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Fareeha was having great fun.

The good doctor danced around her like a bird in the midst of a mating dance – they would alight on the same branch for moments, Angela relaxing into her side on their return voyage from a recent mission; Angela twining their fingers together when no one was looking; Angela returning Fareeha’s compliments with a wicked grin and a come-on – then, with a flutter of wings, separate, one avoiding the other for days, only to come together again.

Yes, their tentative two-step had been a rather enjoyable distraction for the past several months, thoughts of Angela flushing at one of Fareeha’s winks, or suggestions that they play doctor in a different context never failing to bring a smile to her face when she lay, cold and alone in her cot, staring at the Watchpoint ceiling, or the slats of the bunk above. But, patient as Fareeha Amari could be, the rolling fire in her gut that intensified every time Angela’s fingers lingered on her skin during a post-battle check-up, or she caught blue eyes on her body for decidedly non-medical reasons, or those rare moments, now becoming less and less rare, when Angela would lean into her, breasts brushing against her arm or back, breath hot against her ear, and whisper innocent suggestions in a voice that was anything but innocent….

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