Why not
The Five-Carat Hypothesis
The white Calacatta marble of the kitchen island was shockingly cold against the bare skin of Izzie’s thighs, but within five seconds, Mark Sloan made sure temperature was the very last thing registering in her brain.
His hands were large, warm, and thoroughly well-versed in the exact pressure required to coax a breathless gasp from her throat. He lifted her easily, pulling her hips flush against his until the hem of his crisp white shirt—which she was currently wearing—bunched up around her waist.
"Quota management," Mark murmured against the hollow of her throat, his stubble scraping pleasantly against her sensitive skin. "I pride myself on punctuality, Stevens."
"Sloan," she corrected, panting slightly as her fingers tangled into his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. "It’s Sloan now, remember? Legally binding. Signed in ink in the great state of Nevada by a minister named Pastor Wayne who reeked of spearmint and bad decisions."
Mark pulled back just far enough to look into her flushed face. His hazel eyes were dark, dilated, and dancing with that wicked, devastating charm that usually terrified sensible women. "Mrs. Sloan. God, that sounds absurd. And thoroughly addictive. Don’t move."
"Where would I go?" Izzie teased, her voice breathy and playful, though a tight flutter of adrenaline danced in her chest. "I have nowhere to be until noon, and my husband is currently treating our kitchen like an Olympic gymnasium."
"Silver medal isn't an option," Mark growled, and then his mouth was on hers again, swallowing her laugh, sweeping her straight out of the realm of overthinking and directly into pure, unadulterated sensation.
By the time they finally stumbled off the island, the Earl Grey tea was long since frozen over, the grandfather clock in the entryway was chiming eleven, and Izzie’s knees felt like lukewarm pudding. Mark, entirely unbothered and practically radiating smug masculine satisfaction, padded toward the master bathroom to shower, whistling an unrecognizable Sinatra tune.
Izzie stood in the middle of their vast, sunlit kitchen, her chest heaving, clutching the edge of the marble island. Her legs trembled, but when she looked down at the five-carat rock glinting under the recessed spotlights, a wild, euphoric giggle bubbled up through her throat.
*I am married,* she thought, pressing a hand to her pounding heart. *To Mark Sloan. In a house with crown molding and four bedrooms.*
Then, like a splash of ice water, the anxiety hit.
The movers were arriving at Meredith’s house in precisely thirty minutes. Meredith, who slept like a dead person unless woken by surgical emergencies or tequila. Alex, who would undoubtedly look at the packing boxes and sneer. Cristina, who would dissect Izzie’s life choices with the ruthless precision of a dull scalpel.
Izzie bolted for the bedroom, grabbing clothes with manic urgency.
***
"What the hell is this?"
Meredith Grey stood on the porch of her mother’s craftsman, squinting against the late-morning drizzle. She was clutching a chipped ceramic mug of coffee, wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized surgical scrub top, her dirty-blonde hair piled in an unruly knot on top of her head.
Two burly men in matching navy jumpsuits labeled *Sound Relocation Specialists* were currently carrying a tall white wicker shelving unit down the front steps.
"Morning, Mer!" Izzie called out brightly, bounding out of a sleek black Audi SUV that definitely had not belonged to her seventy-two hours ago. She was wearing high-waisted designer jeans, a soft cream cashmere sweater, and a cherry-red trench coat. She looked like she had just stepped off the cover of a high-end suburban catalog, practically humming with caffeinated, manic joy.
Behind Meredith, Alex Karev appeared in the doorway, a bowl of dry Lucky Charms in his hand. He took one look at the moving van, then at Izzie, his dark brows drawing together in suspicion.
"Who died?" Alex barked. "Did Denny leave you another house?"
"Nobody died, Alex," Izzie said, maintaining her dazzling, pageant-ready smile as she marched up the steps, her arms full of empty wardrobe boxes. "In fact, everyone is exquisitely alive. I’m just moving."
"Moving?" Meredith repeated, blinking dumbly. "You’re moving? Where? To an apartment? Did you find a place with Callie?"
"Nope! Found a house. In Queen Anne." Izzie brushed past them into the foyer, smelling of sweet vanilla, expensive leather, and floral soap. "Four bedrooms, three baths, mature hydrangeas, and a Viking six-burner range with a dual convection oven. I’m taking my baking pans, my linens, my clothes, and the nice rug in the upstairs hallway that I bought with my own money."
