Inara watched Mal from the shadows of the corridor outside the infirmary, wondering if a man’s spine could possibly snap under emotional stress. He sat at Zoe’s bedside, staring at the tortured rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to breathe. For once, her armor had not protected her, shattered to bits by the blast of an armor-piercing Alliance-issue bullet. And Mal had brought her back to the ship, silent as grim death and covered in her blood.

Simon had, as usual, worked some sort of miracle with his meager supplies, and Zoe had made it through the first night, and then the second, and now, on the third night, she was breathing on her own, though she had not yet opened her eyes. And in that torturous span of time, Mal had sat, watching and waiting for a sign that somehow, through sheer dint of her considerable will, Zoe was going to wake up.

The rest of the crew had come and gone, floating in and out of Mal’s vision, as they checked on their friend. Kaylee had stayed the longest, taking Zoe’s limp hand in her own, and praying silently so as not to shatter what was left of Mal’s control.

Inara, more than ever unsure of her place in Mal’s life, had, after her first visit to the infirmary, hung back, waiting for Mal to indicate something. What she sought, she did not know. Seeing the abject sorrow on his face, she turned away, unable to continue her silent vigil. So it was that she did not see Zoe’s eyes pop open as she came back to consciousness. Nor did she see Mal, after Zoe went back to a more restful sleep, leave the infirmary for the first time in three days.

She wandered the ship, restless with the need to do something, though she had no idea what that might be. Finally, inexorably, she was drawn back to the infirmary, only to discover that Mal had left Zoe’s side once he had assured himself that she would live. Thinking that he would be in his bunk after three days of such intense strain, she stood for a long moment at his door, barely stopping herself from entering unannounc