"Zorn." I kept my tone professionally neutral. "You're needed at the bonding ceremony. I have the bay covered."
"I know you do." He moved into the room with that careful precision all Zandovians seemed to possess, economy of motion, nothing wasted. "I came to relieve you."
"That's not necessary. All three patients are stable. Pel'vix is more than capable of handling monitoring duties."
"I'm aware." He stopped beside me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I could smell whatever the Zandovians used for soap,something clean and faintly medicinal. "You've been on shift for sixteen hours, Bea. That's four hours past your scheduled rotation."
"The patients needed?—"
"The patients are stable, as you just said." His tone remained gentle, but something underneath it had gone immovable. "You need rest."
"I'm fine."
"You're exhausted."
"I said I'm fine."
The Krellian's monitor beeped, oxygen saturation dropping again. I turned back to the display, already adjusting parameters, but Zorn's large hand settled over mine on the holographic controls. Not restraining. Just... stopping me.
"Let Pel'vix handle it," he said quietly. "That's why she's here."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to snap that I was perfectly capable of managing my own patient load, that I didn't need him hovering over me like I was some fragile thing about to shatter. But Pel'vix was already moving to the Krellian's bedside, already making the adjustments I would have made, and the truth was my hands were shaking.
When had they started shaking?
I pulled away from Zorn's touch, tucked my hands behind my back where he couldn't see the tremor.
"You're dismissed for the evening," Zorn said. Not unkindly. Never unkindly. That was almost worse than if he'd been harsh. "Go to the ceremony. Jalina would be happy to see you."
"Jalina has three hundred guests celebrating with her. She won't miss me."
"Your friends will."
The words landed heavier than they should have. Friends. Plural. As if I had multiple people who cared whether I showed up to things. Dana, maybe. Jalina, certainly. Elena if you counted someone who shared quarters with you but barely spoke beyond logistics.
Three people. Out of an entire ship of thousands. Out of the seventeen human survivors who'd been rescued from that burning hell-planet nine months ago.
Three people, and I was avoiding all of them.
"I'll see them tomorrow," I said. "Right now?—"
"Right now you're going to your quarters." Zorn's tone shifted into something I recognized, the voice he used when he was giving medical orders rather than suggestions. "You're going to eat an actual meal. You're going to sleep for a minimum of eight hours. And tomorrow, if you continue refusing to take proper care of yourself, we're going to have a much longer conversation about burnout and medical fitness for duty."
The threat hung in the air between us.
I'd been threatened before. Department heads who thought I worked too many shifts. Colleagues who said I was burning myself out. My ex-fiancé who claimed I loved my job more than I loved him.
They'd all been right. And I'd ignored every single one of them.
But Zorn wasn't making empty threats. He was Chief Medical Officer. He had the authority to ground me, to mandate rest, to remove me from active duty if he deemed me unfit. And the worst part was he'd be justified. Sixteen-hour shifts multiple days running. Skipped meals. Four hours of sleep if I was lucky, usually less.
I was running on fumes and medical-grade stimulants, and he knew it.
"Fine," I said. The word tasted like defeat. "I'll go."
"Thank you." He stepped back, giving me space to move past him. "And Bea? For what it's worth—you're an exceptional physician. But exceptional physicians are no use to anyone if they collapse from exhaustion."
I didn't respond. Just stripped off my medical gloves, disposed of them in the proper receptacle, and headed for the door.
