Kirk pushes Nyota, messy and stumbling, into Spock’s chest. “This one’s yours,” he slurs, weaving away, his flower crown askew.
She is limp and slack, drawing a finger unevenly down his cheek.
“I trust Mr. Scott’s party was to your liking.” He holds her shoulders to steady her.
“I love you.” Her brow is furrowed, her tone serious.
“I am quite aware.”
He watches her straighten her witch’s hat, frown, try again.
“I want…” She licks her lips, leans towards his mouth, misses. She giggles into his chin.
“You are occasionally completely incomprehensible,” he says fondly. “I will bring you water.”