Morninglightfiltersthroughmy window in pretty purple-gold patterns—the storm outside is still doing its electromagnetic thing, making everything shimmer weird. Pretty weird, though. Like science art.
I sit up in bed and listen.
Papa’s boots in the kitchen. The coffee maker doing its morning hiss. And Dove’s laugh—the real one that sounds like bubbles, not the polite courier one.
My markings pulse happy-bright before I can stop them.
“Good morning, small person,” Pickles says quietly through my room speakers. “Your biosignature suggests excitement levels consistent with holiday mornings or successful scientific experiments. I calculate an eighty-nine percent probability you are scheming.”
“Good scheming!” I whisper back, sliding out of bed. “Papa-Dove family scheming!”
“I neither confirm nor deny approval of such activities. However, I have prepared comprehensive observational data should you require tactical support.”
I crack my door open just enough to peek.
Papa stands at the counter making breakfast—his back to me, but I can see his markings through his sleep shirt. They glow in patterns I haven’t seen since before Mama got sick. The bright ones. The really happy ones that used to light up our whole quarters when she’d kiss his cheek.
Dove sits at the table in borrowed station clothes, her hair escaping its tie like it always does, holding her coffee cup with both hands like it’s treasure.
And the way Papa looks at her when she isn’t watching? His eyes go all soft and his markings pulse warmer and he forgets to flip the protein cakes until they smoke a little.
This is it. This is family-in-progress. I just know it.
“Pickles,” I whisper, “Papa’s marks are doing the thing!”
“Affirmative. The Terraforming Specialist’s bioluminescent patterns currently display a sixty-seven percent increase in intensity compared to baseline. This correlates with what Lividian cultural databases refer to as ‘attraction display during courtship behavior.’”
I don’t know all those words, but I know what it means.
Papa likes Dove. Really likes her. The kind of like that made him glow like he used to with Mama.
Breakfast is the best kind of torture.
I sit between them at the table, watching everything like a scientific observation. Which it is. Operation Matchmaker requires data.
Papa and Dove are definitely magnets. The attracted kind. Every time Dove reaches for something, Papa moves to help at exactly the same time, and then they both freeze with their hands almost touching, stare at each other, then jump apart like the table zapped them. His markings flare bright. Her cheeks go pink-warm.
And Papa smiles differently now. Not the “adequate nutrition achieved” smile. Real smiles that make his eyes crinkle and his markings glow steady-warm. He only used to smile like that with Mama.
Grown-ups are so weird.
“Small person, your observational skills are exceptional,” Pickles says in my earpiece. “The Terraforming Specialist’s serotonin levels increase by forty-seven percent when the Captain is within three meters. His bioluminescent markings display what Lividian cultural databases categorize as ‘happy family patterns.’”
“Family patterns?” I whisper into my orange juice. “Like... like in hydroponics when plants grow better together?”
“An excellent analogy. I calculate the Terraforming Specialist and the Captain exhibit similar symbiotic potential.”
I grin so wide my face hurts. “They’re growing together!”
“Tavia, are you talking to Pickles again?” Papa asks, but he’s smiling.
“He says you and Dove have symbiotic potential!”
Papa’s markings flare so bright they light up the whole kitchen. Dove chokes on her coffee.
“That’s... not exactly...” Papa starts.
“It means you’re good together,” I explain helpfully. “Like compatible organisms. For optimal growth and productivity.”
