“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.
