“And you’ve already alphabetized my cargo containers, so I feel confident in my assessment.” Her smile takes any sting fromthe observation. “Look, I know I’m stuck here, but I’m not good at being a passenger. Let me earn my keep? I’m decent with systems, I can cook actual food that doesn’t come from ration packs, and I promise not to corrupt your daughter too badly.”
“Tavia doesn’t require corrupting.”
“She asked me if humans shed our skin like snakes. I think she’s doing fine on her own.”
Despite myself, warmth spreads across my shoulders—visible, I’m sure, in the brightening patterns. Tavia’s questions have become increasingly creative during our isolation. Having another adult to direct them at might provide relief.
Might also be dangerous, given how quickly my daughter has decided Dove is fascinating.
“If you wish to assist with station operations, I won’t refuse competent help.” I pull up the sensor diagnostic. “This pressure differential—you said you’ve seen it before?”
“Yeah, on 442. Turned out the primary coupling had degraded from thermal cycling. We rerouted through the secondary array using interpolation algorithms from the ship’s nav system. Unorthodox, but it worked.”
“That violates three standard safety protocols.”
“It also kept us from getting fried by an electromagnetic storm.” She leans closer to examine the data, and I catch the scent of vanillax and cherricus fruit, it’s so uniquely her. Warm. Distracting. “Sometimes field solutions beat textbook answers.”
She’s not wrong. Terraforming often requires adaptation when standard protocols meet reality.
Also, she’s standing close enough that I can feel warmth radiating from her body, and I’m running hotter than atmospheric conditions warrant.
I step back deliberately. Professional distance. “I’ll schedule the sensor repair for tomorrow. If you’re willing to assist, your field experience might prove valuable.”
“Translation: you want to see if I actually know what I’m doing or if I got lucky.”
“I already know you’re competent. You landed a damaged ship in enhanced gravity during atmospheric instability without incident.” Heat floods my chest before I can control it. “I’m interested in your unorthodox problem-solving approach.”
“Interested in my approach. Sure.” But she’s smiling like she knows exactly what my skin is broadcasting. “I can work with that.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve my biology betraying me further, Tavia’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Papa! Are you teaching Dove about the station? Can I help?”
“Your daughter has excellent timing,” Dove murmurs.
“She has persistent curiosity and no concept of privacy.” But I’m already moving toward Tavia’s voice, because three years of single parenting has made me attuned to every variation in her tone.
I find her in the kitchen, standing on her step-stool to reach the food preparation station, educational modules scattered across the counter.
“I was thinking,” she announces with the careful innocence that signals incoming schemes, “that since Dove is staying with us, we should make a nice dinner. Not ration packs. Real food.”
“We consume perfectly adequate nutrition.”
“Papa.” She fixes me with a look that’s pure Seraphina—loving exasperation at my practical nature. “We have a guest. Guests deserve real food. Dove, do you know how to cook real food?”
“I know how to make food that tastes like something other than nutritional obligation,” Dove says diplomatically. “What kind of ingredients do we have access to?”
“We maintain standard supply provisions,” I start, but Tavia’s already pulling up the inventory.
“We have everything!” Her yellow markings pulse bright with excitement. “Papa orders extra because he worries about supply chain disruptions, so we have lots of variety. We never use it because he doesn’t know how to cook anything except protein synthesis.”
“I can prepare seventeen different nutritionally complete meals.”
“They all taste the same,” Tavia says with brutal honesty.
Dove’s trying not to laugh. Failing. Her shoulders shake with suppressed giggles that make something in my chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with Lividian biology.
“Tell you what,” she says to Tavia. “How about you and I make dinner together? I’ll teach you some basics, and your dad can supervise to make sure we don’t violate any kitchen safety protocols.”
“Can we make pasta? With actual sauce? Not from a ration pack?”
