"I'm Chief Medical Officer. I can mandate anything related to crew health." She looked up, her gray eyes sharp. "And you're exhibiting signs of chronic exhaustion. So you'll either comply willingly or I'll talk to Captain Tor'van about medical leave. Your choice."
Zor'go's markings went very still. "That's unnecessary."
"Then prove it. Take actual breaks. Eat regular meals. Sleep in your quarters instead of your office." Bea's voice softened slightly. "I know the project is important. But you won't finish it if you work yourself into medical collapse."
The tension at the table had shifted from teasing to genuinely concerned, and I felt exposed under the weight of everyone's attention. Like they could see through my professional facade to the complicated tangle underneath, the loneliness and longing and absolute terror of caring about someone I couldn't have.
"Fine," I said. "Mandated rest. Eight hours. I'll comply."
"Zor'go?"
He looked at me, something unreadable in his ice-blue eyes. "If Jalina complies, I'll comply."
"That's not how medical mandates work," Bea said. "You don't get to make it conditional."
"Nevertheless."
The word hung there, and I realized what he was doing. Making himself accountable to me, creating a structure where we'd have to coordinate rest schedules, where we'd be responsible for each other's wellbeing beyond professional obligation.
It should have been manipulative. Instead, it felt like care.
"Then we'll both comply," I said quietly. "Eight hours. Starting tonight."
"Good." Bea made more notes. "I'll check in weekly. And I'm serious about the rest breaks, actual breaks, not working through lunch while calling it rest."
The conversation shifted after that, moving to safer topics with Dana's latest engineering challenge, Elena's frustration with Security protocols, Bea's ongoing research into cross-species medical practices. I participated when required, but most of my attention stayed on the man beside me, on the subtleflickering of his markings, on the way his hand rested on the table just inches from mine.
After lunch, walking back to Operations, Zor'go fell into step beside me. The corridors were less crowded during shift transitions, our footsteps echoing against metal floors that still felt more functional than homey despite six months of adaptation.
"Your friends are protective," he said.
"They've kept me alive this long. They're allowed to be protective." I glanced up at him, so much taller than me that it still made my neck ache sometimes. "Your colleagues are protective too. Er'dox watches me like he's waiting for me to break you."
"Er'dox is overly invested in my personal life."
"Is he wrong to be?"
The question came out before I could stop it, too direct, too revealing. Zor'go's markings flickered rapidly, and his stride faltered for just a moment before he recovered.
"That depends on your definition of personal life," he said carefully.
"The definition that includes whether you have one."
"I have a very full personal life. I work on spatial design projects during my off-hours. I attend cultural events. I maintain social connections with colleagues."
"You work constantly and call it living."
"You do the same."
"I'm human. We're dramatic and inefficient. You're Zandovian. You're supposed to have a better life balance."
"Who told you that?"
"Dana. Who learned it from Er'dox. Who apparently talks constantly once you get him comfortable."
Zor'go's expression did something complicated. "Er'dox has opinions about everything."
"Are his opinions about you accurate?"
