"Stay," Dax murmured, low enough for only Chris to hear. "Let them work. You're still mine until they tell me you're safe."
Chris's fingers curled back against the chair's armrest. He didn't move. "You are fussing," he muttered hoarsely, a last flicker of sarcasm under the exhaustion.
Dax's violet eyes cut down to him, one brow lifting. "You call it fussing," he said, his voice as even as a blade. "I call it making sure you don't collapse in my hallway."
A physician clipped a monitor to Chris's finger, and another rolled up his sleeve to take blood. Dax didn't interfere, but his presence was a weight at Chris's shoulder; every medic felt it and moved with extra care.
Chris tried for a glare but it came out more like a blink. "You're hovering."
