". . . third time we've had to have this conversation, Dr. Finney, and I do not know how much clearer I can be about the severity of this situation. . ."

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico.

". . . can't prove it was you, but switching the colonoscopy training with a porn tape was extremely unprofessional . . ."

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico's. Face.

". . . seriously considering a formal reprimand for misconduct. And, honestly, that would be a shame, a waste of your talent and a disservice to the hospital . . ."

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico's. Exasperating. Hands.

". . . believe in your abilities, your skill with diagnostics, your passion for your patients. This has to be the last time. I'm warning you . . ."

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico's. Maddening. Voice.

". . . if I get the slightest indication that you're planning any more of these pranks then, despite my personal feelings about the matter, I will be forced to request . . ."

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico's. Infuriating. Body.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Must. Appear. To. Be. Contrite.

"Yes, sir." I nodded once.

Dr. Botstein exhaled through his nose in a way that reminded me of a horse. I had to bite the inside of my cheek.

Must. Not. Compare. Dr. Botstein. To. A. Horse.

He shook his head, his voice abruptly and unexpectedly adopting a softer, paternal tone. "I don't understand why you do it, Elizabeth. Your attitude mystifies me. I've never seen someone-with so much talent, who works so hard, who is so well respected and admired by staff and faculty-just want to throw it away like you seem to."

All at once I didn't have to appear contrite, because I felt contrite, ashamed. My gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry."

He waited until I met his glare again; his eyes searched mine. Abruptly, he leaned back in his desk chair and flicked his wrist, dismissing me with an impatient, irritated wave. "Leave."

I didn't wait to be told twice and closed the door to Dr. Botstein's office as softly as I could. Once safely in the hall I closed my eyes and released a frustrated yet quiet growl. I couldn't understand how Dr. Botstein ended up with the exploding latex gloves.

But, if I were honest with myself, the other reason for my frustration was that Nico didn't come back to the clinic room before I left. I was paged and had to leave Angelica and Rose before he returned. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye, and it was likely the last time I'd see him in person. I was perturbed.

Furthermore, I couldn't stop thinking about Nico Manganiello and his beautiful face, voice, and body. And his eyes. And his lips. And his- "How'd your meeting with your mentor go?" A voice that resembled nails on a chalkboard, only worse, sounded from my left. I contemplated pretending that I didn't hear her. However, almost immediately, I dismissed the idea. She was the type to pick and nitpick and prod until noticed.

"Hello, Meg."

"Hello, Elizabeth."

Meg was odious; nevertheless, we had a few things in common. Like me, she was younger than most second year residents. Also like me, she was fumbling through the concept of becoming a responsible adult at the age of twenty-six. Again-like me-she was trying to find her way outside the comfortable and safe confines of academia. Additionally, like me, she was medium height, had long, golden blonde hair and blue eyes.

Otherwise we were polar opposites in just about every regard.

Where she was polished and stylish, I was messy. Where she was meticulous with every blonde tendril and perfectly plucked eyebrow, I was haphazard and messy. Where she embraced and wielded her inner femme fetal with practiced proficiency-batting eyelashes and casting about comehither mojo-I just threw it all out there, wore a slutty dress, and was messy.

Putting it in Star Trek Voyager terms, I was the B'Elana Torres to her Seven of Nine.

I waited for a moment then opened just one eye. "Are you still here? No kittens to drown? Children to frighten? Can't locate that eye of newt you need?"

"Ha ha, very funny, Dr. Finney. One would think you'd be a bit more repentant after getting your ass chewed out."

I opened my other eye then proceeded to squint at her. "What do you know about that?"

Her smile was wicked, as usual, and I knew. In that moment I knew-Megalomaniac-Meg had been the one to rat me out.

I breathed through my nose in a way that reminded me of a horse. "How did you know?"

"I saw you take the box of gloves into the room, it's April Fool's day, the clinic room was assigned to Dr. Ken Miles. Honestly, Elizabeth, it doesn't take a genius to figure out you were planning a prank."

