It should have been simple. She was in position, rifle steady, breathing controlled. The target waltzed into her sight and she missed the shot. She'd closed her eyes for only a moment and – bright green eyes flash, reflecting his grin. His mouth is so warm-
Cover blown, she swapped to her shotgun and charged into the fray. Energy sizzles past as she drives the gunstock into a merc's chest, sending him sprawling. She turns to duck a wild swing and misses – her fingers comb through his hair and follow it down. It goes all the way –
She shakes it off, shooting the assailant with her still-holstered pistol. Her squad makes short work of the rest of them while she extracts data from the base. Most of it, anyway: it's difficult to connect scrolling lines while the lights in her mind are aquarium-blue.
She returns to the Normandy, battered and bruised, and marches toward the cockpit. The pilot turns just in time to catch a projectile helmet. "Damnit, Jeff. You'll be the death of me."
He frowns. "That's not funny."
She rolls her eyes in exasperation and tugs at her sweat-drenched undershirt. "I can smell you in my clothes."
He arches an eyebrow and starts to object, but settles for pursed lips and a nod. "Your room in five?"
"You make me wait three and I'll snap you in half."
"Understood, Commander." He chuckles.
She flips him the bird as she storms off.