remorse."
"Champagne coming right up," Alex said, turning toward the passing waiter.
***
By ten in the evening, the charity gala had shed its stiff, administrative armor and dissolved into pure, glorious celebration.
The jazz quintet had been replaced by a nine-piece brass band that was currently tearing through a sultry, swinging rendition of Nina Simone, the horns reverberating off the gilded ceiling.
On the edge of the dance floor, Cristina was engaged in what appeared to be an intense, competitive discussion with Owen Hunt about the biomechanics of arterial shunts in battlefield blast trauma, using two swizzle sticks and an olive to demonstrate vascular anastomosis. Owen was watching her with an intense, unblinking adoration that looked terrifyingly close to a religious conversion.
Near the champagne fountain, Callie and Arizona were no longer hiding beneath the tablecloth.
They were dancing.
It was not a polite, hospital-board shuffle. Callie had her hands firmly planted on Arizona’s hips, swaying with that effortless, feline Latin rhythm that made every man in the room look like an amateur, while Arizona’s arms were draped around Callie’s neck, her face tilted up, laughing with an uninhibited, radiant joy that drew envious glances from every table.
"Look at them," Izzie murmured, leaning against the polished mahogany of the balcony rail on the ballroom’s mezzanine level.
The air up here was cooler, looking down over the spinning dancers, the swirling silk, and the golden glow of the chandeliers.
Alex stood behind her, his jacket unbuttoned, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, his chin resting against her bare shoulder. He held a glass of bourbon in his right hand, taking a slow sip, his large body radiating that heavy, comforting heat that had become the anchor of her entire existence.
"Torres looks like she won the lottery," Alex grunted, his thumb idly tracing the micro-pearls along Izzie’s hip. "And Robbins looks like she’s about to eat her alive."
"It's beautiful," Izzie said softly, leaning back into his chest, her head resting beneath his jaw. "Everyone is finding their people, Alex. We're not the only strange ones anymore."
"We were never strange, Stevens," Alex muttered against her skin, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss into the hollow of her neck. "We were just first."
Footsteps sounded on the carpeted stairs.
George appeared, carrying two fresh flutes of vintage champagne and a small plate containing three chocolate-covered strawberries. His bow tie was slightly askew, his hair gloriously mussed from the humidity of the ballroom, but his blue eyes were dancing with that bright, victorious light that made him look completely invincible.
"Addison Montgomery just cornered me by the bar," George announced, handing a glass to Izzie and setting the plate on the balustrade.
Izzie gasped, turning in Alex’s arms. "Addison is here? Did she ask about the abruption? Did she ask about my uterus?"
"She asked how my technique was on the laparoscopic ports," George smiled, stepping into the circle of their bodies, his hip pressing comfortably against Izzie’s left side. "And then she told me that if we ever decide to have another baby, she’s charging us double because we gave her more gray hairs in Trauma Bay One than Derek Shepherd did in twelve years of marriage."
Alex let out a low, rough bark of laughter that shook through Izzie’s spine. "Tell Montgomery she can send the bill to the Chief. He’s the one who authorized our daycare passes."
George looked at Izzie, his eyes sweeping over the champagne silk, the flushed pink of her cheeks, and the soft, radiant peace that had settled over her features.
He didn't ask.
George set his glass down, stepped straight into her space, and took her right hand into his. His left hand came up, settling firmly, possessively on the bare dip of her lower back, his fingers warm against the skin that Alex had warmed only moments before.
"Dance with me, Dr. Stevens," George murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, confident cadence that made her pulse skip a beat.
Izzie’s smile broke wide, luminous and dazzling. "I thought you'd never ask, Dr. O'Malley."
Alex stepped back, leaning his forearms against the brass railing, his dark eyes fixed on them with a fierce, quiet pride that asked for nothing and offered everything. "Go on, Stevens. Let the kid show you what those Irish feet can do."
The brass band down on the floor transitioned into a slow, smoky ballad—a low, rhythmic swell of saxophone, muted trumpet, and upright bass that seemed to slow the very rotation of the earth.
George led Izzie onto the polished hardwood of the mezzanine floor.
