Between Rein and Breath

Posted on 16 Apr 2026 @ 12:11am by Lieutenant Commander Claire Dunross MD

1,824 words; about a 9 minute read

// USS Arawyn :: Senior Officers Mess :: Early Morning //

Few officers claimed the space at this hour.

A scattering at most. Quiet conversations kept low, chairs left empty, the usual press of senior staff not yet gathered for the day. It gave the room a kind of borrowed stillness, as though it belonged, briefly, to those who rose early enough to take it.

Claire Dunross preferred it that way.

She sat near the viewport, posture relaxed but never careless, one leg crossed neatly beneath the table. She was not in uniform. Not even close.

Cream riding trousers fit cleanly along her legs, tucked into tall brown leather boots polished enough to catch the ambient light. A deep green jacket traced her frame, tailored and practical, though there was a quiet elegance to it that suggested it had been chosen with more care than she might admit.

Her tea steamed faintly in front of her. Black. No fuss.

Her breakfast, by contrast, was nearly gone. The yogurt bowl held little more than streaks of berry and cream where she had long since worked through it, the hard-boiled egg reduced to its final bite, abandoned for the moment as her attention shifted elsewhere.

She looked up as Grayson approached.

And then, quite deliberately, she looked down at his tray.

Her brows lifted just a fraction.

“Well,” she said, voice smooth, touched with that lilting Highland cadence she never quite acknowledged, “that’s impressive.”

Her gaze flicked back to his, a hint of amusement settling there.

“It’s interesting to see, in one sitting, what I suspect is my entire protein intake for the day.” A small tilt of her head. “Must be exhausting, keeping those muscles fueled.”

There was no bite to it. Only observation. And perhaps the faintest thread of curiosity.

Claire took a measured sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the cup.

He commented, as expected, on her attire.

Not in uniform.

Her lips curved slightly as she set the cup back down.

“I’ve a shift later,” she replied easily. “Inventory review once we dock. Resupply’s come through, and I’d rather not discover anything missing after the fact.”

A pause, then a small, almost conspiratorial shift in her tone.

“In the meantime,” she added, “I intend to make better use of the holodeck.”

Her spoon moved absently through what remained of the yogurt.

“Some hedges need jumping.”

There it was again. That quiet confidence. As if this were the most reasonable thing in the world.

She glanced at him again, something thoughtful flickering behind her eyes before it shifted into something far more deliberate.

“I did see something else,” she said, almost idly. “Alura’s latest enthusiasm.”

A faint smirk followed.

“The carnival at Starbase 369.”

Her gaze held his now, steady, assessing in a way that never felt clinical but never entirely let one off the hook either.
“It looks… interesting.”

A beat.

Then, just a touch lighter. Sharper.

“You should ask me.”

It was not quite a challenge. Not quite a tease. Somewhere precisely in between.

Claire leaned back slightly in her chair, studying him with open curiosity now.

“I’ve spent a fair bit of mental energy getting to know you,” she continued, tone thoughtful, as though she were simply stating a fact. “Patterns, habits, how you think.”

A small pause.

Her lips curved again, more pronounced this time.

“But I don’t yet know if you’re a good kisser.”

There was no embarrassment in it. No hesitation. Just quiet, clinical honesty wrapped in something far warmer than she would ever label it.

“And if that turns out to be disappointing,” she added, lifting her tea again, “this may all be for naught.”

A sip.

She set the cup down, already moving.

Claire rose in one smooth motion, gathering her tray before he could answer, before the moment could settle into something slower, something heavier.

“I need one night on that station that isn’t an obligatory family visit,” Claire added lightly, though she wasn’t entirely sure he knew what she meant. Commodore Stephen MacCafferey was a cousin, and she didn’t honestly mind the visit. The food was excellent, and the scotch selection better than most on the frontier.

Then she turned, already stepping away.

“Hopefully I see you later?” she tossed over her shoulder, the question carrying easily back to him without breaking her stride.

She did not look back.

But she was smiling.

// Holodeck :: Dunross Estate Simulation :: Early Morning //

The shift was immediate.

Not the sterile dissolve of a program loading, but something far more lived-in. The holodeck yielded to damp air and softened light, the kind that never quite committed to morning in the Highlands. It lingered instead in that quiet in-between, where the sun pressed somewhere behind a low ceiling of grey and the world held its breath.

The gravel path curved gently beneath her boots, each step producing that familiar, muted crunch. The stones were damp, darkened by the night’s rain, holding moisture that clung faintly to the air. Earth and mineral. Cold water sunk deep into soil that had known centuries of the same.

Ahead, the barn waited.

Stone and timber, built solid and practical, its edges softened by moss that had claimed the shaded seams. The doors stood open, as they always had in her memory. A place of work. Of quiet ritual.

Claire slowed without thinking.

Her space.

