The words came out more intense than intended. Bea's eyes widened slightly.
"You're not fine," I repeated, more carefully this time. "You haven't been fine since Veridian Station. Possibly longer. And pretending otherwise doesn't make it true. It just makes it easier to avoid dealing with it."
"And forcing me into therapy makes you feel better about your inability to fix me?" Her voice stayed controlled, but Iheard the edge underneath. The anger she kept locked down. "I don't need fixing, Zorn. I need to be left alone to do my job."
"Your job isn't destroying yourself."
"My job is saving lives. Which I've been doing. Effectively."
"At what cost?"
The question hung between us. Around us, the medical bay continued functioning—patients recovering, staff working, life persisting despite the trauma and chaos. But in the small space between Bea and me, everything had narrowed to just this conversation.
Just this moment where I had to decide: push further, or let her retreat again.
"The cost doesn't matter," Bea said finally. "The results do. Those patients survived because I did my job. Because I stayed focused, stayed controlled, stayed functional. Everything else is irrelevant."
"You're not irrelevant."
"I didn't say I was?—"
"You did. Just now. You implied your well-being doesn't matter as long as the work gets done. That's the definition of treating yourself as irrelevant."
Bea's jaw tightened. "This conversation is over."
She turned to leave. I didn't stop her. Couldn't stop her—she was right that I'd been pushing too hard, forcing interventions she hadn't requested. If I kept pushing now, I'd drive her further away.
But I couldn't let her leave thinking I viewed her as a problem to be fixed.
"Bea."
She stopped. Didn't turn around. Waited.
"You're right," I said. "I've been overstepping. Forcing you into therapy because I thought I knew what was best. That was wrong. I apologize."
She turned then, surprise evident on her normally controlled features. "You're apologizing?"
"Yes. Your choices are yours to make. Whether you seek counseling, how you manage your workload, how you process your experiences—those are your decisions. Not mine." I held her gaze. "But I need you to know something. When I pushed for therapy, when I threatened medical leave—I wasn't trying to fix you. I was trying to keep you alive. Because watching you destroy yourself was unbearable. And maybe that's selfish. Maybe I should have maintained a better professional distance. But I couldn't. Because I care too much."
The silence stretched. Bea stared at me, her gray-blue eyes wide, her carefully maintained composure cracking.
"You care," she repeated, like the words didn't make sense.
"Yes."
"Professionally?"
"No."
The single word landed like impact. I watched Bea process it, saw the exact moment understanding clicked into place. Saw her defenses slam back up immediately.
"This can't happen," she said. "Whatever you're thinking—it can't."
"I know."
"You're my superior officer. I'm your subordinate. There's a power differential that makes anything personal completely inappropriate."
"I know."
