Moonpagesdani

“somewhere between moonlight and margins, dani writes what silence won’t say”

[moonpagesdani]

His Voice Felt Like Home

Pairing: Jackson Avery x Female Reader

Genre: Fluff, comfort, emotional softness

POV: You

You don’t cry often.

Not at work, not in public, and definitely not in the middle of a stairwell at Grey Sloan Memorial with your scrub top stained and your chest tight from holding everything in all day.

But today broke you a little.

Too many bad calls. Too many helpless moments. Too much pretending you were okay when all you wanted was for someone to see through it.

You lean against the wall, head tilted back, eyes shut. Just breathing. Just trying not to fall apart.

And then you hear his voice.

“Hey. I’ve been looking for you.”

Jackson.

The sound of it—smooth, low, so familiar—cuts through the noise in your head like sunlight through clouds. Your eyes open slowly, and there he is. Hair a little messy, stethoscope around his neck, concern written all over his ridiculously handsome face.

You try to speak, to shrug it off, to say something like “I’m fine.”

But the moment he steps closer and really looks at you, that wall you’ve built all day cracks just a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just reaches for your hand—gently, like he knows what this moment is. Like he’s been here before.

And you let him take it.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Or don’t. Just… let me be here.”

You don’t say much. Just a whisper: “Rough day.”

He nods, eyes steady. “Yeah. I figured.”

And then, like he’s done it a thousand times before, he pulls you into his arms.

You melt into him almost instantly, face pressed against the soft cotton of his scrub top, hands fisting the fabric like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

And he talks—low and slow, like a quiet lullaby just for you.

“You did everything you could today. You always do. And if anyone gets to fall apart sometimes, it’s you. You don’t have to be the strong one right now, okay? You’ve got me.”

His voice wraps around you, grounding and familiar, like warm blankets and soft lights and every little thing that’s ever made you feel safe.

You close your eyes. Just breathe. Just listen.

Because it’s true—there’s something about the way Jackson speaks to you. Something in the way his voice dips when he’s trying to comfort you, or softens when he says your name. Something that pulls you back when your world feels like it’s spinning out.

You stay like that for a while. No one else around. Just you, and him, and the echo of his voice reminding you that you’re not alone.

That you never were.

And that maybe… this—arms wrapped around you, words spoken just for your heart—this is what home really feels like.

[moonpagesdani]

Yours, Always

Pairing: Mark Sloan x Female Reader

Genre: Soft romance, comfort, devoted love

POV: You

Mark’s apartment is quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels earned—like the world finally gave you both a break. The rain taps lightly against the windows, Seattle doing what it does best, but you’re warm, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts that hangs too low on your hands and smells like him.

He’s in the kitchen, barefoot and half-distracted as he makes two mugs of tea, because you’d mentioned offhand that you liked it before bed. That was weeks ago, but Mark remembered. He always remembers the things that matter to you.

And when he turns around and sees you curled up on the end of his couch, legs tucked under, blanket draped across your lap—he smiles like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be looking at.

“Still warm,” he says, handing you the mug with careful fingers, lingering just a second too long. “Just like you like it.”

You look up at him, unable to stop the soft pull of a smile. “Thanks.”

He sits beside you, closer than necessary, like he always does. You can feel the heat of him through the blanket, the steady hum of his presence grounding you. He doesn’t need to touch you to make you feel safe—but he does anyway. His hand slips gently onto your knee, thumb brushing back and forth like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

The quiet settles again.

And then he says it.

Like it’s simple. Like it’s truth.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You blink, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brows drawn just a little. That look—the one he only gives you when it’s just the two of you and he doesn’t have to be “McSteamy” or hold the weight of the hospital on his back.

He’s just Mark.

And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Surer.

“I know I’m not the easiest person to love. I mess up. I run my mouth. I don’t always get it right. But when it comes to you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone else. I haven’t since the day you walked into that ER and rolled your eyes at me.”

You laugh under your breath, heart swelling at the memory.

He smiles too, but then his expression shifts—earnest, steady.

“I’m yours,” he says. “Always.”

You don’t need some big speech. Or fireworks. Or perfect timing. All you need is this—him, here, meaning every word.

You set your mug aside and lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder as his arm curls around your waist like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

You don’t have to say it back—he already knows.

But you say it anyway, because he deserves to hear it.

“Always,” you whisper.

And in that quiet room, wrapped in each other, nothing has ever felt more right.

[moonpagesdani]

You Were the Calm in His Chaos

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Female Reader

Genre: Soft comfort, subtle romance, emotional intimacy

POV: You

You find him outside the station just after sundown, leaning against his truck like the day has wrung him out and left him to dry. His shoulders are stiff, jaw clenched, arms crossed like he’s holding himself together out of sheer will.

