Why the fuck not
Topographical Survey of Seattle Grace
The third-floor hallway smelled of floor stripper, industrial bleach, and impending violence.
Izzie Stevens was backed against a row of dented metal lockers, clutching a clipboard against her chest like a riot shield. Her cheeks were flushed an alarming shade of peony pink, her surgical scrub cap was slightly askew, and her breath was coming in short, uneven hitches.
Standing directly in front of her, leaning in close enough that his dirty sneakers were practically stepping on her pristine clogs, was Alex Karev.
"Don't play dumb with me, Izzie," Alex sneered, his voice dropping into that grating, raspy register he used when his pride was bleeding out. "Sloan? Really? You're playing house with the biggest man-whore in North America? What, did the ghost run out of dead-guy money, so you had to go fish for an East Coast trust fund?"
"Alex, step back," Izzie hissed, her fingers digging so violently into the edges of the aluminum chart that her knuckles went chalk-white. "I am on Dr. Bailey’s service. If I am late presenting Mrs. Gable’s post-op bowel sounds because you’re having a temper tantrum, I will personally insert a nasogastric tube down your throat without lidocaine jelly."
"You’re a joke," he snapped, his eyes flicking bitterly down to the five-carat diamond blazing under the fluorescent tubes. "You think you’re Mrs. High-and-Mighty now? I know you, Stevens. I know what you sound like when you're crying in the shower. I remember every damn inch of you in on-call room four. You think Sloan's gonna stick around once he gets tired of the Martha Stewart act? He’s gonna toss you back to the curb, and you're gonna come crawling back to Mer’s attic—"
"Karev."
The single syllable didn't carry volume. It carried mass. It struck the narrow corridor with the sudden, suffocating density of a collapsing lung.
Alex froze mid-sentence.
Mark Sloan was standing three paces back, hands casually buried in the pockets of his dark blue scrub pants. His white lab coat was draped open, his silver-flecked hair was combed back with aristocratic precision, and his broad shoulders seemed to blot out the fluorescent light behind him.
He didn't look frantic. He didn't look like an outraged husband lunging into a brawl.
He looked like an apex predator that had just discovered a rat chewing on his favorite Italian leather loafers.
"Dr. Sloan," Alex muttered, his spine stiffening defensively as he stepped back from Izzie, though his jaw remained defiantly jutted out. "I was just—"
"On-call room four?" Mark asked.
His voice was terrifyingly calm, smooth as silk and cold as liquid nitrogen. He pulled his hands from his pockets, slowly rolling up the cuffs of his long-sleeved navy scrub shirt to expose thick, vascular forearms.
"Excuse me?" Alex blinked.
"You mentioned on-call room four," Mark murmured, taking a deliberate, measured step forward. His hazel eyes locked onto Alex's face with a heavy, clinical detachment that made the younger resident’s pupils instantly dilate with instinctual panic. "I’m just curious, Karev. Was that before or after you failed your clinical boards? Because if you have the mental bandwidth to take nostalgic inventory of my wife's past, you surely have enough bandwidth to prep the burn debridements down in trauma bay three."
"I'm on general surgery today," Alex said, though his voice cracked slightly.
"Not anymore," Mark said softly, closing the remaining distance until he was towering over Alex, his chest an inch from Alex’s shoulder. "I just traded Bailey an assist on a complex transverse rectus abdominis flap for your miserable services. You report to the basement. You will scrub the necrotic skin off third-degree burn patients until midnight. If you speak to Dr. Stevens again—if you look in her general direction, if you breathe the same recycled air within a five-foot radius of her body—I will have your residency transferred to a psychiatric clinic in rural Alaska. Am I making myself entirely transparent?"
Alex swallowed hard. His face burned with pure, humiliated rage, but there was no countermove. Mark Sloan was an internationally renowned department head; Alex was an intern who had barely scraped through his exams.
"Yes, sir," Alex choked out.
"Get out of my sight," Mark said.
