"You were barely standing."
"I've worked longer shifts on Earth. Seventy-two hours during emergency situations. I know my limits."
"Do you?" I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice gentle despite the frustration building in my chest. "Because from where I'm sitting, you don't have limits. You just have work. And when the work is done, you find more work to avoid having to stop."
Her jaw clenched. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you haven't taken a real day off since you joined medical two months ago. I know you volunteer for every extra shift, every difficult case, every emergency that comes through. I know you eat at your desk and sleep in the medical bay when you sleep at all." I held her gaze. "I know you're running from something. Using medicine as medication."
The silence that followed felt sharp enough to cut.
Bea looked away first, staring at the IV line in her arm like it was suddenly fascinating. "I'm dedicated to my work. That's not a character flaw."
"Dedication is admirable. Self-destruction isn't."
"I'm not destroying myself. I'm doing my job."
"You're surviving, not living. There's a difference."
Her breath hitched, just slightly, but I heard it. Saw the way her fingers tightened on the half-eaten nutrition bar, knuckles going white.
"Finish eating," I said, gentler now. "Then sleep. We can discuss this later."
"There's nothing to discuss."
"Bea—"
"I'm fine." The words came out harder, sharper. Defense mechanisms snapping into place. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need therapy or intervention or whatever this is. I need to do my job."
"Your job doesn't require martyrdom."
"My job requires competence. Which I'm providing."
"At what cost?" I gestured to the IV, to her hollow eyes, to the trembling she couldn't quite hide. "You're burning out. And when you collapse, not if, when, people will die because you weren't there to save them."
The words were harsh, but necessary. I'd seen too many healers destroy themselves thinking sacrifice meant service. Thinking if they just worked harder, pushed further, gave more, they could save everyone.
It never worked. They just broke.
And I refused to watch Bea break.
She flinched like I'd hit her. "That's not fair."
"It's true. You can't save anyone if you're dead."
"I'm not—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I'm being careful."
"No. You're being reckless. With yourself." I stood, checked the IV levels, and adjusted the drip rate. Busywork, but it gave me something to do with my hands. "You know what the worst part is? You tell your patients to rest, to take care of themselves, to prioritize healing. But you don't apply the same standards to yourself."
"That's different."
"How?"
"They're patients. I'm—" She stopped again, and I could practically see her searching for the right words. The justification that would make her self-destruction acceptable.
"You're what? Not worthy of care? Not allowed to need help? Too strong to break?" I turned back to her, held her gaze. "You're human, Bea. You're allowed to be tired."
Something cracked in her expression, just a hairline fracture in all that carefully maintained control. Her eyes went bright with unshed tears before she blinked them away, looking back at the IV line.
