The universe seemed bent on punishing Miranda for her prudence.

First she'd had to watch that damned Kelly Chambers fawning over Shepard every time the woman walked by. She'd had to watch Shepard reciprocate; had to wonder whether the commander was actually interested in the yeoman or just trying to make Miranda squirm.

Either way, squirm she did. She had to physically bite her own tongue to hold back the snappish comments that wanted to fly out of her mouth every time Kelly passed by. The woman didn't deserve that, she told herself. She was just doing her job.

But damn it, she was doing it a little too well. Miranda's blood boiled at the way Shepard looked at the yeoman, all fond warmth and teasing smiles. She wanted that look aimed at her, she was distressed enough to admit. She wanted Shepard to make a beeline for her every time she boarded the ship. She wanted Shepard, and the worst part was, it was her own fault that she didn't have her.

Miranda had mostly succeeded in bottling up her frustration thus far. No one could presume that she was at her best; the constant scowl on her face was obvious enough to stir even Jacob's curiosity, but she counted it a win that she hadn't blown Kelly out the airlock yet.

What a hell of a way to figure out she had a jealous streak.

And then they went to Illium. There, Shepard ran into someone she seemed to know: some tall, dark, bloody beautiful woman in a pantsuit who instantly roped her into a conversation over a beer. And then a black market-busting operation that surely she could have handled without Shepard's help.

And then she kissed her on the cheek.

Miranda froze.

Shepard did, too, for all of a second before her entire demeanor changed and suddenly she was suave, loose, confident; everything one would expect the great Commander Shepard to be in a situation like this. A teasing little smirk, one that Miranda recognized—was intimately associated with—curled her lips.

Oh, no.

Miranda knew she was in trouble even before Shepard opened her mouth and replied, "Oh yeah? I can do you one better," all purring tenor tones and unspoken promise.

Even before the commander leaned back in to Gianna fucking Parasini and brushed a proper fucking kiss to her pretty fucking lips.

Garrus, for his part, looked away respectfully, but Miranda could not find it in herself to do the same.

Instead, "Shepard!" escaped her throat, whip-crack, before she had even made a conscious decision to speak. Her mind whirled, awash with impotent rage, and somewhere in the haze she found that she had crossed the distance to Shepard and wrenched her away by the arm.

She was unprepared for the way Shepard rounded on her, jaw set in a razor line and eyes sparking with irritation. "Is there a problem, Lawson?" the commander demanded, deadly soft. She was an inch or two shorter than Miranda, heels considered, but somehow seemed to tower over her.

Miranda felt herself shrink back, hand falling away from Shepard's arm. Shit, what had she just done? She tried to sound stern and not pitiful as she retorted, "We didn't come here to—to flirt! We have a mission, remember?"

"And the mission's too important to let personal feelings intervene, right?" Shepard went straight for the throat.

Miranda flinched as if she'd been struck. It certainly felt as though she'd been struck, right in the heart that insisted upon pining after this woman against all odds. She turned away from Shepard to hide the telltale prick of tears in her eyes, cursing her stupid emotions. She was supposed to be the icy, impenetrable face of Cerberus! Not some teenager with a crush. A crush that she'd tried to stamp out herself, but kept smoldering anyway. Now Shepard was taking her turn to douse the embers, but Miranda knew it wouldn't be enough.

If it had, watching Shepard walk away with Gianna Parasini wouldn't have hurt so much.