Written for the prompt: Jealous Spock

Spock is certain that this is what could be termed an awkward moment. Nyota is stock still in the wake of Cadet Barrett's rather ill-advised question, Cadet Hannity is staring between the two of them and then at Spock, and Cadet Gaila is by all appearances attempting and failing to not laugh.

"No," Nyota says, her firmness a contrast to the prevarication with which Barrett asked her if she would join him for dinner.

In the wake of his rather abrupt departure, Gaila does laugh, Hannity touches Nyota's arm with her elbow and says "You can't have them all, you know," and Nyota reaches for Spock's hand, which she holds for a moment in which he can feel her abject shock and growing ire at her classmates audacity that mingles with her disbelief that he somehow was not clear as to the nature of her and Spock's relationship. Spock certainly is, which is why he does not mind the moment when all three of them must leave for their next class, Nyota silent as the other two recount what just occurred, and Spock's hand still tingling with the trace of her touch.

He is not unaccustomed to the notion that Nyota is the recipient of an undue amount of attention. It is no matter, inconsequential to the degree to which he is only bothered if she is, which is why he is able to complete the remainder of his work with the same equanimity as any other day. If he is distracted, it is only due to the fact that it is not precisely ordinary for Nyota to extend her hand to him in the middle of the campus quad, nor is he particularly accustomed to the company of her classmates in such moments, a penchant for privacy between the two of them that Spock has always appreciated.

As such, it is with all the normalcy as any other night that he opens the door to his quarters when Nyota arrives from her last commitment for the day, the smile she offers slightly diminished with fatigue, and her movements slow as she hands him her bag to hang up and toes off her boots.

"So." She tips her face up for his kiss, her hands framing his cheeks before she settles back onto her heels. "That was weird."

He trails her into his bedroom and waits as she begins the familiar process of sorting through his bureau, her eyes finding his before quickly sliding away.

Tonight she pauses halfway through her routine and asks, "Are you jealous?"

He studies her where she stands in the middle of his bedroom, barefoot and holding a shirt. His shirt. In a moment, she will remove her uniform, retie her hair with none of her fastidiousness of the morning, and spend the remainder of the evening swathed in a too large shirt that will pool around her frame when she tucks herself on the corner of his couch. There, she will read, a mug of tea curled into one hand, or they will talk idly of subjects of no real import, the only significance to their discussion that it occurs at all.

"I am not."

She raises an eyebrow at him in what he is sure is an approximation of himself. "Good."

Then she shakes her head and laughs softly and begins the process of unzipping her skirt.

"What?" he asks, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

"Nothing," she says and then stops with her sweater half removed and shakes her head again. "Gaila and Hannity thought that was hilarious."

"That was apparent."

It is when she has pulled her sweater mostly off, so that her voice is muffled, that she clarifies, "Hannity said- I think she has a thing for you."

"'A thing?'"

"No, never mind, forget I said anything." Nyota's hair swings across her back as she shakes her head a third time, efficiently resuming her movements in with a focus that does not invite further conversation.

As she exits his bedroom without another word, he is forced to rise and follow her in order to ask, "Are you-"

"No."

"Because it would seem that-"

"-Should we cook?" she asks, stopping before his replicator. "I'm starving."

From behind, he catches her by the waist. By the time he has pulled her to him, she has let out a sigh, and relaxed back into him, her hands closing over his forearm. Still, despite the slackness of her body against his, her voice remains determined. "I am not jealous, that'd be illogical."

"To be sure," he agrees and she does not pull away and he does not release her. Beneath his arm, his own shirt is warm from her body. Her hands slide up and down his forearm repetitively, slowly, over and over again, tracing from his elbow to his wrist in a manner that eventually causes him to close his eyes. The back of her head is directly before him and when he rests his forehead there, she leans minutely further backwards.

"Dinner," she says at length and he nods in agreement and releases her, but not before he has pressed a kiss to her hair, keeping her close to him for one moment longer.