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They have discovered an opportunity to visit a garden—a strip of land not far from Starfleet Academy, where there are plants from Earth and neighboring planets—a tourist attraction beneath the pleasing warmth of the San Francisco sun.
Nyota takes him there one morning, several months into their acquaintance, and it is she who claims Spock will enjoy it. He remains dubious for the former portion of their trip. But when they arrive, the air seems to change—the flooring soft, against the sound of splashing water in Spock’s ears. It is quiet other than that. There are few others visiting. Nyota had ensured minimum occupancy yesterday, before they left.
Inside, it seems as though the plants breathe warmth across the surface of his skin. Spock looks around, turning his body in a slow circle as he walks further into the garden.
He watches Nyota bend over an orchid, closing her eyes. “Isn’t it beautiful here?”
Spock concurs. Inwardly, he experiences a strange sensation, of something expanding within himself. It would express its delight—a smile, an exclamation, even if a part of him—the part that is Vulcan—wants to refuse. It makes Spock inhale sharply in the knowledge that he gives in anyway. This was unlooked for, this warm, living feeling stirring beneath the ladder of his ribs.
He calls to her, “Nyota.”
Nyota is suddenly focused, straightening, then turning to meet him. She looks surprised or nervous. Spock takes a step toward her—the backdrop of seemingly endless fields behind the dark spell of her hair. It is beautiful here, he thinks. But none so beautiful as her, Nyota's lips stretching into a soft smile Spock has to come to learn is reserved for him.
He looks at her with an expression he knows she will understand to be resolute, ignoring the way the hummingbird beat of heart quickens.
She doesn’t move, lashes climbing with her eyes to tangle with his own. They have spent so much time together, growing closer—each minute burning into Spock’s mind as his lips part and tastes fresh soil in the air. The logical progression is here, in this moment, and Spock has never been anything but determined to understand.
“Spock?”
Spock can hear her voice, the question in it. But he doesn't answer. Instead, Spock is leaning, drawn by the sound of her breath—the small gasp he takes into his lips when he presses them to hers. He can feel her smiling against his mouth, a faint thrum of pleasure in the touch of their skin.
Seconds pass and he draws away. Spock’s eyes never leave hers, the garden at her back. And somehow, it is only more captivating than it was the moment before, and he is glad of the quiet warmth in his mind.