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.
