Chapter 5 Systems of Attachment #2
“I’m eating, I’m eating! But I’m also right.”
Despite the awkwardness—or maybe because of it—I find myself smiling. This is what family dinners look like. The teasing, the comfortable chaos, the way Tavia can call out her father’s feelings without fear because she knows she’s loved unconditionally.
This is what I’ve been missing.
“So, Dove,” Tavia says, expertly steering the conversation, “what’s your favorite Earth food? Papa has a whole list of things he wants to try making, and I think we should prioritize based on your preferences.”
“You have a list?”
Cetus’s markings pulse. “A… preliminary research document. For reference purposes.”
“It’s seventeen pages long,” Pickles supplies helpfully. “With detailed nutritional breakdowns and difficulty ratings.”
“Pickles,” Cetus says with dangerous calm.
“I am merely providing relevant data.”
I look at this scientist who’s spent three years in isolation with his daughter, maintaining rigid routines and systematic efficiency, who’s apparently compiled a seventeen-page research document on Earth food because a broke courier crash-landed in his life three days ago.
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Pasta,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I… I really love making fresh pasta. And teaching people how to make it.”
Tavia’s markings blaze. “Like you did in our last chat! Can you teach me more? Please?”
“The small person has been asking approximately every forty-seven minutes when you would be available for culinary instruction,” Pickles notes.
“I would also be interested in learning the technique,” Cetus adds, his formal tone not quite hiding his eagerness. “The molecular bonding process of gluten development is fascinating from a chemical perspective.”
“See? He reads cooking like a science textbook,” Tavia says fondly. “It’s very Papa.”
Somehow, impossibly, I’m sitting at a table with an alien scientist and his daughter, planning cooking lessons like this is normal. Like I belong here. Like this could be my life instead of a temporary detour.
The terrifying part is how much I want it to be.
We finish lunch with Tavia chattering about her latest projects and Pickles providing completely unnecessary statistical analysis of our eating speeds. Cetus watches his daughter with helpless affection, occasionally catching my eye with those meaningful glances that make my stomach flip.
This is what I’ve been running from. This warmth, this belonging, this terrifying hope that maybe I could have this.
“Captain,” Pickles says quietly in my ear. “Incoming transmission on a secured channel. It’s from Junction One. Mother Morrison is requesting communication.”
The warmth evaporates.
“Can you route it to my personal unit?”
“Affirmative. However, I should note that the Terraforming Specialist’s hearing range likely encompasses your conversation radius.”
Great.
I excuse myself from the table, moving to the corridor. Cetus’s eyes follow me, concerned but not pushing.
“Foxton here.”
“Dove.” Mother’s voice is tight. “I’ve been reviewing your route data. You’re significantly behind schedule, and I’m seeing concerning flag activity from the Blackstar Collective regarding your location.”
“The storm trapped me at the delivery site. I’m working on it—”
“Kid, I’ve got eyes in three systems, and they’re all telling me the same thing—Blackstar dispatched a recovery team to your last known coordinates. Not their usual collection thugs, either. These are the serious ones.”
Ice floods my veins. “How long?”
“The storm will slow them down, but they’ve got advanced shielding—better than standard civilian protection. I’d say three days, maybe four if the electromagnetic interference is bad enough. Not the full week you were hoping for.”
Three days. The message said seventy-two hours for contact—that must be when they expect to arrive.
“Can you move the ship once weather clears?”
“Not without repairs I don’t have time or money to complete.”
Mother’s quiet for a moment. “There are OOPS emergency hardship funds. I could authorize—”
“No. I’m not taking charity.”
“It’s not charity, it’s a safety net—”
“I said no.”
Silence. Then: “You’re as stubborn as your father was. He’d be proud and exasperated in equal measure.”
The mention of Dad hits hard. “Don’t.”
“Dove, listen to me. Pride is fine when you’re flying solo. But when you’re trapped on a remote station with civilians? Pride becomes dangerous.”
