A/N: La la la. Don't mind me, just trying a new fandom on for size. Here's hoping it fits.

Disclaimer: I don't own Mark, Lexie or any other fictional doctors. The title is taken from Crazy for You by Madonna and yes, I am showing my age here.

Can't you feel the weight of my stare?

She's laughing. She's beautiful.

The magazine in his hand is mostly just for show; he hasn't read a word and he wishes he was watching her laugh from across the table rather than from across the room, but he'll take what he can get for now. That easiness they used to share has been slow to come back, too slow for his taste, but then wasn't that their whole problem in a nutshell?

They move at different speeds.

But while the ease has been slow to come back, coming back it is. They can banter over cupcakes now and she brings him coffee sometimes, when he's got something big going on. Maybe she's just looking for a way into his operating room, but somehow he doubts it. She doesn't need that extra in and it's not her style anyway.

The first time she did it, the coffee held the subtle flavor of an apology along with the cream and sugar, though why in hell she would need to apologize to him is a mystery. With all the Africa shit going on, he never had a chance to ask Callie to translate the girl-ese for him, so a mystery it remains.

He hopes she'll tell him herself someday. It's not really that far out a thought, given her propensity for verbal diarrhea. Like this afternoon for example, her monologue about girls doing things for guys and losing themselves in the process. It started out about the patient, ended up about her. Her and him. She'd been going so fast he'd missed a fair portion of it, but he got the general gist.

(Oh, she can go fast, but only when he's trying to go slow. Soft, half-forgotten images of a red lace bra against creamy white skin slide through his mind.)

She hasn't forgotten the Sloan thing; he didn't expect that she had. But what he hadn't been expecting was the comment about not being ready to move in with him. Hadn't that been her decision, in the end? And he really hadn't been expecting the 'making you leave your friends' part. Or maybe that was still a girls in general comment. He hadn't done that, had he?

At least he'd never gotten the chance to propose after the shooting. He doubts now they could have recovered from the mess that would have caused.

He mentally shakes himself, because this isn't helping anything. Taking a slug from his glass of whiskey, he tries to read his magazine, but then across the room she shifts position, leaning on her forearm against the bar and he's thoroughly entranced by the sight of her perfect ass encased in faded denim. He may have even groaned aloud at the sight because her head swivels around like she knew he was there and her eyes connect with his.

Busted.

He can't help the grin that spreads across his face at her approach. She looks annoyed, but he knows her too well. It's her fake annoyed look, the one that says she's trying not to encourage his bad behavior even though she doesn't really mind.

"Were you just checking my ass?" she demands.

"Not the first time, won't be the last," he drawls.

She leans down and gets closer, right in his face. "No!" she says sharply, jabbing a finger at him, like he's a naughty little puppy. There's a certain familiar glint in her eye and it's all he can do to keep from sliding his hand around the back of her head and kissing the hell out of her. But before he loses control, she turns on her heel and stalks off.

And he'll be damned if she's not gone and injected a little extra swing in her hips just for his benefit.

He can't deny he hungers to follow, to see how far he can push this first small sign of reawakening interest in him, but he is capable of learning, goddamn it all to hell.

They're going her speed this time.

So instead, he mentally glues his ass to the chair and picks up his magazine again as soon as she disappears from sight.

She'll be back.

And if you read my mind, you'll see

I'm crazy for you