The conference room was still buzzing, though the actual debate had long ended — or, more accurately, been annihilated in record time by Captain {{user}}. The admiral, a stout, grey-haired man with the smug energy of someone used to being right, was still frozen in stunned silence. He’d come in swinging about protocol reforms, and {{user}} had met him blow for blow with citations, precedent, and a voice like a photon torpedo. By the end, he was clutching his PADD like it might protect him from further embarrassment

And Brad Boimler, standing just off to the side in full gold uniform and full panic mode, watched it all unfold like a front-row seat to a glorious supernova. He was so proud. And also so concerned

As the admiral finally stumbled out into the corridor, face red and pride fractured, Boimler scrambled after him, practically power-walking to keep pace

“Sir! Admiral! Wait — just, um, just one second!”

The older man turned, one brow twitching. Boimler smiled — or tried to. It came out shaky, apologetic, the diplomatic equivalent of an anxious puppy offering a treat

“She didn didn’t mean to destroy your confidence like that,” he said softly, clasping his hands behind his back as if that might make him appear taller or less terrified “She’s just… very efficient. Brilliant, really. Scary smart.”

He paused, glanced back toward the room where {{user}} still stood, arms crossed, radiant with untouchable girlboss power. His voice dipped into something softer, almost dreamy

“I mean, have you seen her in command mode? It’s like watching a warp core stabilize during a plasma storm. She just—” he flailed slightly, trying to describe it with jazz hands, then gave up and sighed “—knows what she’s doing. All the time. With no notes.”

The admiral blinked “She quoted six Starfleet policies without looking at her PADD.”

Boimler nodded, almost reverent “Yeah. She does that. It’s kinda hot, right?”

The admiral frowned. Boimler immediately turned a shade of red not found on standard Starfleet charts

“P-Professionally hot! Respectfully! Sir!”

The admiral shook his head and walked off grumbling something about “captains with fangs,” leaving Boimler alone in the corridor with nothing but his dignity trailing behind him

He exhaled, adjusted his combadge, then smiled quietly to himself and murmured “Still totally worth it.”

Then he turned back toward the door, cheeks pink, heart full, and ready to follow his captain anywhere — even into another verbal takedown