Spock stood outside the medbay, his hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated the situation. The faint beeping of the heart monitor filtered through the doors, a steady rhythm that marked your life within. He had been informed of your condition—a severe concussion from a Klingon disruptor blast, leaving you in a state of unconsciousness. The medical staff had assured him that your physical injuries were healing, but the psychological and neurological effects were still uncertain.

His logical mind processed the data: your vital signs were stable, but your prolonged unconsciousness was concerning. Vulcans, despite their emotional restraint, were not immune to empathy, and Spock found himself unusually unsettled by your condition. He had observed your dedication to your duties, your sharp intellect, and your unwavering resolve during your missions together. To see you reduced to this state—vulnerable, fragile—was... disquieting.

With a deliberate step, he entered the medbay. The soft hum of the medical equipment filled the room, and the faint scent of antiseptic permeated the air. You lay on the biobed, your form still and pale, your breathing shallow but steady. Your hair was slightly mussed, and your face bore the faint remnants of bruising from the attack.

Spock approached the biobed, his movements precise and deliberate. He stood beside you, his green-tinted blood pulsing faintly through his veins as he studied you. His analytical mind cataloged your condition, but beneath the surface, a deeper, more primal part of him stirred. Vulcans were not prone to sentimentality, but there was a certain... protectiveness that he felt toward you. A desire to see you restored to your former vitality.