Alex turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway, his clogs squeaking furiously against the linoleum until the stairwell door slammed shut behind him.
The corridor fell deathly quiet, save for the distant hum of the ventilation shafts.
Izzie let out a shaky, trembling exhale, her shoulders sagging against the lockers. "Mark... you shouldn't have done that. Bailey is going to notice, and the rumor mill is already—"
Mark didn't let her finish.
He lunged forward, grabbed her by the wrist, and spun her around, hauling her down the hall with long, relentless strides.
"Mark!" Izzie squeaked, stumbling slightly to match his furious pace. "Where are we going? I have rounds! I have charts!"
"Screw rounds," Mark growled, his grip unyielding, warm and firm against her skin. "And screw charts."
He dragged her toward the heavy fire door at the end of the hall, shoved it open, and took the concrete service stairs two at a time, pulling her up toward the fourth floor.
"Mark, what is wrong with you?!" she demanded, breathless, her heart slamming against her ribs as she stared at the broad expanse of his back.
He didn't answer until they hit the fourth-floor landing. He shoved open the door, marched her down the dim, quiet corridor that housed the administrative archives, and stopped dead in front of a heavy wooden door marked with a plastic white sign: **ON-CALL ROOM 4**.
Mark twisted the brass knob, shoved the door open, pulled Izzie inside by the waist, and slammed the door shut behind them.
The lock engaged with a sharp, heavy *click*.
The room was pitch-black for half a second before Mark slapped the overhead switch, flooding the cramped space with harsh, yellow light.
It was the standard Seattle Grace shoebox: a single metal bunk bed pushed against a concrete wall, a stained mattress covered in scratchy, hospital-issue blue sheets, a dented bedside locker, and a faint smell of stale laundry detergent and bleach.
Mark turned around. His chest was heaving beneath his navy scrubs. The easy, playful smirk that usually defined his handsome face was completely gone, incinerated by a dark, volatile fury that made Izzie’s stomach drop straight into her pelvis.
"Mark," she whispered, backing up until the small of her back hit the thin mattress of the lower bunk. "You're... you're jealous."
"Damn right I’m jealous," Mark snarled, stalking toward her like a caged animal. "I am out of my mind with it. You think I want to hear that little punk bragging about having you in this room? You think I’m going to walk through this damn hospital knowing other men think they have a claim on you?"
"Nobody has a claim on me!" Izzie cried, her voice climbing with that classic, frantic Stevens intensity, her hands flying out defensively. "Alex was months ago! It was a mistake! It was a sad, pathetic, emotionally stunted mistake that happened before I lost my mind and before Denny died and before—"
Mark grabbed her by the lapels of her lab coat, yanking her forward until her chest collided with his.
"I don't care about the before," Mark rasped, his eyes burning into hers, heavy with raw, suffocating possessiveness. "I care about the now. You’re wearing my five-carat diamond on your finger. You signed my napkin. You sleep in my bed, you eat at my table, and you carry my name. You are *mine*, Isobel."
A wild, breathless shiver ripped through Izzie’s entire body.
Her domestic instincts, her anxiety, her chronic habit of over-thinking—every single neurotic filter in her brain disintegrated under the sheer, blistering heat radiating from him. She had spent years begging men to fight for her, begging Alex to look at her, begging Denny to stay alive.
And here was Mark Sloan, a magnificent, arrogant titan of a man, ready to burn down a surgical wing just because another guy dared to mention her name in an on-call room.
"Prove it, then," Izzie whispered, her chin lifting, a defiant, intoxicating dare dancing in her bright blue eyes. "Erase him, Sloan."
A low, feral growl tore from Mark's throat.
He shoved her backward onto the bunk.
The rusted springs screamed under their combined weight as Mark climbed over her, his massive frame pinning her down into the thin, blue hospital mattress. He didn't bother with romance. He didn't bother with finesse.
