Also, watching her teach Tavia—patient and encouraging, making my daughter laugh while actually instructing—makes something in my chest constrict pleasantly.
“Now we knead it,” Dove says, demonstrating the technique. Her hands fold and press the dough with rhythmic precision. “You want to fold and press, fold and press. It’s very satisfying. Therapeutic, even.”
I’m staring at her hands. This is inappropriate. I force my attention elsewhere.
Except “elsewhere” is the curve of her neck where her hair has escaped its tie, or the way she moves with unconscious grace, or how the kitchen’s warmth has brought color to her cheeks.
There is nowhere safe to look.
Tavia copies Dove’s movements, getting flour everywhere. I move to clean up automatically, but Dove catches my wrist.
Her hand on my wrist. Warm. Soft. Smaller than Lividian proportions.
My claws betray me—extending before I force them back.
“It’s fine,” she says, either not noticing my reaction or politely ignoring it. “Mess is part of cooking. We’ll clean after.”
“Efficiency suggests cleaning as you go.” The words come out rougher than intended.
“Efficiency suggests relaxing slightly.” She releases my wrist, but I can still feel the phantom warmth of her fingers. “But your dad’s not wrong—organization helps. We’ll clean up before we start the sauce.”
She’s mediating between my need for order and the natural chaos of teaching a child. Finding balance without making either of us wrong.
Seraphina used to do that.
The thought arrives with less pain than usual. More... acknowledgment. Seraphina would like Dove, I think. Would appreciate her competence and humor and the way she treats Tavia like a small person rather than a child to be managed.
“Papa, look!” Tavia holds up her kneaded dough, patterns bright with pride. “I made pasta!”
“Well done, Tav.” I examine her work with genuine approval. “Excellent structural consistency.”
“It’s not a terraforming project, Papa. It’s dinner.”
“Terraforming principles apply universally. Structure matters.”
Dove’s trying not to laugh again. “Does everything in your life relate back to terraforming?”
“Terraforming is patient, systematic transformation of chaotic systems into stable, life-supporting environments. The principles are broadly applicable.”
“Did you just compare cooking to planetary transformation?”
“I compared the underlying methodology.”
“He does this,” Tavia stage-whispers to Dove. “Everything is a science project.”
“I’m a scientist. This is appropriate.”
“You’re a grump,” Tavia says affectionately. “But we love you anyway.”
The casual way she includes Dove in that ‘we’ makes my skin flicker. Tavia’s already decided Dove belongs in our family unit—at least temporarily.
This is going to hurt when she leaves.
Dinner is the kind of chaos I haven’t experienced since before Seraphina got sick. Good chaos.
Tavia talks nonstop, telling Dove about her educational modules and the plants in the hydroponics bay and the time she accidentally created a small ecosystem in her closet. Dove listens with genuine interest, asking questions that show she’s actually paying attention.
The pasta is exceptional. Better than anything that’s come out of this kitchen in years.