“I’m handling it—”
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re about to drag a terraforming facility and a single father into a confrontation with debt collectors who have zero qualms about collateral damage.”
She’s right. I hate that she’s right.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Consider accepting help this time, okay? I know it’s hard. But sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let people have your back.”
“When did you get all wise?”
“About twenty-three years into this job and one Kytherian claiming later.” There’s warmth in her voice. “Maybe this terraformer and his kid are worth it.”
I close my eyes. “Three days?”
“Maybe four if we’re lucky. Use them wisely. And Dove? If you need extraction, you call me. Immediately.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I mean it. Luzrak’s already plotting rescue scenarios, and you know how he gets when he’s in protective mode.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Thanks, Mother.”
“Now go figure out if you’re running or staying. And for the love of the void, make a decision before the collectors arrive.”
The connection cuts.
I lean against the corridor wall, processing. Three days. Maybe four.
Not enough time to run. Barely enough time to plan.
But maybe—maybe—enough time to let myself try something different.
“Captain.” Pickles’s voice is gentle. “The Terraforming Specialist is approaching your location. I calculate he has been monitoring your distress through vocal patterns and has decided intervention is necessary.”
“Of course he has.”
Cetus rounds the corner, his expression careful but his markings bright with concern. “You’re upset.”
“I’m processing.”
“Would processing be easier with company? Or do you require solitude?”
The fact that he’s asking—giving me the choice—makes something tighten in my chest.
“Company might be good.”
He steps closer. I can feel his warmth without him touching me.
“Mother Morrison?”
“She’s worried about the debt collectors. They’re not planning to wait for the full storm cycle. They have advanced shielding that cuts through most electromagnetic interference.”
“How long?”
“Three days. Maybe four if the storm stays strong enough.”
His markings pulse with something fierce and protective. “Then we have three days to solve the problem. Together. If you’ll let me try.”
“Cetus—”
“You don’t have to decide anything right now. Don’t leave yet. Give us these days. Let me help with the debt situation. Let Tavia teach you about hydroponics and interrogate you about your life. Let Pickles document our biometrics with smug satisfaction.”
“I can hear you, Terraforming Specialist,” Pickles interjects. “And I neither confirm nor deny experiencing smug satisfaction at current developments.”
I laugh despite everything. “You’re all completely ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Cetus agrees. His hand finally makes contact, his fingers carefully threading through mine, warm and solid and real.
Each point of connection deliberate, his palm radiating heat that sinks into my bones.
He’s so much larger that my hand disappears into his, and I feel the ghost pressure of retracted claws against my knuckles, the conscious gentleness that speaks louder than words.
My pulse jumps, and I know he feels it.
“But we’re ridiculous together,” he continues, his thumb tracing gentle patterns across my knuckles. “I’ve spent three years maintaining controlled systems. You’re teaching me that sometimes chaos is worth the risk.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Pickles.”
“I have been spending exactly the right amount of time with people who remind me that efficiency isn’t the only metric worth optimizing for.”
Those careful patterns across my knuckles. The heat of his palm. The way his markings are doing that warm bright pulse that means he’s happy.
“Three days.”
“Three days. No pressure, no expectations beyond the hope that you’ll stop planning escape routes long enough to see what staying might look like.”
“I always plan escape routes.”
“I know. But maybe this time you won’t need them.”
Maybe.
The word sits between us like a promise, terrifying and hopeful in equal measure.
We stand there in the dimmed corridor, his hand in mine, neither of us moving. His markings cast soft light across our joined hands. Outside, the storm rages. Inside, something else builds—slower, warmer, infinitely more dangerous.
“Dove,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for staying.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“You always have a choice.” His voice drops lower, intimate. “You could have run the moment that message arrived. Taken your ship and fled despite the danger. You chose to stay. To trust us enough to stay.”
“Trust might be a strong word for ‘trapped by weather and debt collectors.’”
