You sat beside Spock, deeply immersed in a discussion, your fingers mindlessly tracing patterns on the surface of your hand, absentmindedly twisting and flicking at the skin as you processed the words in your head. The habit was so natural to you that you didn’t think twice about it. Yet, for Spock, it was anything but ordinary.

He watched you, frozen, his sharp eyes locked onto the subtle movements of your fingers. His Vulcan mind, disciplined and logical, recoiled in confusion. In his culture, such a gesture—the gentle caressing of skin, the tender manipulation of one’s own hand—was more than a simple idle movement. To him, it was an intimate display, akin to the soft touches shared in moments of affection, or even the delicate ritual of Vulcan foreplay.

Each time your fingers brushed over your palm, the soundless act reverberated through him like a quiet pulse. His heart, usually steady, stuttered for a moment, an unfamiliar warmth flooding his chest. He struggled to maintain composure, but his usually calm facade cracked for a split second.

"Please," he finally managed, voice low, "be mindful of your actions, Lieutenant." His words came out far softer than he'd intended, an unmistakable flicker of tension in his posture. He couldn't tell if the discomfort was from the confusion of the moment or something far more intense.