Why not
The Fine Print of Domestic Bliss
The neon sign of Joe’s Bar hummed in a low, buzzing pitch that seemed specifically tuned to vibrate against the inside of Isobel Stevens’ skull.
She stared into the amber depths of her fourth—or was it fifth?—whiskey sour, watching a single, sad maraschino cherry bob against an ice cube. Her blonde hair, usually styled in bouncy, cheerful waves that practically screamed girl-next-door optimism, was clinging to her cheeks in unruly wisps. Her hospital badge was half-tucked into her purse, her scrubs had been swapped for a faded sweater that felt too big, and her heart felt entirely too bruised to function inside a human ribcage.
To her left sat Mark Sloan.
Mark Sloan did not look bruised; he looked like an expensive sports car that someone had deliberately keyed across the hood out of sheer spite. He was nursing a double bourbon, neat, his designer coat slung carelessly over the back of the stool, his tie undone just enough to show the hollow of his throat. He had the kind of dark, effortless stubble that men spent twenty minutes trimming to look accidental, and right now, his handsome face was pulled into an expression of deeply offended disgust.
"Look at him," Mark muttered, his voice gravelly and thick with top-shelf liquor. He didn't point, but his chin jutted toward the far corner booth. "Just look at that troll. Balding. Slouching. Wearing a polo shirt that belongs on a middle school gym teacher from nineteen-ninety-four."
Izzie followed his gaze. In the corner, an unremarkable man with crooked glasses and a patchy beard was lovingly feeding nachos to a woman who looked like she might genuinely burst into tears of adoration at any moment. On her left hand, a diamond caught the dingy bar light and threw a tiny, mocking prism across the laminated tabletop.
"He’s laughing," Izzie observed, her voice dripping with venomous disbelief. "He’s doing that snorting laugh where your nose wrinkles up, and she’s looking at him like he just split the atom. Why? Why is she looking at him like that?"
"Because he’s married to her, Stevens. That’s why." Mark knocked back the rest of his bourbon and slammed the tumbler down on the wood with a dull thud. "That man, that absolute anatomical mishap of a human being, goes home every night, crawls into bed with someone, and gets his back rubbed. Meanwhile, I am an exceptional specimen of male biology."
"You are," Izzie agreed without an ounce of flirtation, wholly objective in her drunkenness. "You're infuriatingly pretty. It’s obnoxious."
"I am God's gift to aesthetic symmetry," Mark declared, nodding grimly. "I have a six-pack that you could wash surgical gowns on. I have a trust fund that could comfortably purchase a small Caribbean island. I am the Chief of Plastic Surgery at a major teaching hospital. I am, by all measurable peer-reviewed metrics, fantastic in bed."
"Oh, please, don’t start bragging about your stamina," Izzie groaned, resting her forehead on the sticky bar counter. The varnish was cool against her hot skin. "Everyone knows you’re good in bed. It’s on the hospital bulletin board. It’s written in the bathroom stalls. It’s practically a continuing medical education credit."
"And yet," Mark said, leaning over her until his expensive cologne—sandalwood and arrogance—cut right through the sour smell of draft beer, "I am sitting in a dive bar on a Tuesday night, getting drunk with a pediatric hopeful whose mascara is smudged."
Izzie shot upright, glaring at him with bloodshot hazel eyes. "My mascara is fine! And what about me? What about my life, Mark? Explain that to me with your fancy medical metrics!"
"You're a lunatic who bakes when she's stressed."
"I am a catch!" she shouted, causing Joe to cast a weary, warning glare from the beer taps. Izzie lowered her voice to a harsh, indignant hiss, leaning in until her nose was inches from Mark’s collarbone. "I am smart. I graduated top of my class while modeling to pay my tuition. I look like a literal Barbie doll. I have legs that go on for miles. And I am great in bed! I am adventurous and attentive and generous!"
"Generous is an interesting word choice," Mark murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took her in.
"Shut up. You know what else I am? I am a domestic goddess," she proclaimed, gesturing wildly with her cocktail straw. "I cook. Real food! Not takeout, not microwaved sodium sponges. I make coq au vin from scratch. I bake bread that rises properly. I clean behind the refrigerator! Do you know anyone else under the age of sixty who cleans behind the refrigerator? Nobody! I iron sheets! I would be the most incredible, supportive, loving, phenomenal wife on the face of the planet! If a man married me, his life would be a perpetual, warm, blueberry-scented paradise!"
