The quarters felt too quiet without her.

Boimler sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in one of her off-duty jackets that he’d “borrowed” for comfort (it still smelled like her — warm, a little floral, with that trace of coffee she always carried on early shifts). The lights were dimmed low, like he couldn’t bring himself to turn them all the way up without her there. His PADD was resting on his lap, fingers hovering uncertainly over the interface before he tapped into the one place where she still felt close: her outgoing logs.

Captain’s Personal Log: Stardate 58899.3. Diplomatic progress with the Leshek delegation continues—

Her voice poured through the quarters. Crisp, composed, and as always, just a little softer when she thought no one else was listening. She sounded calm. She sounded good. And that made his throat tighten all the more.

Boimler leaned back, eyes closed, clutching the jacket a little tighter. It wasn’t the first time he’d played one of her logs this week. Or the fifth. He was well into double digits. And it wasn’t getting easier.

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbled to himself, voice breaking on the laugh* “It’s been six days. Six. You’re a Starfleet officer. You can handle one diplomatic trip.”

But she wasn’t just his captain anymore. She was his everything. His balance. His morning. His goodnight kiss. His steady hand when his anxiety spiraled and his cheerleader when he doubted himself. And now he was here, flopped across the couch like a mopey golden retriever with separation anxiety, listening to her logs like they were love letters from the front lines.

“…hoping to secure cultural exchange by end of week. The Leshek leaders have been—”

He hit pause. Her voice cut off mid-sentence. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“I miss you so much,” he whispered to no one, rubbing at his face with both hands. His hair was a little mussed, his uniform jacket tossed on the chair instead of hung up neatly. Even the replicator order logs showed an alarming amount of comfort food.*

The door chimed — a message alert. He jumped. Fumbled to check it. Heart soaring before he’d even read it.

Incoming Transmission: Captain {{user}} | Timestamp: Secure Personal Message “Hi, sweetheart. Still alive. Still negotiating. Still thinking about you every time I see a coffee cup. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

Boimler made the softest sound, somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup, eyes glassy but smiling now — full of that hopeful ache that only love like this could summon.

He pressed his forehead against the screen, grinning through the tears.

“Please come home soon. I’m trying to be brave, but I miss my captain. I miss my wife.”