Where It Still Hurts

Posted on Thu Jan 8th, 2026 @ 10:25am by Lieutenant Evelyn Stewart & Lieutenant JG Koaruh Avestro

3,216 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: USS Moore - Evelyn Stewart’s Quarters
Timeline: MD: 008 20:30 hrs

Stewart groaned as she peeled her uniform jacket off, feeling the jolt of pain running down from the base of her neck and through her shoulder blade in the effort. She slowly moved to sit between Koaruh’s legs so he could help with the tightened muscles.

“God…I hate this.” She grumbled about the pain flaring from the bond. “Don’t be too easy…being gentle only irritates it.” she said to him over her shoulder before reaching her glass of wine and taking a sip.

Koaruh slid in close, knees either side of her hips, and eased her back against his chest. He kissed the hinge of her jaw once—hello, I’m here—then set his palms to her shoulders to feel where the heat lived.

“Okay,” he breathed, low. “No soft hands.”

He warmed his thumbs along the base of her neck and sank slow, deliberate pressure down the inside edge of her shoulder blade. When her breath caught he held, deep and steady, then worked small circles that melted outward. His mouth skimmed her temple; his breath stayed even so she could borrow the rhythm if she wanted.

“Here,” he murmured, shifting a fraction lower; the heel of his hand pinned the scapula while the other thumb stripped along the knot in one long pass. He didn’t talk over it—just small cues, a quiet, “good,” when he felt the muscle give, and another glide to chase the line that always fired after a long day.

He changed angle, knuckles slow under the ridge, then the pad of his thumb pressing in with intent. “That one,” he said, soft satisfaction in it, and held until the fight eased. His free hand found her waist, anchoring; he kissed behind her ear, warm and brief.

“Tell me if you want more,” he added, voice rough around the edges now. “I can go deeper.”

When she felt Koaruh’s lips and breath behind her ear, Evelyn’s hand instinctively moved to his inner thigh and squeezed gently in reflex, a small noise escaping her for a brief moment that had nothing to do with the pain before her mind caught up to what she was doing and she focused.

Stewart let out a tight breath through her nose as his thumb dug into the knot—sharp enough that her eyes fluttered, but not enough to break her composure. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass, knuckles pale.

“That’s the one,” she muttered, half-pained, half-relieved. “Feels like it’s been growing there for days.”

Another pulse of pressure made her shoulders jerk, and she hissed softly. She tipped her head slightly, giving him more access, even though it cost her. She could feel the hot pain run through her nerves, like it was trying to escape Koaruh’s touch.

“I swear this damn thing is getting worse the more I try to pretend it isn’t.”
A humorless little laugh. “Very dignified for a senior officer, right? Flinching like some cadet who slept wrong.”

She took another sip—small this time—and exhaled long, letting her weight settle back against his chest.

“You’re doing good,” she said, quieter. “Better than I can get to on my own. I just…”
Her jaw flexed when another spark of pain flashed hot and sharp.

“…I don’t know if I’m missing something. Or if this is just what it is now.” The admission was small, begrudging. A thread of vulnerability she let out only because she was turned away from him.

She rolled her shoulder once, winced, and sighed.
“Feels like it’s a constant - like I can’t escape it.”

She didn’t say help me. Didn’t say I’m worried.
But it was there—clear enough for him to step in.

She set the glass down and rested her forearm across her knee, head tipping forward slightly.

Koaruh stayed right where she’d put him, chest to her back, hands patient and sure. He kept the pressure where it mattered, easing off just enough when he felt the muscle start to give, then sinking back in with quiet intent. No commentary, no fixing the moment. Just staying with it.

“Yeah,” he murmured when she admitted how constant it felt, voice low and grounded. “I know. That’s the worst part. Not the spike—it's the fact it never fully leaves.” His thumb slowed, tracing a deliberate line that chased the ache instead of fighting it. “You’re not imagining it. And you’re not failing because it hasn’t gone away yet.”

Her crack about dignity earned a soft breath of a laugh against her hair. “If this is undignified, then I’ve wildly misunderstood how bodies work,” he said, gentle but real. “You’ve been carrying something that doesn’t have an off-switch. Anyone would be tired of it.”

He shifted again, one hand steadying her at the waist, the other working deeper along the stubborn line that kept lighting her up. When she winced, he held, waited, let the tension ebb before moving on. “Tomorrow,” he added lightly, “we let Tollan scowl at it and pretend that fixes everything. He enjoys that part.” A pause, then a quieter confession. “And for the record, these hands were absolutely not designed for this kind of labour. I was raised on comfort and very good lotions. But I’ll manage.”

He leaned in, cheek resting briefly against her temple. “You don’t have to figure out what this is right now,” he said, not pushing, not pulling. “Tonight you just get to sit here and let me help where I can.” His hands smoothed once more, warmth replacing pressure. “I’ve got you, Ev. For as long as you need.”

“Tollan says the only way to properly treat it is for me to go to Vulcan and see a healer,” Stewart said. “He said anything else would just be maintenance.”

