At six months old, the twins sat in their high chairs side by side – trays locked, safety straps snug. The medical schedule on Amerigo’s datapad said it was time for solid foods. Mashed peas, specifically. He had prepared the mush himself, spooning it from the MRE into two tiny bowls.

Electra got the first bite.

He lifted the spoon to her mouth. She accepted it with the wary suspicion all babies reserved for green things. Then her face scrunched – a full‑body rejection: tiny nose wrinkling, mouth puckering as if she’d tasted something foul.

Amerigo laughed. “Not a fan, huh?”

He turned to Celeste, spoon already loaded.

And stopped.

Celeste’s face was identical. Same scrunched nose. Same puckered mouth. Same expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.

She hadn’t eaten anything yet.

Amerigo’s hand froze, spoon halfway to her lips.

Coincidence, he told himself. Just a coincidence.

He tried again, this time surprising Electra with the spoon while she was distracted by a shadow crossing the ceiling. She startled – eyes going wide, a tiny gasp, whole body flinching.

Beside her, Celeste startled too. Same timing. Same wide eyes. Same tiny gasp.

Amerigo set down the spoon. He looked from one face to the other. Both stared back at him with identical expressions of baby confusion and growing wariness, as if he was the one acting strange.

“Okay,” he said aloud. “That’s weird.”

But he didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. What would he say? I think my daughters might be sharing experiences somehow? It sounded insane. He was a scientist. He needed more data.

He filed it away – in the same mental folder where he’d already placed the synchronized cries, the identical sleep cycles, the way they never seemed to need to look at each other to know what the other was doing.

Twin intuition, he told himself. Nothing more.

But he saved the peas for another day.