"Are you finding the sessions helpful?"
"I hate them." She finally met my eyes, something raw showing through her careful mask. "Every session feels like being flayed open. But yes. They're helping. Slowly."
"I'm glad."
"Are you?" The challenge in her voice was gentle but present. "Or are you just glad I'm becoming more manageable?"
"I never wanted you manageable. I wanted you healthy." I reached across the table, let my hand rest near hers without quite touching. Invitation, not demand. "There's a difference."
Her hand moved the fraction of distance needed to close the gap. Our fingers intertwined carefully, navigating the size difference, her human hands so much smaller than my Zandovian ones, but fitting together with surprising ease.
"Zorn." Her voice dropped lower, intimate in a way that made my markings flare bright. "What are we doing?"
"Having breakfast."
"You know what I mean."
I did. I'd been asking myself the same question for weeks, turning over the complications and ethical considerations and very real power dynamics that made this dangerous. She was under my command, technically my subordinate, still recovering from profound trauma. I should maintainprofessional distance. Should focus on her recovery without complicating it with my own feelings.
Except I'd never been good at lying to myself.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I know what I want it to be. But I won't pressure you. Won't rush you. If you need this to stay professional?—"
"What if I don't want professional?" She squeezed my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "What if I want to see where this goes, even knowing it's complicated and probably inadvisable and definitely terrifying?"
My hearts, both of them, the dual cardiac system that marked Zandovians as physiologically distinct, kicked into accelerated rhythm. "Then we go slowly. Carefully. With complete honesty about what we're both ready for."
"I'm not ready for much," she warned. "I'm still figuring out how to be a person again instead of just a surgeon."
"I'm patient."
"I've noticed." A small smile curved her lips, the first genuine one I'd seen from her. "It's annoying sometimes. Makes it hard to push you away when you won't react to my defensive mechanisms."
"I see through defensive mechanisms professionally. Part of the job description."
"Great. So you know all my tactics before I deploy them."
"Extremely unfair advantage. I apologize."
The smile widened fractionally. We sat there holding hands across breakfast remains, the medical bay around us slowlycoming to life as early shift staff began filtering in for equipment prep. None of them looked surprised to see us together, apparently our carefully private courtship hadn't been as subtle as we'd imagined.
"I should get to morning rounds," Bea said eventually, though she didn't move to release my hand.
"And I have a department meeting with Captain Tor'van." Still didn't let go.
"So we should probably?—"
"Probably."
Neither of us moved.
Then Bea laughed, soft and surprised, like she'd forgotten how. "This is ridiculous. We're doctors. Professional adults. Capable of basic time management."
"Apparently not where each other is concerned."
She stood, finally releasing my hand though the loss felt physical. I stood too, using my height advantage, eight feet to her five-ten, to look down at her with what I hoped was appropriate professional distance and probably wasn't.
"Tonight," she said. "After shift. My quarters this time. I'll cook actual food using Elena's contraband recipes."
