Why the fuck not
The Domestic Warfare of Queen Anne Hill
The morning sun had barely crested the jagged silhouette of the Cascade Mountains when the dark gray clouds of western Washington claimed their rightful dominion over the sky.
Seattle was forty-six degrees, damp down to the marrow, and smelling faintly of saltwater and wet cedar. It was a violent, jarring contrast to the plumeria-scented trade winds of Maui, but inside the private cab of Mark Sloan’s midnight-blue vintage Mercedes, the climate was entirely tropical.
Izzie Stevens adjusted the plush cashmere collar of her camel coat, her chin resting on her gloved hand as she watched the rain bead against the passenger window. Her left hand—currently weighed down by a five-point-two-carat emerald-cut diamond flanked by tapered baguettes—rested lightly on the polished leather console.
Beside her, Mark was navigating the serpentine curves of Queen Anne Hill with one hand on the steering wheel. He looked infuriatingly unaffected by jet lag. His tailored charcoal suit fit his broad frame with razor-sharp precision, his jaw was cleanly shaved, and his hazel eyes gleamed with the predatory amusement of a man who had orchestrated a bloodless coup.
"You’re breathing like a sprinter, Blondie," Mark noted, his voice a low, gravelly hum that resonated through the warm cabin. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. It’s just Karev and Grey. Not a firing squad."
"It is a firing squad," Izzie said, turning her head to glare at him. "Meredith’s weapon of choice is passive-aggressive silence, Cristina uses precision mockery, and Alex... Alex is going to think I’ve completely lost my mind and had an acute manic episode."
"Let him think whatever he wants," Mark said smoothly, downshifting with practiced ease. "The opinion of a fourth-year resident whose net worth is entirely comprised of unpaid student loans and expired protein bars does not concern the Sloan household."
*The Sloan household.*
The phrase sent a strange, electric tremor straight down Izzie’s spine, settling deep in the pit of her stomach.
Two weeks in Maui had been a fever dream of turquoise water, private cabanas, room service, and reckless, barrier-free baby-making that had blurred the lines of reality until Izzie genuinely forgot that a hospital named Seattle Grace even existed. They had burned through their accrued leave like arsonists with a trust fund. But now the plane had landed, the damp Pacific Northwest chill was seeping through the vents, and reality was waiting on the porch of a drafty, clapboard house on Queen Anne.
The Mercedes rolled to a gentle stop across the street from Meredith Grey’s house.
"Twenty minutes," Mark said, checking his vintage Rolex with an arched brow. "You pack the rest of your clothes, your baking pans, and whatever sentimental junk you have left in that attic. If Karev opens his mouth, ignore him. If he touches you, page me and I’ll break his metacarpals."
"You are not breaking anyone’s hand on our first day back in the city," Izzie said, though a betraying, pleased smile pulled at the corner of her lips. She reached for the door handle, then hesitated. She looked at him. "You’re really okay with this? The house? The move?"
Mark reached out, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted her face toward him, his eyes heavy with that quiet, devastating focus that had made her knees buckle on a private beach in Kapalua.
"Isobel," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, "I bought a six-bedroom Victorian with an eight-burner commercial range while you were passed out on coconut rum. We have eighty-two days left on this contract. We don't do half-measures."
Izzie swallowed hard, nodding. "Eighty-two days."
"Now get your stuff," he chuckled, releasing her with a playful tap to her jaw. "I have movers meeting us at the new place in two hours, and I refuse to carry your collection of vintage cake stands up three flights of stairs myself."
***
The front door of Meredith’s house creaked open with its familiar, pathetic whine.
Inside, the living room smelled predictably of stale coffee, damp wool, and neglect. A pair of scrubs lay abandoned on the armchair, and the hum of the old refrigerator rattled through the quiet house.
Izzie walked down the hallway, the heels of her leather boots clicking crisply against the scarred hardwood. She felt utterly alien in the space—sun-kissed, glowing, wrapped in Italian cashmere, and carrying herself with a posture she hadn't possessed since before Denny Duquette’s heart stopped beating.
She reached the kitchen.
Alex Karev was standing at the counter, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded medical school t-shirt, pouring milk directly into a box of sugary cereal. Meredith was seated at the table, wrapped in a shapeless knit sweater, nursing a mug of black coffee while staring blankly at a surgical atlas.
