Dear Lady Imida, has everyone told you your eyes are the rich brown of a chocolate mocha, that your crimson tattoos accent your features beautifully? I like awake at night wanting to run my hands through your hair, wondering if when outside of its braid it is smooth and soft, or coarser. I would love to meet you on the sparring ground or in a closer manner... (A secret Sith admirer)
Imida stared at the datapad, utterly motionless. For a while it seemed that she was unaffected by the text, her face impassive and set, but that was belied by the slow reddening of her cheeks.
“What is it?” Vette chirruped from across the room, never one to miss an opportunity to ground her friend. “Is it from Quinn? Tell me it’s from Quinn!”
“It’s not.” Lips pinched, Imida tore her eyes away, though her face remained dark. “The Captain would never dare to call himself a Sith, even in jest.” Another glance at the pad, then abruptly she was in motion. “I’ll be training in the cargo bay.” she declared, hoping that the movement was enough to hide the fact she had just clicked “save” on the message.
