Chapter 2
Except “elsewhere” is the curve of her neck where her hair has escaped its tie, or the way she moves with unconscious grace, or how the kitchen’s warmth has brought color to her cheeks.
There is nowhere safe to look.
Tavia copies Dove’s movements, getting flour everywhere. I move to clean up automatically, but Dove catches my wrist.
Her hand on my wrist. Warm. Soft. Smaller than Lividian proportions.
My claws betray me—extending before I force them back.
“It’s fine,” she says, either not noticing my reaction or politely ignoring it. “Mess is part of cooking. We’ll clean after.”
“Efficiency suggests cleaning as you go.” The words come out rougher than intended.
“Efficiency suggests relaxing slightly.” She releases my wrist, but I can still feel the phantom warmth of her fingers. “But your dad’s not wrong—organization helps. We’ll clean up before we start the sauce.”
She’s mediating between my need for order and the natural chaos of teaching a child. Finding balance without making either of us wrong.
Seraphina used to do that.
The thought arrives with less pain than usual. More... acknowledgment. Seraphina would like Dove, I think. Would appreciate her competence and humor and the way she treats Tavia like a small person rather than a child to be managed.
“Papa, look!” Tavia holds up her kneaded dough, patterns bright with pride. “I made pasta!”
“Well done, Tav.” I examine her work with genuine approval. “Excellent structural consistency.”
“It’s not a terraforming project, Papa. It’s dinner.”
“Terraforming principles apply universally. Structure matters.”
Dove’s trying not to laugh again. “Does everything in your life relate back to terraforming?”
“Terraforming is patient, systematic transformation of chaotic systems into stable, life-supporting environments. The principles are broadly applicable.”
“Did you just compare cooking to planetary transformation?”
“I compared the underlying methodology.”
“He does this,” Tavia stage-whispers to Dove. “Everything is a science project.”
“I’m a scientist. This is appropriate.”
“You’re a grump,” Tavia says affectionately. “But we love you anyway.”
The casual way she includes Dove in that ‘we’ makes my skin flicker. Tavia’s already decided Dove belongs in our family unit—at least temporarily.
This is going to hurt when she leaves.
Dinner is the kind of chaos I haven’t experienced since before Seraphina got sick. Good chaos.
Tavia talks nonstop, telling Dove about her educational modules and the plants in the hydroponics bay and the time she accidentally created a small ecosystem in her closet. Dove listens with genuine interest, asking questions that show she’s actually paying attention.
The pasta is exceptional. Better than anything that’s come out of this kitchen in years.
“This is really good,” I say, warmth spreading through my chest despite my attempts at control. “Significantly superior to nutritional ration packs.”
“High praise from someone who thinks protein synthesis is a food group,” Dove teases.
“Protein synthesis is essential for maintaining—”
“Papa.” Tavia interrupts with practiced ease. “Say thank you and eat your pasta.”
“Thank you.” I meet Dove’s eyes across the table. Heat. Awareness. “Truly. This is... excellent.”
Her smile makes my temperature regulation abandon all pretense of function. “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me take over your kitchen.”
“You improved it considerably.”
“I made a mess.”
“A worthwhile mess.” The words come out lower than intended.
Tavia’s watching us with barely contained glee, her markings doing rapid pulses. She’s reading far too much into this exchange.
She’s probably correct in her assessment, which is the actual problem.
After dinner, Tavia insists on showing Dove her room, her collections, every educational module she’s proud of. Dove follows patiently, asking questions and offering genuine responses rather than adult platitudes.
I clean the kitchen with methodical precision, trying to organize my thoughts the way I organize workspace.
It doesn’t work.
My mind keeps returning to the way Dove fit into our evening. The ease of three people moving around each other. Tavia’s happiness. The warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with Lividian biology and everything to do with not being alone.
“Papa!” Tavia calls. “Can Dove read bedtime story with us?”
I should say no. Should maintain boundaries.
“If she’s willing,” I hear myself say instead.
Bedtime routine has been sacred since Seraphina died. The one constant when everything else was chaos.
Tonight, Tavia insists we all fit on her bed together.
It’s a tight squeeze. Dove on one side, me on the other, Tavia between us, radiating delight at this new arrangement.
“This one,” Tavia says, handing Dove a book about stellar formation. “Papa does all the voices wrong.”
“I read with appropriate tonal variation for different characters.”
“You read in monotone while making technical corrections to the astronomy.”
This is accurate but I resent the implication.
Dove opens the book, glances at the content, then begins reading with actual character voices—making the stellar formations sound excited about fusion, giving the planets distinct personalities.
Tavia is entranced.
I am also entranced, but for different reasons entirely.
Watching Dove with my daughter, hearing her bring stories to life, seeing Tavia this engaged—it’s everything I’ve wanted for her and couldn’t provide alone.
Halfway through the story, Tavia’s head droops against Dove’s shoulder. Her breathing evens into sleep.
Dove keeps reading softly, finishing the chapter even though our audience is unconscious. When she’s done, she closes the book carefully and meets my eyes over Tavia’s sleeping form.
“She’s wonderful,” Dove whispers.
“She is.” The words emerge rougher than intended. “Thank you. For tonight. For making her this happy.”
“She made it easy.” Dove gently shifts Tavia toward me, careful not to wake her. “I should let you do the tucking-in part.”
I gather my daughter carefully, settling her into proper sleeping position with practiced ease. Dove watches from the doorway, something soft in her expression that makes my chest tighten.
When I emerge from Tavia’s room, she’s waiting in the corridor.
The lighting is dimmed for evening cycle. We’re standing closer than necessary in the narrow hallway. I can smell vanilla and warmth and something uniquely her.
“That was really nice,” she says quietly. “Thank you for including me.”
“You improved the evening considerably.”
The bioluminescent tracery along my neck and shoulders flares bright enough to cast shadows in the dim space. She notices, her eyes tracking the patterns.
“Do they always do that?” she asks softly.
“The patterns respond to various stimuli.”
“What kind of stimuli?”
Emotion. Temperature. Atmospheric pressure.
Proximity to curvy human couriers who smell like vanilla and fit into my life like missing variables finally calculated.
“Environmental factors,” I say instead.
“Environmental factors.” Her smile suggests she doesn’t believe me. “Right.”
We’re standing too close. I should step back. Should establish distance.
Neither of us moves.
“I should let you get some rest,” she says, but doesn’t move.
“Yes. Tomorrow we’ll address the sensor issue. Early.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Still neither of us moves.
“Cetus—”
“Dove—”
We both speak simultaneously, then stop.
“You first,” she says.
I should say goodnight. Should be professional. Should remember all the logical reasons why this is temporary.
“Your technical expertise will be valuable tomorrow,” I say, which is true but not what I was going to say.
“That’s very formal for ‘thanks for offering to help.’”
“I’m a formal person.”
“I noticed.” Her smile is warm, and she’s close enough that I can see gold flecks in her eyes. “Goodnight, Cetus.”
“Goodnight, Dove.”
She turns toward her quarters. I stand in the hallway longer than necessary, patterns still bright, temperature still elevated, my control fracturing with each hour she’s here.
This is going to be a very long storm.