Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
ZORN
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 darkness under 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."
"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 maintain professional 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 slowly coming 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."
"I'll bring dessert."
"You'd better." She moved toward the door, then paused and turned back. In three quick strides she closed the distance between us, rose on her toes, and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, brief, chaste, and absolutely devastating in its simple intimacy.
Then she was gone, leaving me standing alone in the medical bay with my markings glowing bright enough to probably be visible from the observation deck.
I touched the place she'd kissed, feeling like an adolescent experiencing first attraction instead of a forty-three-year-old Chief Medical Officer with two decades of experience.
This was dangerous. Complicated. Probably going to end with someone's heart thoroughly broken.
I didn't care.
My comm unit chimed. Captain Tor'van's voice came through crisp and professional: "Zorn. Bridge. Now. We have a situation."
I grabbed my medical coat and headed for the lift, already compartmentalizing the personal into professional focus. Whatever situation had developed, it would require my complete attention.
But underneath the professional competence, underneath the decades of trained response and careful control, something warm and hopeful and absolutely terrifying had taken root.
I was in love with Bea Santos.
And based on that kiss, she might be falling for me too.
Chaos ensued on the bridge when I arrived.
Captain Tor'van stood at the central command station, his massive Zandovian frame dwarfing the human-designed console modifications we'd implemented after Dana and the other Liberty survivors joined the crew.
Er'dox was at the engineering station, Vaxon at tactical, both wearing expressions of focused concern.
"Report," I said, moving to my position at the medical readiness terminal.
"Distress call from a refugee transport," Tor'van said without preamble. "The Veritaxis. Attacked by raiders approximately four hours ago. Over eight hundred beings aboard, multiple species. Significant casualties."
The main viewscreen flickered to life, showing a battered vessel tumbling through space, surrounded by debris. Hull breaches are visible even at this distance, atmosphere venting in crystalline streams that caught the light of a nearby star.
"How many wounded?" I asked, already running calculations for medical resource allocation.