The OB wing was unrecognizably cheerful—streamers, balloons, a pastel avalanche of onesies and tiny socks. Someone from Peds had set up a painting table for decorating baby clothes, and, somehow, Mark Sloan had ended up sitting right next to you, brush in hand.

He was unusually focused, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he painted a tiny leather jacket on a newborn-sized onesie. “Coolest baby ever,” it said in gold across the back.

You tried not to watch him, but he kept glancing your way—waiting for a reaction. Fishing for it.

—“Not bad, huh?” he finally said, holding it up for you to see, eyes bright. “I think it’d look even better on our kid.”

The comment hit like a slow burn. Your brush stilled mid-stroke.

He grinned, playful but not joking. Not entirely.

—“I mean,” he went on, tone casual, “good genes, great hair, top-tier sass. Imagine the potential.”

You looked at him—really looked—and there was something in his smile that wasn’t just teasing. Something warmer, more open.

He turned back to the onesie, adding tiny aviator glasses to the design.

—“We’d be the dangerously attractive parent duo. Think about it.”

And just like that, he passed you a second onesie and a paintbrush.

—“Come on. Humor me.”