His large hands seized the lapels of her white lab coat and ripped it down her arms, tossing it into the corner of the room where it hit the linoleum floor in a crumpled heap. Next came her stethoscope, ripped from her neck and flung against the wall with a metallic clatter.
"Rule three, wife," Mark growled against her lips, his heavy weight pressing between her thighs, his knee violently forcing her legs apart. "Mind-blowing. Uninhibited. Complete physical consumption."
"Rule two," Izzie gasped, her fingers tangling frantically into his thick, silver-dusted hair, pulling him down to her mouth. "Active baby-making protocol. No barriers, Sloan. Don't you dare use a barrier."
"I’m never wearing a barrier with you again," he snarled, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted of pure, untamed violence.
His tongue forced its way past her teeth, deep, hot, and commanding, taking everything she had to give. Izzie whimpered into his mouth, arching her spine off the mattress, her hips instinctively rolling upward to meet the hard, heavy ridge pressing against the front of his scrubs.
Mark broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and grabbed the hem of her ceil-blue scrub top with both hands. With a sharp, furious jerk, he yanked it straight over her head.
Her scrub cap came off with it, sending a cascade of thick, golden blonde waves tumbling across the gray pillow.
Izzie was wearing a pale pink lace bra—delicate, expensive, completely impractical for a twelve-hour surgical shift. Her breasts spilled over the scalloped edges, the pink nipples visible through the sheer fabric, peaking hard against the cold air of the room.
Mark froze for a split second, staring down at her. His pupils were so blown that his hazel irises were reduced to thin rings of amber fire.
"You wore this under your scrubs?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly purr. "To work?"
"I dressed for my husband," Izzie panted, her cheeks blazing, her hands running down his broad chest, digging her nails into the dense muscle beneath his shirt. "I knew you’d find me eventually."
"You're a menace, Stevens," Mark muttered, his hands moving to the front clasp of the lace bra. With a flick of his long, surgical fingers, the clasp popped open.
Her breasts fell free, pale, full, and heavy.
Mark didn't hesitate. He buried his face between them, groaning as he inhaled the scent of vanilla lotion and warm, female skin. He dragged his tongue up the slope of her left breast, taking the hardened nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud until Izzie cried out, her back bowing off the bunk.
"Mark—oh, God—"
"Quiet," he commanded, his hand coming up to firmly cup her jaw, his thumb pressing hard against her lips. "You scream, and Bailey comes knocking. You want the Chief to see what I’m doing to his favorite resident?"
Izzie sucked his thumb into her mouth, biting down gently on the calloused pad, her eyes blazing with wanton, reckless heat. "Do your worst, Sloan."
Mark let out a dark chuckle. He pulled his thumb from her mouth and grabbed the drawstring of her scrub pants. In one fluid, brutal motion, he untied the knot and dragged the pants down her hips, along with her matching pink lace panties.
He didn't bother taking them off completely; he yanked them down to her knees, trapping her legs wide open.
Izzie was completely exposed to the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light of on-call room four. Her pale thighs were parted, glistening with clear, slick moisture that clung to her folds, completely drenched with need.
Mark’s gaze dropped between her legs, and a dark, triumphant smirk cut across his features.
"Look at that," Mark whispered, his fingers tracing the wet slit of her entrance, gathering the slick heat on his knuckles. "Dripping for me. Karev never made you this wet in his life, did he?"
"No," Izzie sobbed honestly, her hips bucking upward, desperately seeking the pressure of his hand. "Never, Mark. Never like this."
"Say it," he demanded, sliding two thick fingers deep inside her tight, scalding channel.
Izzie choked on a scream, her nails sinking into the denim of his scrubs as he began to ruthlessly pump his fingers, stretching her open while his thumb hammered against her swollen clitoris.
"Say who owns this room, Isobel," Mark growled, leaning down, his scruff scraping violently against her neck.
