It was just a flesh wound; just a strip of scraped-up skin on the top of her shoulder, at the base of her neck, right along the edge of her armor, where a bullet had grazed her. Zoe couldn't imagine why Simon had insisted on checking it daily. Before he'd come aboard, she would have tended to it herself, maybe even without Wash's help; now that Simon was here, it likely wouldn't even scar.

"Looks good," Simon muttered, taping a fresh bandage over the wound. "Healing very nicely."

Zoe pulled her shirt back up over her shoulder when he was finished, and buttoned it. Simon wanted something, she was just sure of it; why else would he insist on checking a scratch like this one every single day? Whatever it was, though, he hadn't nerved himself to bring it up, so Zoe was still coming to the med bay each morning after breakfast so Simon could change the dressing, and still leaving with a fresh dressing and an admonition to come back tomorrow and do it again.

Well, if it were important, he'd get to it eventually.

Zoe stood and took a step toward the door, waiting for Simon's inevitable "Let me take a look at it again tomorrow. All right?"

But Simon didn't say that this time. What he said as she walked toward the door today was, "Zoe."

Well, maybe he'd got that nerve working after all. Zoe turned and leveled her gaze on the doctor.

"Could we . . . talk?" Simon said. "Please, sit down."

Rather than sit, Zoe leaned against the counter top, resting her palms on it and wrapping her fingers over the edge of the counter. She looked at Simon expectantly, curious to discover at last what it was he wanted to say to her.

He drew a deep breath. "You know that, since I'm sort of the de facto ship's doctor, here, I consider it my responsibility to look after the health of the crew. I mean, not just injuries and things, but overall health."

Zoe nodded. "And I'm sure you do a fine job," she offered. Simon seemed mighty nervous, and she wanted to put him just a little at ease s