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Turbolifts and bulkheads sail past as Tasha runs down the Deck Ten corridor, the one they use for their daily exercise because the halls are a little wider. Worf is out a few meters ahead of her; he moves with catlike power, silent and controlled. She matches his pace, reveling in the feeling of her body working, arms and legs in complementary motion, lungs pumping like bellows.
As he turns a corner, she can tell he's gathering for a sprint, and she catches a hint of a bright-eyed, feral look in his backward glance. Her face opens in a grin, feeling a shot of adrenaline already. Worf bolts like a cheetah, leaving some ensigns looking after him in early-morning bafflement, and Tasha pursues. He will outdistance her at first, but after the initial burst of speed, she knows she will catch up to him, steady and relentless.
They have never talked of this daily ritual, and just as well, because Tasha wouldn't know how to put it into words anyway. When she chases Worf, darting after him around corners and past starry windows, she feels the thrill of the hunt, of pushing her body, of knowing he feels it too. She laughs wildly but almost voicelessly, not wanting to waste the air on it. The ship thrums around them, in time with her heart.
Tasha's spent a lot of her life running, but not like this. This is not bare, cut-up feet stumbling frantically over stones and rough earth. When she runs with Worf, she is not running because there is fear behind her, but because there is joy ahead.