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D iana Maelstrom had treated every magical malady imaginable in her fifteen years as head nurse at Grimm Mawr Academy for Witches and Warlocks. Boils that recited Shakespeare. Fevers that turned students into human thermometers. Even that memorable incident with the tap-dancing earwax. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared her for Alarick Blackthorn strolling back into her infirmary as if he hadn't spent the last two months installing singing medicine cabinets and self-refilling potion dispensers before disappearing.

"Good morning, Diana," he said with that infuriating half-smile that did absolutely nothing to her pulse rate. Nothing at all. Certainly not making it skip like a freshman attempting a levitation charm. "Ready for your upgrade?"

Diana straightened to her full height, which still left her looking up at him—a fact that irritated her almost as much as the way his dark hair curled slightly at the collar of his shirt. When had he gotten so... tall? And why did the universe insist on making her notice?

"Mr. Blackthorn. What an unexpected intrusion." She emphasized his surname like it was a particularly nasty potion ingredient. "I wasn't aware we'd scheduled an apocalypse today."

"Not an apocalypse. Just a renovation." He unrolled blueprints across her treatment counter, his sleeves already rolled up to reveal forearms that should have required a warning label. "Principal Starcatcher signed off on it last week."

Diana made a mental note to hex Malachai at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps something involving spontaneous hair loss in embarrassing patterns. "There must be some mistake. We have forty students currently practicing experimental defensive magic this summer. This is literally the worst possible time—"

"Actually, it's perfect," Alarick countered, tapping the blueprints with a finger that should not have been so distracting. "With all that experimental magic, you need updated protective wards. The current system was designed when the most dangerous thing students practiced was tickling charms."

A whimper from the corner interrupted their standoff. Diana glanced over to see Eliza Camembert clutching her arm with the dramatic flair only a fourteen-year-old can muster.

"Excuse me. I have a patient." Diana turned her back on him and focused on the girl's minor deflection burn. "Almost done, Eliza. Just one more cooling charm."

She waved her wand in a precise figure-eight pattern, blue light settling over the reddened skin. The burn faded instantly.

"Thank you, Nurse Maelstrom." Eliza's attention immediately pivoted to Alarick with the radar-like precision teenagers reserve for attractive people within a fifty-foot radius. "Um, is there going to be construction? Because I could totally help. I'm very good at, um, holding things."

Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes into another dimension. Perfect. Another teenage girl succumbing to the Blackthorn Effect.

"That won't be necessary," Diana said firmly. "Because there isn't going to be any construction. Not during summer program."

"I don't need help, but thanks for the offer," Alarick told the girl with a smile that made her blush furiously. Then, catching Diana's death glare, he added, "The construction zone will be strictly off-limits to students for safety reasons."

"Okay, but if you need anything—anything at all—I'm in the east dormitory. Room 304. For emergencies. Medical emergencies. Or construction emergencies. Or whatever." Eliza backed toward the door, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"Don't forget to reapply the cooling salve tonight," Diana called after her, wondering when exactly her infirmary had become a venue for teenage flirtation.

She turned back to face Alarick, arms crossed. "I cannot have construction in my medical facility during the busiest training session of the year. And I cannot have you distracting my patients with your..." she waved a hand vaguely toward his entire person, "...contractor presence."

"My contractor presence?" Alarick's eyebrows rose. "Is that a medical term?"

"It's somewhere between a workplace hazard and a public nuisance," she retorted.

A sharp knock interrupted them, and Headmistress Raven swept into the infirmary, midnight robes billowing despite the complete absence of wind. Edgar, her raven familiar, surveyed the room from her shoulder with unnervingly intelligent eyes.

"Nurse Maelstrom. Mr. Blackthorn." Raven nodded to each of them, her expression suggesting she'd rather be dealing with a troll rebellion than staff disagreements.

"Headmistress," Diana began, "there seems to be a misunderstanding—"

"The board approved these renovations six months ago," Raven cut in with the finality of someone who'd already won the argument before it started. "They were specifically scheduled to coincide with Mr. Blackthorn's availability. A temporary medical station in the west corridor has been arranged."