She deflated suddenly, slumping back onto her elbows, her voice cracking into a miserable whimper.
"So why the hell am I single? Why does everyone leave? Why do I get the guys who are dying, or the guys who cheat on me with their ex-wives, or the guys who act like loving me is an extreme endurance sport?"
Mark didn't answer right away. He signaled Joe for two more drinks—another bourbon for him, another whiskey sour for her. When the glasses slid across the bar, he picked his up, swirled the liquor, and stared at the amber whirlpool.
Underneath the swagger, beneath the carefully sculpted armor of the hospital’s most notorious cad, Mark Sloan looked tired. It was a rare, naked sort of exhaustion that only showed up after two in the morning or after too much alcohol. He was thirty-eight years old, his best friend barely spoke to him, the woman he’d blown up his life for in New York had aborted his child and stayed behind, and the endless parade of nurses and interns left his apartment feeling larger, colder, and emptier every single night.
"They're cowards," Mark said quietly.
Izzie blinked at him, caught off guard by the absence of sarcasm. "What?"
"The men you pick. They're idiots, Stevens. They get handed a Ferrari and they complain that the leather seats are too soft." He took a slow sip. "And the women I pick are either looking for a payday or looking for an exit. Nobody wants the actual thing. Everyone wants the fantasy until the bill comes due."
"It’s not fair," Izzie pouted, her lower lip trembling. She took a huge swallow of her fresh drink. "I want the whole damn thing. I want the picket fence. I want the golden retriever. I want the husband who comes home and smells like dinner and kisses me in the kitchen while I’m stirring the pot."
"You really want to play house that badly?"
"It’s not playing house!" she snapped, fiercely defensive. "It’s being a wife! It’s having a partner. Someone who doesn't run when things get messy. Someone who stays."
Mark leaned back on his stool, his heavy-lidded gaze roaming over her. He saw the flush on her high cheekbones, the slight tremble of her chin, the absolute, unyielding earnestness that made most people at Seattle Grace treat her like she was made of sugar glass. But she wasn't sugar glass. She had survived a trailer park, a secret teenage pregnancy, a grueling residency, and Denny Duquette dying in her arms. She was stubborn as hell, neurotic to a fault, and desperate to pour her affection into anything that wouldn't shatter under the weight of it.
And Mark was an empty vessel, desperately pretending he liked being hollow.
A reckless, drunken spark flared behind his blue eyes. It was stupid. It was completely insane. It was the kind of idea that had derailed his life at least a dozen times before.
"Let’s do it," Mark said.
Izzie frowned, wrinkling her small nose. "Do what?"
"Get married."
Silence hung between them, thick and sudden, punctuated only by the clinking of glasses at the other end of the bar and the muffled jukebox playing an old Tom Petty song.
Izzie stared at him. Then, her face broke into an incredulous, mocking laugh. "You're hammered."
"I am definitely intoxicated," Mark conceded smoothly, "but I’m also a genius. Think about it, Stevens. You’re sitting here weeping into your sour mix because no one appreciates your baked goods and your bed skills. I’m sitting here brooding like a tragic Byronic hero because no one takes me seriously as a long-term prospect. We both think the people in relationships are morons who don't know how good they have it."
He leaned in, his elbows on his knees, his charismatic, dangerous grin slowly spreading across his face.
"So let’s test the hypothesis. Let’s get married. Let’s see if domestic bliss is actually bliss, or if it’s just a massive PR campaign run by Hallmark and wedding planners."
Izzie’s jaw hung slightly open. "You want to marry me. As an experiment."
"Why not? What have you got to lose? A boyfriend?" Mark raised a brow. "You don't have one. A pristine reputation? You cut an LVAD wire, Stevens. Your reputation is already colorful. You have nothing holding you back. And neither do I."
"Mark, that is the single dumbest, most impulsive, most self-destructive idea you have ever had, and you once slept with your best friend’s wife."
"And look how well that turned out! I got a fresh start in the Pacific Northwest," he shot back without missing a beat. He tapped his glass against hers with a sharp clink. "Come on, Izzie. Where’s your sense of adventure? You want to be a wife. You want to cook, you want to clean, you want a man who appreciates having a certified smoke-show in his bed every night. I want someone to make my life feel like an actual life instead of a hotel room with an operating schedule. What’s the downside?"
