“Are you ignoring me on purpose, or is your comm broken again?” Captain Kim stood just outside the engine room, arms folded, eye twitching. This wasn’t the first time today he’d lost a battle with patience.

Inside, Sae-jin was upside-down beneath a mess of half-exposed conduits, humming a dangerously upbeat tune considering the amount of sparks. Without so much as a glance, she stretched one arm up and handed him a folded note.

Kim unfolded it. “For complaints, please see the Outrim Hauling Company,” he read aloud. He wasn’t impressed.

He stared at it. “We are,” he stressed, “the Outrim Hauling Company, you twit.”

Sae-jin rolled out from under the conduit with a satisfied grin as she smeared more grime across her cheek than she cleaned off. “Exactly. Please submit your grievances in the form of a written complaint.”

Kim raised an eyebrow. “God,” he threw up his arms, “my not-so-silent partner, everyone.” He looked at the Engineer, “You’re not wiring that power supply to a food processor?” He folded his arms. “We’ve talked about this, remember what happened last time?”

She gasped, mock-offended. “It was a blender, thank you. And it worked perfectly until you tried to …” She sighed, giving up, she knew that look.

He stepped into the room, ducking a cable. “We’re hauling high-grade medical plasma, and you’re flirting with a hull breach.”

“Not flirting,” she said sweetly. “Just… making eye contact.”

Kim exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He could feel a migraine forming. “We need to be on point. Thirty-six hours to Freecloud, and I don’t want any surprises.”

Sae-jin saluted with a spanner. “Captain Serious, reporting for duty.”

“Captain Fed-Up, more like,” Kim muttered. He paused, hand lingering over a nearby console.

“Do not touch that,” Sae-jin barked, suddenly all business. “Last time you poked something, you fried my stabilizers.”

“That was months ago,” Kim said defensively. “And technically, it was the Klingon that did it.”

From the galley, a gravelly voice could be heard, “Your stabilizer was already faulty.” Kordath didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, it was heard.

Kim ignored the warning and flicked a switch. “Besides, what could go wrong?” he added.

Sae-jin groaned like she was being forced to watch a slow-motion disaster. “Every time you say that, I end up rewiring something with a torch and two prayers.”

“You’re the one who gave this ship a soul,” Kim said with a small smile.

She grinned back. “Yeah, and the soul’s cranky and held together with duct tape and my dignity.” The lights above flickered. “See?” she added, gesturing upward. “She agrees.”

Kim laughed, “She?” He sighed again. The Star wasn’t perfect. Neither was her crew. But in a galaxy full of half-truths and politics, at least this mess was theirs. The ship gave a low creak as if agreeing, or complaining.

Sae-jin tossed him a half-burnt diagnostic pad. “She’s fine. Mostly. Maybe. Probably.”

He caught it without looking. “Remind me again why we’re not retired somewhere?”

“Because we’d get bored,” she said. Then, with a smirk, “And because you blew our retirement on an old Cardassian freighter.”

Kim shook his head, and for a second, he smiled. Trouble or not, they’d deal with it like they always did, “one fried circuit at a time.” He stated with a smile. “Just… keep her in one piece please.”

Sae-jin flashed a grin. “She always makes it. Might not be pretty, but she makes it.” She watched as he left, “Love you too.”

Kim didn’t stop, but just before the corridor turned, she saw his hand lift, a half-wave, maybe. Or maybe just brushing dust from his sleeve.

Out of ear shot, he shook his head, “I should have left you with mother.”

From the nearby galley, Kordeth’s voice came through rather dry, “I heard that.”