The beach at Port Faran was a sunsoaked indulgence, a crescent of pale gold sand stretching between azure surf and the white stone curve of the promenade. Umbrellas cast slow-moving shadows, while the breeze carried the scent of salt mingling with sweet, fruity cocktails, carried the sounds of soft laughter, low music, and the rhythmic rush of waves. Somewhere in the distance, a wind-chime sang lazily.

Uniforms had vanished, officers sprawled on towels or on loungers under shaded alcoves. Jackets and boots had been traded for t-shirts and sandals or bare skin, Starfleet decorum and discipline shed after what felt like a lifetime.

Weeks ago, they had stood on metal decks above these peerless skies, and waged bloody war against those who would destroy Federation paradise. Now, they lounged beneath those same skies, and reaped what had grown from the seeds of peace they’d sowed.

Nate Beckett had claimed a lounger near the edge of the shade, angled just so the sun warmed his legs but not his drink – cold, brightly coloured, and dangerously alcoholic. Or so he hoped. A sliver of citrus clung to the rim of the glass like it was its last chance for salvation.

In his lap sat the PADD bearing the latest neglected entry of his parsecs-long reading list: Theodophalus Cline’s The Caldos Cipher, bursting with promises of a breakneck, thrilling adventure. He was five chapters in and already pretending he’d guessed the twist.

It was a shadow falling over his legs that broke his concentration, and he looked up with indignation at the figure passing by. ‘Hey! I’ve got rays to catch here!’

Elsa Lindgren – barefoot and sun-kissed, wearing a straw hat bigger than she was, a towel slung over one shoulder and a PADD under one arm – stopped, which didn’t help the problem of blocking out the sun. ‘Sorry, Nate. Didn’t realise your sunbathing time was so limited.’

‘I could have work to do. You don’t know that. I could be working right now.’

‘Important Intelligence work? Here?’

‘Espionage requires blending in. I am becoming the beach.’ He waggled a reproaching finger, the effect rather ruined when he paused to sip his fruity cocktail through a straw. ‘You seen Rosara?’

Lindgren rolled her eyes again. ‘Promising she’ll beam down. Any minute now. Good luck ever seeing your girlfriend this shore leave.’

‘We’ve got a happy relationship because I know how to pick my battles,’ he said wryly. ‘So I’ll be here, having a grand old time with my two besties: Theodophalus Cline and Starik.’ He waggled the PADD in explanation of the first name.

Lindgren raised an eyebrow at the second, looking to the adjacent lounger. ‘I didn’t expect to see you down here, Doctor.’

Beckett liked to cultivate an air of stylish deshabille in his R&R; the rumpled linen shirt, patterned in navy and silver, the cuffed beige Bermuda shorts, the soft-leather sandals abandoned in the sand next to a lounger dangling half-in, half-out of the sun like it wasn’t by design.

Starik, in contrast, had approached the afternoon with all the precision of a surgical procedure. His lounger had been adjusted to the most ergonomically advantageous incline – not the default – and positioned at the exact angle to avoid direct glare on the PADD he held firmly in one hand. Upon the low table beside it sat his glass of infused water. He’d thoughtfully included a coaster.

At the address, Starik glanced up from his reading. Beckett had been dubious when the doctor had arrived in typical Vulcan garb, his tunic a pale slate-grey breathable fabric that didn’t move at all in the breeze, only to be reminded that Vulcan was a hot world. Conditions at Port Faran were positively common. This was relaxing attire for him.

‘The physiological benefits of exposure to natural light and oceanic air currents are well-documented, Lieutenant,’ Starik said, as if this were self-evident. ‘It would be illogical to not take advantage of it.’

‘See, you and I might think we know how to relax, El,’ Beckett said, accustomed to this by now, ‘but Starik is taking shore leave to a whole new level of optimisation.’

Her lips twitched. ‘My mistake. Any more logical plans later?’

‘We will surf,’ said Starik decisively.

‘We will?’ said Beckett with surprise. ‘You planned this?’