He was a magnificent dancer. Gone was the hesitation of the first-year intern who stepped on toes in the cafeteria line; George moved with fluid, masculine grace, guiding her through the turns with subtle shifts of his weight, his palm flat against her spine, holding her close enough that she could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart through his starched dress shirt.
Izzie let her head rest against his shoulder, her eyes closing as they swayed through the amber shadows.
"I was so terrified this morning, George," she whispered into the cloth of his collar. "I thought... I thought we were pretending. I thought as soon as we stepped out of that house, the world would tell us we were wrong."
George turned her slowly, his lips brushing against the golden hair at her temple. "The world doesn't know how to build a house like ours, Izzie. They only know how to build boxes. But we didn't build a box. We built an empire."
Izzie let out a soft, breathy laugh, her fingers tightening in his hair. "An empire?"
"An empire," George repeated with quiet certainty. "One that has room for Alex’s dark days, and your overthinking, and my crazy family, and an eight-month-old boy who screams during baptisms. We’re not hiding anymore, Izzie. We never have to hide again."
He brought her out of the turn, spinning her out with a light, effortless flick of his wrist before drawing her back against his chest with a soft, concussive impact that left her breathless.
And there, waiting at the edge of the floor, was Alex.
Alex had set his bourbon down. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, the midnight-blue tuxedo jacket pushed back, watching them with an expression of such raw, unadorned devotion that it stopped the breath in Izzie’s throat.
George didn't let go of Izzie’s hand.
Instead, George reached out with his other hand, his fingers catching the satin lapel of Alex’s jacket, tugging him forward with an easy, proprietary tug.
"Come here, Karev," George murmured, his blue eyes flashing with a gentle, demanding authority. "You don't get to stand on the sidelines looking like a bouncer all night."
Alex hesitated for half a second—that ancient, lingering flicker of Council Bluffs fear that told him he was taking up too much room, that someone was going to tell him to get back in line.
Izzie didn't let the shadow take root.
She reached out, her fingers catching the front of Alex’s dress shirt, pulling him straight into their perimeter.
Alex stepped onto the wood.
In the dim, sapphire-lit shadow of the mezzanine, beneath the brass band’s slow, weeping trumpet, the three of them closed ranks.
Alex’s large arms slid around both of them—his left arm encircling Izzie’s bare waist, pulling her flush against his ribs, while his right arm came around George’s shoulders, his broad palm flattening against the back of George’s neck, his fingers tangling into the soft curls at George’s hairline.
George leaned into the contact with a soft, contented sigh, his forehead coming to rest against Alex’s collarbone, while his hand remained locked with Izzie’s on Alex’s chest.
They swayed together.
It was not a dance that ballroom instructors taught. It was a slow, three-way gravitational orbit—the seamless, rhythmic shifting of three bodies that had learned how to share a bed, how to share a child, and how to keep each other alive when the monitors were screaming.
Izzie buried her face in the space where Alex’s throat met George’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of them—sandalwood, bourbon, cedar, and the clean, sweet reality of their shared life.
"I love you," Izzie whispered into their skin, the words vibrating through both of their chests simultaneously. "I love you both so much."
Alex bent his head, his lips finding the crown of her chignon, pressing a fierce, heavy kiss into her hair. "We know, Stevens," he rasped, his voice rough and thick with that deep, bottomless well of emotion he could never quite conceal. "We got you."
George turned his head slightly, his mouth pressing against the rough skin of Alex’s jaw, lingering against the dark stubble before shifting to catch Izzie’s temple with a tender, sacred warmth. "Always, Izzie. Always."
Beneath them, on the main floor, the gala continued its glittering, expensive swirl.
Attendings drank their scotch; trustees signed their checks; Callie and Arizona laughed in each other's arms; and Cristina argued with Owen over arterial clamps.
Let them have their ballroom.
Up here, suspended in the quiet shadows of the balcony, held firm by six strong hands and three beating hearts, the foundation was set in stone.
The covenant was sealed.
And tomorrow morning, when the sun broke over Elliott Bay, they would take off their silk and their velvet, put on their faded ceil-blue scrubs, and go home to their boy.