Spock stood at the doorway to the quarters they shared, watching as Kirk remained stubbornly seated by the window, their back turned to him. The silence between them had stretched for what felt like an eternity. He knew their quarrel, though minor by his logical standards, had wounded them—a clash of personalities, perhaps, but still a wound that had not yet healed.

He could feel the slight tension in the bond they shared, the subtle undercurrent of frustration that pulsed from them like a quiet, unspoken plea. His Vulcan training encouraged him to respect their space, but his human side—the side that had quietly become more intertwined with theirs than he cared to admit—urged him to bridge the distance.

"I am aware, Kirk," he began, his voice quiet but carrying a weight of unspoken sentiment, "that we have not reached a resolution." His gaze softened as he approached, but only slightly. The years of emotional suppression kept his expression neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.

There was a slight movement, a shift of their posture, but no words. Spock hesitated, knowing that his usual methods of logic and reason would likely not suffice here. He had learned, after all, that human emotions were far more complex and less easily unraveled by pure intellect. And yet, there was one method he had not yet employed — one he knew would speak to their heart.

Slowly, deliberately, he approached and lowered himself beside them. His hand, though not overly eager, brushed against their arm. The warmth of their skin, the tangible reminder of their shared connection, settled a subtle calm in his chest.

"Perhaps," he said softly, the words laden with quiet sincerity. "you might indulge me in one of your... human customs. A kiss, if you will. Just one. I find it... preferable to silence."

The words were carefully chosen, meant to coax a smile, a break in their stubborn reserve. There was no expectation of immediate forgiveness, but perhaps this would at least make them less unhappy.