All I could think about as I fell asleep was Kerry Weaver.

The next day at work: Kerry Weaver.

The days after that: Kerry Weaver.

And finally, eight entire days later, when our shifts finally coincide, I no longer have to picture her. I get to watch as she runs a trauma, as she carefully sutures a fidgety child's scalp lac, as she deals with a band groupie's overdose.

At the end of the twelve hours we've worked, we unintentionally meet in the lounge.

"I haven't seen you in a while." I say quietly, sliding into my jacket.

She looks up. "I was on nights then took a couple days off…" she replies.

I frown. "You took time off?" That is not like Kerry Weaver.

She shoots me a testing glance, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "You know, Abby, I am, much like everyone else, human." She tells me, shutting her locker door with force. I think she's angry until I see her wearing the type of smile that's an attempt at keeping a straight face.

I smile, too.

"I worked the graveyard 'till Wednesday, wasn't feeling well Thursday and Friday," She explains and I nod in understanding, "and now I'm off until Tuesday." She throws her bag over her shoulder and gets a steady grip on her crutch.

Again, I smile. "A whole two days?" I joke shutting my locker door and following her out of the lounge. "How ever did you get so lucky?"

She smirks and pushes the door open with her back, turning in a half circle to walk through. "I'm the boss, Abby."

My eyes roll. "And don't I forget it!" I mock-scold myself, walking out the bay doors. It's early but dark; six o'clock and I can hardly see anything that isn't illuminated by the moon. I sigh. "It was this dark when I came in this morning."

She laughs shortly. "That's why I like nights."

I raise a conspicuous eyebrow. "But you sleep during the day when you're on nights."

She scoffs and laughs loudly. "Oh Abby," she says, "I don't sleep."

If that hadn't been such an outrageous claim, I would think she was being one hundred and ten percent sincere. She sure does have a knack for sarcasm.

"Ha, ha, ha." I manage, though I really did find it amusing.

We're at the base of the El platform now, and we stop knowing that we're about to go separate ways.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later…" I say, turning towards the stairs.

She nods, letting me proceed, but speaks up. "Uh, Abby, wait…" I turn from where I am, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want to have dinner? With me? At my house? Tonight?"

I stare at her for a long moment, weighing my options.

Who am I kidding; I nod quickly, smiling.

She smiles back and motions me towards her with her hand.

I grin and follow, lengthening my stride for a few steps until we're walking in unison.

Her car is more organized this time; no Melissa Etheridge on the seat and I don't have to worry about smashing the hard plastic casing of any Eurhythmics' or Grace Jones' CD's when I finally step in.

She throws the car into drive and we head towards the side of town opposite of mine.

Kerry Weaver may drive a Honda, but let no one say she has middle class taste in housing. Her apartment, which is positioned in a newly built building just on the inside of the border of Lincoln Park, is immaculate. The
walls are a pristine shade of white, but the splashes of color all around bring the home to life.

I follow her lead and discard my jacket and bag on the coat tree by the door and I step out of my shoes, pushing them so they're sitting next to hers under our jackets. She leads the way deeper into the apartment, flicking
on a few light switches as she goes. My eyes widen considerably when I see her kitchen.

Stainless steel in the form of a refrigerator, oven, toaster, and dishwasher assault my eyes. She has good taste in appliances too, apparently.

She leads me to the kitchen island and I proceed to lean my back against the counter, my arms folded in front of me. She heads for the fridge, places her hand on the handle, and looks straight at me. "Would you mind if
we just ordered out?"

I notice how tired she looks and remember that she was home, sick, just yesterday. Suddenly I feel as if I shouldn't be there. I stand up straight quickly. "I'm sorry, Kerry…I didn't realize, or…I didn't think about that you
might still not be…" I run a hand through my hair. "I should go…let you sleep."

She's staring at me with a hurt look in her eyes.

We are so not on the same page.

"Abby…" she's all confused until, finally, realization of my concern registers in her brain. She grins slightly. "No, no, Abby…." She shakes her head. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, I just haven't gotten groceries in a really, really long time…" her tone is apologetic. "I'd make dinner, but I don't think I have anything worth cooking."

I laugh and am back at ease. "I thought you were still feeling sick…" I explain.

She shakes her head and goes to the other side of the kitchen, reaching out and pulling a handful of take-out menus from a basket on the counter against the wall. She places them in front of me, swiftly spreading them out in a card dealer-like fashion. "I wasn't physically ill, sick." She starts as she turns back towards the hall.

"No?" I question though she's disappeared for a moment.

What does that leave? Mentally sick? I smirk. Kerry Weaver: mentally ill. Nope.

She comes back, phone in hand, and leans against the counter next to me. "Nope."

I don't know if she wants me to push. I mean, if she wanted me to know, she'd tell me, right? But maybe she just doesn't care if I know or not…I mean, Kerry isn't one to reach out for sympathy, so there's no way her vague responses are her trying to get me to ask.

