"Captain Tor'van approved a budget for four new positions," I said. "But qualified mental health professionals are rare in this sector. Recruiting will take time."
"What if we train them?" Bea's eyes lit up with that particular intensity that meant her mind was racing ahead to solutions. "Create a formal program. Take medical staff with counseling aptitude and give them comprehensive training in trauma-informed care. We could develop a curriculum that combines Orveth, Zandovian, and human approaches."
Senna's bioluminescent markings flickered, excitement, in Orveth's emotional language. "A multi-species mental health training program. There's nothing like it in this galaxy."
"Because no one's tried building it before." Bea pulled up her own datapad, already sketching frameworks. "We have the expertise. Senna, you've got the psychological theory. Zorn, you understand holistic healing and cross-species physiology. I bring human trauma surgery experience and behavioral health background. We could create something revolutionary."
The idea caught fire in my mind, possibilities expanding in fractal patterns. A standardized training program that could be replicated across vessels, creating a network of trauma-informed care throughout the sector. Not just treating mental health reactively, but building systems that prevented psychological damage before it became critical.
"It would require significant resources," I said, thinking through logistics. "Time to develop curriculum, space for training, administrative support for certification. And we'd need to maintain our current patient care throughout implementation."
"So we build it incrementally." Bea was already deep in planning mode, that look on her face that meant she wouldn't stop until she'd solved every variable. "Start with a pilot program. Train four staff members over the next six months while we develop formal curriculum. Iterate based on what works. Scale from there."
"I can draft a preliminary course structure," Senna offered. "We've got six months of program data showing what approaches work best across species. That's a solid foundation."
I looked at Bea, saw the fierce determination in her gray eyes. Six months ago she'd been broken, barely functional, using work to avoid processing her own trauma. Now she was proposing to revolutionize mental health care for an entire sector.
The transformation was staggering.
"Do it," I said. "Draft the proposal, develop the framework, and present it to Captain Tor'van next week. If anyone can make this work, it's you two."
Senna departed to begin preliminary work, leaving Bea and me alone in my office. She'd moved to the viewport, staring out at the docking arrays where a transport was currently disembarking rescued refugees. Her reflection in the glass looked contemplative, peaceful in a way that made my chest tight with protective affection.
"You're thinking about them," I said quietly.
"Always." She didn't turn around. "Wondering which ones are carrying trauma they can't process alone. Hoping they'll find the help before it destroys them."
"Because you know what that's like."
"Yeah." Her hand rose to touch the glass, fingertips leaving slight impressions. "I was them. Broken and running and convinced that admitting I needed help meant weakness." She turned to face me finally, and her expression was raw with remembered pain and hard-won healing. "If we'd had this program when I arrived, if someone had intervenedearlier—maybe I wouldn't have had to get so close to collapse before accepting care."
I crossed to her, pulled her into my arms despite our height difference. She fit against me perfectly now, all the edges of our early awkwardness worn smooth by familiarity and trust. "You got the help when you needed it. That's what matters."
"I almost waited too long."
"But you didn't. And now you're using that experience to help others avoid the same mistakes." I pressed my lips to her hair, breathing in the scent that had become synonymous with home. "That's not a weakness. That's courage."
She tilted her head back, met my eyes. "I love you."
"I know." I smiled. "You tell me approximately seventeen times per day."
"Not enough. Should be at least twenty." Her smile matched mine as warm, genuine, free of the shadows that had haunted her expressions for months. "You saved my life. Literally and figuratively. I'll never stop being grateful."
"I didn't save you. I just held space while you saved yourself."
"Semantics. You held my broken pieces until I could put them back together." Her hand rose to trace the healing markings along my jaw, the Zandovian physiological indicators that showed I was bonded, committed, claimed. "These suit you. You heal everyone you touch."
The words triggered something protective and possessive in my chest. Mine. This brilliant, damaged, endlessly strong woman was mine, and I'd spend the rest of my existence proving worthy of that gift.
"Come home," I said. "We've been on shift for twelve hours. Patient care can survive without us for one evening."
"Since when do you leave before sixteen-hour shifts?"
"Since my mate taught me that balance prevents burnout and improves patient outcomes."
She laughed—a sound I'd worked months to earn, and treasured every time I heard it. "Your mate is very wise."
"My mate is a workaholic who occasionally practices what she preaches."