Another long shift. Another tough call. You don’t need the details—you’ve seen that look before.

The Tim Bradford wall is up. But not for you.

You don’t say anything at first. Just walk over, close enough for him to feel your presence before you speak.

“Rough day?” you ask gently.

His eyes flick to you. That familiar mix of exhaustion and restrained emotion is there, swirling just under the surface. But when he sees you, something shifts. His shoulders don’t exactly relax, but they stop bracing like he’s waiting for a hit.

“Rough week,” he mutters, voice low.

You nod, stepping closer until your arm brushes his. “Want to talk about it?”

He hesitates, but you don’t press. With Tim, you’ve learned it’s never about saying the right thing—it’s about being there, being steady, giving him space until he chooses to fill it.

After a pause, he sighs. “Kid. Domestic case. We got there too late.”

You look at him. His eyes are on the ground now, voice flat. Not emotionless—just buried deep, like he’s trying not to let it crack through. You know how much those calls weigh on him. He never says it, not directly, but you can feel it in the silence after, in the way he carries himself heavier than before.

So you reach out, hand brushing his arm before you slide it down to hold his hand. He lets you. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away.

You feel his fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. “You did what you could.”

“Not enough,” he says under his breath, and that breaks your heart more than anything.

But then he looks at you—really looks at you—and in that second, the storm behind his eyes dulls. He still looks tired. But not lost.

“You always do this,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Show up. Make things quiet, even when everything else is chaos.”

Your brow furrows, but before you can speak, he shakes his head with the smallest of smiles—more a flicker than anything full.

“You’re the calm,” he says simply. “Mine.”

It’s not a grand confession. It’s not fireworks. But coming from Tim Bradford, it’s everything.

You squeeze his hand, stepping in close enough that your shoulder rests lightly against his chest. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans just slightly into you—like even the smallest part of him knows he’s safe here.

There’s traffic behind you. The murmur of police chatter. The buzz of street lights.

But none of it matters.

Right now, you’re just standing beside him while the world keeps spinning—and for once, he’s letting someone slow it down.

[moonpagesdani]

The Way He Looked at You Like You Were Home

Pairing: Mark Sloan x female reader

Genre: Fluff, comfort, slow-burn affection

POV: You

The hospital hallways are quieter than usual when you find yourself back on the surgical floor after a long, draining shift. Most of the staff have filtered out for the night, save for a few murmurs from the nurse’s station and the steady beep of monitors echoing through the walls.

You just want to breathe. Maybe even sit somewhere no one will ask you about the trauma case in OR 2, or whether you’ve eaten. You’re too tired to lie convincingly.

So you go to the one place that always seems to offer a pause in the noise—Mark Sloan’s on-call room.

You don’t knock. You never really have to. He’s sprawled across the lower bunk, flipping lazily through a surgical journal, hair a little tousled, scrub top untucked, like the world doesn’t dare stress him the way it does you.

His eyes lift when you step inside, and there’s that grin—slow, warm, knowing.

“You look like you’ve been run over by a gurney,” he says, voice low and smooth, but not unkind.

“Feel like it, too.”

You drop into the chair across from him, letting your head fall back against the wall. Silence hangs for a minute, but it’s not heavy. It’s… easy.

Mark closes the journal, setting it aside. “Rough day?”

“Long surgeries. Too much blood. No time to breathe.”

He nods, eyes still on you. It should be unnerving—the way he watches you—but it never is. Because he doesn’t look at you like you’re a mess, or like you should’ve done better in that last consult. He looks at you like none of that matters right now.

Like he’s glad you’re here.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He doesn’t push. He never does. Instead, he shifts over and pats the empty space beside him on the bunk. “Then don’t. Come here.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. But because moments like this with Mark have always felt like walking a fine line—friendship with undertones neither of you name out loud.

Still, your feet move before your brain catches up.

You lie down next to him, barely enough space between your shoulders to call it distance. He’s warm, solid, and quiet. Your eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, you’re just breathing again.

Then, gently—like he doesn’t want to scare you off—his hand finds yours. No teasing. No grin.

Just fingers that brush against yours like they’ve been waiting all day.

When you glance up at him, his gaze is already on you.

And that’s when you see it.

That look.

The one you’ve caught flickers of in the past, in stolen glances across the OR or lingering moments at Joe’s. But here, now, with no one watching—he’s not hiding it.

It’s the look that says he sees every tired part of you and doesn’t think less of it. That somehow, even when the whole hospital pulls you in twenty different directions, this is where you come back to.

It’s the way he looks at you like you’re home.

—

The end. This was my first imagine. Hope you all liked it ❤️