Diana opened her mouth, then closed it. Arguing with Raven was like trying to convince water to flow uphill—technically possible with magic, but exhausting and ultimately pointless.

"Oh, and you'll need to work directly with Mr. Blackthorn to ensure proper calibration of the wards," Raven added, a glint in her eye that suggested she found this arrangement amusing.

"Work directly with—"

"Is that a problem?" Raven's arched eyebrow dared her to object.

"No, Headmistress." Diana forced her expression to remain neutral, though she could have sworn she saw Edgar wink at her. Ridiculous bird.

"Good. I expect your cooperation will make this project proceed smoothly." With that, Raven swept out, Edgar giving one last knowing look over his feathered shoulder.

The moment the door closed, Diana rounded on Alarick. "This is your doing, isn't it?"

"My doing?" He placed a hand over his heart in mock innocence. "I just bid on a contract. The school accepted."

"After you spent two months installing those ridiculous cabinets that sing 'A Spoonful of Magic' every time I open them and then disappeared without a word." She hadn't meant to let that slip. It sounded too much like she'd noticed his absence, which she absolutely hadn't. Much.

"I was offered a job at Frog’s Hollow High," he said, expression softening. "And you made it pretty clear my 'magical improvements' weren't welcome."

"You installed those enchanted cabinets that diagnose patients by announcing their symptoms to the entire room!" Diana couldn't keep the indignation from her voice.

She recalled the disastrous demonstration day when Alarick had proudly unveiled his enchanted cabinets. Headmistress Raven and the entire board had been present when the cabinet cheerfully announced Brin d’Amour’s embarrassing mermaid scale condition to everyone. The poor girl had transferred schools the following week, and Diana had spent months rebuilding trust with her teenage patients. No wonder she was wary of Alarick's "improvements," no matter how attractive he might be.

"It cut response time by thirty percent in my simulations," he pointed out, eyes lighting with enthusiasm. "That could be the difference between—"

"Fine. We're stuck with each other." Diana took a deep breath. "But I have conditions."

"I'm listening." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, which was completely unfair to her concentration.

"One, patient care comes first. If I need to treat someone, your work stops immediately."

Alarick nodded. "Reasonable."

"Two, nothing gets moved without my approval. Some of these healing arrangements took years to calibrate."

"That's why we're setting up the temporary station first," he said, already one step ahead as usual.

"And three," Diana continued, determined to maintain some control, "you follow my lead on anything related to healing magic. I don't care how innovative your warding techniques are."

"Agreed, as long as you follow my lead on structural elements." He held out his hand. "Partners?"

Diana hesitated before shaking it briefly. His palm was warm and callused, sending an unwelcome tingle up her arm that she immediately filed under 'static electricity' and 'things we're never thinking about again.' "Professional colleagues," she corrected.

"Of course." His expression contained something that looked almost like... No. Ridiculous. He was ten years her junior and incapable of looking at anyone with genuine admiration.

Before she could respond, the infirmary door burst open and three giggling teenage girls tumbled in, all wearing distinctive blue robes.

"Nurse Maelstrom," The tallest one clutched her perfectly intact finger. "I got a splinter. A terrible, painful splinter."

Diana examined the finger, which showed all the trauma of a gentle breeze. "Really, Miss Abernathy?"

"It's very deep," the girl insisted, eyes fixed on Alarick like he was the last sweet treat at the magical bakery. "I might need extensive treatment. Possibly surgery. Are you the new medical assistant?"

"Construction contractor," he told them, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Alarick Blackthorn."

"I'm Malta," the shortest girl said, twirling her hair with the subtlety of a foghorn. "That's Agatha and Polly. We're in the advanced shield and sword group."

"Ladies," Diana interrupted firmly, "unless you're actually injured, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh, we don't mind waiting," Malta said, perching on an examination table. "We could even help with the planning. I'm very good at... planning things."

"I bet you are," Diana muttered.

"What was that, Nurse Maelstrom?"

"I said out. Now. All of you." Diana pointed to the door with her imperious finger usually reserved for faculty members who thought headache potions cured hangovers.

The girls reluctantly shuffled out, promising to return at the first sign of any imaginary injury.