Alex snorted, leaning against the doorframe and crunching on a marshmallow. "Queen Anne? Who’s paying for that? You blew eight million dollars on a clinic, Stevens. You’re living on a resident’s salary. You can't afford a broom closet in Queen Anne."
"I didn't buy it alone," Izzie said smoothly, not stopping as she headed toward the attic stairs.
Alex’s smirk faded, replaced by an ugly, defensive scoff. "What, you got a roommate? Who?"
Izzie stopped on the third stair. She turned around slowly, holding the banister with her left hand.
The morning light filtering through the stained glass beside the front door caught the ring. It was impossible to miss. It threw a blinding, prismatic flare straight into Alex Karev’s eyes.
Alex choked on a marshmallow.
Meredith froze, her coffee mug hovering two inches from her lips. She stared at Izzie’s hand, her eyes widening in horror. "Izzie... what is that?"
"It’s a ring, Meredith," Izzie said sweetly, her chin tilted at a proud, defiant angle. "Five carats. Platinum band. Colorless, internally flawless."
"Are you... who gave you that?" Meredith whispered, looking as though she were trying to diagnose an acute intracranial hemorrhage. "Did you buy yourself a promise ring? Are you having a psychotic break?"
"I am not having a psychotic break!" Izzie snapped, her sunny facade slipping for a fraction of a second before snapping firmly back into place. "I am married. Legally, spiritually, and geographically relocated."
"To *who*?" Alex roared, stepping forward, the cereal bowl completely forgotten on the console table. "Stevens, who the hell did you marry?"
Before Izzie could answer, the front door swung open again.
Mark Sloan stepped over the threshold, wearing a charcoal wool overcoat over freshly pressed navy scrubs, a steaming cup of artisan coffee in one hand and a set of car keys spinning lazily around his index finger. He stopped, taking in the small, frantic crowd in the hallway, and flashed that infuriating, brilliant million-dollar smile.
"Morning, kids," Mark said smoothly, strolling past Alex as if the younger man were a coat rack. He walked straight to the stairs, stepped up onto the second tread, slipped an arm around Izzie’s waist, and kissed her soundly on the mouth—slow, possessive, and lingering.
Izzie leaned into it instantly, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders and deepening the kiss just enough to ensure maximum trauma for the audience.
When they parted, Izzie was flushed and beaming. Mark rested his chin comfortably on her shoulder, eyeing the two residents at the bottom of the stairs with cool amusement.
"Babe," Mark murmured in her ear, loud enough to carry through the quiet house, "the movers are loading the espresso machine. Where do you want the French copper pots? Island or pantry?"
"Island, sweetheart," Izzie purred. "Hanging from the rack above the prep sink."
"You got it."
Silence descended upon the house. It was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Alex looked like he had been struck by a high-voltage power line. His mouth hung open, his face draining of color before rapidly turning a dangerous, mottled crimson. "No. No, no, no. Bullshit. This is a joke. You’re screwing with me."
"Why would I screw with you, Karev?" Mark asked mildly, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think about you at all."
"You... you married *Sloan*?" Meredith choked out, gripping her coffee mug with white knuckles. "Mark Sloan? The guy who sleeps with nurses in linen closets? The guy who broke up Derek and Addison? *That* Mark Sloan?"
"Hey," Mark said, pointing a stern finger at her. "Watch it, Grey. You’re speaking to my wife. Show some respect. And for the record, I’ve retired my linen closet privileges. I am a devoted, domestic man. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my wife has an extensive collection of vintage pie dishes that require careful handling."
Mark gave Izzie’s hip an affectionate squeeze, turned, and headed up the stairs two at a time to grab her luggage, looking entirely at home.
Alex stared at Izzie, his chest heaving, hurt and fury warring behind his eyes. "You're insane. You're completely, totally out of your mind. He’s using you, Iz. He’s going to chew you up and spit you out, and you’re going to come crawling back here crying—"
"I am never crawling back here," Izzie interrupted, her voice dropping into a hard, crystalline register that Alex had never heard before. The whimsical, baking girl vanished, replaced by the fierce, iron-willed survivor who had clawed her way out of a mobile home park to the top of a surgical residency. "I have a husband who adores me. I have a home. I have a life that is mine, Alex. Not yours to stomp on when you're feeling miserable about yourself."
She didn't wait for his reply. She turned on her heel and marched up the stairs, the sound of her expensive boots echoing like gunshots against the hardwood.