"Hey," Meredith said without looking up. "You’re back. Bailey put you on the pit rotation for tomorrow morning. She said if you’re two minutes late, you’re doing rectal exams until next July."
"I won't be late," Izzie said evenly.
Alex looked up, chewing slowly. His eyes traveled from her polished blonde curls, down her tailored camel coat, down to her spotless leather boots. A slow, mocking sneer formed on his lips.
"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," Alex grunted, leaning against the counter. "Where the hell were you, Stevens? Bailey had a stroke when you bounced. Said you had 'urgent family business.' What, did your trailer park in Chehalis flood?"
Izzie didn't flinch. She simply untied the belt of her coat, letting it slip off her shoulders and draping it neatly over the back of an empty chair.
As she lifted her left hand to push a strand of hair behind her ear, the morning gray cutting through the kitchen window struck the 5.2-carat Harry Winston diamond.
The kitchen went dead, suffocatingly silent.
Meredith froze, her coffee mug hovering halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened, tracking the blinding, crystalline glare that bounced off the linoleum floor.
Alex stopped chewing. His spoon clattered against the inside of the ceramic bowl.
"What... what is that?" Meredith choked out, squinting as if looking directly into an eclipse. "Izzie, what is on your finger?"
"It’s a ring," Izzie said calmly, smoothing down the front of her cream silk blouse.
"That's not a ring," Alex snapped, straightening up, his sneer faltering into sheer bewilderment. "That’s a damn headlight. Where did you get that? Did you rob a pawn shop?"
"I didn't rob anything, Alex," Izzie replied with a cool, radiant smile that held zero apology. "It was a gift. From my husband."
The silence returned, deeper, heavier, and substantially more lethal.
Meredith slowly lowered her mug to the table, her jaw slightly slack. "Your... what?"
"My husband," Izzie repeated, enunciating the syllables with exquisite precision. "We got married three weeks ago. At the King County Courthouse. Then we went to Maui."
"You got *married*?" Alex shouted, his voice cracking violently. He slammed the cereal box onto the counter, milk splashing over the edge. "To who?! Denny’s dead, Stevens! You’ve been sleeping in the attic moping for months! Who the hell did you marry in twenty-four hours?!"
Before Izzie could answer, the front door swung open again.
Heavy, confident footsteps echoed down the hallway. A second later, Mark Sloan stepped into the kitchen doorway, carrying a stack of flat-packed cardboard moving boxes under one massive arm.
He took one look at Alex’s milk-splattered counter, glanced at Meredith’s horrified expression, and smiled—a slow, blinding, deeply obnoxious flash of white teeth.
"Morning, Grey," Mark greeted smoothly, setting the boxes down by the pantry with a dull thud. "Karev. Nice sweatpants. Did you dig them out of the hospital laundry chute?"
Alex’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. His brain visibly short-circuited behind his eyes.
Meredith looked from Mark, to Izzie, to the blinding rock on Izzie’s finger, and then back to Mark. Her hand began to twitch.
"No," Meredith whispered, shaking her head in slow, horrified realization. "No, no, no. Absolutely not. Derek’s head will literally explode. His brain will leak out of his ears."
"Derek can manage his own intracranial pressure," Mark drawled, walking over to Izzie without a shred of hesitation. He slid a possessive arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of her head. "Ready to get your stuff, sweetheart? The movers are twenty minutes out."
"Wait!" Alex roared, his face flushing a violent, mottled crimson. He pointed a shaking finger at Mark. "You?! *You* married Stevens?!"
"Dr. Stevens-Sloan, technically, if she chooses to hyphenate," Mark corrected, his hazel eyes hardening with lethal, territorial arrogance. "Though in the bedroom, she prefers Mrs. Sloan. Isn't that right, honey?"
Izzie felt a hot blush flare across her collarbones, but she didn't shrink away. Instead, she leaned into Mark’s side, resting a hand flat against his chest, right over his tie, letting the diamond flash directly in Alex’s face.
"That's right," Izzie purred, her blue eyes locked onto Alex with triumphant, icy satisfaction. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, Alex, we have a life to unpack. I’ll leave my house key on the hook by the door."
Alex looked like he was about to vomit his cereal. "This is insane! You’re both insane! She cut an LVAD wire, Sloan! She’s crazy!"
