I looked at Bea, at the way her hands still clutched the blanket like she was holding on through a storm. At the vulnerability she'd never show while conscious. At the evidence of someone so desperate to maintain control that she'd destroy herself before admitting she needed help.
I understood that impulse. Understood the fear that needing others made you weak, made you vulnerable, made you potentially disposable.
But I also understood that isolation was its own kind of death. Slow, cold, inevitable.
Bea's vitals remained stable. Her sleep deepened, body finally taking what it desperately needed. The nightmares stayed away, for now at least, held at bay by exhaustion and medical intervention.
I stayed in the chair, monitoring her through the night. Professional duty, I told myself. CMO responsibilities.
But when her hand moved restlessly across the blanket, searching for something even unconscious, I caught it gently in mine. Felt her fingers relax, curl slightly around my palm.
Professional duty, I told myself again.
The lie felt thinner each time I repeated it.
Outside the small window, Veridian Station's artificial lights mimicked planetary day-night cycles. The colony was settling into evening routines, celebration over, normal life resuming after crisis passed.
In the medical bay, life continued at its own rhythm. Patients healing. Staff rotating through shifts. The eternal work of medicine marching forward regardless of individual drama.
And in this small room, I sat beside a woman who'd saved sixty-three lives in three days while slowly killing herself. Watching her sleep like it was the most important thing in the universe.
Because maybe it was.
Bea's comm unit chirped softly. She didn't stir, too far into exhausted sleep to hear it. I checked the display, a message from Elena.
Is she okay? Dana's worried.
I typed back one-handed, keeping hold of Bea with the other.
Exhaustion-induced collapse. Stable now. Sleeping.
The response came quickly.
About damn time someone made her stop. Keep her there. We'll handle things on Mothership.
I smiled slightly. The human women had formed their own support network, looking out for each other in ways the Liberty crash had forged. Bea might resist help, but her friends weren't giving up.
Neither was I.
Another message appeared, this time from Captain Tor'van.
Medical team returns to Mothership at 0800 tomorrow. Exception granted for Dr. Santos if additional rest required. Your discretion.
Which meant the Captain understood the situation and was giving me authority to keep Bea grounded until she was actually fit for duty.
I sent confirmation, then silenced her comm unit. She needed uninterrupted rest, not the constant ping of messages and demands.
The hours passed slowly. Bea's sleep remained deep, healing. I monitored vitals, adjusted the IV when it ran low, scanned for any signs of complications. Professional tasks that required attention but not deep thought, leaving my mind free to circle the problem of what came next.
Because this was just forcing a pause. When Bea woke, she'd resist. She'd argue that she was fine, that I'd overstepped, that she didn't need intervention or care or anything beyond permission to return to work.
And I'd have to make a choice. Back down, let her resume her self-destructive patterns. Or push harder, force the confrontation that would either break through her defenses or shatter what fragile working relationship we had.
The healer in me knew which choice was correct. Saw the long-term trajectory if she didn't address the underlying trauma. Watched her heading toward catastrophic burnout or worse, and understood that intervention now—however unwelcome—was mercy.
But the part of me that was becoming personally invested? That part wanted to protect her from the pain that confrontation would bring. I wanted to make everything easy and safe and comfortable.
Except healing was never comfortable. It was painful and messy and required tearing open wounds that had scarred wrong so they could heal correctly.