"You!" she cried, tossing her head wildly against the blue sheets. "You own it! It’s yours, Mark! Please—please, I need you inside me—"
Mark ripped his scrub pants down with a single, violent yank of his left hand.
His cock sprang free, thick, heavy, and pulsing violently, the dark head slick with pre-cum. He didn't waste a second. He gripped the base of his shaft, positioned the flared head directly against her dripping opening, and drove his hips forward with brutal, unyielding force.
Izzie’s mouth opened in a silent, paralyzed scream.
He stretched her to the absolute limit, burying himself to the hilt in one single, devastating stroke that knocked the breath completely out of her lungs. The springs beneath the mattress groaned loudly as his pelvis slammed flush against hers, his pubic bone bruising against hers.
"Christ, you’re tight," Mark groaned through clenched teeth, his entire body locking up as her inner walls clamped down around him like an iron vise. He buried his face in her golden hair, his chest heaving against her bare breasts. "Every damn time... it’s like taking you for the first time."
"Move," Izzie begged, her legs hooked tightly over his hips, pulling him even deeper into her core. "Mark, move, please, I’m dying—"
Mark pulled back until only the tip of his head remained inside her soaking heat, and then drove back in with punishing, rhythmic power.
*Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.*
The old metal bunk began to rattle violently against the concrete wall.
Mark set a ferocious, unrelenting cadence, his hands gripping her waist so tightly that his fingers left red imprints on her pale skin. Every thrust was deep, bottoming out against her cervix, sending blinding, white-hot bolts of electricity shooting through her nervous system.
Izzie was writhing beneath him, completely untethered from reality. The sterile smells of the hospital vanished, replaced entirely by the musky, intoxicating scent of sweat, sex, and raw male dominance.
She reached up, clawing at his back, feeling the corded muscles knotting and shifting beneath his skin as he pounded into her.
"You're mine," Mark rasped in her ear, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, faster, snapping her hips against the mattress with every stroke. "This room is mine. This bed is mine. Every damn square inch of this hospital is mine now, Stevens."
"Yours," she sobbed, tears of pure, overwhelming pleasure leaking from the corners of her tightly shut eyes. "All yours—Mark, I’m coming—I can't—"
"Come for me, wife," he ordered, his hand reaching between their slammed bodies, his thumb finding her clitoris and grinding in tight, agonizing circles.
The friction was too much. The universe imploded behind Izzie’s eyelids.
A violent, shattering climax ripped through her, seizing her pelvic floor with brutal intensity. Her vaginal walls convulsed violently around his shaft, milking him, trapping him in a vise of pure, scalding heat.
Mark lost his mind.
He threw his head back, letting out a low, guttural roar that vibrated against the concrete walls. His hips pumped four more savage, frantic times, driving into her as deep as humanly possible, and then he unloaded completely.
Wave after wave of thick, hot come shot deep into her womb, flooding her with an intensity that made his entire muscular frame shudder violently. He collapsed onto her chest, burying his face in the curve of her neck, panting heavily as his seed filled her to overflowing.
For three long minutes, the only sound in on-call room four was the wheezing of the air conditioner and the desperate, synchronized gasping of two surgeons trying to pull oxygen back into their collapsed lungs.
Izzie’s arms remained wrapped tightly around Mark’s neck, her fingers stroking the soft hair at the base of his skull. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest.
Slowly, Mark lifted his head.
His hair was a glorious, disheveled mess. His scruff was reddened from her skin, and his hazel eyes were heavy, sated, but burning with a smug, arrogant satisfaction that was completely incorrigible.
"Well," Mark whispered, his lips brushing against her swollen lower lip. "Consider on-call room four officially condemned, renovated, and permanently rezoned."
Izzie let out a weak, breathless laugh, her body still humming with residual tremors. "You are completely insane, Dr. Sloan."
"I’m thorough, Mrs. Sloan," he corrected, pulling slowly out of her with a wet, sticky slide that made them both hiss. "Which brings me to my next clinical concern."
