"When did you last sleep more than four hours?" I asked quietly.
She didn't answer.
"Bea."
"I don't remember." The admission came out barely above a whisper. "Before Veridian. Before the last emergency call. Maybe two weeks? Three?"
My chest tightened. "You can't function like that."
"I have been functioning. I've been treating patients, saving lives?—"
"You've been incredible. Your work here was exemplary. You're one of the finest physicians I've ever worked with." I sat back down, leaned forward so she had to look at me. "But being good at your job doesn't mean you're taking care of yourself. And if you don't stop, you will collapse. Maybe not today, maybe not next week. But eventually, your body will force you to stop. And it won't ask permission."
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her fighting it. Fighting the exhaustion, the reality, the very human need to surrender.
Then her eyes went unfocused. Her head dipped forward. The nutrition bar slipped from her fingers.
I caught her before she could fall sideways, eased her back against the pillows. She was already unconscious, her body finally taking what she'd been denying it for days.
I adjusted the monitoring equipment, ensured the IV was secure, scanned her vitals one more time. Better now, blood sugar climbing, heart rate stabilizing, brain activity shifting into proper sleep cycles.
She looked different like this. Vulnerable. The harsh lines of her face softened, the permanent tension in her jaw released. She was beautiful in that stark, exhausted way—, ike a blade honed too sharp, used too long without maintenance.
I sat back in the chair, prepared to wait.
The door opened quietly behind me. Pel'vix entered, took one look at Bea unconscious on the bed, and nodded. "How bad?"
"Severe exhaustion. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. She should wake in six to eight hours. Maybe longer if her body decides to make up for lost sleep."
"She'll be furious when she wakes."
"Undoubtedly."
Pel'vix moved closer, checked the IV line with professional efficiency. "You care for her. As more than a patient."
It wasn't a question. The Zandovians were too perceptive for subtlety to work.
"She's under my supervision," I said carefully. "Her health is my responsibility."
"Zorn." Pel'vix's vertical pupils fixed on me with uncomfortable focus. "I've worked with you for four years. I know what professional concern looks like. This isn't that."
I didn't answer. Couldn't, really. Because she was right, and acknowledging it felt like crossing a line I hadn't realized existed until I was already on the other side.
I'd watched Bea for two months. Watched her throw herself into work with single-minded intensity. Watched her save lives with brutal competence and zero concern for recognition. Watched her push away every attempt at friendship, every offer of support, every gesture that might require her to be anything other than perfectly controlled.
And somewhere in all that watching, professional concern had shifted into something more complicated.
"She's brilliant," I said finally. "And she's destroying herself. I can't just watch that happen."
"So you'll save her whether she wants it or not."
"If necessary."
Pel'vix made a sound that might have been amusement. "Careful. Forcing care on someone who doesn't want it rarely ends well."
"Better angry than dead."
"Is it?"