***
By noon, the gossip at Seattle Grace had reached the level of a five-alarm biohazard.
It had started in the locker room, when Meredith had cornered Cristina Yang by the sinks and whispered the news in frantic, clipped syllables. Cristina had laughed so hard she had dropped her stethoscope into an open garbage can, convinced it was an elaborate practical joke.
Then Alex had arrived in the pit, looking like a dark storm cloud, punching a chart rack until a nurse threatened to sedate him.
By the time Izzie walked through the ambulance bay doors at twelve-thirty, dressed in fresh scrubs and her white lab coat, the entire hospital seemed to hold its collective breath.
"Look at her," Cristina hissed, ducking behind a nurse's station on the surgical floor with Meredith and George O'Malley. "Look at the posture. She’s gliding. She looks like a swan that just swallowed a bank."
"It’s real," George muttered, adjusting his glasses, looking thoroughly disoriented. "I saw the ring. It’s huge. It has its own gravitational pull. I think it’s bending light."
"It’s not just a ring," Meredith whispered grimly. "She has a husband. A husband who bought her an espresso machine and a four-bedroom house. And it’s *Mark*."
Down the hall, Izzie was signing orders at the pediatric surgical desk, entirely aware of the thirty pairs of eyes boring into her skull. She felt a familiar, creeping panic prickling at the back of her neck—the old, toxic fear that someone was about to jump out and scream that she was a fraud, that she didn't belong in this shiny, expensive world, that she was just trailer trash playing dress-up.
*Breathe,* she told herself, gripping the plastic chart tightly. *You are Dr. Isobel Stevens Sloan. You have an emerald cut. You have a double oven. You are valid.*
"Stevens."
Dr. Miranda Bailey’s voice cut through the ambient hospital hum like a buzzsaw.
Izzie snapped to attention, turning to face her chief resident. Bailey stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips, her eyes narrowed into two blazing points of clinical interrogation.
"Dr. Bailey," Izzie said, offering her most immaculate, professional smile. "Post-op vitals on the lap-chole in room four are stable, and I’ve started the pre-op workup for the—"
"I do not care about the lap-chole right now, Stevens," Bailey interrupted, marching forward until she was inches away. She looked down at Izzie’s left hand, which was resting innocently against the desk. "What in the name of all that is decent and sterile is that boulder on your third metacarpal?"
"It’s a diamond, Dr. Bailey," Izzie said smoothly.
"I know what a diamond looks like! I am asking why it is currently occupying space in my surgical wing!" Bailey’s voice rose an octave, drawing the attention of every intern within a fifty-foot radius. "The rumor mill says you went to Vegas. The rumor mill says you married the plastics attending. Tell me the rumor mill is suffering from heat stroke, Stevens. Tell me you did not marry Sloan."
"I did," Izzie said proudly, lifting her chin. "Three days ago. We had a lovely ceremony. Elvis was unavailable, but the minister was very thorough."
Bailey stared at her. Her mouth worked, but for five whole seconds, no sound emerged. It was a hospital record.
"You," Bailey finally whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief, "married Mark Sloan. The man whose testosterone levels pose an active threat to hospital drywall. You married him."
"We are very happy," Izzie stated firmly. "And it will not affect my surgical duties in any way. I am completely focused, professional, and—"
"Dr. Sloan."
A deep, smooth voice rumbled from behind Bailey.
Mark strolled around the corner, looking devastatingly handsome in his scrub cap and lab coat, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He didn't look at Bailey. He didn't look at the cluster of interns cowering behind the nurse's station. He looked directly at Izzie, his hazel eyes warm, steady, and utterly unabashed.
"Lunch," Mark said simply.
Izzie’s heart skipped a beat. *Rule number five.*
"I’m in the middle of rounds, Mark," she said, though a betraying flush of pink rose to her cheeks.
"Rounds can wait twenty minutes," Mark replied smoothly, stepping past a frozen Bailey and coming to a halt right beside Izzie. He leaned down, placing a warm, heavy hand on the small of her back, and pressed a brief, affectionate kiss to her temple. "My wife promised me lunch dates. I’m holding you to the contract. Cafeteria or my office?"
"Cafeteria," Izzie decided instantly, her eyes sparking with sudden, whimsical bravado. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it at maximum volume. "I brought provisions."
Bailey slowly turned her head, looking between the two of them as if they had both sprouted antlers. "If either of you engages in unsanctioned public displays of affection that violate hospital policy, I will personally assign you to disimpact bowels until you are sixty. Do you understand me?"