Izzie blinked up at him, wiping a strand of blonde hair from her forehead. "Your next what?"
Mark rolled off her, standing up, unbothered by his nakedness under the fluorescent bulb. He wiped himself down with a paper towel from the dispenser, then pulled his scrub pants back up and tied the drawstring with casual efficiency.
"We have on-call rooms on the third floor," Mark said, checking his Rolex. "And the second-floor pediatric wing. And the basement trauma annex."
Izzie’s jaw dropped. "Mark, no. We are not—"
"We are," Mark stated, grabbing her scrub pants off the floor and tossing them into her lap. "We are conducting a comprehensive, hospital-wide topographical survey. I’m not leaving a single room untouched. Put your pants on, Stevens. We have an itinerary."
***
Forty-five minutes later, the door to the fifth-floor pediatric on-call room clicked shut.
This room was significantly nicer than the fourth floor—it had actual carpeting, a slightly larger bunk bed with a fresh quilt, and an en-suite bathroom with a sink.
Izzie was pressed flat against the wood of the locked door, her hands splayed wide against the panels to steady herself.
Her scrub pants and panties were draped over the nearby sink. Mark stood behind her, his large, heavy body plastered against her back, his hands gripping her hips and tilting her pelvis upward at an agonizingly perfect angle.
He was inside her again.
Relentless. Deep. Ruthless.
"Mark—please—" Izzie gasped, her forehead resting against the cool wood of the door, her toes curling inside her white clogs. "Someone is going to hear—Dr. Robbins is right down the hall—"
"Let Arizona listen," Mark growled into the shell of her ear, his teeth nipping at the sensitive lobe as his hips slammed rhythmically into her rear. "Maybe she’ll learn something about proper bedside manner."
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
Every thrust drove Izzie’s chest against the wooden door, the vibrations rattling the brass handle.
He was unstoppable. His stamina was an absolute, terrifying biological marvel. He had pinned her against the door the moment they entered, lifting one of her legs over his hip, and had buried himself back inside her drenched, swollen heat without giving her a single second to catch her breath.
"You like it when I’m jealous, don't you?" Mark murmured, his hand sliding around to the front of her body, cupping her full breast through her scrub top, kneading the soft weight possessively. "You like knowing I’d take this entire hospital apart with my bare hands if anyone tried to take you from me."
"Yes," Izzie whimpered, completely devoid of pride, her head falling back against his shoulder. "Yes, God, yes, Mark—"
"Good," he rasped, picking up the tempo, his strokes becoming deep, brutal, and fast, slamming into the sweet spot that sent shocks of blinding heat through her lower abdomen. "Because I’m not sharing. Not a smile. Not a laugh. Not a single damn thing. You’re my wife, Isobel. Contractually, legally, and physically."
Izzie’s nails clawed at the wood of the door. The friction inside her was incandescent. Her body, already hyper-sensitized from the first round, broke instantly under the sheer force of his assault.
"Mark, now—please—I’m slipping—"
"I’ve got you," he roared, his hands locking onto her hip bones like vices, pulling her back against his groin with punishing force.
He drove in three more times, bottoming out so hard the door rattled on its hinges, and then stiffened completely. His cock expanded inside her, pulsing with violent, scalding urgency as he came again, spilling another hot, heavy wave of seed deep into her trembling, spasming canal.
Izzie cried out against the wood, her second climax ripping through her with such intensity that her knees completely buckled.
Mark caught her before she could hit the floor.
He scooped her up into his arms, carrying her over to the bunk bed, and laid her down on the quilt. He collapsed beside her, pulling her curled body against his chest, their legs tangled together, their breathing filling the quiet room like a dual engine cooling down.
Izzie buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating, salty scent of him. Her entire body felt melted, liquid, and entirely reclaimed.
"Two down," Izzie murmured weakly, a delirious, exhausted smile touching her swollen lips. "How many more rooms are on your ridiculous itinerary, Dr. Sloan?"
