I mute the alarm.
Before the Narada, before Vulcan was lost, he would bound awake with the verve of a toddler, eager to seize the day.
I slide back into bed, my toes teasing their way down his warm shins. His thick lashes draw as he drags himself awake.
" 'Morning, my love."
His hand slides delicately down my upper arm to curve around my hip. This remains unchanged: his bright eyes meet mine, his lips curve softly upward.
"Nyota." He whispers.
Then the light fades, the damned black hole returns, he remembers: the weight of his losses crashes in.