"Dana's worried about her," Er'dox said finally. "All the human women are. They see Bea destroying herself but she won't accept help. Won't even acknowledge there's a problem."
"Trauma response. Classic avoidance patterns."
"Can you force her into counseling?"
"Medical orders can mandate many things. But therapy only works if the patient wants to heal." I studied Bea's face, the slight furrow that remained between her brows even in sleep. "I can keep her alive. But I can't make her want to live."
The distinction mattered. Surviving and living were fundamentally different states, and Bea was firmly in the former category.
"What are you going to do?" Er'dox asked.
"Help her. Whether she wants it or not."
"That's going to make you the villain in her story."
"Better the villain than an accomplice to her self-destruction."
Er'dox made a sound of understanding. He'd faced similar choices with Dana—watching someone brilliant damagethemselves, having to intervene despite knowing it would create conflict.
"The bonding ceremony was beautiful," he said after a moment, changing subjects. "Jalina and Zor'go looked happy."
"I saw the recordings. Glad it went well."
"Bea missed it. Dana hoped she'd come."
"She was monitoring patients." The excuse sounded weak even to me. "Or that's what she claimed."
"She's terrified of connection. Easier to save lives than build relationships."
I looked at my friend, saw understanding in his expression. "When did you become an expert in human psychology?"
"When I bonded with one." Er'dox's markings flickered with affection. "Dana taught me that humans process trauma differently than Zandovians. They internalize, isolate, convince themselves that needing others makes them weak. It's exhausting and beautiful and frustrating."
"Sounds familiar."
"Because you're falling for one." Not a question. A statement of observable fact.
I didn't deny it. Couldn't, really. "I'm concerned about a colleague. That's all."
"Zorn. You're sitting vigil beside her bed. You confiscated her work materials. You're monitoring her sleep cycles like she's in critical condition." Er'dox leaned forward. "That's not a professional concern. That's personal."
The accusation, if it was an accusation, hung between us.
"I can't be personal," I said finally. "She's under my supervision. The power dynamic makes anything beyond professional care inappropriate."
"Then stop supervising her."
"She needs medical oversight. She's self-destructive."
"She needs someone who cares about her beyond her utility as a physician." Er'dox stood, moved toward the door. "Think about it. Because right now, you're doing exactly what she does, using professional duty as an excuse to avoid emotional vulnerability."
He left before I could respond. The door closed with a soft hiss, leaving me alone with Bea's sleeping form and the uncomfortable accuracy of his observation.
Was I avoiding? Using my role as CMO as armor against feelings that felt dangerous and complicated?
Maybe.
Probably.