‘As you say, I am optimising. Without a clear schedule, you will dawdle in your tiresome prose until the tides are no longer suitable.’

‘You really wanna hit some waves, huh.’

‘I am indifferent to surfing; it is merely a passable challenge of balance and skill. What I wish to avoid is your complaining by 1800 hours that you did not surf.’

Beckett looked back at Lindgren. ‘He’s got me there, you know. Your schedule this rigorous?’

‘It’s densely packed and highly inflexible.’ She pointed further down the beach. ‘I’m going to the hammock with my book and my drink. I will not be moving for exactly five hours. I will not be getting up. If you speak to me, I will pretend to not know you.’

Starik nodded with clear respect. ‘Then we shall not keep you from your disciplined itinerary of focused relaxation, Lieutenant. Live long and prosper.’

She beamed. ‘I will, thanks.’

Beckett nudged his sunglasses back up as Lindgren sauntered off. Starik didn’t look at him, returning to his reading. It could have been a medical journal or the latest trashy thriller, optimised for mental relaxation, for all he knew. ‘I gotta ask,’ Beckett began. ‘Are you just fucking with people, or are you actually project-managing a holiday this hard?’

‘Vulcans do not lie,’ said Starik, not looking up.

‘That’s exactly what a liar would say,’ Beckett decided, and returned to his book.

The afternoon padded onward with the timeless laziness of the sun itself. Port Faran was such a popular destination for Starfleet that he recognised plenty of those taking advantage of his beaches; not just Endeavour’s crew, but others from the squadron. Mercury’s senior staff playing volleyball two hundred metres down the way. Commanders Song and Danjuma from Sirius wandering down the promenade, hand-in-hand.

Endeavour’s Counsellor Dhanesh’s family had met him for shore leave. The counsellor himself was sprawled on a towel without a care in the world, while his wife built a sandcastle with their youngest. In the waves, the older kids splashed about, before the roaring figure of Commander Jack Logan burst out from below the surface like a sea monster. He caught one, swinging them in the air while the other, laughing, ran like their life depended on it.

Bathed in the sun, soaking into the pages of ridiculous intrigue of his book, Beckett forgot the exact time they were going to go surfing. Starik didn’t.

‘Conditions are now ideal,’ he said without preamble, sitting up on the lounger. ‘We must go.’

Beckett groaned as he sat up. ‘This is the most aggressively Vulcan approach to surfing I’ve ever heard of.’

‘I am Vulcan. What more did you expect?’

The boards had already been delivered, set aside beside the loungers. Beckett drained what was left of his drink and went to stow his PADD in the shoulder-bag under his chair. A message pinged as he picked it up, but he swiped the notification aside without reading. It could wait.

The water was brisk but good. Beckett wiped out loudly and early, while Starik stood with the same clinical precision he brought to trauma surgery, and was annoyingly successful. By the time they came in from the waves, the sun had started its slow descent behind the curve of the bay, casting Port Faran in the burnished light of early evening.

The beach was beginning to empty, towels shaken out, laughing groups trailing up toward the promenade. Beckett slung the towel over his shoulders, waving Starik goodbye before he wandered barefoot up the stone steps, the heat of the day still lingering in the walls. Streets above were lazy now, the mood of the city changing from the bustle of daylight fun to the gentle relaxation of the evening. Shopkeepers set out lanterns, musicians tuned strings on corners, and the scents of grilled fish and spices curled through the air. He moved without hurry, winding through old colonial avenues where climbing vines crept across low walls, and let the sea fade behind him.

The apartment was perched three storeys above the bay, built into a coastal villa that had once been a shore-side warehouse and was now the most disgustingly tourist-trap residence. Its main room had a wide, open plan with wood floors and white walls on which hung local watercolours, while the balcony overlooked the water where the waves hissed gently against rocks. The light was dipping to the blue-gold of the evening as the sun scraped at the furthest horizon.

