“Well,” Trip considered as he slathered honey on his toast. “I guess we tend to associate emotional sweetness with… well, literal sweetness. Verbally anyway. Maybe it’s a language thing? I don’t know how common that is across human cultures, but it’s what I grew up with.”

T’Pol eyed him over the rim of her mug. “In Vulcan I would simply refer to you as my beloved, or my t’hy’la.”

Trip’s heartbeat was suddenly incredibly loud in his ears. Time didn’t slow to a standstill, but it was one of those moments he almost wished it would. This seemed like something he was going to want to remember clearly later.

“You would call me your beloved?” He asked slowly, because he wanted to hear her say it again.

“Yes.” As though it were obvious.

“Well, then why haven’t you called me that before?” he asked curiously, hoping it didn’t sound petulant. “What was the other word - t’hy’la?” He tried out.

T’Pol gave a slight nod before looking down. “First, I believe calling you by your chosen nickname has a similar effect.”

He smiled shyly. “It does. Most people call me Trip, but it feels different when you say it. I wasn’t completely sure if that was just in my head though.”

She looked up at him through her lashes. She uttered no words, but just that soft look set his heart thundering again. Not all in his head then.

“And second?” he prompted when his thoughts caught up.

“I was uncertain if I could properly convey the cultural context of t’hy’la. It does not seem to translate well into your language.”

Trip pushed his plate aside and looked at her seriously. “Try?”

“It is most often translated as friend or lover, but it would be more accurate to say that it is the person closest to one’s katra. The pre-eminent person in one’s life regardless of whether the relationship is otherwise familial, platonic or romantic. There is no direct analogue.” T’Pol eyed him carefully, searching his face for comprehension.

Trip pursed his lips and let her words sink in, not wanting to stumble here. Moments of emotional openness with T’Pol were still pretty rare.

“So,” he hesitated. “It’s maybe kind of like a soulmate? Not like a destiny thing but like… the … the partner - of your heart? Your katra?”

“That is an acceptable explanation, if rather imprecise.” She lifted one eyebrow in a recognisably playful way, and he relaxed. He hadn’t mortally offended her with his clumsy interpretation of her language and culture.

“And that’s what you consider me?”

“It is,” she agreed softly.

He reached across the table to touch her hand gently. “Thank you for explaining it to me. I might not completely understand, but I think it’s really beautiful, my love.”

T’Pol tilted her head and gave him a very soft look. It wasn’t exactly a smile but it conveyed her affection and approval.

“Oh! You like that one?”

“It is preferable to being referred to as a type of sugar,” she said archly, and he chuckled.

“You win, my love. As much fun as it is teasing you, there’s something to be said for keeping it simple.”

“A logical conclusion, t’hy’la.”

—

They sat on the edge of T'Pol's bed for a long time, holding hands, saying nothing, and after a while, it occurred to Trip that this was likely the longest they'd ever been in physical contact. And it felt nice, even if the reason broke his heart.

“When my mother died,” she said, breaking the silence, “you offered to let me speak of it. I told you there was no need.” Her voice almost too soft to hear, and yet he could understand her perfectly. “That was untrue. I wanted very much for it to be true, but it was not.” She sighed, a very small and tired exhalation. “I should not have turned you away.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “I know why you did.”

“That does not make it a logical course of action on my part.” She returned the glance. “Is that why you suggested that Elizabeth’s middle name should be T'Les?”

He swallowed hard against the lump that instantly re-formed in his throat at the sound of their daughter’s name. “I guess so,” he whispered.

The silence returned, and their hands remained clasped. He cleared his throat. “If, um…if we're clearin' the air, I…” He pushed at the words. “When I thought I was gonna die on that drone ship, I thought about you. I was mad at myself, because I’d never told you how I felt about you, and I should have. Even if it couldn’t change anything.”

“I knew,” she offered, some mix of remorse and kindness in her voice. “I know.”

He nodded. Somehow the words themselves seemed unimportant now. Maybe it was the grief, pushing on his chest like the gravity of a black hole. Or maybe it was unimportant, sitting beside her, holding her hand. Closer than they’d ever been before.

“At Sphere 41, when I thought we might not survive, I thought of you,” she said.

“Not the deflector dish?” he asked, feeling what might have been the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“I did think of the deflector dish,” she admitted. “But I also thought that I did not want our plan to fail, and not simply because of the implications of failure for Earth, and for Vulcan. I felt that we had devised an excellent plan, you and I, and I was grateful to know you.”

He looked at her in silent surprise for a moment, then squeezed her hand. “You know that’s mutual?”

That had been happening more and more often lately. In fact, unless T'Pol was very much mistaken, neither she nor Trip had slept alone once in the last two weeks. And when she considered that, she realized that she really didn't mind. His nearness was a pleasure, one she found increased when they could be alone, together, in the unguarded quiet of sleep.

He had come directly to her quarters after getting off duty sometime around 0100, entering at her drowsy acknowledgement, shedding his uniform, and climbing into her bunk beside her. Now it was 0600, and the lights were beginning to slowly brighten because her own duty shift began in ninety minutes and she should get up soon. But not yet.

She propped herself on her elbow, and watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling evenly with each breath. Once his presence had been almost unbearable, a distraction and a torment that she resented and longed for in equal measure. But it had never been him; it had been herself, and what knowing him that brought forth in her. She hadn't wanted to want him, because the implications of that desire were too terrifying to contemplate, so she had fought her desire, and found herself unequal to the fight. Her need ultimately had proven greater than her fear, and she had surrendered to it. She wanted him, and she needed him to be hers, and now he was.

He was hers.

She traced a fingertip along his collarbone; he shifted in his sleep, inhaling deeply. Her finger drifted down his chest, and she found herself sketching the curved and dotted lines of the characters that spelled her name.

"Drawin' on me?" Trip mumbled. His eyes didn't open.

"Calligraphy," she corrected.

"Oooo. Fancy Vulcan graffiti." His head tilted towards her, a little smile moving his lips even as his eyes remained closed. "What'd you write? 'T'Pol was here'?"

"In a manner of speaking."

His eyes slowly opened. "Ya know…your name's all over me already." She met his gaze, swirling the final flourish of her name over his heart.