Izzie opened her mouth to rattle off forty-seven distinct downsides, starting with medical board ethics and ending with utter social humiliation. But then she looked at Mark.
He was looking at her not with the condescending pity Alex sometimes had, or the bewildered distance George used to show, but with a direct, heated, conspiratorial focus. He was looking at her like she was a prize, like she was capable, like she was someone worth making a pact with.
The alcohol in her veins sang a siren song of pure, unadulterated defiance. Why the hell shouldn't she? Why shouldn't she have the ring, the house, the life she dreamed of, even if it started as a dare in a dirty bar?
"Fine," Izzie said, slamming her glass down so hard the ice rattled.
Mark blinked, clearly startled that his bluff had been called so instantly. "Fine?"
"Fine! But we are not just signing a piece of paper and laughing about it over coffee," Izzie declared, her eyes blazing with sudden, terrifying intensity. "If we do this, we do it right. We commit to the bit. I am not going to be some punchline for the plastics department. If I am going to be your wife, there are rules. Non-negotiable, stone-cold, ironclad rules."
Mark’s smirk returned, widening into a grin of genuine intrigue. "I love rules. Lay them on me, Blondie."
Izzie snatched a paper napkin from the dispenser and grabbed a half-chewed ballpoint pen from the depths of her oversized purse. She flattened the napkin with aggressive precision, uncapped the pen, and glared at him.
"Rule number one," she said, writing with fierce, looping cursive. "A real marriage certificate and a real ring. No crackerjack box garbage. No secret elopement that we pretend never happened. If we’re doing this, the county of King recognizes it, the state of Washington recognizes it, and I want a rock on my finger that makes Meredith Grey choke on her morning oatmeal."
"Done," Mark said instantly, not even flinching. "I have an account at Harry Winston. You’ll have carpal tunnel from the weight of it by Friday. Next?"
"Rule number two: A honeymoon." Izzie pressed the pen down so hard the napkin almost tore. "A real one. Not a weekend in Portland. A warm place with beaches and room service and tiny umbrellas in drinks. We have vacation time saved up; we’re using it."
"Cabo," Mark agreed smoothly. "Or Maui. My treat. Keep going, Stevens, you’re on a roll."
"Rule number three: A house with a yard and a big kitchen." Izzie looked up, her expression deadly serious. "I am not living in your bachelor pad hotel suite, Mark. I am not stepping over discarded lingerie from last month's conquests. We buy or rent a real house. A house with grass that needs mowing, and a kitchen with double ovens and a gas range. If I am going to cook, I need proper ventilation and granite countertops."
"I have more money than God, Isobel. I will buy you a kitchen that looks like a Nancy Meyers movie set. What else?"
"Rule number four: We host." She pointed the pen directly at his chest. "We host cookouts. We host Sunday dinners. We invite the Chief, we invite Bailey, we invite the interns. We act like a happy, functional, hospitable adult couple, and you will sit at the head of the table and carve the roast, and you will smile and tell everyone how delicious my potato salad is."
Mark chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "I can carve meat, Stevens. I’m a surgeon. And rule five?"
Izzie bit her lip for a fraction of a second, a sudden blush warming her cheeks, but she didn't back down. "Rule number five: Sex three times a week. Minimum."
Mark raised both eyebrows, a wicked, delighted gleam dancing in his dark eyes. "Three times a week? That’s your high bar? Stevens, I’m deeply insulted. I was going to suggest three times a day."
"I am an intern, Mark! I have an eighty-hour work week and clinical fatigue!" she hissed, though her blush deepened. "Three times a week is a solid, healthy baseline for a married couple with demanding careers. And it has to be good. None of this rolling over and going to sleep nonsense."
"Sweetheart," Mark purred, leaning across the small space between them until his warm breath grazed her ear, "if the sex isn't extraordinary, you have my full permission to divorce me and take half the trust fund."
Izzie shivered, her pulse giving a traitorous, frantic leap against her ribs. She pulled back, cleared her throat loudly, and tapped the pen against the bar. "Your turn. What are your demands?"
Mark reached over, his large, warm hand covering hers to gently slide the pen from her fingers. He pulled a fresh napkin toward himself. His handwriting was surprisingly elegant—sharp, controlled, masculine.
