Page 17 of Outbreak Protocol

"You need sleep," Felix says with medical authority.

"Sleep when people stop dying." Yuki moves to her usual workstation, immediately absorbed in complex calculations. Her quiet dedication anchors our efforts, providing stability when everything else shifts constantly.

Aleksandr appears next, carrying steaming bowls that smell like salvation. As he sets down the bowls, he points a spoon first at Sarah, then Yuki. "You two. Eat. Your brains are our most important equipment, and they run on calories, not just coffee and rage. Erik, make sure they eat."

His pragmatic command, delivered with military gruffness, is an undeniable act of care. We gather around the table, temporarily abandoning laptops for nourishment. The soup is surprisingly good—thick lentil with vegetables, comfort food that reminds me why meals matter beyond mere caloric intake.

"How are containment protocols progressing?" I ask Aleksandr.

"Military cooperation improving. Colonel Santos understands medical priorities better than initial commanders." Aleksandr's expression grows serious. "But quarantine zones are straining. Too many cases, not enough isolation facilities."

"Mortality projections?" Felix asks quietly.

I pull up Yuki's latest models, dreading the numbers even as I analyze them objectively. "Seventy-three percent case fatality rate. If transmission continues at current pace, Hamburg alone will see fifty thousand deaths within four days."

Felix sets down his spoon, appetite vanishing. "Fifty thousand people. Families, children, grandparents. Artists like Frau Kellner."

"We'll find solutions," Sarah says firmly. "Adaptive modelling gives us advantages we didn't have yesterday. Real-time analysis means faster interventions."

"And if we don't?"

The question hangs unanswered because we all know the implications. Hamburg first, then Berlin, Munich, London, Paris. Mathematical progression that becomes human catastrophe unless we identify intervention points quickly enough .

I reach across the table and take Felix's hand, needing physical connection to anchor emotional response. His fingers interlock with mine automatically, muscle memory from days of shared crisis.

"We'll find answers," I tell him. "Together."

He nods, drawing strength from contact that I'm learning to provide instinctively. The careful emotional barriers I've maintained for years continue crumbling under his influence, replaced by something that feels dangerously like hope.

"I should check on Anna," Felix says. "Her condition deteriorated further overnight."

I stand with him, chair scraping softly. "I'll come with you."

"You don't need to—"

"I want to."

The simple truth surprises us both. Months ago, visiting individual patients would have felt like emotional indulgence, distraction from important analytical work. Now it feels essential, part of understanding the outbreak's human cost that data alone cannot convey.

Ward 7 maintains hushed atmosphere that hospitals develop around dying patients. Soft footsteps, muted conversations, machinery humming with mechanical persistence. Anna's room sits halfway down the corridor, door slightly ajar.

Felix pauses outside, gathering courage I recognize from my own hospital visits with Astrid. "She's unconscious now. Has been since yesterday afternoon."

"How long do you think..."

"Hours. Maybe less."

I follow him inside, immediately struck by Anna's changed appearance. The vibrant nurse who welcomed me with professional skepticism now appears fragile, diminished by viral assault. Monitors display declining vital signs with clinical precision that feels obscene in this intimate setting.

Felix checks her chart, professional habits providing familiar structure. "Neurological symptoms progressed faster than predicted. Cerebral hemorrhaging, respiratory compromise, multi-organ failure."

I watch him work, recognizing how he's processing grief through medical observations. Clinical assessment becomes emotional protection, same defensive mechanism I've employed with statistical analysis.

"Tell me about her," I say softly.

Felix adjusts Anna's blanket with gentle precision.

"Single mother, works double shifts to support Emma.

Never complains, never misses work, never fails to notice when colleagues need support.

" His voice catches slightly. "She taught me how to read patients' emotional needs, not just medical symptoms."

"Like Jakob's mother asking about suffering instead of cellular pathology."

"Exactly." Felix smooths Anna's hair back from her forehead, gesture filled with protective tenderness. "Anna would sit with families during difficult diagnoses, hold hands during procedures, remember personal details that made patients feel human instead of medical cases."

I understand now why Anna's illness affects Felix so deeply. She represents everything he values about patient care—emotional connection, human dignity, healing through relationship rather than just treatment.

"She's why you invited me to dinner that first night," I realize. "Anna's influence."

Felix nods. "She told me statistics don't capture what matters most about medicine. That understanding people behind data makes better decisions possible."

"She was right."

