She is not real.

But even though I tell myself this, I realize I'm wrong. She is real—to me. She leans over my shoulder and speaks, her voice breathy soft, and I close my eyes tightly to try and wish her out of existence.

"Gaius." She says when she realizes I'm not listening to her words. She steps around in front of me and slides onto the table, the movement made fluid by her intrinsic grace. I swallow thickly and try not to stare at the long length of her pale thigh that is exposed by the vivid crimson dress she wears that has bunched slightly with the movement. She watches me, quiescently amused, and a smile flickers about her mouth. And just like that my attention centers on her lips, on the way they move when next she speaks, eloquently changing shape to form her words.

"You're easily distracted," she remarks.

"You're very distracting," I tell her, and her smile appears completely.

"I don't mean to be," she says, shifting her weight; the slight movement causes the front of her dress—already low-cut—to tighten against her breasts. I struggle and fail to keep my eyes from going there; with a concentrated effort I tear them away and move them again to her face.

"Yes, you do." I say. "You mean to torment me. You do it everyday."

"Is this torture?" She asks, leaning down so that her face is merely a hairsbreadth from mine. I'm enraptured by her closeness, by the warmth of her breath on my face and by the hypnotic depths of her eyes. She closes the space between us, her lips soft and moist on my own. I taste her and then feel the familiar tightening in my loins, the raw lust as it begins to rage within me. Her tongue runs over my upper lip and then she nibbles at my mouth, and I am just reaching up to grab her when she moves, slipping off the table and deftly evading my embrace in the process.

Panting, I watch her stride to the part of the lab where I have arranged the blood samples to be tested. "You know it's torture." I say almost angrily.

Her lips curve upwards, but she doesn't answer, instead picking up a vial of blood and turning it this way and that under the light. I wish I could hate her. I want to hate her. Knowing what she is, knowing she's a Cylon—inhuman—it should be easy. But I can't …

She turns her head, looking over her shoulder at me, and one eyebrow quirks upwards in a blatant invitation. I stand and lay both hands flat on the table, unable to tear my gaze from her as she reaches behind her and slowly, purposefully unzips the back of her dress.

I can't hate her, and she knows it.

"Gaius," she says, and her voice is low, throaty.

It's all the encouragement I need.