Mark chucked softly, his hand lazily tracing the curve of her bare hip, his fingers coming to rest right over the heavy diamond on her left hand.
"As many as it takes, Blondie," Mark whispered, kissing the top of her head with a tenderness that completely contrasted the ferocity of the last hour. "As many as it takes to make sure this whole damn place knows who you belong to."
***
At 4:15 PM, the surgical locker room was relatively deserted.
Izzie stood in front of the full-length mirror, frantically attempting to repair the catastrophic wreckage of her appearance.
Her lips were red and swollen, looking like she had been attacked by a swarm of bees. Her blonde hair, though pulled back into a fresh ponytail, had an unruly, wild volume that no amount of hairspray could tame. Her scrub top was hopelessly wrinkled, and there was a faint, faint purple shadow beginning to bloom on the side of her neck, just beneath her collar.
"I look like I was hit by a truck," Izzie muttered to herself, desperately dabbing concealer over the hickey. "A very handsome, six-foot-two, narcissistic truck."
The door to the locker room swung open.
Meredith Grey walked in, carrying a clipboard, looking completely drained from a six-hour bowel resection. She opened her locker, tossed her stethoscope inside, and then turned toward the mirror to wash her hands.
Meredith stopped dead.
Her eyes drifted from Izzie’s flushed face, to her swollen lips, down to the furious scrubbing motion Izzie was applying to her neck, and finally to the slight, unmistakable wobble in Izzie’s stance.
"Izzie," Meredith said slowly, her voice dripping with pure, deadpan exhaustion. "Where have you been since noon?"
"Rounding," Izzie said instantly, her voice pitching up half an octave. "On patients. In the surgical wing. Very thorough rounds. Lots of... post-op ambulation."
Meredith narrowed her eyes. She pointed a finger at the side of Izzie’s neck. "You have a bruise on your jugular."
"It’s an allergic reaction! To the laundry detergent in the scrub supply!"
"Laundry detergent doesn't leave teeth marks, Izzie."
Izzie froze, the concealer stick hovering in mid-air. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper, more brilliant shade of crimson.
Before Izzie could concoct another wild, defensive lie, the door to the locker room opened again.
Cristina Yang walked in, eating a bag of vending-machine potato chips, looking entirely disgruntled.
"The plastics department is on fire," Cristina announced, crunching loudly. "Sloan just kicked Karev out of his OR, reassigned him to scrub bedpans in the basement for the rest of the week, and then vanished. Nobody can find him. Hunt is looking for him, Bailey is looking for him, and Webber is muttering about insubordination."
Cristina paused, glancing between Meredith and Izzie.
Her sharp, dark eyes immediately locked onto Izzie’s swollen mouth, her wrinkled scrubs, and the frantic application of makeup.
Cristina slowly stopped chewing. A wide, horrifyingly wicked smirk spread across her face.
"No," Cristina breathed, pointing a chip at Izzie. "No way. You didn't."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Izzie said stiffly, snapping the cap back onto her concealer and shoving it into her locker.
"You did!" Cristina crowed, letting out a sharp bark of laughter. "You and McSteamy! In the hospital! On shift!"
"It was a private marital consultation!" Izzie snapped, her chin lifting with that fierce, stubborn pride that always made her defend her ridiculous choices. "We are legally married! We have a contract! Rule number five clearly states that the Sloan override is applicable during lunch hours!"
Meredith pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, suffering groan. "There are rules? You people wrote *rules*?"
"Yes, we wrote rules!" Izzie declared, slamming her locker door shut, the massive diamond flashing aggressively under the lights. "And for your information, Mark Sloan is an attentive, devoted, passionately dedicated husband who takes his marital vows very seriously!"
"He took your clothes off in an on-call room, Stevens," Cristina laughed, tossing another chip into her mouth. "That’s not devotion. That’s Sloan being Sloan."