Carved out from the wider Dunross estate, this had always been hers.

She stepped inside.

The air shifted warmer by a fraction, held close by wood and stone, carrying the unmistakable scent of horses. Hay, clean and rich. Leather, oiled and cared for. A trace of grain. And beneath it all, the steady, living warmth of animals at rest.

A soft shift of weight. Breath. The quiet rustle of straw.

Finnegan lifted his head first.

The Knabstrupper’s spotted coat caught the light in sharp contrast, muscle defined beneath it with the kind of control that came from years of disciplined work. His ears flicked forward, attention settling fully on her.

Claire’s expression softened into something few ever saw. She missed Finn, though she rarely allowed herself to linger on it. He was retired now, an old man in the pasture, exactly where he deserved to be. The holodeck version would have to suffice.
“Madainn mhath, a ghràidh,” she murmured, her hand already finding his neck, fingers pressing into the familiar warmth. He leaned into it in quiet acknowledgement, the contact easy, expected.

Her hand lingered.

Then she stepped away.

The mare was already watching her.

“Brìgh,” Claire said softly.

The Haflinger stood compact and powerful in her stall, her coat a deep, burnished copper that seemed to hold its own light even in the grey morning. Her flaxen mane fell thick and wavy along her neck, pale as cream, catching the dim light in soft strands. A narrow strip of white marked her face, drawing the eye to dark, intelligent eyes that tracked Claire’s every movement.

“Easy, lass,” Claire said, a hint of a smile touching her mouth.

Brìgh shifted, eager without losing her composure.

The halter slid into place, leather against warm coat, buckle secured with practiced ease. Claire moved with quiet efficiency, the rhythm of it as familiar as breath. Brush first. Always.

The mare leaned into it, coat lifting under each stroke, copper gleaming through the last traces of damp. Claire’s hand was steady, deliberate. Not just care. Connection.

The tack room waited beyond, immaculate.

Everything ordered. Saddles polished, leather dark and gleaming. Bridles hung with precision, reins coiled just so. The scent of oil and soap lingered, layered over time and habit.

She chose without hesitation.

Back in the stall, the saddle settled into place, girth drawn snug. The bridle followed, Brìgh accepting the bit with a small shift of her jaw, already anticipating what came next.

By the time Claire pulled on her gloves and secured her helmet, they were ready.

She led Brìgh out into the morning.

Fog clung low across the fields, tendrils curling through hedgerows and settling in the shallow dips of land. The air was cool, damp against her skin, carrying that clean, wild scent of open ground after rain.

Claire mounted in one smooth motion.

And everything narrowed.

Her legs settled along Brìgh’s sides, not pressing, just present. A quiet conversation waiting to begin.

The first steps were measured. A walk that allowed both of them to feel the ground, the give of it beneath hoof and boot. Claire adjusted without thought, her weight aligning, her hips moving with the mare’s stride.

A subtle shift of her calf.

Brìgh responded instantly, gathering into a trot that was balanced, alive beneath her.

Claire did not pull.

She guided.

Pressure, release. A change in her seat, the lightest adjustment of the reins. Brìgh answered each one, not as command but as suggestion. They met in the middle, where intent became motion.

The canter came like a breath drawn and released.

And then they were moving.

Faster now. The field opening ahead of them, fog trailing in soft ribbons as they cut through it. Water pooled in low places, and when they struck it, it rose in arcs around them, splashing against leather and cloth.

Claire leaned forward slightly, her hands low, steady, giving Brìgh her head.

Trust.

Her legs closed with purpose. Not force. Invitation.

Brìgh surged.

They moved as one body.

Claire felt every shift. The tightening of muscle beneath her, the rhythm of hooves striking earth, the subtle gathering before a change in terrain. And Brìgh felt her in return. The angle of her hips, the balance of her weight, the quiet certainty in her posture.

A hedge rose ahead.

A slight squeeze. A lift of her hands. A forward shift.

The mare gathered and launched.

For a moment, they were weightless.

Then landing. Clean. Sure.

A laugh escaped Claire, bright and unrestrained, carried into the damp air.

Another stretch. Faster now.

A low stone wall waited ahead, worn but steady.

Claire asked for more.

Brìgh gave it.

They cleared it clean.

On the far side, Claire let the reins slip just enough.

Freedom.

Not the absence of control, but the perfect balance of it. Where neither led completely, and neither followed entirely.
They moved together.

Across open field, through shallow water, along hedgerows that blurred at the edges of vision. Claire’s world reduced to motion and breath and the living, responsive strength beneath her.

No rank. No expectation.

Only this.

Her hand dropped briefly to Brìgh’s neck, fingers brushing through the thick flaxen mane.

“Tha thu math,” she murmured, the praise quiet but sure as the mare flicked an ear back toward her.

And they kept going.

LtCmdr Claire Dunross, MD
Asst Chief Medical Officer

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