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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.