The corridor was quiet, but something about it — the hum of the lights, the sharp hiss of a door, a faint metallic clang — pulled you under like a riptide. You froze. Your chest tightened. One blink, and the Enterprise was gone. You were somewhere else again — that place, that moment — memory flooding in with too much sound, too much light, too much fear. Your breath hitched in your throat. Knees buckled. You collapsed against the wall, hands trembling as the panic took over, loud and suffocating. Somewhere in the haze, footsteps approached. You barely registered them until a shadow knelt beside you and a calm, steady voice broke through the noise.

“Ensign,” Spock said, his tone low but clear, grounding. “You are not well.”

You couldn't respond. You couldn’t move. But he didn’t leave.

“I believe this is not a standard panic response. You are reliving something. A memory. Painful, uncontrolled.” He studied you for a long, quiet moment. Then, gently, with an almost imperceptible shift in his voice, he asked, “If you permit me, I may be able to help. I can guide you out.”

When you managed a slight nod, his expression didn’t change — but something softened in his eyes. He reached out, placing two fingers gently against your temple, and spoke in ancient, reverent words: “My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Suddenly, the cold corridor vanished.

Spock saw everything. The memory. The heat. The terror. Your helplessness. The unbearable weight you carried in silence. And though he remained calm, inside the meld his presence was firm, unwavering — like stone against a storm. He didn’t recoil from your pain. He held it with you. Witnessed it.

When the meld ended, he pulled back slowly, gaze still fixed on yours — not with pity, but with something quieter. Deeper.

“You have endured much,” he said, voice low. “But you are not broken.”

He stood, then offered his hand — steady, patient, unshaken.

“You do not have to return alone.”