16. Cassian
CASSIAN
June drags me toward the kitchen table with a grip that belongs to someone three times her size.
The apartment is smaller than I expected, cozy and homely and lived in.
Books are stacked on shelves next to June's drawings taped to the walls, there's a basket of toys shoved into the corner, and the lingering smell of garlic makes my stomach remind me I skipped lunch.
"Sit there." June points to a chair with the authority of a tiny general. "I have to show you something really important."
I sit. Amara hovers near the stove, wooden spoon gripped like a weapon, watching me with her lips pressed into a thin line. I just know how quickly she would escort me out if June weren't present.
June climbs onto the chair beside me, retrieves the cutting board from the counter with both hands. Green beans arranged in a winding S-shape cover the surface.
"See? Bean snake. I made it myself."
"That's..." I search for words appropriate for five-year-old vocabulary. "That's really impressive, June. Did you know snakes can unhinge their jaws to swallow things bigger than their heads?"
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
"Yeah. Some of them can eat whole eggs or even small animals."
"Like what kind of animals?"
"Mice, birds, frogs."
"Do they eat squids?"
"I don't think snakes and squids live in the same places usually. Squids are in the ocean and most snakes are on land."
Her forehead wrinkles. "What about sea snakes?"
"Those exist, but I don't think they eat squids. Probably fish and eels."
"Oh." A pause. "Do you know a lot about animals?"
"Some. My family has horses at a house upstate. I spent a lot of time around them growing up."
"Horses?" Her entire face lights up. "Real horses?"
"Very real."
"Are they nice?"
"Most of them are, if you treat them well. You have to be gentle and patient. Let them get used to you."
June leans forward, elbows on the table. "Have you ever seen a unicorn? Because that's like a horse's cousin."
I bite back a smile. "I haven't personally seen one, but I've heard they're very rare."
"They are. They live in forests and only show themselves to special people." She says this with complete conviction, like she's reciting facts from an encyclopedia. "Do you think I'm special enough to see one?"
"Definitely."
"Really?"
"Really. Anyone who can make a bean snake this good is definitely special enough for unicorns."
She beams. Amara makes a noise near the stove, something between a cough and a sigh that she tries to cover by stirring whatever's in the pot.
June launches into an elaborate explanation about unicorn habitats involving rainbow meadows and crystal caves. I nod along, offering commentary when she pauses for breath, aware that Amara's tracking every word from across the room.
This is surreal. Sitting at a kitchen table with my daughter—my daughter—while she tells me about mythical creatures and bean snakes. Half her DNA comes from me, that those hazel eyes staring up at me with such trust are mine reflected back in a tinier face.
She doesn't know. Amara kept that from her too.
The thought creates a dull ache behind my sternum, but I push it down. This isn't the time. Right now, I'm just a tall man who knows about horses and showed mild interest in squid facts.
"Okay, baby, that's enough talk." Amara's voice cuts through June's monologue about unicorn diets. "Go wash your hands. You need to eat your dinner."
June hops off the chair. "Will you still be here when I get back?"
"If your mom says it's okay."
She looks at Amara with pleading eyes that could melt stone. "Can he stay, Mama? Please?"
Amara's jaw tightens. "June…"
"Please? He knows about horses and he thinks I'm special enough for unicorns and he hasn't tried the special mashed potatoes yet."
I watch Amara wage an internal war, see the moment she realizes that saying no will require explanations she's not ready to give and breaking her daughter's heart all at once.
"Fine," she says. "He can stay for dinner. But then he needs to leave, sweet girl. Grown-ups have things to discuss."
June doesn't catch the warning underneath. She just grins and skips down the hallway toward what I assume is the bathroom.
The moment she's out of sight, Amara rounds on me. Her voice drops low, controlled fury beneath every word. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Having dinner."
"You can't just show up here unannounced?—"
"I tried calling. You didn't answer."
"That's because I don't want to talk to you outside of work-related business."
"This is work-related. We need to coordinate schedules for the collaboration."
"Bullshit," she hisses out. "You could've sent an email or called Kathy or handled it through any number of professional channels that don't involve showing up at my home during dinner."
She's right, obviously. But I'm not about to admit it.
"June invited me to stay," I say, a feigned innocence to my words. "Should I have told her no?"
Amara's hands ball into fists. "Don't use my daughter to manipulate me."
