09-27-2026, 03:31 AM
Morad set his spoon down gently into the bowl, the humor that had danced in his eyes giving way to a quiet, reflective stillness. The strains of the oud and the warm amber lighting held the room in a gentle pocket, far removed from the sterile pressure of the bridge and the cold vacuum of space.
He reached across the table, taking her hand into both of his, his thumb tracing a slow, steady circle over the back of her knuckles.
So... smooth...
"Honestly?" Morad began, his voice soft, unhurried, and devoid of any command facade. "You never really get used to it. And if I’m being completely candid with you... you probably shouldn't."
He looked at her, letting his gaze hold hers with complete honesty.
"When you're a junior officer, your world is your station. You follow the sequence, you solve the puzzle on your console, and you trust that the people sitting in the center chairs know what they're doing. But the moment you pin that department head pip on, or step into the center chair, the math changes. Every order isn't just theory anymore. It’s lives. It’s people who trust you to bring them home."
Morad leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table without letting go of her hand.
"How do I do it? On the Broken Arrow, or any other crisis, you don’t let your mind process the fear while the clock is ticking. You compartmentalize. You rely on your training, your gut, and the people around you to make the split-second calls. The processing... the weight of how close it was... that always hits you later. When the adrenaline burns off and you’re standing in an empty room looking at the bulkhead."
He offered her a gentle, reassuring smile, his thumb giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.
"Captain Fields didn’t consider you for Chief because you had years of department admin courses under your belt, Amila. She saw what I’ve seen since the day you came aboard. You have sharp instincts, unmatched scientific clarity under fire, and most importantly, you care about your people. That hesitation you're feeling right now? That's not weakness. That's your conscience making sure you never treat your crew like numbers on a manifest."
Morad reached for another piece of flatbread, breaking off a warm corner and nudging the spiced muhammara toward her with a fond, teasing twinkle returning to his eyes.
"You’re going to be a brilliant Chief Science Officer. In fact, you already are. But tonight, the Zephyr is safe, the logs are filed, and neither of us is on the clock." He lifted his glass toward her in a quiet toast. "So cut yourself a little slack, eat your dinner... and let me take care of you for an hour or two."
== Right back at you Commander. ==
He reached across the table, taking her hand into both of his, his thumb tracing a slow, steady circle over the back of her knuckles.
So... smooth...
"Honestly?" Morad began, his voice soft, unhurried, and devoid of any command facade. "You never really get used to it. And if I’m being completely candid with you... you probably shouldn't."
He looked at her, letting his gaze hold hers with complete honesty.
"When you're a junior officer, your world is your station. You follow the sequence, you solve the puzzle on your console, and you trust that the people sitting in the center chairs know what they're doing. But the moment you pin that department head pip on, or step into the center chair, the math changes. Every order isn't just theory anymore. It’s lives. It’s people who trust you to bring them home."
Morad leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table without letting go of her hand.
"How do I do it? On the Broken Arrow, or any other crisis, you don’t let your mind process the fear while the clock is ticking. You compartmentalize. You rely on your training, your gut, and the people around you to make the split-second calls. The processing... the weight of how close it was... that always hits you later. When the adrenaline burns off and you’re standing in an empty room looking at the bulkhead."
He offered her a gentle, reassuring smile, his thumb giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.
"Captain Fields didn’t consider you for Chief because you had years of department admin courses under your belt, Amila. She saw what I’ve seen since the day you came aboard. You have sharp instincts, unmatched scientific clarity under fire, and most importantly, you care about your people. That hesitation you're feeling right now? That's not weakness. That's your conscience making sure you never treat your crew like numbers on a manifest."
Morad reached for another piece of flatbread, breaking off a warm corner and nudging the spiced muhammara toward her with a fond, teasing twinkle returning to his eyes.
"You’re going to be a brilliant Chief Science Officer. In fact, you already are. But tonight, the Zephyr is safe, the logs are filed, and neither of us is on the clock." He lifted his glass toward her in a quiet toast. "So cut yourself a little slack, eat your dinner... and let me take care of you for an hour or two."
== Right back at you Commander. ==