“This is really good.” I mean it.
Cetus’s markings brighten. “Tavia has been… encouraging me to expand my culinary repertoire beyond nutritional adequacy.”
“Papa reads cooking databases like some people read novels,” Tavia explains, loading her plate with enthusiasm. “Very thorough. Very systematic.”
“I prefer to understand the chemical processes involved in—”
“He means he’s learning to cook because he wants you to stay,” Tavia interrupts cheerfully.
The room goes very quiet.
Cetus’s markings flare bright enough to cast shadows. “Tavia.”
“What? It’s true! You told Pickles you were researching Earth cuisine preparation because you wanted to provide adequate hospitality—”
“The small person raises a valid point,” Pickles interjects. “The Terraforming Specialist’s database queries regarding human dietary preferences increased by two hundred forty-seven percent following the Captain’s arrival.”
I’m trying very hard not to look at Cetus, whose markings are now doing complicated patterns I suspect translate to mortally embarrassed.
“I simply thought… varied meal options would be appropriate for an extended guest,” he says with careful formality that doesn’t quite hide the underlying warmth.
“Uh-huh.” Tavia grins at me with the smug satisfaction of a successful matchmaker. “Very appropriate.”
“Eat your vegetables,” Cetus tells his daughter.
“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.
