contemplative

Jim wasn’t good at waiting. All his life if he’d had to wait, he made something happen. But he didn’t know what to do this time. Well, he supposed he’d done it by confessing his feelings to Spock, however, ill-advised.

He made himself some tea, herbal, because he figured he was hyped up enough as it was. And he wondered if maybe Spock would ignore his message. Pretend he hadn’t seen it until the next day or something.

But his heart nearly stopped and his breath stilled in his chest when footsteps, soft yet sure, paused outside his door.