Chapter 6 #4
"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."
"And even if those factors didn't exist, I'm not—I can't—" She stopped. Took a breath. Started again. "I'm broken, Zorn. I'm carrying damage I don't know how to process. Getting involved with me would be a disaster."
"I know that too."
Bea laughed. Short, bitter, nothing like genuine amusement. "Then what the hell are we doing?"
"Having an honest conversation." I took a careful step closer.
Not invading her space, just... closing some of the distance between us.
"I'm telling you the truth because the alternative is watching you avoid me forever while wondering if you did something wrong.
You didn't. I'm the one who complicated things by catching feelings I had no business developing. "
"Catching feelings," Bea echoed. "Like it's a disease."
"Isn't it? In this situation?"
She didn't answer. Just stood there looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Confusion and something else. Something that might have been reciprocation if I let myself hope.
But hope was dangerous. Hope led to expectations that would only make the waiting worse.
"I won't push anymore," I said. "Won't force therapy, won't threaten medical leave, won't hover or micromanage or any of the other controlling behaviors you've rightly called out.
But I also won't apologize for caring. For noticing when you're struggling.
For wanting to help even when you don't want help. "
"Because you care."
"Yes."
"Not professionally."
"No."
Bea closed her eyes. "This is so stupid."
"Agreed."
"We can't do this."
"I know."
When she opened her eyes again, they were bright with unshed tears she absolutely wouldn't allow to fall. "I started seeing Dr. Senna. Had my first session yesterday. It was... hard. Harder than I expected."
The admission felt like a gift. Like trust.
"That's good," I said carefully. "Hard means you're actually dealing with things instead of avoiding them."
"Dr. Senna says I use work as self-medication.
That I'm running from trauma I haven't processed.
" Bea's voice stayed controlled, but I heard the thread of vulnerability underneath.
"She's probably right. But knowing that doesn't make it easier.
Doesn't make me want to stop working and start feeling all the things I've been avoiding. "
"No one said healing was easy."
"You did. Three days ago. In your quarters. You said healing was letting someone help you."
I'd forgotten to say that. Or maybe I'd just never expected her to actually hear it.
"It is," I confirmed. "But it's also hard and scary and requires more courage than any medical procedure."
"I don't feel courageous."
"You are anyway."
Bea laughed again. This time it almost sounded genuine. "You don't give up, do you?"
"Not on things that matter."
"And I matter?"
"Yes."
She took a step toward me. Then another. Close enough now that I had to look down to maintain eye contact. Close enough that the height difference between us, nearly two feet of vertical disparity, became viscerally apparent.
"I don't know how to do this," she said quietly. "Don't know how to let someone care about me without turning it into something broken and complicated."
"So we don't do it. Not yet. Not until you're ready." I resisted the urge to touch her—to offer comfort through physical contact the way I wanted to. "But when you are ready, if you are ready, I'll be here."
"Even if I'm never ready?"
"Then I'll still be here. As your colleague. As someone who respects your boundaries. As a friend, if you'll allow it."
Bea studied my face like she was looking for deception. Looking for hidden motives or unspoken expectations. She wouldn't find them. I meant every word.
Finally, she nodded. "I should go."
"You should."
But she didn't move. Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at me with those gray-blue eyes that held entire oceans of unprocessed emotion.
Then her comm chimed. Emergency designation. Mine chimed simultaneously.
We both checked our displays.
"Cargo bay explosion," Bea read. "Multiple injuries reported. All medical personnel—"
"Report immediately," I finished.
Our eyes met. All personal complications set aside instantly, replaced by professional urgency.
"Let's go," I said.
We moved.