"She's passionate," Mark countered evenly, stepping half an inch forward, his towering frame completely eclipsing Alex in the narrow kitchen. His voice dropped into that low, dangerous baritone that made entire surgical departments freeze. "And she’s my wife. Speak to her with respect in your voice, Karev, or your next three months of surgical rotations will be spent in the basement charting geriatric bedsores. Are we clear?"
Alex clamped his jaw shut, his hands balling into fists, his breathing heavy and furious. He didn't say a word.
"Good boy," Mark murmured. He turned back to Izzie, his face softening instantly into that warm, indulgent smile that made her heart flip. "Attic first, Isobel. Let's get you home."
***
The house on Queen Anne was not just a home; it was an architectural declaration of war.
It was a sprawling, three-story 1908 Craftsman Victorian painted in deep slate blue with crisp white trim, surrounded by a wraparound porch and an immaculate, emerald-green lawn framed by blooming hydrangeas.
When Mark carried the last box through the heavy oak front door, Izzie stood in the center of the kitchen, completely, totally paralyzed with awe.
The kitchen was larger than the entire ground floor of Meredith’s house.
The countertops were thick, honed Carrara marble. The cabinets were custom, shaker-style navy wood with brass hardware. In the center of the room sat a massive island with a built-in butcher block, and dominating the back wall was an eight-burner, commercial-grade Viking gas range flanked by double convection ovens and a custom copper hood. A sub-zero refrigerator hummed softly in the corner, and double French doors opened out onto a private stone patio and an expansive, fenced-in backyard.
"Mark," Izzie whispered, her hands flying to her mouth, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "This... this isn't a rental."
Mark set the box down on the island, dusting off his hands. He walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. He rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"Lease with an option to buy," Mark murmured in her ear. "I had my business manager execute the contracts from Hawaii. Rule number three, Stevens. House with a yard and a massive kitchen. You asked for it. I delivered."
Izzie spun around in his arms, throwing her hands around his neck. "It’s perfect! It’s beyond perfect! The ovens—Mark, look at the BTU output on those burners! I can sear short ribs! I can bake three tiers of sourdough at the same time! I can host Thanksgiving for thirty people!"
Mark laughed, the deep, rich sound vibrating against her chest as he lifted her slightly off her feet. "I expect to be thoroughly compensated for this, Mrs. Sloan."
"You will be," Izzie vowed fiercely, peppering kisses across his jaw, his cheek, and finally capturing his mouth in a breathless, euphoric kiss. "I’m making dinner tonight. The roast chicken. The one that makes grown men weep."
"You have six hours until my hunger becomes a surgical emergency," Mark warned playfully, setting her back on her feet with a wicked grin. "Get to work, wife."
***
By seven o’clock that evening, the Queen Anne house smelled like heaven had opened its gates and poured rosemary, browned butter, and roasted garlic directly through the HVAC system.
Izzie had shed her traveling clothes, changing into a soft, powder-blue cashmere sweater and dark denim jeans that hugged her curves. A vintage floral apron was tied around her waist, and flour dusted the bridge of her small nose. Classical piano music drifted softly from the built-in sound system, mingling with the steady drumming of rain against the French doors.
On the marble island rested a cast-iron skillet holding a golden-brown, crispy-skinned whole chicken nestled in a bed of roasted fingerling potatoes, shallots, and fresh herbs. A pot of creamy, garlic-infused mashed potatoes sat warming on the back burner, and a freshly baked loaf of crusty sourdough bread was cooling on a wire rack beside a ramekin of whipped honey butter.
The front door clicked open.
Mark stepped into the foyer, peeling off his black wool overcoat. The moment the scent hit him, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Izzie leaned against the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a linen dishtowel, watching him with an arched, triumphant eyebrow.
"Well?" she called out. "Are you going to stand in the hallway all night, Dr. Sloan?"
Mark walked into the kitchen, his nostrils flaring as he took in the scene. His eyes moved from the glistening, aromatic chicken on the counter, to the crusty bread, and finally settled on Izzie—flour on her nose, hair pulled into a soft knot, looking every bit the domestic goddess she had drunkenly claimed to be on a sticky barstool three weeks ago.
"Christ, Isobel," Mark groaned, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt and loosening his tie. "I thought you were exaggerating at Joe's."
