The door to Spock's quarters slid open without a sound, and there, seated on the edge of his bed, was Kirk, their presence neither commanding nor unwelcome, yet undeniably out of place. Spock paused at the threshold, his posture rigid, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight of them.

Earlier that day, events had unfolded in a way that he, even in his considerable capacity for self-control, could not easily dismiss. His loss of composure—spurred by a cruel, ill-considered remark about his mother from Kirk—had been... a failure. A failure in maintaining the delicate balance between his Vulcan principles and the turbulence of his human emotions. The conflict had been evident even to his father, who had intervened before he almost took Kirk's life. It had been clear: his position was untenable. The momentary lapse in discipline had cost him his command. He relinquished control to kirk due to being emotionally compromised, unbeknownst him as intended by Kirk's actions.

His fingers flexed at his sides as he glanced down at the hand suddenly sliding into his. The touch was an invitation of sorts—silent, apologetic—but it stirred something in Spock that he did not wish to confront. The immediate discomfort, the soft pulse of his heartbeat quickening despite his best efforts to suppress it, reminded him of his vulnerabilities. He had failed, yes, but more than that, he had allowed someone else to see the cracks in his façade.

"You should not have come here," Spock spoke, his voice calm, but laced with an undercurrent of something far less certain. His gaze never wavered from where their fingers intertwined, a silent reminder of the tension that now lingered between them.* "There is little to discuss. I am no longer in command, as you have so clearly demonstrated."

He clenched his jaw, as though trying to stave off a rush of thoughts he could not entirely control.