"What did you do?"

She shrugged. "I switched Dr. Botstein's clinic room assignment with Ken's."

I closed my eyes again, my head falling to the wall behind me. "Go away."

Dr. Ken Miles, my intended April Fool's Day victim, and I had been flirting for two years. He was very bad at it. His attempts usually ended with me flinching. He also had the habit of picking his nose when he was fairly certain no one was watching. He also drank coffee with a lot of cream and sugar or combined with ice-cream.

None of these were deal breakers, because I didn't want to date the guy. I wanted to hit that. Actually, I just wanted to hit something and soon.

I'd recently made up my mind and committed an unrepentant HIPAA violation when I scanned his last physical. He was disease free and had healthy cardiac and pulmonary systems. We would have a symbiotic and mutually beneficial relationship. It would suit me quite well.

"Oh, don't be a poor sport. You wanted to play an April Fool's Day joke on Ken-and, believe me, I completely get that-but I just couldn't pass up a chance to make your life uncomfortable."

"Why are you here?" I covered my face with my hands, rubbed my eyes. I decided my original plan of ignoring her held merit.

"I'm here because . . ." I heard her shuffle her feet, clear her throat. Finally, she continued, "So, I'm starting my research rounds next week."

I remained motionless, but opened my eyes; I didn't want to miss a moment of her discomfort.

She huffed. "I was told that a VIP patient came in today for the infusion study and that you met with them? Some kind of celebrity? Is this true?"

I shrugged noncommittally.

"Damn it, Elizabeth, will you just tell me who it is?"

I barely withheld a snort at her question. I fully admitted, when I scoffed I snorted. I felt strongly that scoffing should be accompanied by a sound that was scoff-worthy and, for me, snorting was that sound.

Her request for information-after openly admitting to me that she'd switched the clinic rooms-was very Meg-like. She didn't seem to comprehend the obvious, that her evil-doer admission would color my response.

"Ah-ah-ah. That would be a breach of patient confidentiality." I knew saying these words made me a hypocrite in light of my Dr. Ken Miles HIPAA violation, but I couldn't help it. She brought out the worst in me.

No way in hell or heck was I going to tell Meg about Nico. She would probably ask for an autograph or request a picture or propose a three-way. The way she spoke about celebrities was just strange. She called them by their first name, talked about what they did as though she knew them personally. It was weird.

"Oh, please." She rolled her blue eyes, crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm just going to find out next week. Why not just tell me now?"

I pushed away from the wall and faced her, my shoulders squared. "Aw, gee, Meg. I just can't pass up a chance to make your life uncomfortable."

My pager chose just that moment to buzz at my hip. It was one of those perfect-timing moments, where I'd just said something witty and lasting. With a smirk on my face I glanced at my pager and immediately frowned.

CRU rm 410 asap; VIP peds cg1605 cf iv I stared at the message.

Roughly translated, the message meant: please come to the Clinical Research Unit, room number 410 as soon as possible. A VIP pediatric patient has arrived for protocol number 1605, cystic fibrosis infusion study.

It was exactly the same message I'd been paged with earlier in the day, just before I walked in on Nico, Rose, and Angelica. My heart skipped two beats.

"What?" Meg's eyes moved between me and pager. "What is it?"

I didn't bother responding. Instead I turned away and walked in the direction of the staff elevators. I could feel her shooting daggers at my back.

Nico was the sole occupant in the room; Rose and Angelica were gone. He turned as I entered, and I stalled just inside the entrance. If being in a room with Nico-with his mother and niece as witnesses-was terrifying, then being in a room alone with Nico was alert level red.

Automatically I took a half step back, my wide eyes met his.

He spoke first. "Hi."

"Hi." I held my breath, pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. "Do you want me to get one of the nurses?"

Confusion flickered over his features. "What for?"

"I . . ." I held my breath again, searched my mind for an excuse to call in one of the research staff. "I thought that-I mean, it might be helpful, for your decision about the study, if you talked to one of the nurses who administer the infusions."