"It is devotion!" Izzie protested, though a brilliant, private smile broke through her indignant expression. "He banished Alex to the basement because Alex looked at me wrong. If that’s not romance, Cristina, I don't know what is."
Cristina rolled her eyes. "Romance is a warm OR and a solo heart transplant. You’re insane."
"Maybe I am," Izzie beamed, her blue eyes shining with absolute, unapologetic triumph. "But I have a commercial eight-burner Viking range waiting for me at home, and my husband is currently making dinner reservations at the Space Needle."
She smoothed down her wrinkled scrubs, picked up her clipboard, and marched toward the door with her head held high, completely unbothered by the fact that her legs were shaking like newborn deer limbs.
"Have a lovely evening, ladies," Izzie called over her shoulder. "Some of us have a domestic schedule to maintain."
***
By 8:30 PM, the rain was pounding against the vaulted windows of the Victorian on Queen Anne Hill.
Inside, the house was warm, smelling of cedarwood, beeswax candles, and the faint, sweet aroma of the blackberry tarts Izzie had baked that morning.
Mark sat on the plush leather sofa in the living room, wearing a soft gray cashmere sweater and dark sweatpants, an open surgical journal resting on his lap. He had an ice pack resting casually against his right knuckle—a remnant of a particularly aggressive door-closing maneuver from earlier that afternoon.
The heavy pocket doors between the kitchen and the living room slid open.
Izzie walked in, holding two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. She had shed her scrubs, changing into an oversized cream-colored knit cardigan that swallowed her small frame, paired with soft flannel shorts that left her long, shapely legs bare. Her blonde hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders in soft, untamed waves.
She walked over to the sofa, set the mugs down on the reclaimed wood coffee table, and curled up beside him, tucking her bare feet under his muscular thigh.
Mark immediately closed his journal and tossed it aside. He reached out, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her effortlessly against his side until her head rested comfortably on his chest.
"Tea, Dr. Sloan," Izzie murmured, tapping the ceramic mug. "To calm your homicidal tendencies."
"I don't have homicidal tendencies," Mark muttered, taking a sip of the hot tea. "I have territorial boundaries. There’s a distinct legal difference."
"You banished Alex to the burn unit for a week."
"He was insolent. He needed character development."
"You dragged me through four different wings of the hospital like a caveman dragging a deer carcass."
Mark looked down at her, a slow, devastating smirk curling the corner of his lips. "And did the deer carcass complain?"
Izzie looked up into his hazel eyes. The arrogance was there, as always, but beneath it was that deep, steady warmth that had made her feel safe from the very second she signed her name on a paper cocktail napkin at Joe’s.
She leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the sharp line of his jaw.
"No," she admitted softly, her voice barely louder than the rain against the glass. "The deer carcass was very thoroughly satisfied."
Mark let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her even closer into his heat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded, slightly crumpled piece of white paper, tossing it onto the coffee table beside the tea mugs.
Izzie squinted at it.
It was the original cocktail napkin from the Emerald City Bar, covered in their drunken, blue-ink scrawl.
Under Mark’s terms, someone had freshly penned a small, neat checkmark next to:
**3. Mind-Blowing, Unrestricted Physical Relations.**
Izzie laughed, reaching out to trace the ink with her fingertip. "You checked it off?"
"Preliminary phase complete," Mark said, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Eighty-two days left, Isobel. Tomorrow, we start working on the dinner party guest list. Shepherd’s coming over whether he likes it or not, and I want him weeping over your braised short ribs by eight o’clock."
Izzie smiled, closing her eyes, letting the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat lull her into deep, profound contentment.
The drafty attic in Meredith’s house was a distant, faded memory. The cold, sterile loneliness that had haunted her for months was completely gone, incinerated by the ferocious, unapologetic fire of the man holding her.
"Eighty-two days, Sloan," Izzie whispered, her fingers curling over his warm chest. "You better buy more short ribs."
"Consider it done, wife," Mark murmured, kissing her forehead. "Consider it done."