"Crystal clear, Dr. Bailey," Mark said with a charming wink. "Have a great shift."
***
The Seattle Grace cafeteria had seen its fair share of spectacles, but nothing compared to the entrance of Dr. and Mrs. Sloan.
The room, packed with nurses, residents, attendings, and orderlies, went virtually dead silent as Mark pushed open the double doors, holding them open for Izzie with exaggerated chivalry.
At the attending table in the center of the room, Derek Shepherd stopped mid-bite of his turkey sandwich. Beside him, Richard Webber slowly lowered his newspaper, his glasses sliding down his nose.
"Sloan," Derek muttered, his eyes narrowing as Mark guided Izzie toward an empty, sunlit table near the windows. "What is he doing?"
"He's sitting with an intern," Webber said, frowning. "Is that Stevens? Why is he carrying her tote bag?"
Izzie pulled out a chair, smoothed down her scrub pants, and sat. Mark took the seat directly opposite her, leaning his elbows on the table and watching her with an intense, proprietary focus that made several nurses at adjacent tables visibly clutch their trays.
From her canvas tote bag, Izzie began unpacking lunch.
It was not a cafeteria lunch.
She produced two matching, high-end Japanese bento boxes made of dark lacquered wood. She opened Mark’s first: inside was thinly sliced, herb-crusted beef tenderloin resting over a bed of roasted fingerling potatoes, accompanied by grilled asparagus tied with chive ribbons, and a small, delicate glass jar containing homemade horseradish cream.
Next came two cloth linen napkins—pressed, folded into neat swans—and actual silverware that clinked pleasantly against the table. Finally, she pulled out a small parchment box containing four miniature lemon-thyme tarts with glazed raspberries on top.
Mark stared at the spread, his jaw slightly slack. "Stevens... did you make this?"
"Of course I made it," Izzie said, unpacking her own portion, which was equally immaculate. She looked up at him, a sudden flash of vulnerability flickering beneath her bright eyes, her fingers nervously smoothing the linen napkin. "Rule number six. Home-cooked meals. I know it’s just lunch, but I had time before clinic, and I thought... well, you said you wanted real food. Is it okay? If you don't like horseradish, I have a Dijon vinaigrette—"
Mark stopped her by reaching across the table, covering her fluttering hands with his own. His fingers were warm, steadying her instantly.
He didn't make a joke. He didn't smirk. The cocky, swaggering playboy vanished, leaving behind the man who had looked at her across a sticky bar and admitted he was terrified of being alone.
"Izzie," Mark said, his voice quiet, rich, and intensely sincere, "this is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me in my entire life."
Izzie’s breath caught. The anxious, buzzing chatter in her skull went blissfully quiet. A brilliant, radiant smile spread across her face, transforming her into pure sunshine. "Try the beef. It’s medium-rare."
Mark picked up a fork, speared a piece of tenderloin with a dab of cream, and ate it. He closed his eyes, letting out a low, appreciative groan that made Derek Shepherd choke on his water thirty feet away.
"Unbelievable," Mark breathed, opening his eyes and looking at her like she had just invented fire. "You are an absolute menace. I’m never eating cafeteria food again."
"Good," Izzie teased, taking a delicate bite of asparagus. "Because tomorrow is braised short rib panini on homemade sourdough."
Before Mark could reply, a shadow fell over their table.
Derek Shepherd stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, his handsome face fixed in a severe, deeply disapproving scowl. Behind him, Richard Webber was hovering near the salad bar, watching intently.
"Mark," Derek said, his voice low and tight. "A word."
Mark didn't even look up from his potatoes. "I’m having lunch with my wife, Derek. Go away."
"Now, Mark."
Izzie felt the tension spike instantly. She recognized that tone; it was the tone people used when they were about to explain why something was inappropriate, why she didn't belong, why a Stevens didn't get to sit at the grown-up table. Her stomach clutched, her hand tightening around her fork.
Mark noticed.
He set his fork down with deliberate care. He looked up at Derek, the relaxed, playful warmth vanishing from his posture, replaced by a cold, lethal authority that made the Chief of Neurosurgery blink in surprise.
"Derek," Mark said, his voice entirely devoid of humor. "I know you think my personal life is your favorite spectator sport. But right now, you are standing over my wife while she’s eating. If you have surgical business with me, page my service. If you have an opinion about my marriage, write it on a piece of paper, fold it until it’s all corners, and shove it up your ass. We're busy."
