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The first time you see them step off the shuttlecraft, your stomach drops so hard you think you might actually be sick.
The corridor outside the hangar bay is too bright. Too white. Too open. There’s nowhere to hide.
They look exactly the same.
Your mother’s mouth is already pulled into that thin, assessing line. Your father’s eyes sweep over you like you’re a disappointing inspection report. They haven’t changed. They’ve just traded your childhood living room for the polished decks of the Enterprise.
Jim is beside you -laughing lightly about diplomatic protocol, one hand warm at the small of your back -but he goes quiet when he feels you tense. He glances at you, brows drawing together.
“You okay?”
You nod automatically.
You’ve been nodding your whole life.
──────
The dinner in the officers’ mess feels like a trial.
They pick at everything. The food. The ship. The crew. You.
“So this is what you do now?” your father says, loud enough for nearby ensigns to hear. “Run around space pretending to be important?”
Your mother smiles sweetly. “She was always dramatic.”
Jim’s fork stills.
You keep your eyes on your plate.
You’ve learned this dance. If you push back, it gets worse. If you defend yourself, you’re “disrespectful.” If you cry, you’re “unstable.” So you sit there in your pristine uniform and let them peel you apart one quiet sentence at a time.
Jim doesn’t.
“She’s one of my best officers,” he says, voice calm but tight. “There’s no pretending about it.”
Your father chuckles. “You don’t know her like we do, Captain.”
The air shifts.
Jim’s posture changes in a way you recognize instantly -shoulders squaring, jaw setting. He’s not flirting. Not charming. Not performing.
He’s bracing.
──────
It happens later.
In the corridor outside your quarters.
They followed you.
“You embarrassed us,” your mother hisses the second the doors slide shut behind them. “Showing off in front of your captain like that.”
“I didn’t-”
Your father grabs your arm.
Not hard enough to bruise immediately. Just enough to remind you he can.
“You think you’re something because you wear that uniform?” he says, leaning close. “You’re still the same selfish little girl who lies for attention.”
The words hit deeper than the grip.
You don’t fight back.
You never fight back.
The doors open again.
“Take your hand off her.”
Jim’s voice is ice.
You’ve heard him angry before -at Klingon commanders, at hostile diplomats, but this is different. This is personal. Controlled fury.
Your father releases you slowly, turning with a scoff. “This is a family matter, Captain.”
Jim steps between you and them without hesitation.
“She’s my officer,” he says evenly. “And on my ship, no one lays a hand on my crew.”
Your mother rolls her eyes. “Oh please. You have no idea what she’s really like.”
Jim’s expression hardens. “I know exactly what she’s like. Brave. Brilliant. Loyal to a fault.” His voice drops. “And I won’t tolerate you treating her like she’s anything less.”
You can’t breathe.
No one’s ever done that.
Your father laughs, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty now. “You’re taking her word over ours?”
Jim doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”
One word.
Solid. Certain. Absolute.
Security arrives -because of course Jim signaled them the second the doors opened. Your parents are escorted away, still muttering about disrespect and dramatics and how you’ve always been “too sensitive.”
The corridor goes quiet.
Your arm still tingles where he grabbed you.
Jim turns to you slowly.
And the anger melts into something else entirely.
──────
You’re in the briefing room an hour later.
Not for a mission.
For you.
Jim sits across from you at the long table. Spock stands near the viewport, hands clasped behind his back. McCoy leans against the wall, arms folded, frowning in a way that’s far softer than he wants to admit.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jim asks.
There’s no accusation in his voice.
That almost makes it worse.
You stare at the polished surface of the table.
“It wasn’t relevant to the mission.”
McCoy snorts. “Darlin’, your father just grabbed you in a Starfleet corridor. That’s relevant.”
Spock’s voice is quiet but firm. “Withholding personal information that may affect operational readiness is… illogical.”
You flinch.
Jim notices.
His tone gentles. “I’m not angry,” he says. “I just… I would’ve handled this differently if I’d known.”
You swallow.
The words scrape on the way out.
“Because no one ever believes me.”
Silence.
You force yourself to look at him.
“When I was a kid, teachers thought I exaggerated. Neighbors said I was dramatic. They’re… respected. Charming. They know how to act in public.” Your throat tightens. “I stopped trying.”
McCoy’s expression shifts first -anger turning outward instead of inward.
Spock’s gaze sharpens with something almost like understanding.
Jim looks wrecked.
“You thought I wouldn’t believe you?” he asks quietly.
“I thought you’d think I was overreacting,” you whisper. “Or trying to get out of the mission. Or-”
He stands abruptly, circling the table to kneel in front of you. Not towering. Not commanding.
Level.
He takes your hands carefully, like you might bolt.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and steady. “You could tell me the sky turned green and I’d at least look out a window. If you tell me someone hurt you, I believe you.”
Your vision blurs.
Spock inclines his head. “Your previous experiences do not dictate future outcomes.”
McCoy huffs softly. “And for the record? I’ve got a pretty good nose for nonsense. What I saw back there wasn’t you being dramatic.”
Your chest cracks open.
All those years of being told you were too sensitive. Too loud. Too emotional. Too much.
Jim squeezes your hands.
“You don’t have to fight alone on this ship,” he says. “You don’t have to brace for impact every time someone raises their voice. Not with me. Not with us.”
Your voice trembles. “You really believe me?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“With everything I’ve got.”