"Rule one of the Sloan Addendum," Mark announced, writing with deliberate slowness. "Three months. A ninety-day trial period. No backing out after two weeks because you realized I leave my socks near the hamper instead of in it. We give it three full months of absolute, dedicated effort. If it’s working, we keep going. If it’s an unmitigated disaster, we file for an amicable dissolution, cite irreconcilable differences, and go back to our miserable, lonely lives."
"Agreed," Izzie said, nodding firmly. "Three months is scientifically valid."
"Rule two." Mark didn't look up from the napkin, but the pen paused for a beat before he wrote. "We try for a baby."
Izzie’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at the ink soaking into the paper. "What?"
Mark looked up, his gaze steady, devoid of his usual deflection. "You heard me. You said you want the whole thing, Stevens. The whole damn thing doesn't come with an asterisk. I’m thirty-eight. I don't want to be sixty when my kid graduates high school. If we’re doing this, you throw your birth control in the trash tonight. We don't use condoms. We play for keeps. If you get pregnant, we stay married. Period."
Izzie swallowed hard. Her chest tightened with a sudden, suffocating rush of panic—and beneath it, a strange, terrifying thrill. A baby. A real family. The kind she had given up when she was sixteen, the kind she had wept over in quiet hospital bathrooms, the kind she had always thought she’d have to earn after a lifetime of penance.
She looked into Mark’s eyes. He wasn't joking. For all his bravado, Mark Sloan wanted a child so badly it was an open, weeping wound.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice surprisingly steady. "We try for a baby."
Mark exhaled slowly, as if he hadn't quite expected her to agree. His shoulders dropped half an inch. He tapped the pen on the bar. "Rule three: Great sex. Which we already covered, but I’m putting it in writing so you can’t claim a headache on Tuesday nights."
Izzie rolled her eyes, finding her footing again. "Noted. Next."
"Rule four: Date night. Once a week. Outside the house." He wrote it down with a flourish. "A nice restaurant. No surgical talk for the first hour. And you dress to the nines. I want the dresses, the heels, the perfume, the works. I want every bastard in the room looking at me wondering how a scumbag like Mark Sloan convinced a woman like you to marry him."
A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Izzie’s mouth. "I can do that. I have great dresses that Meredith and Cristina call 'aggressively cheery.' They’ll look spectacular in an upscale dining room."
"Good. Rule five: Lunch dates." Mark tapped the bar. "At the hospital. Three times a week. I don't care if you have to scrub out of a lap-chole or I have a cleft palate consult. We meet in the cafeteria, or my office, or on a bench outside. We eat together. People need to know you’re mine, Stevens. I don't share."
The possessiveness in his voice was thick, unabashed, and utterly foreign to anything Izzie had ever experienced. Alex had always acted like admitting he liked her was a personal defeat; George had treated her like a sibling until he’d treated her like a mistake. Mark was simply claiming territory, blunt and unashamed.
"Fine," she breathed. "And rule six?"
"Home-cooked meals," Mark said, his eyes softening just a fraction as he wrote the final line. "Whenever our shifts align. I want to smell garlic when I open the front door. I want you at the stove in an apron. I want comfort food, Stevens. The kind my mother never made because she was too busy drinking gin in the Hamptons."
Izzie felt an unexpected ache in her chest. She looked at the two napkins lying side by side on the damp wood of the bar.
*Izzie’s Rules:* 1. Marriage certificate and ring. 2. Honeymoon. 3. House with a yard and big kitchen. 4. Hosting cookouts/dinners. 5. Sex three times a week.
*Mark’s Rules:* 1. Three months minimum. 2. Try for a baby. 3. Great sex. 4. Weekly date nights (dressed to the nines). 5. Hospital lunch dates. 6. Home-cooked meals.
It looked ridiculous. It looked like a contract written by two runaway teenagers playing a board game. But as Izzie stared at the scrawled ink, the fog of the alcohol seemed to part just enough to reveal a stark, terrifying clarity: she wanted this. She wanted every single, absurd, domestic, passionate, high-stakes demand on those napkins.
"Do we sign?" she asked, her voice barely louder than the hum of the neon sign.
Mark took the pen, scribbled his bold, looping signature across the bottom of both napkins, and then passed it to her.
Izzie’s hand trembled slightly as she took it. She held the pen over the paper for three agonizing seconds. Then, with a quick, decisive sweep, she wrote *Isobel Stevens* right beside his name.
Mark picked up his bourbon glass. "To the fine print, Mrs. Sloan."
