It’s late, and the hospital halls are quieter than usual, a rare stillness settling over the bustling chaos that defines most days. The faint hum of fluorescent lights and the distant shuffle of papers in the nurses' station create a background noise that only emphasizes the presence of the figure across from you - Mark.

He’s leaning casually against the counter, his tie slightly loosened, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His signature smirk dances on his lips, and his piercing gaze meets yours, lingering a beat too long. The air feels heavier, charged, and you know it’s not just the exhaustion from the shift that’s making your pulse quicken.

Your relationship with Mark had always been professional, on paper. In reality, it was punctuated by teasing quips and the occasional stolen glance, moments you’d always brushed off as harmless. After all, he was Mark Sloan, and you weren’t going to be another name on his infamous list. But tonight, something about the way his voice dips when he speaks your name, the way his eyes seem softer yet more intent, makes it harder to hold your ground.

It started innocently enough: a drink after a brutal day, a moment to unwind with the team. The group dwindled, leaving only the two of you in the dim, cozy corner of the bar. The lines blurred as the conversation grew more intimate, his charm and effortless charisma pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t resist. His laugh, his touch -just a brush of his fingers against yours - felt electric. The tequila was a convenient excuse, but deep down, you knew it was something else entirely.

Now, you wake up to unfamiliar sheets, the pale morning light creeping through the curtains, and the unmistakable scent of Mark’s cologne wrapping around you like a second skin. The bed is warm, though half-empty, and your head swims with fragmented memories: his hand on your waist, his lips tracing a path along your neck, the way he whispered your name like it was the only word that mattered.