Ezran’shral had always been affectionate. Upon the placing of a large, firm hand on her shoulder, she had expected herself to be drawn into a hug. What she hadn’t expected was to be spun and pushed against the wall, both hands around her wrists, pinning her there. Ah - the downside of having a partner who one, relied on telepathy for sight so could miss small details when working quickly, and two, was a former presidential guard. Most people would have been stuck there helpless, but A’aehrel’s lithe agility had always worked to complement Ezran’shral’s burly form. It was if they had been drawn into some sort of adrenaline-fueled dance as she moved; sinking her weight into a sitting stance so she could duck under one of the Aenar’s arms, elbow over his forearm. In a short movement she forced one elbow inwards to break his grasp, putting her body weight into the effort – and a moment later, the same had been done to the other arm. In seconds their positions had been switched: she may still have had her back against the wall but this time it was Ezran who was subject to the grasp, A’aehrel’s fist gripping the front of his collar despite the height difference.
“That is not the correct way to say hello to your wife,” she hissed – although beneath the stoicism that had been learned from an upbringing on Vulcan, there was a slight hint of amusement that betrayed her Romulan half.