“Anticipatory, perhaps?” Pickles offers. “Or possibly ‘barely contained.’”
“Pickles,” I warn.
“I am merely providing vocabulary assistance. Educational support is my function.”
Dove bites back a smile, turning toward the counter. “Should we make breakfast? I could teach Tavia those pancakes I mentioned.”
“Please!” Tavia bounces. “The flippy kind!”
The next twenty minutes are carefully orchestrated torture. Dove and Tavia work together at the cooking station, flour dusting the counter, laughter filling the space.
I can’t stop watching Dove’s hands as she demonstrates technique. Can’t stop noticing when she leans close to guide Tavia’s grip, her shirt pulling tight. Can’t stop my markings from brightening every time she laughs.
“Papa’s staring again,” Tavia stage-whispers.
“I’m monitoring the cooking process. Safety protocols require—”
“He’s definitely staring,” Tavia confirms. “His markings do that pulsing thing when he looks at you. See?”
Dove glances at me. Our eyes meet. Hold. Her cheeks flush darker.
“Maybe your papa appreciates good cooking technique.”
“Papa doesn’t care about cooking,” Tavia says with brutal honesty. “He thinks food is fuel. But he cares about you.”
“Tavia—”
“It’s true! You smile different when Dove’s here. And your markings are way brighter. And you keep finding reasons to stand really close to her.”
“The pancakes are ready,” I interrupt. “Perhaps we should eat before they cool.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” Tavia grins with smug satisfaction. “Pickles, am I right?”
“The small person demonstrates exceptional observational acuity.”
“Breakfast,” I announce firmly. “Now.”
The pancakes are excellent. Tavia’s commentary is relentless. And every time Dove’s knee brushes mine under the table, my control fractures a little more.
“So,” Tavia says around a mouthful, “are you two going to talk about the thing?”
“What thing?” Dove asks carefully.
“The thing where you like each other but keep pretending you don’t.” She waves her fork between us. “The obvious thing.”
“Tavia Storm, you are being inappropriately observant.”
“You’re the one who taught me that observation is the foundation of scientific inquiry!”
“I’m regretting that lesson.”
“Papa.” She sets down her fork, suddenly serious. “I like having Dove here. She makes you happy. She makes me happy. Why can’t we keep her?”
The question lands like a physical blow.
“Small one, it’s complicated—”
“Because of the debt people?” She looks at Dove. “The ones who are coming?”
