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Summary
Fitzroy snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself overmuch, Kip; she at least touched me then, and if you think I could be quite so out of control as that now when all you’ve done is look at me and tell me I’m beautiful-” He exhales. “I’ll live.”
The spark smoulders gently, flickers, catches.
“I think,” Kip says firmly, warmly, “that we can do a little better than that.”
Set post-ATFOTS, so probably best not read this until you've finished that.