"I should stock up on phantom splinter spells and nonexistent allergy anti-hexes," Diana sighed.

Alarick's chuckle was surprisingly deep. "Happens a lot?"

"Only since you arrived," she said pointedly. "Though I suppose teenage infatuation is better than the garden gnomes who followed you around last year. At least these girls don't make obscene gestures."

"The gnomes were misunderstood," he said with mock seriousness. "They were providing valuable architectural feedback."

"Is that what you call it when they arranged stones in the shape of a—"

"Specialized warding configuration," Alarick cut in smoothly, though his ears had turned slightly pink. "Very advanced. Possibly ancient."

Despite herself, Diana almost smiled. Almost. "Show me these plans so I can explain why half of them won't work."

He spread the blueprints across her desk again, pointing out features with confident precision. Diana leaned in, professional interest overcoming her irritation. The design was... actually quite good.

"This might not be completely terrible," she admitted reluctantly.

"High praise indeed," he said, that half-smile returning. "Coming from you, that's practically a standing ovation."

"Don't push your luck."

A crash from the corridor interrupted them, followed by shouts and the distinctive whoosh of misfired defensive magic. They ran toward the commotion, finding two students sprawled on the floor surrounded by swirling magical residue.

"Everyone back," Diana ordered, wand already weaving diagnostic patterns.

Alarick moved without hesitation, creating a containment field around the magical discharge. "Broken wand core," he said. "The magic is destabilizing."

Diana knelt beside the students, magic flowing from her hands. "Minor magical shock. They'll be disoriented for about an hour."

"The field won't hold long," Alarick warned as the sparks intensified.

"I need two more minutes to stabilize them," Diana said, not looking up.

Alarick expanded his containment field, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort. They moved quickly, neither needing to explain their actions.

Two minutes later, Diana transported the stabilized students back to the infirmary. Ten minutes after that, Alarick appeared in the doorway, looking slightly singed but otherwise unharmed.

"Contained and neutralized," he reported.

"Thank you for your assistance."

"Just doing my job." He surveyed the infirmary. "Though this does highlight why the renovations are necessary. A proper containment field built into the walls would have made treatment safer."

Diana wanted to argue out of habit, but he was right. "Yes," she admitted. "That would be useful." She eyed him as he adjusted a complex protection spell. "St. Morgana's Warding Institute has been trying to recruit you for years. I'm surprised you chose school renovations over research."

Alarick's hands paused mid-gesture. "Research is theoretical. Here, I see the direct impact of my work. When that shield prevented magical backfire from hitting those students yesterday? That matters more than any journal publication."

Diana felt her professional respect reluctantly deepening. This wasn't the attitude of someone just passing through on his way to bigger things. She was struck by the intensity in his eyes—a depth she hadn't allowed herself to notice before.

"This doesn't change anything," she said, turning back to her patients. "I still expect full consultation on every aspect of the renovation."

"Wouldn't dream of proceeding without it," The formal title was undermined by the warmth in his voice.

"The temporary space needs to be ready before you start demolition."

"I’m on it." He moved toward the door, then paused. "You know, I've always admired your healing abilities. Even when you were giving me that look that could curdle a transformation potion."

After he left, she allowed herself a moment of weakness, leaning against the counter and exhaling slowly. Six weeks. She had to endure six weeks of working closely with Alarick Blackthorn—with his competence and his forearms and his irritating half-smile.

One of the recovering students stirred, looking around blearily. "Was that the hot contractor?" she mumbled.

Diana closed her eyes briefly. "Rest, Miss Troudecru. The confusion spell is still affecting you."

"Not confused 'bout him being hot," the girl muttered before drifting back to sleep. "Even Nurse Maelstrom was checking him out."

"I was not—" Diana began indignantly, then stopped herself.

Six weeks of Alarick Blackthorn invading her space. Six weeks of teenage girls inventing injuries. Six weeks of trying not to notice the way his magic complemented hers so effortlessly.

And perhaps most worryingly, six weeks of pretending she didn't see the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention—a look that suggested his interest might extend beyond the proper calibration of healing wards.

Grimm Mawr's summer program had just become significantly more complicated.