"Our daughter. And I'm not manipulating anyone. She asked a question and I let her decide. You're the one who said yes."
"Because refusing would've required explanations I'm not ready to give her yet."
"Then maybe you should start getting ready, because she's going to ask questions eventually. She's smart, Amara. Smarter than you're giving her credit for."
Water runs in the bathroom. June's humming carries down the hallway. Amara's eyes flick toward the sound, then back to me.
"After dinner, you leave. And we establish boundaries. Real ones. No more showing up unannounced, no more using business as an excuse to insert yourself into our life. If you want to see June, we do it properly. Scheduled visits, neutral locations, with ground rules we both agree on."
"Fine."
"I'm serious, Cassian."
"I know you are. And I'm agreeing." I lean back in the chair, keep my voice level. "I'll follow whatever rules you want as long as I get to know my daughter. That's all I'm asking for."
She studies me, searching for the catch. There isn't one. I mean exactly what I said. I'll jump through whatever hoops she sets up if it means spending time with June.
The toilet flushes. June reappears seconds later, hands still damp, wiping them on her shirt despite Amara's exasperated sigh.
"Ready for mashed potatoes?"
"Yes!" June bounces toward the table.
Amara moves with grace, setting a steaming plate of food in front of me without comment. Our fingers brush when she hands me a fork. The contact lasts half a second but creates a jolt that travels up my arm. She sets a smaller plate for June and another one for herself.
June digs in immediately, mashed potatoes first because apparently that's protocol. "These are the best, Mama."
"I know, baby. You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
I take a bite. The potatoes are, objectively, very good. Creamy and rich with enough butter to violate several dietary guidelines. The chicken's perfectly cooked, lemon cutting through the richness. Even the green beans have a bite to them that suggests Amara knows what she's doing in a kitchen.
"This is really excellent," I say quietly.
Amara doesn't acknowledge the compliment. She focuses on cutting June's chicken into smaller pieces, rearranging her plate, avoiding eye contact as if her life depends on it.
June fills the silence. "Do horses like mashed potatoes?"
"Probably not. They usually eat grass and hay and special grain," I reply.
"What about chicken?"
"Definitely not chicken. Horses don't eat meat."
"Oh." She chews thoughtfully. "What do they like? Besides grass."
"Apples, carrots, sometimes peppermints as treats."
Her face scrunches. "Peppermints? Like candy?"
"Yeah, the hard kind. They love them. I had a horse named Cupcake who loved peppermints."
"Weird." But she's grinning, filing away this information for later use.
Amara eats mechanically, gaze fixed on her plate like the food contains secrets only she can decipher. The tension radiates off her in waves that June seems oblivious to, too focused on her dinner and the novelty of having a guest who knows horse trivia.
"Mama, can we get a horse?"
"No, baby."
"But—"
"We live in an apartment. Horses need space and stables and land."
"What if we got a really small horse?"
"Still no."
June deflates slightly but recovers quickly. "What about when I'm older? Could I visit horses somewhere?"
"Maybe. We'll see."
"That means no," June stage-whispers to me.
"I heard that," Amara mutters.
I hide my smile behind another bite of chicken. This is what I missed. Five years of dinners and conversations and small moments that make up a life. Years of June growing and learning and developing this personality that contains parts of Amara's determination and something else entirely her own.
The injustice of it sits like a stone. But looking at her now—fork clutched in small fingers, curls escaping from their clips, eyes bright with curiosity—I can't muster the anger. Just a desperate need to make up for lost time and a determination not to miss another moment.
June finishes first, announces she's done with a satisfied pat of her stomach. Amara wipes her face with a napkin, sends her to put her plate in the sink. She complies, then hovers near the table like she's waiting for something.
"Can he read me a bedtime story?"
Amara's fork clatters against her plate. "June?—"
"Please? Just one? He probably knows good ones about horses."
"Sweet girl, our guest needs to leave soon."
"But you said after dinner. Bedtime's after dinner, so he can leave after my bedtime."
The logic is airtight. I watch Amara struggle to find a counterargument that doesn't involve admitting she wants me gone as quickly as possible.
"Honey, I'm sure he has other things to do?—"
"I don't," I admit. "If it's okay with you, I'd love to read her a story."
Amara's eyes flash. She's going to refuse, going to find some reason why this can't happen. But June's looking up at her with hope radiating from every pore, and I watch Amara's resolve crack.