Maybe I could let Zorn get close enough to matter.
The thought terrified me.
But I headed toward my quarters anyway, checking the time, planning what to wear, deciding whether to bring anything to dinner beyond myself and my carefully controlled damage.
Dr. Senna would call that progress.
I called it terrifying.
But I was going anyway.
And that had to count for something.
Chapter
Eight
ZORN
The medical bay was quiet at 0500 hours, the kind of silence that only existed in the hours before shift change when the ship's biological rhythms hit their lowest ebb. I liked these moments, the calm before controlled chaos, when I could review patient files without interruption and prepare for whatever emergencies the day might bring.
Except this morning, I wasn't reviewing patient files.
I was staring at the door, waiting for Bea to arrive for our scheduled breakfast.
Three weeks. That's how long we'd been doing this careful dance around each other, stolen meals between shifts, quiet conversations in the arboretum, moments of connection that felt simultaneously natural and terrifying. She'd been attending therapy sessions with Dr. Senna, actually sleeping more than four hours at a stretch, eating regular meals. The change in her was subtle but unmistakable, the darknessunder her eyes had lightened, the tension in her shoulders had eased, the brittle edge to her voice had softened.
And I was falling for her. Hard. Fast. Completely against my better judgment as her superior officer and the person responsible for her medical wellbeing.
The door slid open. Bea entered carrying two containers from the mess hall, her hair pulled back in a practical bun that revealed the elegant line of her neck. She'd changed from her usual rumpled medical scrubs into something cleaner, which meant she'd actually gone to her quarters last night instead of sleeping at her desk.
Progress.
"You're early," I said, standing from my chair near the viewport where stars streaked past in hyperspace distortion.
"So are you." She set the containers on the small table I'd cleared for us, her movements precise and controlled. Everything about Bea was controlled—it was what made her such an exceptional surgeon, and what terrified me about her emotional state. Control could only hold so long before it cracked. "I brought actual food this time. Not the nutritional paste you keep trying to convince me is adequate sustenance."
"The paste contains all necessary nutrients."
"The paste tastes like despair mixed with regret." She opened one container, revealing something that actually looked like breakfast—protein, vegetables, grain analogues arranged with unexpected care. "Elena taught me how to use the human-compatible food synthesizer properly. Turns out there are settings beyond 'bland survival rations.'"
I settled into the chair across from her, amused despite myself. "Elena is teaching you about food preparation?"
"Elena is teaching me about not punishing myself unnecessarily. Apparently that extends to meal choices." Bea handed me utensils, her fingers brushing mine in a contact that sent electricity up my arm. She noticed, I saw it in the slight hitch of her breath, the way her gray eyes darkened—but didn't pull away. "Eat. You're the one who's always lecturing me about proper nutrition."
We ate in companionable silence for several minutes. The food was good, better than good, actually. Someone had programmed flavors that reminded me of home cooking on Garmuth'e, the kind of meals my mother used to make before the mining accident that killed my parents and drove me to medicine.
"You're thinking about them," Bea said quietly.
I looked up, startled. "How did you?—"
"Your markings." She gestured to my forearms where the crystalline patterns embedded in my silver-gray skin flickered with darker tones. "They shift color with your emotions. I've been watching them. Learning to read them."
The intimacy of that admission—that she'd been studying me closely enough to decode my involuntary responses—made my chest tight.
"My parents," I confirmed. "They died in a structural collapse when I was young. Preventable if the medical response had been faster, more competent." I set down my utensils, no longer hungry. "That's why I became a doctor. To be better than the ones who failed them."
"Survivors' motivation," Bea said. She wasn't looking at me now, focusing intently on her food. "We both have it. The need to save everyone because we couldn't save someone specific. Dr. Senna says it's common among trauma surgeons."
