I know something isn't right when Spock rushes directly through our quarters to the restroom.
I know better than to hit him with an inquisition when he's upset. I dim the lights, raise the temperature, light his asenoi.
When he comes out, his hair is damp around his face—for him, extraordinary carelessness.
Avoiding my gaze, he slides into his robe and sits heavily on his meditation dais.
After his third sigh, I risk breaking the silence.
"Jim okay?"
"He is in sick bay recovering."
"And you?"
He swallows hard, puts a fist to his mouth and shakes his head.