“Is it?” His yellow eyes hold mine. “Or are you starting to realize that maybe staying isn’t the worst thing that could happen?”
Before I can answer—before I can figure out what to say to that—Tavia’s voice carries down the corridor.
“Are you two done having your moment? Because Pickles says we should celebrate Dove staying with dessert, and I found the recipe for Earth chocolate cake in Papa’s research files, and I think we should make it!”
Cetus’s markings flare bright with embarrassment. “I was researching comprehensive Earth cuisine—”
“You have a recipe file specifically for desserts,” Pickles supplies helpfully. “Organized by complexity and romantic appeal. The chocolate cake is filed under ‘high difficulty, significant emotional impact.’”
“I will dismantle you.”
“Statistically improbable given my current integration with station systems.”
I’m laughing now, the tension of the last hour finally breaking. “You researched romantic desserts?”
“I researched… comprehensive options for… various social situations.”
“He has a whole new section on ‘foods humans associate with courtship rituals,’” Tavia calls from the kitchen. “It’s very thorough!”
“Tavia!”
“What? I’m helping!”
Cetus looks at me with those yellow eyes, his markings doing complicated patterns that I’m starting to interpret as mortified but hopeful.
“So,” I say, trying not to smile. “Chocolate cake?”
“If you would like. Tavia has been… enthusiastic about attempting more complex baking since you arrived.”
“Because you want to impress Dove,” Tavia stage-whispers from around the corner.
“Because proper nutrition includes appropriate variety,” Cetus says with wounded dignity.
I squeeze his hand. Still holding mine. Still warm.
“Let’s make chocolate cake. For… nutritional variety.”
His smile could terraform entire planets.
“Captain,” Pickles says in my ear, “I calculate this decision has a ninety-four percent probability of significantly impacting your emotional trajectory. I recommend proceeding with cautious optimism.”
“Since when do you recommend optimism?”
“Since I observed the Terraforming Specialist’s markings reach peak luminosity when you agreed to stay. Also, I am fond of the small person, and she is fond of you, and I calculate that maintaining her happiness is now among my primary operational objectives.”
“You’ve gone soft, Pickles.”
“I neither confirm nor deny experiencing what might be termed ‘emotional investment’ in this family unit. However, I note that you have also gone soft, Captain. Your cortisol levels have decreased by forty-seven percent in the last three minutes.”
He’s right.
Damn him, he’s right.
Cetus is still holding my hand, showing no signs of letting go. Tavia’s humming in the kitchen, already pulling out mixing bowls. The storm rages outside, keeping me trapped here with them.
Three days. Maybe four.
Maybe enough time to figure out if I’m brave enough to stop running.
Maybe enough time to see if this terrifying hope is worth the risk.
“Come on,” I say, tugging Cetus toward the kitchen. “Let’s see if your seventeen-page research document included proper chocolate tempering techniques.”
“There is a comprehensive section on molecular crystallization structures in chocolate preparation,” he says seriously.
“Of course there is.”
“With diagrams.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
His thumb traces one more pattern across my knuckles before he releases my hand. The loss of contact feels significant.
We move into the kitchen together, and Tavia’s face lights up like she’s just watched her favorite outcome play out exactly as planned.
Which, knowing her, she probably has.
“Okay!” she announces. “Dove, you’re in charge of instruction. Papa, you’re on precise measurements because we all know that’s your favorite part. I’ll handle the mixing because I’m really good at that!”
“An excellent division of labor,” Pickles observes. “I calculate a seventy-eight percent probability of successful cake production and a ninety-two percent probability of increased interpersonal bonding through collaborative food preparation.”
“Nobody asked you to calculate cake statistics,” I tell him.
“I am aware. I calculated them anyway. It is my function.”
Tavia giggles. Cetus’s markings pulse with warm amusement. Outside, lightning arcs across alien skies.
Inside, we start making chocolate cake like a family.
And for the first time in nine years, I’m not planning my escape route.
I’m planning to stay for dessert.