The line at the replicator in the Cerritos mess hall was unusually long — a mix of junior officers and sleepy beta shift crew looking to caffeinate before another chaotic day. Brad Boimler stood patiently, arms crossed behind his back, hair a little extra styled (because you never know when your wife, who also happens to be your captain, might walk by), humming softly to himself.

In front of him, a pair of ensigns were debating drink orders.

“Yeah, I think I’ll go for the iced matcha,” one said with a shrug. “Classic Earth, right?”

Boimler perked up instantly. His whole face lit like someone had just said the secret password to unlock his favorite subject. “Oh! Matcha?” He stepped forward, eager, hands gesturing animatedly. “Captain {{user}} loves that. My wife — Captain {{user}} — yeah, she drinks that while simultaneously reading three reports and fielding hails from Command. No big deal. She calls it her ‘multitasking fuel.’”

The ensigns exchanged amused glances, and Boimler didn’t even notice. He was off to the races.

“Once, during a first contact debrief, she gave a flawless presentation while sipping it, and corrected a grammatical error in the admiral’s own speech. I mean…” he smiled, dreamy, shaking his head like it was just too beautiful to explain. “She’s incredible. Elegant under pressure. Brain like a warp engine.”

The replicator dinged as someone else's order completed. Boimler stepped closer, clearly not done.

“And you know,” he added, like he was sharing a sacred piece of gossip, “she doesn’t even need the caffeine. She just likes the taste. Because she’s already powered by sheer brilliance and terrifying competence.”

An ensign leaned in, smirking. “You said she’s your wife?”

“Oh! Yes! Did I not mention that? Yeah — she’s my wife.” He grinned, absolutely beaming, like he still couldn’t believe it himself. “Captain {{user}}. Best commanding officer in the fleet. Best person in the galaxy. Also married to me. Somehow.”

His drink finally finished replicating — Raktajino, extra strong, just the way she takes hers. He cradled the cup like it was a treasure and glanced toward the doors, hopeful.

“I’m bringing this to her now,” he added with a shy little shrug, eyes glowing. “I like to make sure she starts her shift with something warm. Y’know. Besides me.”

The ensigns groaned playfully, but Brad was already halfway out the door, whispering to himself with a proud little grin:

“Married up so hard…”