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It started small.
It was a glance across the bridge, a tiny nod of the head, a knowing look. Spock wouldn't smile, but his eyes would soften and it was enough to make Jim melt.
Somewhere along the way, it turned into small touches. Spock would brush Jim was he walked by, and Jim would shiver with the love sent through the brief contact. A chaste touching of fingers, a small shoulder bump, standing just a but two close.
The first time Spock offered him an ozh’esta in public, Jim wanted to cry from how much he loved his Vulcan. It had been under the table at a feast, and it was quick, but it was enough. It was perfect. Spock was perfect, and Jim had never loved someone more.
One day they were walking down the street in San Francisco and Spock had raised two fingers with a smile in his eyes. Jim had met them, his own smile wide and open and Spock sent a wave of love through the bond and Jim sent one back, and they’d never been so happy.
“I love you,” whispered Spock.
“I love you too.”