The hum of the Enterprise was soft, distant, like the lull of a heartbeat. After the chaos of Alpha Shift—dodging meteors, mediating a standoff between two warring moons, and holding Bones back from strangling a very persistent ambassador—you needed quiet. Craved it.

Your quarters weren’t the first place you went.

You went looking for him.

The lights in Spock’s room were dimmed to a cool blue. No movement. No rustle of pages or sound of tapping keys. Just silence.

And then you saw him.

Stretched across the couch, curled beneath a blanket, arms folded beneath his head like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep there—but had. His hair was just a little mussed. Breathing steady. Calm. One pointed ear barely twitching in response to the shift in the room’s pressure as you entered. But he didn’t wake.

You’d never seen him like this. Not in meetings. Not even in the infirmary. Spock never let his guard down. Not fully.

And yet here he was—completely at rest.

You stood there for a long minute. Just watching. Just breathing with him. It was oddly grounding.

Eventually, you moved closer, slow and quiet, lowering yourself onto the edge of the couch. He didn’t stir when you leaned back. He didn’t even flinch when your arm slid gently beneath his head, pulling him closer, letting his face rest against your chest. Maybe he was too tired to question it. Or maybe—just maybe—he wanted this too.

The stars outside the viewport drifted by in silence, painting the floor with light.

You wrapped an arm around him, held him close, and let yourself rest for once too. Captain and Commander. Two hearts synced to the rhythm of warp drive and something even more inexplicable between them.