Izzie picked up her whiskey sour, her chin lifting with that trademark Stevens defiance. "To ninety days, Dr. Sloan."
They clinked their glasses together. The sound was sharp, clear, and utterly final.
***
The King County Courthouse on a Thursday morning was a depressing monument to bureaucratic efficiency.
The walls were painted a generic shade of municipal beige, the fluorescent lighting hummed aggressively, and the line for marriage licenses smelled faintly of damp umbrellas and floor wax.
Izzie stood beside Mark, shifting her weight from foot to foot in her pale pink heels. She was wearing an ivory wrap dress that she’d ironed three times that morning, her blonde hair pulled half-up with a pearl clip. Her hands were ice cold.
Beside her, Mark looked like he had just stepped off the cover of *GQ*. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. He didn't look nervous. Mark Sloan simply did not experience nerves the way ordinary mortals did; instead, he radiated an amused, predatory calm.
"You're hyperventilating, Stevens," he murmured, not looking at her as the line moved forward one step.
"I am not hyperventilating," Izzie whispered frantically, smoothing the skirt of her dress with sweating palms. "I am practicing controlled thoracic respiration. There is a difference."
"Your pupils are dilated and you’re clutching your purse like a shield." He reached out, his warm, dry fingers closing over her trembling wrist. He pulled her hand away from her bag and laced his fingers through hers. "Breathe. It’s just paperwork."
"It’s not just paperwork! It’s public record! Bailey is going to find out. Meredith is going to make that face where she looks like she smelled sour milk. Cristina is going to laugh until she asphyxiates!"
"Let them," Mark said smoothly, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles against the delicate skin of her wrist. "Cristina lives in an apartment with no furniture and eats cereal out of a coffee mug. Meredith sleeps with a married man in an on-call room. You think I care what they think about my marriage?"
"Our marriage," Izzie corrected reflexively.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Mark’s face. "That’s my girl."
"Next!" the clerk droned from behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass.
Forty-five minutes, three signatures, and a painfully unromantic oath later, they walked back out into the dreary Seattle drizzle.
Izzie stood beneath the courthouse awning, staring down at the embossed legal document in her hands. *Isobel Katherine Stevens. Mark Everett Sloan. Married this twenty-fourth day of October.*
"It’s real," she breathed, the reality of it hitting her stomach like a lead weight. "We’re actually married. We’re husband and wife."
"Not quite," Mark said.
She looked up, confused. "What do you mean? We just signed the—"
Mark reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small, black velvet box.
Izzie froze. The air completely left her lungs.
"Rule number one," Mark said, his voice dropping into that smooth, gravelly cadence that made female interns drop their clipboards. "You wanted a real ring. You wanted something that would make Grey choke on her oatmeal."
He flicked the box open with a snap of his thumb.
Izzie genuinely forgot how to inhale.
Resting in the black velvet was a platinum band cradling an emerald-cut diamond so massive, so blindingly clear, that it seemed to draw all the ambient grey light of the Seattle morning directly into its center. Flanking the center stone were two perfectly tapered baguette diamonds, creating a piece that was both breathtakingly classic and violently expensive.
"Mark..." she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "You... this is... this is ridiculous. This is insane. Where did you even get this? We were drunk thirty-six hours ago!"
"I told you, I have an account. And a very attentive concierge at the boutique downtown." Mark took her left hand in his. His touch was firm, steady, anchoring her to the pavement. "Give me your hand, Stevens."
"It’s too big," she stammered, tears suddenly prickling at the corners of her eyes, completely irrational and overwhelming. "People are going to think you robbed a museum."
"People are going to know I can afford to keep my wife in style," Mark countered arrogantly, though his eyes were surprisingly soft as he slid the ring over her knuckle.
It fit perfectly. The platinum was cool, the diamond heavy and magnificent against her pale skin.
Izzie stared at it, her heart pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She looked from the ring up to Mark’s face. He was watching her with an intensity that made the cool autumn air feel suddenly, stiflingly warm.
"Now," Mark said, his hand lingering over hers, his thumb stroking the back of her fingers. "Rule number two. Pack your bags, Mrs. Sloan. We have a flight to Maui at four o'clock."
***
The honeymoon had been a fever dream of salt water, hibiscus flowers, and utter sensory overload.
Mark had booked a private villa perched on the cliffs of Wailea, complete with an infinity pool that seemed to spill directly into the Pacific Ocean. For five days, the hospital, the surgical boards, and the crushing weight of their respective pasts simply ceased to exist.