She didn’t move right away. She let the words sit there for half a beat, just long enough to see if he would step into it.

“That’s not going to happen,” she added, wry, with a firmness underneath that made it clear the decision was already made.

She lifted the glass then, took another drink, and set it aside with intention.

Only after that did she ease back against him, settling into the line of his body as his hands continued their work. She shifted once to get more comfortable, then stilled, shoulders loosening as she stayed there.

“That’s better,” she said.

She rested like that for a moment, then tipped her head and brushed a brief kiss along his jaw. As she did, her hand slid briefly to his inner thigh, fingers lingering there for a quiet second before drifting away. Her hand came to rest on his knee instead, tracing slow, absent circles there—unthinking, repetitive.

“Tollan also said I need to start dealing with the trauma of losing Stryvek,” she continued, practical, with a faint edge of annoyance she didn’t bother to hide. “Emotionally.”

She stayed relaxed against him, comfortable enough not to move, her fingers continuing their small, steady pattern on his knee.

“He says it’s all connected.” A pause. The circles didn’t stop. “I don’t love the idea. But he’s probably not wrong.”

She went quiet after that.

Then—without breaking contact—she shifted, angling herself a little more into him, still with her back to his chest but closer now, more folded together. Her hand left his knee and slid up, fingers threading through the back of his hair and settling at the nape of his neck. She played idly with the ends there, drawing small, familiar circles as she tucked in.

“I’ve been avoiding it,” she said.

She glanced toward him as she spoke, still relaxed against his body, but didn’t quite meet his eyes—her fingers continuing their slow, unconscious motion at his neck, the closeness now unmistakably intentional.

Koaruh went still for a moment at that—not pulling away, not stopping, just letting the weight of what she’d said settle properly before he answered. His hands stayed warm and present, easing rather than pressing now, as if he was anchoring her there with him.

“Tollan’s not wrong,” he said quietly, not defensive, not dismissive. Honest. “Bonds like that don’t just end because the other person does. They leave… residue. Memory in places you don’t consciously touch anymore.” His thumb traced a slow, grounding line, more comfort than technique. “On Betazed, we see it a lot. Even when both people survive. Especially when they don’t.”

He leaned in just enough that his cheek brushed her hair, voice low and close. “Telepathic bonds are… loud when they break. The mind doesn’t always know where to put the silence that comes after.” A pause. “So it settles in the body. Or the nerves. Or shows up as pain that doesn’t make sense on a scan.”

Her avoidance didn’t earn correction. Just understanding.

“And avoiding it?” he went on gently. “That’s not stubbornness. That’s self-preservation. You lived through something that rewired how you feel connection. Of course you’re wary about opening that door again.” His hand tightened slightly at her waist, a quiet reassurance. “It doesn’t mean you never will. It just means you’re choosing when.”

He shifted so she was supported more fully against him, steady and unhurried. “If you decide to look at it—really look at it—I’ll back that. With Tollan, or someone else you trust.” A breath. “And if you’re not ready yet… that’s okay too.”

His lips brushed her temple, brief and tender. “You don’t have to outrun it. And you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here—however you need me. Partner, grounding post, or just the idiot with good hands.”

His thumb resumed its slow rhythm, patient and sure, staying with her exactly where she was.

Stewart closed her eyes as she took in his words. He wasn’t listening. Not to what she was really saying in any case. Taking a deep breath she allowed herself to feel the pattern on her back with his thumb for another moment as she gathered her courage slowly.

Letting out that same breath, she pushed the issue without lifting her head from its spot against his jaw. She didn’t dare meet his eyes. “I don’t need a partner. I need a counselor.” She finally said quietly but calmly.

Without looking at him, her attention focused on his breathing, his micro movements, any tells he might give way to what he really thought while she waited for his response.

Koaruh went still for a moment when she said it. Not pulling away — just pausing, hands resting warm and steady at her waist.

“That’s… not what you said before,” he replied quietly. No edge. No correction. Just fact.

He shifted slightly so his voice carried more clearly, but he didn’t try to turn her or make her look at him. “You were clear with me. You didn’t want to be analysed. You didn’t want sessions, or insight, or me putting a name to things. You wanted me here. Just… here.”

A breath. Measured. Careful.
“So I’ve been doing exactly that.”

His thumb moved once, slow, grounding. “Not because I can’t be your counsellor. But because you asked me not to be.”

He didn’t rush the next part.

“If what you’re saying now is that you think you need more than that — someone whose only role is to help you unpack this — I’m not going to dismiss it. Tollan’s not wrong. Loss like that doesn’t just vanish because you muscle through it.”

Another pause, letting the words land without pressure.

“But I need you to hear this too,” he added gently. “I haven’t been avoiding anything. And I haven’t stopped listening. I’ve just been respecting the line you drew.”

His hands tightened slightly at her waist — not possessive, just present.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight. Or redefine us in the middle of a bad flare-up.”

Softer now, honest.

“I’m here because you asked me to be,” he said quietly. “And I’m still here.”

His voice stayed low against her hair, steady, unforced.

“If what you need from me changes, we can talk about it. No pressure. No rush.”

