In the aftermath of the yellow alert, Nyota picked herself up from the floor of the head, checked for bruises, and finished dressing.

Nyota heard a rustle. She looked up. Spock stood in the doorway, his face severe.

"Nyota," he said, his normally soft voice rough. She turned from her chair. He stepped into the room, nearly throwing himself at her feet, lunging to his knees. He wrapped his arms about her knees, reaching for her hand with his joined fingers, pressing them into her palm. She closed her hand around his fingers but he pulled them free to repeatedly stroke and push at the entirety of her hand, millimeter by millimeter. His other hand fisted in the material of her skirt, pulling it higher and higher so that her thighs were uncovered and he pressed his hot face against her exposed skin.

She could hear him swallowing thickly but he made no sound in his distress.

There was no kissing. Spock reverted to his Vulcan heritage. Curled about her like a snake but helpless in the storm of his emotion.

Still. So still, even the two fingers pressed against her two fingers weren't moving.

"What, Spock? What is it?"

He loosened his grip on her legs and feeling rushed back into them. Light headed, she experienced vertigo and he permitted her to sink. She braced her hand on his shoulder and he twined his fingers with hers.

"Your arms are so slender. Your wrists so delicate. So vital a woman and yet so minute in all your physical attributes. It is logical that when I consider the violence of this galaxy and the physical frailty of human women that I may be concerned for your well-being."

They were quiet. She slipped her arms under his shirts, tucked her head under his chin. Eventually she said, "We're all small out here."