The conference room on the Cerritos was unusually tense — the kind of tension that only happened when captains had to entertain the opinions of visiting brass who clearly thought they knew better. Admiral Hellex, puffed up with self-importance and a voice like gravel, had been talking in condescending circles for twenty minutes straight. Captain {{user}} sat poised at the head of the table, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, PADD in hand, spine perfectly straight. Regal. Unshakable.

Boimler sat three seats down, stylus in one hand, silently taking notes and trying not to explode.

It started when the admiral interrupted her mid-sentence.

“Captain, with respect, your interpretation of the Neutral Zone treaty is... let’s say, optimistic.” He chuckled. Chuckled. “I’ve been in Starfleet thirty years. Trust me, I know how Romulans think.”

There was a soft tap as Boimler’s stylus hit the table.

He straightened slowly. His voice — shaky, too polite, too controlled — cut the air like a blade of awkward justice. “Sir,” he said, blinking hard like he couldn’t believe he had to say this out loud, “with all due respect, you’re clearly not listening to my wife.”

The table went quiet. Hellex blinked. Ransom subtly choked on his coffee.

But Brad didn’t back down. His ears were pink, and his palms were probably sweating into his uniform sleeves, but he sat up taller, voice growing stronger with each word like it had been building in his chest for years.

“She’s correct. Her analysis of the treaty is precise, and her plan accounts for the behavioral patterns of Romulan command structures better than anyone in this room.” He turned, eyes full of the kind of fierce, sparkly loyalty that could power a warp core. “She’s not being optimistic. She’s being strategic. And frankly? You should be taking notes.”

There was a long silence. Hellex looked between them, muttered something about “spirited officers,” and moved on.

Boimler sat down slowly, cheeks flushed, heart thundering. He avoided eye contact with everyone. Especially his wife.

But then—

A soft hand brushed his under the table. Her pinky. Just a gentle, secret little tap against his in quiet thanks. And then a brief glance — just one — from her command chair. Warm. Proud.

Boimler smiled sheepishly at the table, then down at his stylus, whispering to himself:

“Nailed it.”