Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟰𝟱 perfect strangers

𝙓𝙇𝙑.
PERFECT STRANGERS

──────

NEW YORK

I LIKED MOMENTS of peace.

They were hard to come by in New York, but when they happened, I savoured them.

Lying in between sheets and listening to the city outside. Of course, it was never silent, not in the city that never sleeps— but sometimes, when the world was locked tight outside, the curtains were drawn and the subway cars were in irregular patterns, it was nice to pretend. It also helped when I had a day that didn't demand to be addressed. 

Even better: one of the rare times that Mark and I woke up together.

The comforter shifted and a kiss was pressed against my shoulder blade, my eyelids fluttering at the sensation. A sound escaped my lips: a breath that echoed the exhaustion that never seemed to leave my bones. 

There was a brief moment where the world seemed to suspend, everything stopped turning. I could feel the air on my bare skin and the passing of time as it caressed my mind. It was quiet. I could hear my heart in its chest and the light breath that passed through my nose. 

I could feel Mark as he lingered against my skin, his fingers come up to gently trace my spine.

"Good morning," I said, my voice barely a breath.

My eyelids fluttered opened. 

My chin was buried in my pillow, chest pressed into the mattress. Mark was watching me, propped up on his elbows and just watching. Watching as I lifted my head tiredly, giving him a gentle smile. There was something about moments that felt so fleeting and fragile— he leant over, his lips against my arm.

"It is now that you're awake," I couldn't stop the light scoff that fell through my lips at the cliche. I shook my head, pressing my face back into my pillow. I missed the smile that played on his face. "What? Was that not a good line?"

I chuckled, but it came out muffled and haphazard. When I raised my head again, he had his eyebrows raised and a look of bemusement on his face. I rolled my eyes, tilting my head to the side and repressing the urge to ruffle his hair. His voice was a low rasp, still heavy with sleep. His voice was barely audible, but I could feel it. 

Every syllable, every chuckle, every breath. I felt his smile against my skin, the movement swamped my body with warmth, with an undeniable feeling of comfort and sound. I watched as his lips upturned and his eyes sparkled, challenging me to answer.

"It was..." I turned my body to the side, facing him completely and propping my head up. His face was close to mine, eyes wandering over the way my lip twitched fondly. I feigned a disappointed sigh, shaking my head again. "Not your best."

A slight pout. "Really? I was pretty proud of that one."

I hummed lightly but in reality, my head was spinning from the look of such an expression on his face. "Yeah, I think you might be losing your charm."

"Never," he denied and then he kissed my cheek. "I don't think that's possible."

Secretly, I agreed with him. There was something so magnetic about him. Just a touch and my head spun. My hand appeared from beneath the covers and I pressed my palm into his cheek, smiling as he leant into it almost without realising. 

He was just lying there, with nothing but a sheet covering his bottom half and a tousled hairstyle that had me feeling a certain something. The sight of it was enough to make my heart stop, but even so I just let out a breathy laugh.