I’m running hot enough that she has to feel it, but instead of pulling away, she makes a soft sound—not quite a sigh—that does illegal things to my already compromised control.
“Dove—”
The kitchen timer shrieks.
We break apart like we’ve touched a live current. Dove’s cheeks are flushed, her breathing slightly uneven. My markings blaze bright enough to light the workspace.
“The cake!” Tavia announces, far too cheerfully. “Papa, you should check if it’s done!”
I move to the oven with careful precision, grateful for a task that doesn’t involve standing dangerously close to Dove while fighting every instinct that’s screaming at me to pull her closer.
The cake is perfect. Of course it is. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
“It needs to cool completely,” I say, setting it on the designated cooling rack. “We should—”
A massive yawn from Tavia cuts me off. She stretches dramatically, her markings dimming to sleepy patterns. “I’m so tired. Storm pressure always makes me sleepy.”
“You were energetic five minutes ago,” Dove observes, clearly suspicious.
“Very sudden fatigue,” Tavia says solemnly. “Very scientific. Papa, can you help me with my sleep routine?”
She’s absolutely giving us alone time. It’s as subtle as a meteor impact.
“It’s early for sleep cycle—”
“I’m eight and three-quarters and I know when I need rest,” Tavia announces with wounded dignity. “Unless Papa doesn’t want to do bedtime routine?”
I recognize manipulation when I see it. I also recognize that arguing with my daughter when she’s in tactical mode is an exercise in futility.
“Fine. Bedtime routine.”
Tavia bounces up, already moving toward her quarters, then pauses. “Dove, you’ll still be here when I wake up, right?”
Something flickers across Dove’s face—too quick to interpret fully, but it looks like longing mixed with fear.
“I’ll be here,” she says softly.
Tavia’s smile could power the station’s reactors. “Good. Because we still need to frost the cake tomorrow, and Papa needs more teaching.”
“I’m certain he does,” Dove agrees, and I refuse to look at her because my markings will absolutely betray the direction of my thoughts.
Tavia’s sleep routine is normally efficient—wash, teeth, pajamas, bed. Tonight she’s drawn it out with questions about tomorrow’s activities, observations about the storm patterns, and increasingly transparent commentary about how nice it is to have Dove here.
“Do you like her, Papa?” she asks when I’m tucking her in.
“This is not an appropriate conversation—”
“Your marks are really bright.” She pokes my forearm where the marking patterns pulse. “They get bright when you’re happy. You’ve been bright a lot since Dove arrived.”
“Bioluminescent response patterns are complex and don’t always correlate to—”
“You like her,” Tavia says with complete certainty. “And she likes you too. I can tell.”
“Sleep. Now.”
“She makes you smile. Real smiles, not work smiles.” Her yellow eyes are far too knowing. “Mama would like her.”
The observation hits harder than expected. Would Seraphina like Dove? The question feels disloyal and necessary in equal measure.