"I never exaggerate about poultry," she stated proudly.
Mark closed the distance between them in three long strides. He didn't head for the food; he grabbed her by the hips, hauling her up onto the edge of the Carrara marble island. Izzie squeaked in surprise as her feet dangled, her hands instinctively grabbing his broad shoulders.
"Dinner is getting cold," she protested weakly, her breath catching as his hazel eyes bore into hers with dark, unmasked hunger.
"The chicken can wait five minutes," Mark growled, his hands sliding under her cashmere sweater, his calloused thumbs tracing the warm, sensitive skin of her ribs. "You look incredible. You smell like butter and rosemary, and I am going to lose my mind."
"Rule number six," Izzie whispered, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, her body already leaning into his heat. "Home-cooked gourmet dinners. Contractually fulfilled."
"Rule number three," Mark countered, stepping between her thighs, his mouth hovering an inch from hers. "Mind-blowing physical relations. Term pending execution."
"Right here? On the island?"
"Right here," Mark murmured, his lips crashing down on hers with bruising, intoxicating intensity. "Welcome home, Mrs. Sloan."
***
Monday morning at Seattle Grace Hospital was always an exercise in controlled chaos, but today, the atmospheric pressure in the surgical wing was hovering near hurricane levels.
By 7:45 AM, the rumor mill had already churned through five distinct, wildly inaccurate variations of the story.
Nurse Olivia had told the scrub tech in OR 3 that Mark Sloan had eloped with a billionaire heiress in Monaco. The intern in orthopedics had overheard that Izzie Stevens had inherited ten million dollars and was quitting medicine to open a bakery in Vermont.
Alex Karev, currently leaning against the nurses' station on the third floor with dark circles under his eyes, refused to say a single word to anyone. He just stood there, drinking terrible sludge coffee, radiating pure, poisonous misery.
Beside him, Cristina Yang was flipping violently through a post-op chart.
"Meredith said they were in Maui," Cristina muttered, snapping the metal clipboard shut. "Meredith said she saw a rock the size of a fist. Meredith is prone to dramatic hyperbole. There is no way Isobel Stevens married Mark Sloan. Sloan is a sleaze who sleeps with anything that has a pulse and a scrubs pass, and Stevens believes in soulmates and destiny. It defies the laws of surgical physics."
"She married him," Alex spat bitterly, staring at the floor. "I saw him. In our kitchen. Carrying moving boxes."
"People don't just get married on a Tuesday, Karev!" Cristina hissed. "Unless they’re drunk, pregnant, or clinically insane."
"It’s Stevens," Alex said flatly. "She’s all three."
Before Cristina could retort, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor slid open.
The hallway instantly fell silent.
Walking side-by-side through the fluorescent light were Dr. Mark Sloan and Dr. Isobel Stevens.
They were an absolute, undeniable visual spectacle.
Izzie was wearing crisp, tailored ceil blue scrubs, but they fit her curves with custom precision. Her golden hair was gathered into a glossy, bouncing ponytail, her makeup was flawless, and her sun-kissed skin looked radiant against the sterile hospital walls. Her lab coat was freshly pressed, embroidered neatly with *Dr. Isobel Stevens*.
Beside her, Mark walked with his trademark, arrogant swagger, his navy scrub top showing off his broad chest, his white lab coat billowing behind him like a cape. But unlike his usual solo stroll, his left arm was draped possessively around Izzie’s shoulders, his fingers resting casually against the nape of her neck.
And on Izzie’s left hand, resting openly on the chart she was carrying, was the Harry Winston diamond.
Under the harsh hospital fluorescents, the stone exploded with blinding, prismatic light.
Two interns dropped their charts, the metal clattering loudly against the linoleum. Nurse Tyler stopped midway through checking an IV drip, his jaw dropping.
Across the hall, Derek Shepherd emerged from the neuro ICU, a stack of MRI films under his arm. He took one look at Mark, looked at Izzie tucked under Mark’s arm, looked at the diamond, and physically stumbled.
"Mark?" Derek croaked, his voice cracking like an adolescent.
Mark paused, offering Derek a casual, two-finger salute. "Morning, Derek. Great day to save lives, isn't it?"
"What... what is happening?" Derek demanded, rushing forward, his eyes darting frantically between them. "Where have you been for three weeks? You vanished! Chang almost ruined a rhytidectomy, and Richard has been breathing down my neck!"