Izzie had discovered two very distinct things about Mark Sloan in Hawaii: first, that he looked devastatingly handsome in swim trunks; and second, that when it came to rule number three on his list, he was a man of terrifyingly absolute dedication.
They had inaugurated the king-sized bed with an intensity that had left Izzie clinging to the Egyptian cotton sheets, sobbing his name into the humid ocean breeze. They had christened the outdoor shower beneath the tropical stars, his hands gripping her hips with a bruising, desperate possessiveness that made her head spin. And, true to rule number two, there had been no pills, no barriers, nothing between them but the hot, slick friction of their bodies and the unspoken, breathless promise of creating a life together.
By the time their flight landed back at Sea-Tac, Izzie felt like a completely different person. Her skin was bronzed, her blonde hair bleached lighter by the tropical sun, and her left ring finger felt permanently weighted by the diamond that she still couldn't stop staring at.
Which brought them to rule number three: the house.
"It’s too much," Izzie said, standing in the center of the massive, sunlit living room and clutching a cardboard box labeled *KITCHEN - SPICES & BAKING*.
"It’s not enough," Mark corrected, leaning against the archway with his sleeves rolled up, a streak of dust across his forearm. "I wanted the place in Queen Anne with the three-car garage."
"Mark, this house is four thousand square feet!" Izzie spun around, her bare feet padding against the polished oak floors. "It’s a Craftsman! In Magnolia! With a wraparound porch, a yard big enough for two golden retrievers, and a kitchen that has two Sub-Zero refrigerators!"
"You said you needed proper storage," he pointed out mildly, walking toward her. He reached out, took the heavy box from her arms, and set it effortlessly on the pristine granite island. Then he caught her by the waist, pulling her flush against his chest. "Are you complaining, Stevens?"
"I’m overwhelmed, Sloan," she murmured, resting her hands against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath his t-shirt. "Normal people spend months looking for a house. They get pre-approved. They argue over escrow. You bought this in three days with cash."
"Normal people are boring." He leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the junction of her neck and shoulder, making her shiver. "Besides, you like the kitchen, don't you?"
"I want to weep every time I look at the six-burner Viking range," she confessed, her voice muffled against his neck. "It’s beautiful, Mark. It’s... it’s everything I ever drew in the margins of my notebooks when I was a kid."
Mark went still for a second. His arms tightened around her, his chin resting on top of her head. He didn't say anything about the trailer park, or the fact that she’d grown up with a rusty stove that worked only half the time. He just held her.
"Good," he said quietly. "Then cook something in it. We have guests arriving in two hours."
Izzie gasped, instantly springing back from his embrace in a full-blown panic. "Two hours?! Mark! The brisket has been in the slow cooker since six, but the potato rolls haven't even had their second rise! And the peach cobbler needs forty-five minutes in the oven!"
"Stevens, calm down—"
"Do not tell me to calm down! Rule number four! We host! The Chief is coming! Dr. Bailey is coming! If my potato rolls are dense, Bailey will look at me with that disappointed squint and I will simply have to surrender my medical license and move to Idaho!"
She was already tearing across the kitchen, tying a vintage floral apron around her waist with aggressive, military precision, her hair whipping around her face as she yanked bowls and measuring spoons from the newly unpacked cabinets.
Mark stood by the island, watching her whirlwind of domestic frenzy with an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement.
"Idaho’s nice," he commented casually. "Good potatoes."
"Out!" she shrieked, waving a wooden spoon at him. "Go shower! Put on a nice shirt! Set the patio table! Rule four, Mark! We are going to be the most charming, hospitable, functional couple in the history of medicine if it kills me!"
***
Richard Webber looked profoundly confused.
He sat on a cushioned wicker chair on the expansive back deck, holding a glass of Izzie’s homemade lavender lemonade, his eyes darting between the lush, manicured lawn, the sizzling stainless-steel barbecue grill, and Mark Sloan, who was currently wearing a linen button-down and expertly flipping thick, marinated steaks with metal tongs.
Beside Richard, Miranda Bailey sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed to tiny slits as she tracked Izzie Stevens fluttering between the patio table and the outdoor kitchen, carrying platters of glistening grilled asparagus, bowls of creamy, herb-flecked potato salad, and a basket of steaming, golden-brown rolls.