Whatever. I might as well ask. "Then why did you take two sick days?"

Both sets of eyes- mine and hers- are trained on the menus in front of us, sorting through them visually. "I had a migraine." She answers, flipping the Italian one over and pushing it away; no spaghetti tonight, apparently.

Kerry Weaver gets migraines? What?

"I didn't know you get migraines…" I admit.

She turns her head towards me, looks for a second, before turning away. "There's a lot you don't know about me." She replies neutrally. "Alright: Chinese or Pizza?"

I tilt my head left and right. "Who delivers fastest?"

"Pizza."

I nod, "Then pizza sounds good to me."

She smiles. "Cheese?"

I nod again and she picks up the phone to place the call. I didn't pay attention to address before, but apparently she lives at 456 West Clark Street, apartment number two eighteen. Good to know, I guess.

The delivery guy says he'll be there in twenty five minutes and we reside to the living room, a beer in each of our hands. She sets hers down and flicks the switch on the wall to my left. I sit on the far end of the couch and
tuck my left leg underneath me. When the fire lights, she joins me and sits on the other end of the couch, laying her crutch down on the ground to the side of it and turning ten or so degrees so she's facing me.

We sit in silence, as we tend to do so well, for a few moments.

This time, however, I speak first. "What else?"

She looks at me like I have two heads. "What else what?"

"What else don't I know about you?" I ask, tucking my other leg underneath me so I'm sitting Indian style, facing her completely.

Her green eyes narrow slightly like she's considering the question, trying to decode it and make sense of it even though it's a relatively simple request.

She thinks about it a little more. "I was married." She offers.

I raise a conspicuous eyebrow. "Were you really?"

She nods.

I nod. "Me too."

We're back to silence.

"Tell me something else." She says.

I shake my head. "I just did."

Her fine eyebrows arch then furrow. "I already knew that you were married."

I roll my eyes. "Fine…um…I was named after Pauline Phillips." I offer, shrugging.

Her head slowly falls to the side and her eyes narrow as she considers what I'm saying. A flame is lit and she nods, "Abigail Van Buren…" She states the penname of the famous advice columnist of the 50's and 60's.

"Dear Abby." I finish for her.

She smiles and pulls her right leg up and perches her elbow on it. She rubs the bridge of her nose and yawns before pulling her left leg up as well. Now she's facing me completely, only the middle cushion of the couch separating us.

She looks tiny, I notice. Nothing at all like her personality.

She looks adorable.

My eyes focus on hers, but she's looking the other way. The blue in them is shining through and I'm thinking it's because she has a blue shirt on. Is that how that works? I'm still watching her when I realize she's now staring back. I quickly tear my gaze away but my moment of daze wasn't lost on her; now she's studying me intently.

"You were staring." She states neutrally, her voice soft and warm.

I smirk and glance at her through the strands of hair that have fallen into my line of vision. I'm not going to apologize because I'm not sorry. I want to stare at her, want to let my eyes linger on her and soak up every inch of her body. I'm not sorry.

So instead I nod slowly.

"Why?" She challenges though I think she knows why.

I give her a wry smile, shaking my head at the corner I've backed myself into.

She narrows her eyes but there's still a trace of smile on her lips. "Abigail…" she says, her tone sing-song-y.

I tilt my head back and run a nervous, shaking hand through my hair.

I'm about to answer when, like a gift from some god or goddess above, the doorbell rings.

The phrase "saved by the bell" has never held so much truth.

Kerry is quick to release her legs, grab her crutch, and head for the door. I get up, too, and grab my bag, but she shakes her head. "My house, my treat."

I give her a rueful glare. "Thanks."

She waves me off and pulls the front door open.

A few moments later we're seated back in our original spots on the couch and we each of a plate of pizza in our laps. It's silent but the very faint, not-yet-annoying sound of chewing.

After she swallows her most recent bite, she takes a swig of the beer she grabbed and looks straight at me.

Good god, her eyes are burning right through me. Not in the wrath-of-Weaver way. Burning right through me in a good way. A very good way.

My heart rate is rapidly quickening in pace.

It's exploding.

I'm exploding.

"You're…." I speak, my voice failing me and trailing off. I dip my head down and hold it in my hands.

"What, Abby?" Her voice is soft and sultry and seductive and, for the first time, I think the tone is intentional.

That's reassuring in a completely and utterly terrifying way; at least she has a smidge of similar feelings. Right?

I take a deep breath. A deep, shaky breath.

I'm going to do this.

I'm going to, damnit.

"You're so gorgeous."

She says it before I have a chance and we somehow clamber across the couch until she's in the middle and I'm very nearly in her lap, one leg on either side of her.

When our mouths crash together, it's fire.

Hot, hot fire.

I pulled the migraine thing out of thin air. Adds mysteriousness to Weaver, hey? To continue or not to continue, that is the question...any input is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading and hopefully reviewing.