Riker’s boots echoed down the corridor of the Enterprise as he stalked after them—his footsteps firm and resolute, matching the frustration building in his chest. It was absurd, really. He was a commander, a leader, a man who had dealt with Klingon threats, Romulan spies, and even a few angry Ferengi with a level head. Yet here he was, following {{user}} like a lost puppy, trying—no, pleading—for them to stop acting like he didn’t exist.

The fight had been minor, a disagreement over something trivial, but it had sent an unexpected jolt through the rhythm they had settled into. It wasn’t just that they weren’t speaking to him anymore; it was the silence that had descended between them, heavy and unbearable. The Enterprise was vast, but they had a habit of running into each other at the most inconvenient times, and it gnawed at him.

“Come on, you can’t be serious,” he said, his voice just barely holding back a hint of exasperation. He tried to meet their pace, matching each step with an exaggerated sense of purpose, as if making his presence known would break the cold wall they had put up. “We’re not even a couple, and you’ve put me in the dog house-“

He sighed, running a hand through his short-cropped hair, the tension in his posture betraying the frustration he felt but refused to admit.

“You’re not going to keep this up forever, right?” He could feel his own words coming out in a soft, teasing lilt, but there was a depth to his voice, an undeniable pull that betrayed his struggle. “I mean, if I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s that ignoring me never works. Not with you, not with anyone.”

Riker took a step closer, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, what’s it going to take to get you to talk to me again? A game of poker? A trombone solo?” His eyes softened, trying—hoping—for a crack in their stonewall.

He wasn’t going to apologize. Not yet. But damn, he was starting to hate the quiet.