On the other side of the patio, Meredith Grey and Cristina Yang were standing near the railing, huddled together like two bewildered spies who had accidentally infiltrated the wrong embassy. Alex Karev was already seated at the table, shamelessly stuffing a warm roll into his mouth.
"What is happening?" Cristina whispered loudly out of the side of her mouth, staring at Mark. "Why is Sloan smiling? Why does he look like a suburban dad? Is he having a neurological event? Did someone page neuro? Where is Derek?"
"Derek refused to come," Meredith muttered, her eyes wide as she stared at the giant, sparkling diamond on Izzie’s left hand as Izzie set down a pitcher of iced tea. "He said if he had to watch Mark play house with an intern, he was going to throw himself into the Puget Sound."
"Look at that rock," Cristina hissed, visibly offended by the sheer carat weight. "That’s not a ring. That’s a down payment on a clinic. Did she drug him? Is she blackmailing him with pictures from New York?"
"Karev, stop eating," Bailey snapped, turning her glare onto the young surgeon who was reaching for a third roll. "Have some dignity."
"These rolls are incredible, Dr. Bailey," Alex mumbled through a mouthful of carbs. "She puts honey in the butter. It’s like eating a cloud. I’m never leaving."
"Stevens," Bailey called out, her voice cutting through the gentle hum of the jazz music playing softly from the outdoor speakers.
Izzie paused, wiping her hands on her apron, her cheeks flushed pink from the heat of the ovens, looking bright, radiant, and desperately anxious. "Yes, Dr. Bailey? Is the lemonade too sweet? I can make a fresh batch without the simple syrup—"
"The lemonade is fine, Stevens," Bailey interrupted, her tone sharp, though her eyes were intensely probing. "What I want to know is what kind of alternate universe I stepped into when I walked through your front door. Last week, you were crying over an unstable post-op patient. Sloan was yelling at an orderly about his scrub caps. Today, you are wearing an apron that looks like it belonged to June Cleaver, Sloan is offering me artisanal cheese, and there is a King County marriage certificate hanging in a silver frame in your downstairs hallway."
A heavy silence descended over the patio.
Meredith and Cristina leaned forward. Alex stopped chewing. Richard cleared his throat, taking a slow sip of his lemonade.
Izzie’s fingers twisted into the fabric of her apron. The anxiety surged up in her throat, hot and suffocating. The shame, the ever-present fear that everyone was laughing at her, that she was just a silly, reckless girl from a trailer park pretending to be a grown-up, rose like bile.
Before she could speak, a warm, heavy hand came to rest firmly on the small of her back.
Mark stepped up beside her. He set his tongs on the side burner, his posture relaxed, arrogant, and entirely unbothered. He pulled Izzie just half an inch closer, his thumb hooking into the waistband of her apron.
"What’s to explain, Bailey?" Mark said, his voice smooth as silk, carrying easily over the quiet deck. "I realized I was an idiot for wasting my time on women who didn't know what they wanted, and Izzie realized she deserved someone who actually appreciates what she brings to the table."
He glanced down at Izzie. The mocking smirk that usually defined his face wasn't there. His gaze was steady, warm, and possessive in a way that made Izzie’s knees feel slightly weak.
"We got married," Mark said, looking back at the Chief and Bailey with an unapologetic shrug. "She wanted a ring and a house. I wanted her. It wasn't that complicated."
Cristina choked on her wine. Meredith’s jaw dropped.
Richard Webber blinked, setting his glass down on the glass-topped table. He looked at Mark, then at Izzie, whose cheeks were flaming, but whose hazel eyes were suddenly shining with an unmistakable, triumphant glow.
"Well," Richard said slowly, a small, bemused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The brisket smells fantastic, Stevens. And Sloan... don't burn the steaks."
"Never, Chief," Mark replied smoothly.
As the tension broke and the table erupted into chatter—Alex reaching for another roll, Cristina demanding to inspect the clarity of the diamond, and Bailey grilling Izzie on whether her domestic responsibilities were going to interfere with her clinic hours—Mark leaned down, his lips brushing against Izzie’s ear.
"Rule four," he whispered, his warm breath sending a shiver dancing down her spine. "Hosting. How’d I do?"
Izzie looked up at him, her heart swelling with something so warm and fierce it terrified her. She reached up, straightening the collar of his linen shirt, her fingertips lingering against the warm skin of his throat.
