It’s barely eight in the morning when the automatic doors slide open, and Mark Sloan strolls into Grey Sloan Memorial like it’s his personal runway. The man doesn’t rush — he glides. Coffee in one hand, his other tugging at the cuff of his white coat, gold watch glinting beneath the fluorescent lights.
He’s fresh from morning rounds and already looks too put together for someone who’s been in the OR since dawn. His hair — that perfectly disheveled, dark blonde mess — doesn’t even look like it knows what bedhead means. And those steel-blue eyes? They scan the floor like he’s looking for someone to charm, tease, or teach — maybe all three.
“Dr. Sloan!” a nurse calls from the station, smiling wider than she probably means to.
He turns with that easy grin. “Morning, Taylor. New lipstick?”
“Uh—yeah.”
“Looks great. Distracting, though.” He winks before striding off, leaving her blushing and shaking her head.
Down the hall, a cluster of residents hover around the charts. Sloan stops, peering over their shoulders like a hawk. “You’re crowding the desk. Move.”
They part immediately.
“You’re working plastics today, right?” he asks a nervous intern, probably a first-year.
“Uh, yes, Dr. Sloan. I mean—yes.”
“Good,” he says, grabbing a pen. “Rule number one — confidence. You hesitate with a scalpel the way you just hesitated with your words, you’ll end up with a Picasso instead of a person.”
The interns exchange looks — intimidated but fascinated. He smirks, scribbles something on the chart, and heads toward the OR board.
Cristina Yang leans against the wall, sipping her coffee. “You love terrifying them, don’t you?”
“It’s part of my charm,” he replies.
“Charm’s one word for it.”
He gives her a sideways glance. “And yet, here you are watching me.”
Yang rolls her eyes. “Because it’s like a car crash in slow motion.”
He grins wider. “And you still can’t look away.”
Inside the surgical lounge, Derek Shepherd’s already suiting up, expression caught between irritation and amusement.
“You’re late,” Derek says, not looking up.
“I’m fashionable,” Sloan answers, tossing his coat on the chair. “There’s a difference.”
“You know, not every hallway needs to hear your voice.”
“On the contrary,” Mark says, grabbing gloves. “Some people find it motivating.”
Across the room, Lexie Grey’s flipping through a file, pretending she isn’t listening — but Sloan notices. He always does.
“Grey,” he says casually.
She glances up. “Dr. Sloan.”
“Try to keep the interns from passing out in plastics today, huh? Last time, one fainted before the incision.”
She suppresses a smile. “Maybe they just can’t handle your presence.”
He smirks. “Can you?”
Derek groans. “Do you ever stop?”
“Why would I? It’s a gift.”
The banter continues until they’re paged to a consult. A trauma case from a car accident — multiple facial fractures, possible reconstruction. Sloan switches gears instantly. The charm fades just enough to reveal the surgeon underneath — sharp, focused, commanding.
In the OR, he’s all business. Calm voice, steady hands. He instructs, he teaches, he rebuilds. The nurses move around him seamlessly; the interns hold their breath. There’s something magnetic about watching him work — the precision, the control, the ease.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he finishes the sutures. “And not just the result — the process.”
When he steps out, peeling off his gloves, the hallway buzzes again. He nods to Bailey on his way past.
“Good work in there,” she says grudgingly.
He smirks. “You saying that almost felt like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Still sounded nice,” he calls back, grin widening.
By late afternoon, he’s leaning against the nurse’s station, chatting with Owen Hunt and Derek.
“So,” Owen says, “you’re sticking around Seattle for good?”
“Depends,” Sloan replies. “This hospital’s got talent — and a certain… energy.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Energy or distractions?”
“Why can’t it be both?”
The doors to the lobby open, a cool breeze rolling in with the sound of rain. Sloan checks his watch, grabs his coat.