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tighten his hold.

“And I promise you,” he added gently, “I have been listening.”

Evelyn turned to face him fully, finally looking him in the eye. Her expression was caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief, like the ground had shifted under her feet without warning.

“Are you saying this is my fault?” she asked. The question was broad, unguarded—too big to be precise yet. The fragility in her voice lingered, the echo of what he’d just said still catching in her throat.

She searched his face for another second, as if waiting for him to correct her. When he didn’t, she pushed herself up from his lap and took a step away, the sudden absence of his warmth registering a beat too late.

“You’re the counselor, Koaruh,” she said, turning back on him, her tone still controlled but tightening at the edges. “You’re supposed to dictate where that line is. I’ve been dealing with this for two months. You should have stepped in—not left it to me to decide.” Her voice wavered at the end despite her effort to keep it steady. “That’s your duty. Not just to me. To this crew.”

She folded her arms across her chest, one hand lifting so her thumb pressed against her lower lip, tapping in a small, restless rhythm as her gaze stayed fixed on him. Heat crept up her neck and into her face, her breathing shallow and quick.

Then she dropped her arms and took a step toward him instead of away, the movement sharp and deliberate.

“You were happy to blur ethics when it benefits you,” she said, holding his gaze now, unflinching. “Now you’re drawing lines when it costs you nothing—except holodeck time.”

The words landed between them, heavy and precise. She didn’t look away. She watched him take them.

Her shoulders rose and fell once in a sharp breath. When she spoke again, her voice was colder—not loud, but final.

“Get out.”

Only then did she turn, angling her body toward the door as she met his eyes one last time. There was anger there, yes—but underneath it, something tighter and more wounded.

“Get out of my quarters. Now.”

She stepped aside, clearing the path, arms folding back across her chest as if holding herself together by force alone.

Koaruh didn’t move at first.

Not when she stood. Not when she told him what his job was. The frustration showed only in the tight line of his mouth, the way he drew a slow breath through his nose before answering.

“No,” he said evenly. “I’m not saying this is your fault.”

He rose then, unhurried, meeting her eye without matching her heat. His voice stayed low, but there was steel under it now.

“And I don’t need you to explain my duty to me. I live it every day.”

A beat. Deliberate.

“You didn’t want counselling,” he continued. “You said it. Clearly. More than once. You didn’t want analysis, or guidance, or someone steering you toward things you weren’t ready to touch. You wanted a partner who stayed. So that’s what I’ve been.”

His jaw tightened slightly. Not anger — restraint.

“It is not my job to override your consent because I think I know better. It is not my place to force insight on someone just because they’re hurting. That isn’t care — that’s control. And I won’t do that. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Her words about ethics landed — and he didn’t dodge them.

“And no,” he added, quieter but firmer, “there hasn’t been any blurring. Counsellors don’t stop being people. We don’t get stripped of connection so everyone else can stay comfortable. If I couldn’t be trusted to know where my lines are, I wouldn’t still be wearing the badge.”

He stepped past her, giving her the space she demanded — but not retreating from what he needed to say.

“What’s happening right now,” he said, pausing near the door, “is that you’re angry, you’re hurting, and the ground feels unsteady. I get that. But you don’t get to rewrite the last two months like I wasn’t listening — or like I failed you — just because it’s easier than sitting with what you’re actually feeling.”

He turned then, hand on the door control. His tone softened slightly, not in apology, but in honesty.

“If you want a counsellor,” he said, “I can be that — if that’s truly what you want, and you’re prepared for what it means. Not just tonight. Not just when it hurts.”

He held her gaze.

“I can be your partner. I can be your counsellor. I can even be both — with your consent, and with consistency, but I won’t guess which role you want while you’re pushing me away.”

A pause. Final — but not cruel.

“You told me to leave.”

He keyed the door.

“So I am.”

The doors slid shut behind him, clean and decisive — no argument left hanging, no space for the moment to spiral further.

The doors slid shut with a soft finality, the sound carrying farther down the corridor than he expected.

Koaruh stood there for a second longer than necessary, hand still hovering near the panel before he let it fall to his side. His breath came out slow, controlled — the way he’d taught a hundred other people to breathe through moments that felt too sharp to hold.

He hadn’t wanted it to end like that. Not like this. But he also knew he’d said what needed to be said.

There was a familiar ache beneath his ribs — not heartbreak, not yet — just the dull weight that came when you cared deeply and still chose not to bend. He’d respected her wishes. He’d stayed present. He hadn’t taken shortcuts. And somehow, that had still landed as abandonment in her hands.

That hurt. More than he’d expected.

But he didn’t regret it.

Koaruh straightened, rolling his shoulders once, grounding himself in the quiet hum of the ship. Whatever came next needed to be clearer than this. Kinder, even if it took longer.

He tapped his comm as he started walking.

“Computer,” he said quietly, already turning toward and the entering the turbolift. “Deck Twelve.”

The DMZ’s lights and noise would do just fine.

Right now, he needed a drink — and a place where he didn’t have to be anything for anyone.

 

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