“I was going to say I have prepared the kitchen workspace for optimal teaching conditions.”
Tavia’s already arranging herself at the table with her datapad, far enough away to observe but clearly positioning herself as supervisor rather than participant. Her markings do that rapid pulse pattern that means she’s plotting something.
“Papa needs to learn too,” she announces. “He should stand close so he can see exactly what Dove’s doing.”
I open my mouth to point out that I have excellent distance vision, but Dove’s already pulling butter from cold storage, her expression amused.
“Does everything in this family involve elaborate setup for ‘learning experiences’?” she asks.
“The small person demonstrates exceptional tactical planning for her developmental stage,” Pickles says. “I find it admirable.”
“You’re all conspiring.”
“Affirmative,” Pickles agrees cheerfully.
Dove sets the butter on the counter, then looks at me with those dark eyes that seem to see straight through my carefully maintained control. “Well? Are you going to learn how to make proper frosting, or are you going to keep pretending you’re not interested?”
I cross to the counter, hyperaware of how the space suddenly feels smaller. “I’m interested in comprehensive culinary education.”
“Sure you are.” Her smile is knowing.
The butter is soft enough to work with, and she demonstrates the proper whisking technique with the kind of fluid confidence that speaks to years of practice. I watch her hands—smaller than mine, human-soft, moving with precise economy.
“The key is creaming the butter first,” she explains, angling the bowl so I can see. “You have to feel the resistance change as it softens and incorporates air. Here—”
She steps back slightly, making space. “Your turn.”
I take the whisk, focus on the task. The butter yields under the pressure, transforming texture.
“Good,” she says. “But you’re too tense. Here—”
Her hands cover mine on the whisk, and every coherent thought evaporates.
She’s tucked between my arms now, her back a hand’s width from my chest—close enough to feel her warmth radiating through the space between us, not close enough to close the gap. Her hands guide mine through the whisking motion, and I can smell her. Not just the vanilla and cherricus fruit scent that’s been driving me slowly insane, but something underneath that’s uniquely her. Warm. Human. Intoxicating.
“Feel that?” she asks, and I have to force myself to focus on the butter instead of the way her body fits in this space like she belongs here. “The texture’s changing. It should be light and fluffy, not dense.”
Heat floods across my shoulders—visible, I’m sure, in the brightening patterns. I can see them reflected in the metal bowl, pulsing with my heartbeat, broadcasting exactly how affected I am by her proximity.
She notices. Of course she notices.
Her breath catches slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans back fractionally, her warmth seeping through my clothes.
“Cetus,” she says quietly. “You’re not even watching what I’m doing.”
“I’m paying attention.” My voice drops into harmonic registers I can’t control.
“To the frosting?”
Long pause. I should lie. Should maintain professional distance.
“No.”
Her hands still over mine. The kitchen is very quiet except for Tavia’s stylus scratching against her datapad and the soft hum of environmental systems.
“We should add the sugar,” Dove says finally, but she doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
