Coffee worked in the same neural pathway as sex, right? Springa was certain she’d heard that somewhere. She took another sip from her steaming mug and hoped she wasn’t making things up again. 

Outside the coffee shop, an army dozed. Four hundred-ish bedrolls containing the slumbering forms of her regiment arrayed themselves in even rows from one end of the Numubyan dockyard to the other.

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Being caught outside in a heatwave was like being without your lover when you needed them. You felt it everywhere, and there was no escape. 

Two empty canteens were slung around Springa’s neck. Forty six more rested in either side of her saddlebag. The uneven ground and the sloshing water made every step murder on her back. Her shroud kept the sun off her fur, but it was slick with sweat and trapped sand against her skin.

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The sergeant peered over the edge of the embankment. He pointed a long, spindley hoof at the largest of several dozen shell craters. “That one there. There’s a skull at the bottom.”

Springa followed his gaze, willing her head to shrink into her helmet until there was no exposed flesh left. There were still snipers hiding on the other side of the embankment. Based on the number of ponies getting dragged out of this section of trench every day, she concluded that they were very good shots.

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The sex was dizzying. Springa tumbled through sheets of silk as soft as clouds, crying out in weightless ecstacy as she fell deeper and deeper into his embrace. He caught her. Every time. Whenever she teetered on the edge of empty space, he pulled her back. He was everywhere, insatiable, boyish in his insistence. She let him in. They tumbled together some more.

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