"Urgent family business, Derek," Mark said smoothly, tightening his grip on Izzie’s shoulder and pulling her an inch closer. "You remember Isobel, don't you? My wife."
Derek’s face went completely, utterly white. The MRI films in his hands slipped, scattering across the floor in a flurry of black-and-white acetate.
"Your... your *wife*?" Derek whispered, looking like he was experiencing a middle cerebral artery infarction in real time. "Mark, you don't have a wife. You sleep with surgical sales reps in supply closets!"
"I used to," Mark agreed pleasantly. "Now I’m a settled, happily married man with an exceptional domestic routine. You should come over for dinner sometime, Shepherd. We have an eight-burner Viking range. You can see what a real kitchen looks like."
Izzie offered Derek a bright, dazzling, completely merciless smile. "Good morning, Dr. Shepherd. It’s lovely to see you."
Cristina Yang slowly lowered her chart, her dark eyes wide, staring at the ring. "Holy... mother of God. That’s at least five carats. That could fund a third-world cardiac clinic."
Alex stepped forward, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw trembling with suppressed rage. He completely ignored Mark, locking his eyes onto Izzie.
"Stevens," Alex hissed, his voice dropping into a desperate, furious growl. "Talk to me. Right now. In the on-call room."
Izzie turned to Alex.
There was no hesitation in her posture. No tremor in her chin. The wounded, vulnerable girl who had begged Alex to care about her was completely, permanently gone.
"I don't have time for the on-call room, Dr. Karev," Izzie said, her voice clear, professional, and carrying across the entire silent floor. "I have rounds with Dr. Bailey in ten minutes, and unlike some residents, I take my clinical responsibilities seriously."
"You’re playing games!" Alex barked, taking half a step toward her. "You’re doing this to spite me! You think you can just hook up with an attending, flash some rich guy's jewelry, and pretend you're not—"
Before Alex could finish the sentence, Mark stepped directly between them.
The shift was instantaneous. The charming, witty trust-fund rogue vanished, replaced by an imposing, six-foot-two surgical chief who had grown up fighting in the elite boxing gyms of Manhattan. Mark stared down at Alex, his hazel eyes completely devoid of warmth.
"Karev," Mark said, his voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register that made the entire hallway hold its breath. "You are addressing an attending surgeon’s wife. More importantly, you are addressing my wife. If you raise your voice to her again, if you step into her personal space again, or if you utter a single unprofessional syllable in her direction, I will personally revoke your scrub privileges for the remainder of your residency. Do you understand me?"
Alex’s chest heaved. He stared into Mark’s eyes, looking for any sign of bluff, and found nothing but absolute, ruthless authority.
Alex took half a step back. "Yes, Dr. Sloan."
"Good," Mark said, not blinking. "Now pick up Dr. Shepherd’s scans off the floor. You look like you need something productive to do with your hands."
Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second, his knuckles white, but the sheer weight of Mark’s gaze crushed his defiance. He dropped to his knees, furiously gathering the scattered MRI films.
Mark turned back to Izzie, his stern expression dissolving instantly into warm adoration. He leaned down, brushing his lips softly against her cheek in full view of the entire third floor.
"Rule five, wife," Mark murmured against her skin. "Lunch at twelve-thirty sharp. Cafeteria. Don't be late."
"I won't be late, husband," Izzie whispered back, her dimples flashing as a thrill of pure, unadulterated triumph flooded her veins.
Mark gave her hip a parting squeeze, adjusted his lab coat, and strolled down the hall toward the plastics wing, whistling an 80s rock tune with complete, glorious unconcern.
Izzie stood tall, smoothing down her scrubs. She looked at Cristina, who was still staring at the ring with open reverence, and then at Alex, who was currently crawling on the linoleum floor.
"Well," Izzie announced brightly, clapping her hands together, the diamond blinding the nurses' station once more. "I believe Dr. Bailey is waiting for us in the surgical ICU. Let's not keep her waiting."
She spun on her heel and marched down the hall, her ponytail bouncing, her steps light and invincible.
***
At 12:30 PM, the Seattle Grace surgical cafeteria was operating at maximum capacity.
Normally, the interns and residents sat huddled together at a stained laminate table near the trash cans, wolfing down lukewarm mystery meat while frantically reviewing lab results.