We stand quietly beside Anna's bed, sharing vigil that feels both professional and deeply personal. Her breathing grows shallower as we watch, machine-assisted rhythms becoming increasingly laboured.

Felix's composure finally cracks. "I don't know how to tell Emma. She still thinks her mother is going to walk through the door all better any moment now, and tell her they're going home."

I move closer, wrapping arms around him from behind. He leans into the embrace, accepting comfort I'm learning to provide despite years of emotional avoidance.

"We'll tell her together," I murmur against his ear. "We'll take care of Emma together."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." The admission surprises me with its fierce certainty. "Emma matters to you, so she matters to me. Anna matters to you, so this matters to me."

Felix turns in my arms, face showing vulnerability that professional competence usually conceals. "When did this happen? When did we become..."

"Partners," I finish. "Essential to each other's functioning."

He nods, understanding passing between us without need for elaborate explanation. Crisis has accelerated emotional development that might normally take months, compressed relationship-building into intense shared experience.

"We should get back," Felix murmurs, though his body leans into mine—his hips brushing against me, his breath warm and uneven against my lips. "Sarah’s adaptive modelling needs epidemiological input."

"Not yet."

The words come out rough, low—their own promise. My hands cradle his face, fingers tracing the stubble along his jaw, the curve of his lower lip. Dark lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, but when he lifts his gaze to meet mine, his pupils widen, swallowing hazel into something darker. Wanting.

I don’t kiss him. Not yet.

Instead, I let my mouth hover, our breath mingling, heat thrumming between us like a pulse. His throat works—he swallows—and my thumb drags slow along the trembling line of his bottom lip before I finally press in.

The kiss tastes of coffee and exhaustion, of something desperate beneath every careful exhale—like trust kept caged too long, now fraying into trembling need. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and the sound he makes against my lips sends white heat searing down my spine.

We break apart—too soon—but his forehead presses to mine, breaths ragged, his pulse wild under my fingertips where they still trace his neck.

Anna might be the reason we stand here, but the air between us—heavy with want—is ours.

Felix lets out a shaky laugh, fingers tightening where they grip my waist. "Okay," he breathes, voice ruined. "Now—now I’m ready."

Only he isn’t. Neither of us is.

Not for what comes next.

We return to the conference room hand in hand, no longer pretending this is purely professional partnership. Sarah looks up from her laptop and smiles with satisfaction that suggests she's been expecting this development.

"Adaptive modelling protocols are ready," she announces. "Yuki's algorithms are processing real-time data streams. Aleksandr's coordinated with military for expanded sampling. We just need epidemiological parameters for optimization."

I settle at my workstation, Felix taking position beside me with natural synchronization. Our chairs align automatically, shoulders brushing as we review data streams flowing across multiple screens.

"Transmission variables first," I murmur, fingers finding familiar keyboard patterns.

"Clinical progression markers," Felix responds, pulling up patient databases.

Later that night, as I pass by Yuki's workstation, I expect to see her deep in calculations.

Instead, she is folding a tiny, intricate paper crane from a data printout.

She has a small collection of them—perhaps a dozen—lined up on her monitor.

She doesn't look up, simply says, "My grandmother believes if you fold a thousand, you get one wish.

" She carefully adds the new crane to the line.

"At this rate, I will need all of them."

We work seamlessly, thoughts aligning with practiced efficiency.

Felix's clinical insights inform my statistical models while my analytical frameworks organize his patient observations.

The collaboration feels as natural as breathing, essential partnership that's become foundation for our outbreak response.

Around us, the team operates with similar dedication.

Sarah sequences viral samples with focused intensity, Yuki refines algorithms with mathematical precision, Aleksandr coordinates containment logistics with military efficiency.

We've become family unit bonded by shared mission and mutual dependence.

But at the centre, Felix and I form the analytical heart of response efforts.

Hospital staff now approach us as unified entity, seeking combined expertise rather than separate consultations.

Our professional integration mirrors personal development, boundaries dissolving under pressure of shared crisis.

As morning light creeps through conference room windows, I realize how completely my life has changed. The careful emotional distance I've maintained since Astrid's death has transformed into intimate partnership that strengthens rather than weakens my medical effectiveness.

Felix catches me watching him and smiles—tired but genuine expression that makes my chest tight with unfamiliar emotion. Love, I think. This must be what love feels like when it develops through shared purpose rather than casual attraction.

"Back to work?" he asks softly.

"Back to work."