He opened the balcony doors, soaking it in for a moment. He had time. Time for a shower as the sea breeze spilled in. Time to grab a couple of glasses and the bottle of wine he’d secured for the evening.

It had been left to breathe for just long enough as the front door groaned open, and Beckett didn’t get up from the balcony chair. Just reached over to pour the glasses as footsteps snapped across the floorboards.

‘…I’ve still got a dozen things left on my check-list, I’m sorry.’ Rosara Thawn burst onto the balcony like she was late for a debriefing with the commodore. ‘I’ll have to go back up tomorrow if we’re going to finish the recalibrations of the plasma injectors -’

‘Court martial, that,’ Beckett drawled.

‘I’ll get it done, I might just have to recall Forrester -’

‘I mean, Rourke’s orders were clear. Fourth Fleet Command’s orders were clear.’ He lifted a wineglass and extended it toward her. ‘Shore leave. Immediately.’

She froze, successfully caught in his cunning trap of using procedure against her. In her uncertainty, she at least took the wineglass. ‘Who’s going to recalibrate -’

‘Oh, I don’t know. The engineering team at Centauri Station, whose job it is to oversee these kinds of refits? But I’m sorry, Commander, I do have to report another serious breach of operational directives.’ At her stricken look, he nodded. ‘You’re still in uniform.’

‘That’s not…’ But her shoulders sank, eyes closing. ‘You’re right.’

‘I know I’m right. Go shower, even.’

‘You can wait?’

His smile softened, the teasing fading as lightness rose in his chest. ‘I’ll always wait for you.’

He didn’t move til the shower started. Then he ducked inside, barefoot on the wood warm floors, and brought the spread to the low balcony table: still-warm bread, thin slices of cured meat – Tellarite sausage, smoked venison – wedges of soft Gault brie and sharp goat’s cheese, alongside a dish of sun-dried tomatoes glistening beside black olives.

She stepped out minutes later. Her red-gold hair hung loose, catching the dim light, and she’d changed into a sleeveless dress in deep teal, its hem brushing just above her knees, fabric soft and light enough to catch on the breeze. At the sight of the spread, he could see the last knots of tension flee her shoulders.

‘You were planning all of this and I was being a stick-in-the-mud about calibrations?’

‘You’re always a stick-in-the-mud about calibrations.’ He nudged her glass back towards her. ‘Look, I think you should sack off the ship for the month. Like we’ve been told. But we’ll compromise: tonight is shore leave. Tomorrow’s… whatever.’

‘Whatever,’ she echoed, with only the driest hint of mockery. ‘You know how to lure me in.’

‘As established, clearly.’ He raised his glass. The soft chime of crystal was the final tone to banish the outside world.

They ate slowly, lazily, pulling apart the bread, passing bites back and forth, tasting and teasing and disagreeing over which cheeses were better. The breeze cooled as the night deepened, but they didn’t move from the balcony.

‘When did we last do this?’ she murmured as the sky shifted to dusk, the sea now dark, the city behind glowing soft.

‘Sit? Do nothing? Just have a nice time? No crisis somewhere, with the galaxy, or us, or someone else?’ His eyes roamed over her. Then, on impulse, he left his chair to kneel beside hers, and bowed his head to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. ‘When I could do this…?’

She exhaled, long and low, the last breath finally banishing duty rosters and plasma injector calibrations. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘This.’

Beckett lifted his head, his nose brushing against hers. When she tilted her head up towards him, weakening, he pulled back just half an inch, denying, teasing. The corners of his lips curled. ‘Never,’ he decided. ‘We’ve never had a time like this.’ And he kissed her like it was a time that wouldn’t end.

It wasn’t until the next morning when they awoke – late, tangled in white sheets in the luxurious bed, Thawn making no move to return to Endeavour – that he finally reached for his PADD, and remembered the message. Its subject header told him all he needed.

CEREMONIAL DUTY ASSIGNMENTS – ADMIRAL BECKETT CONFIRMED AS GUEST SPEAKER.