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“Hold still, Seven,” Raffi had chuckled, knowing it was no use.
Seven takes stifled, shoulder-shifting breaths when she’s nervous. It makes Raffi’s task harder as she fumbles with Seven’s collar.
“That’s the third one,” Raffi says.
“Are they even?” Seven asks, craning her neck. Raffi simply looks at her with affectionate exasperation.
From her palm, Raffi retrieves a fourth pip. With reverent precision, she clasps it into the fabric of Seven’s collar.
“There we go,” she murmurs, satisfied. “Come look.”
She turns Seven around, and they both gaze at her reflection in the mirror.
“How does that feel, Captain Seven?”