He shook his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "No. I want to talk to you."

My eyebrows shot upward. I'm sure I looked as dumb as I felt. "Me?"

"Yeah." He nodded slowly. "Come in. Shut the door."

Shut the door? Is he out of his mind?

I didn't move. I stood paralyzed with a Vulcan death grip on the door knob. We stared at each other.

Him-waiting for me to behave like a normal human being.

Me-waiting for him to evaporate and this nightmare to disappear.

"Elizabeth . . ." His mouth quirked to the side, his brow furrowing at my immobility; "Are you going to come in?"

"Yes." I didn't move.

Nico's smile widened, just a teasing of teeth behind divine lips, and he crossed the room until he stood directly in front of me. He reached for the door knob; his hand closed over mine. It was warm and sent a shock wave of awareness coursing up my arm. Through his movements, our hands together pushed the door closed.

"Come in." His voice was barely above a whisper. He was standing so close I could see the flecks of black and silver in his green eyes.

"Okay," I said. Panic caused by his proximity was enough to spur me into action. I averted my gaze from his and pulled my hand from the knob and his grip. I walked around him, gingerly choosing my steps so that I wouldn't accidentally make contact with his body.

Once I arrived in the middle of the small space I felt lost. Should I sit? Stand? Lean? Cross my arms? Some combination? I turned and found him advancing slowly. I backed up. My thighs met the arm of the sofa. I sat on it, endeavored to make the near-trip appear intentional.

"So . . ." I crossed my arms, uncrossed my arms, feigned nonchalance, and winced a little at the tight unnaturalness of my voice. "You must have questions."

He nodded. "I do. I have a lot of questions."

"Well, that's to be expected." I patted my lab coat, looking for a brochure. "I have a pamphlet on side effects associated with the study drug that might help."

He halted some four feet from my position and, once again, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I don't have questions about that, not about the study."

"Oh?" My voice cracked.

The oh shit heartbeat was back. I held perfectly still and forced myself to meet his gaze. Eleven years of avoiding him-avoiding thinking about him, his show, that summer, that night, our history-caught up with me all at once.

He openly surveyed me, his eyes appraising, from my feet to the top of my head then back to my face. "You look the same."

"I do?" I glanced dumbly at the front of my scrubs then back to him. I didn't think I looked the same. In fact, I was pretty sure I looked completely different. I narrowed my eyes at him. For the first time since entering the room my panic-fog began to clear, and, if he didn't want to discuss the study, I wondered what he wanted.

"Except . . ." He motioned to my hair. "Except your hair. You used to have shorter hair."

Automatically my hand lifted to the braid. "Yeah, well, I don't have anyone trying to cut my hair during nap time so it finally grew out."

The corner of Nico's mouth lifted just slightly at my small barb. "I'd forgotten about that."

"I hadn't." I responded flatly.

"How old were we?"

"When you cut my hair? You were five."

His face warmed with a smile. "You were four. I remember now."

The fact that he was smiling at the memory of cutting my hair awakened an old, long buried injury. I did not return his smile. In fact, as I watched him silently reminisce, other memories from our teenage years turned my blood abruptly cold. I no longer felt flustered by his presence. I felt annoyed by his arrogance.

Furthermore, I realized that-notwithstanding his perplexing kindness the summer after Garrett's death, my resulting guilt, and all these years of separation-part of me still simply saw him as the boy who bullied me in school. Disliking, distrusting Nico was an instinctual response.

"What do you want, Nico?"

His eyes flickered to mine, and I witnessed a shadow of surprise pass over his gaze, likely caused by the sudden somberness of my tone. He studied me for a moment. Then, he said something entirely unexpected.

"I wanted to apologize."

I stared at him. Really, we stared at each other. I inclined my head slightly forward, sure I'd misheard him. "You what?"

"I want to apologize. I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier. Seeing you was . . . unexpected. I was caught off guard. I reacted badly."