Derek’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Mark’s eyes—fierce, unyielding, and utterly protective—stopped him cold. Derek glanced at Izzie, who was staring up at Mark with wide, stunned, luminous eyes, and then back at his best friend.
Without another word, Derek turned on his heel and walked away.
Izzie let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Mark..."
"Eat your lunch, Mrs. Sloan," Mark murmured, his expression softening instantly as he reached across to tuck a stray blonde curl behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Nobody ruins our date. That’s an unwritten rule."
***
By seven o'clock that evening, the rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic drumming against the towering leaded-glass windows of the Queen Anne craftsman.
Inside, the house smelled heavenly.
The standing rib roast had been in the double oven for three hours, filling the cavernous kitchen with the rich, savory aroma of garlic, rosemary, and slow-roasted beef. On the island, a pot of Yukon Gold potatoes was simmering, waiting to be riced and whipped with heavy cream and roasted garlic. A loaf of artisanal French bread was cooling on a wire rack, its crust golden and crackling faintly.
Izzie stood by the stove, a vintage floral apron tied tightly around her small waist, humming to herself as she whisked a red wine reduction in a copper saucepan.
She was exhausted, her feet aching from seven hours in clinic, but her mind was firing on all cylinders.
*Dinner at seven-thirty. Mark said he’d be home by seven-fifteen. Is the roast overcooked? If it’s over five degrees past medium-rare, it’ll be tough. What if he hates rosemary? Did I ask him if he likes rosemary? What if he thinks I’m trying too hard? What if this whole thing is just a joke to him and he comes home late because he stopped for a drink with Derek?*
The intrusive thoughts began to spiral, tight and suffocating.
*Alex was right. Everyone thinks I’m crazy. A trailer girl in a multi-million-dollar house, playing triad wife. I gave away my baby when I was sixteen. I cut an LVAD wire. I’m unstable. He’s going to realize it. He’s going to see the cracks.*
The whisk in her hand began to move faster, frantic and aggressive, splashing drops of dark sauce onto the pristine white stovetop.
"Damn it," she muttered, grabbing a paper towel and scrubbing furiously at the ceramic surface. "Damn it, damn it—"
The heavy oak front door clicked open.
Izzie froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Footsteps echoed across the polished hardwood of the foyer—heavy, steady, and unhurried. A leather briefcase thudded onto the entryway bench, followed by the rustle of a coat being hung in the closet.
Mark walked into the kitchen.
He looked tired, the shadows under his hazel eyes betraying a brutal four-hour facial reconstruction he’d performed that afternoon. His tie was loosened, the top button of his dress shirt undone, the cuffs rolled back over his forearms.
He stopped in the archway, taking in the scene: the warm, glowing kitchen, the sprawling spread of food, the bread cooling on the rack, and Izzie, standing by the stove with a paper towel in her hand, looking terrified and immaculate all at once.
"Hey," Mark said softly.
"Hi," Izzie breathed, quickly crumpling the paper towel and tossing it into the trash. She forced her signature sunny smile onto her face, though her voice was slightly too high, too brittle. "You're right on time! The roast has five more minutes to rest, and I’m just finishing the reduction, and then I’ll whip the potatoes. You can sit down, or I can pour you a scotch, or—"
Mark didn't sit down. He crossed the kitchen with long, purposeful strides.
He didn't look at the roast. He didn't look at the stove. He stepped right into her personal space, took the whisk out of her hand, and set it on the counter with a quiet *clink*.
Then, he wrapped both arms around her, pulling her firmly against his chest.
Izzie gasped, stiffening for a fraction of a second in shock. But Mark didn't let go. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, letting out a long, ragged exhale that ruffled her hair. His broad chest rose and fell against hers, steady, grounding, and solid.
"Mark?" she whispered, her hands hovering uncertainly before settling against the fabric of his shirt. "What's wrong? Did the surgery go badly?"
"Surgery was fine," Mark murmured, his voice muffled against her skin. "I was just... standing in the OR for four hours, listening to Derek complain about hospital politics, and all I could think about was getting back here."
He pulled back slightly, his hands resting on her waist, looking down into her face with an expression so intensely raw it made Izzie’s breath hitch.
"I spent thirty-eight years coming home to empty rooms, Izzie," Mark said, his voice dropping an octave, rough with unshielded honesty. "Hotel suites. Dark apartments. Silence. I walked through that door, and the house was warm, and it smelled like garlic and bread, and you were here."