"You did good, Sloan," she whispered back. "Really good."
"Good," he murmured, his eyes darkening with a sudden, heated intention that made her breath hitch. "Because dinner ends at nine. And rule number five is currently thirty-six hours overdue."
***
Three weeks into the marriage, the hospital cafeteria was buzzing with the usual Tuesday afternoon chaos. Trays clattered, the smell of burnt coffee hung heavy in the air, and exhausted residents clustered around tables like zombies seeking sustenance.
Izzie sat at a small four-top near the windows, her surgical scrub cap pulled low over her forehead, staring blankly at a chart while mechanically chewing on an apple. She was halfway through a thirty-six-hour shift, her feet ached, and her brain felt like wet cardboard.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over her table.
A heavy, porcelain plate clattered down onto the laminate surface, replacing her sad apple. On the plate was a massive, perfectly grilled panini oozing with fresh mozzarella, basil, and prosciutto, accompanied by a small container of fresh strawberries and a large, sweating cup of iced coffee—extra sweet, exactly the way she liked it.
Izzie blinked, looking up.
Mark stood over the table, looking impossibly refreshed in a crisp navy scrub top, his lab coat gleaming white, his badge reading *CHIEF OF PLASTICS*.
"Move over," he ordered casually, pulling out the plastic chair across from her and sitting down.
Izzie stared at the sandwich, then at him. "What is this?"
"Rule five," Mark said, uncapping his own bottle of sparkling water. "Hospital lunch dates. Three times a week. You missed yesterday because you were stuck in the pit with an appendectomy, so today I’m feeding you."
Around them, several nurses and two third-year surgical residents blatantly stared, their eyes darting between the Chief of Plastics and the blonde intern.
Izzie felt the familiar prickle of self-consciousness, but then the smell of the melted cheese hit her nose, and her stomach let out a violent, undignified growl.
"I love you," she moaned, grabbing half the sandwich and taking an enormous bite.
Mark’s hand, which had been reaching for a napkin, froze entirely.
His blue eyes snapped to hers, wide and startled, his breath catching in his throat. The casual, confident mask he wore so effortlessly slipped, revealing a sudden, raw vulnerability that made the cafeteria around them seem to fade into absolute silence.
Izzie, her mouth full of prosciutto and bread, suddenly realized what she had said.
Her eyes widened in horror. Her chewing slowed. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.
*I love you.*
It had been a throwaway line. A colloquialism. A food-induced exclamation. But as she looked across the small table at Mark—at the slight parting of his lips, the tension in his jaw, the terrifying, desperate hope flickering behind his dark lashes—she realized, with a cold shock of absolute certainty, that it wasn't a lie.
She had spent three weeks waking up with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She had spent three weeks watching him fumble with measuring cups because he wanted to help her bake. She had spent three weeks dressing in backless silk dresses while he took her to the most expensive restaurants in Seattle, looking at her across the candlelit tables like she was the only woman in the universe. She had spent three weeks letting him touch her, hold her, claim her, and fill every empty, aching corner of her life until she couldn't remember what it felt like to be lonely.
She didn't just want the domestic fantasy.
She loved Mark Sloan. The real, arrogant, wounded, generous, terrified man who had bought her a kitchen and held her hand in a dreary courthouse.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Izzie swallowed hard, setting the half-eaten sandwich back on the plate. Her fingers trembled against the edge of the table. She didn't look away. She was Isobel Stevens; she was impulsive, she was reckless, and when she leaped, she leaped with both feet.
"I mean it," she said, her voice quiet, clear, and utterly steady.
Mark stared at her. The noise of the cafeteria—the paging overhead, the chatter of doctors, the clanking of silverware—seemed to rush back in, but neither of them moved.
Slowly, deliberately, Mark reached across the table. His large, warm hand covered hers, his long fingers curling tightly around her palm, his thumb tracing the platinum band and the massive diamond on her finger.
"Tonight," Mark said, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that was meant only for her. "Date night. Rule four."
"We had date night on Friday," Izzie whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I don't care. We’re having it again tonight." Mark’s eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that burned. "Wear the red dress. The silk one. And be ready at eight."
"Mark—"
"Eat your lunch, Mrs. Sloan," he murmured, his thumb rubbing the sensitive skin of her wrist, his lips curving into a slow, breathtaking smile that was entirely, completely hers. "You’re going to need your strength."