<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">In many ways, Mikkel was a hunter. But in this regard, he was far more akin to a fisherman. Collected. Patient. He had no issue with setting out the bait and waiting for a bite. The most worthwhile catches always came up on their own in good time. And sure enough, Quinn fell right in line. A bit more quickly than he had expected, which did well to feed his ego.<br/>
<br/>
For not only was Quinn willing, he actually sounded <i>eager</i>. Eager for what, the surgeon had to wonder. Eager to breach his personal space, perhaps? Or was it something else that he looked forward to? If the flush rising to that fair face was any indication, it was indeed something else he had in mind. And it was pressing enough, apparently, that a mildly suggestive tone came to his voice when asked if he intended for their visit to take place on a later date, or right away.<br/>
<br/>
The hunter in Mikkel wanted to pounce. It would have taken the fingers on both hands to count the things he would do to that man, if only things progressed in that direction. Something told him that Quinn wouldn't have complained, should he have indicated that yes, he wanted to take things to his home immediately. But for tonight, Mikkel was a fisherman, and he had only just begun to reel in his catch. He could wait.<br/>
<br/>
"Far be it from me to deny you dinner," Mikkel thought aloud. "In an effort to ensure you don't starve on my watch, perhaps you'll allow me to cook for you. I've been told that I'm quite capable with a kitchen knife."<br/>
<br/>
Bringing Quinn back to his home gave Mikkel something of a home field advantage. Granted, it spoke of the younger man's tenacity - and indeed to his nerve - that he was so willing to wander into the home of a stranger mere minutes after their first meeting. And if he had his way, he would explore a bit more of that nerve when next they met. All in good time, he reminded himself, reaching into an inner jacket pocket to procure a sleek white business card and an equally sleek black pen. <br/>
<br/>
In penmanship far too neat for that of a surgeon, Mikkel jotted on the blank back of the card two neat lines, one containing his personal cell phone number, the other his home address.  Emblazoned on the front, Quinn would find his full name and occupation: <br/>
<br/>
<i>Dr. Mikkel Ostergaard, M.D., FACS </i><br/>
<i>Cardiothoracic Surgeon</i><br/>
<i>207-8xx-xxxx</i><br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow night?" he proposed, expectantly. "Eight o'clock? I have some loose ends to tie up, and then I'm all yours."</span>