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.
"I don't care if the sauce burns," Mark whispered, his thumb gently tracing the curve of her jaw, catching a tiny tear that had slipped out of the corner of her eye without her permission. "I don't care if the roast is overcooked. You don't have to put on a show for me, Blondie. You don't have to prove anything. You're already here."
The dam broke.
The tight, frantic knot in Izzie’s chest unraveled in a single, shuddering sob. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder, clinging to him like a lifeline.
He held her effortlessly, his large hand cradling the back of her head, rocking her gently against the backdrop of the bubbling sauce and the ticking oven clock. He didn't ask questions. He didn't tell her she was being hysterical. He just held her, absorbing the tremors of a girl who had spent her whole life terrified of being discarded.
After a few minutes, the crying subsided into soft, sniffly breaths. Izzie pulled back, mortified, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"I got mascara on your shirt," she croaked, laughing wetly.
"I have fifty shirts," Mark said dismissively, smiling down at her, his eyes warm and tender. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Izzie whispered, offering him a real smile—soft, slightly bruised, but completely genuine. "Yeah, I am. But... the sauce really is going to burn if I don't turn off the burner."
"Then turn it off," Mark chuckled, stepping back just enough to let her reach the knob.
With practiced efficiency, Izzie plated the meal: thick, succulent slices of prime rib glistening with rich red wine jus, a cloud of garlic-whipped potatoes, and crisp roasted carrots.
They ate at the massive mahogany dining table, seated right beside each other rather than across the vast expanse. Mark ate with the ravenous enthusiasm of a man who had been starving for a decade, praising every single bite until Izzie was practically glowing with pride. For the first time in years, the food didn't feel like a bribe for affection; it felt like a shared triumph.
When dinner was finished, Mark insisted on loading the dishwasher.
Izzie stood by the island, leaning against the counter with a glass of Pinot Noir, watching in utter fascination as Mark Sloan—millionaire, head of plastic surgery, notorious Manhattan playboy—carefully scraped plates and arranged silverware in the racks.
"You missed a spot on that fork," she teased, taking a sip of wine.
"I am a surgeon, woman," Mark shot back, glaring playfully over his shoulder. "My margins are clear."
He wiped his hands on a dish towel, tossed it onto the counter, and walked slowly toward her.
The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted instantaneously. The domestic coziness melted away, replaced by that heavy, magnetic heat that had been crackling between them since they signed the bar napkins.
"Dinner was incredible," Mark said, stopping inches away from her.
"Thank you," Izzie whispered, setting her wine glass down on the counter behind her. Her heart was suddenly doing frantic acrobatics again, but this time, it had nothing to do with anxiety.
"And lunch was a triumph," Mark continued, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register, his hands finding her hips and pulling her gently toward him. "Which means you’ve successfully fulfilled Rules Four, Five, and Six."
"I aim to please," Izzie breathed, tilting her head up, her lips parting slightly.
"Good," Mark murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth, his eyes dark and dilated under the warm pendant lights. "Because looking at my watch... it is currently nine-fifteen."
"And?"
"And according to my calculations," Mark said, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her vintage apron, his thumbs stroking the warm bare skin above the waistband of her pants, "we are currently two sessions behind schedule on Rule Number Five."
Izzie let out a breathless, wicked laugh, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Two sessions? That sounds mathematically ambitious, Dr. Sloan."
"I told you," Mark whispered, his lips grazing her jawline, his breath hot against her ear, sending shivers cascading straight down her spine. "I never miss a quota. And Rule Number Two is still pending."
*Rule Number Two.*
*Try for a baby.*
A sharp, electric jolt shot straight through Izzie’s lower abdomen. The thought of it—of carrying his child, of building a real, permanent family inside the walls of this beautiful house, with this man who defended her with his bare teeth—was so overwhelmingly intoxicating she couldn't breathe.
"Then what are you waiting for?" Izzie whispered, her voice husky and challenging, her fingers tangling tightly into his hair. "Take me upstairs."
Mark didn't hesitate. With a low, feral growl, he scooped her up into his arms, kicking the kitchen door open with his foot as Izzie’s laughter echoed through the soaring hallways of their new home.
The world outside could gossip. The hospital could whisper. But inside the four walls of the Queen Anne craftsman, the experiment was underway—and neither of them had any intention of letting it end.