Dr. Fabray. It has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?

You're idling in the hallway, waiting on Sam to fetch the report for your next procedure when you spot her through the entrance to the Emergency Room—chatting amicably to an exhausted looking man and a little girl you assume to be his daughter. You're still looking when Quinn leans down to let the girl twirl a finger in hair, in wonder. (Quinn shore it off just last week, effectively stunning half the department. She'd winked at you as you gaped, and you resolutely avoided being around her all day for fear of getting too distracted from your work.)

Quinn's good with kids. You suppose that's why she's the best paediatric surgeon in the state. She's good with adults, too—which is how she keeps that ridiculous roster of hers. You're not sure whose moony-eyed, the daughter or the dad. (Or, you know, you.) It should be illegal for someone to look that good in blue scrubs.

Unfairly-blessed bone structure or miracle surgeon be damned, you adamantly refuse to submit to the woman whose already slept with half the department. Though, your self-respect does not extend to admiring from afar. A danger, since your continual rejections to her advances only seemed to stoke Quinn's flame. She likes a challenge.

If only her patients knew of her godawful beside manners.

Quinn's head turns, and oh, shit—she's caught you staring. It's much harder to disappear into the background when hazel eyes root you to your spot. Then, its suddenly rendered impossible when instead of that shameless, cocky smirk you're so used to—Quinn's entire face lights up. She stands, dismissing the pair with that elegant, dignified yet down-to-earth kind of charm that patients just adore, before she's walking towards you, clipboard in hand.

She's really, unfairly perfect.

"I thought you were on leave?" Quinn's eyes drag over your form, appreciative, though there's something softer in her gaze you don't acknowledge.