Today, the dynamic was permanently altered.
Izzie Stevens sat at a prime, sunlit booth near the large glass windows overlooking the courtyard. She had laid out a pristine cloth napkin, upon which sat a gourmet spread that looked like it had been catered by a five-star French bistro: thick, crusty slices of her homemade sourdough bread, thinly shaved prosciutto, imported aged Gruyère cheese, a vibrant arugula salad tossed in lemon vinaigrette, and two small porcelain containers of homemade blackberry tarts.
The entire cafeteria was staring.
Meredith, Cristina, and George sat three tables away, openly gaping.
"She brought cloth napkins," George whispered, clutching his carton of chocolate milk. "To a hospital cafeteria. Who brings cloth napkins to a hospital cafeteria?"
"Rich people," Cristina stated, chewing violently on an apple. "Rich, married people who live in multi-million-dollar Queen Anne Victorians and have sex with men who have six-pack abs and offshore accounts. Stevens played the long game. She got Denny’s millions, and now she bagged the plastic surgeon. She’s an evil, domestic genius."
"She didn't plan this," Meredith insisted, rubbing her temples. "She was drunk at Joe’s! I remember seeing them at the bar three weeks ago! They were both screaming about French fries!"
"Well, whatever they screamed about worked," Cristina retorted. "Look at him."
Every head in the cafeteria turned as the double doors opened.
Mark Sloan strode into the cafeteria. He had discarded his lab coat, rolling the sleeves of his navy scrub top up to his elbows, exposing his muscular, tanned forearms. He didn't even glance toward the hot food line. He walked straight through the center aisle, completely indifferent to the dozens of eyes tracking him, his focus locked entirely onto the blonde in the corner booth.
He slid into the booth opposite Izzie, his large frame filling the space with effortless, commanding presence.
"You’re three minutes late, Dr. Sloan," Izzie said, though her eyes were sparkling with delight.
"Emergency tendon repair in trauma bay two," Mark replied, leaning across the table and pressing a firm, warm kiss directly onto her lips, completely unbothered by the audible gasp from an intern two tables over. "Something smells unbelievable."
"Sourdough with prosciutto and Gruyère," Izzie said, sliding a plate toward him. "And blackberry tarts for dessert. Fresh out of the oven this morning before rounds."
Mark picked up a slice of the bread, taking a large, appreciative bite. A low, reverent groan escaped his throat.
"Stevens," he muttered around the mouthful, shaking his head. "If you keep cooking like this, I’m going to have to double my gym sessions just to fit into my surgical gowns."
"You have an exceptional metabolism, Sloan," she teased, taking a delicate sip of her iced tea. "You can handle it."
Mark smiled, reaching across the small table. He didn't let go of her hand. His long, surgical fingers curled firmly around hers, his thumb stroking the heavy platinum band on her finger, right out in the open for the entire surgical staff to witness.
Across the room, Richard Webber stood in the doorway, holding a plastic tray with a bowl of oatmeal. He adjusted his glasses, squinted at Mark and Izzie, looked at the five-carat diamond, looked at the homemade tarts, and slowly backed out of the cafeteria without saying a single word.
Mark caught Richard’s retreat and let out a quiet chuckle.
"Derek looked like he was going to throw up during morbidity and mortality," Mark murmured, his eyes locking onto Izzie’s. "And Karev looked like he was contemplating jumping into Puget Sound."
"Good," Izzie whispered, her heart fluttering with that wild, intoxicating thrill. She leaned closer over the table, her blue eyes bright with playful mischief. "How many days left, Sloan?"
Mark’s thumb traced the curve of her knuckle, his hazel eyes darkening with a fierce, quiet certainty that took her breath away.
"Eighty-two days, Isobel," Mark said, his voice dropping to a low, velvet hum. "And if you think I’m letting you go at day ninety, you’re completely out of your mind."
Izzie swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling beneath her scrubs. The contract on the cocktail napkins had started as a reckless, drunken dare—an absurd, desperate middle finger to a world that had broken their hearts.
But sitting here, under the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital, with his hand wrapped firmly around hers and a commercial Viking range waiting for them on Queen Anne Hill, Izzie knew with terrifying, glorious certainty:
Neither of them was ever walking away.