Page 17 of That Defining Moment

“You will,” Lysander said instead, because Cassian wasn’t prepared for a sharper response. “When you’re ready.”

And then Hamish would come home.

The shift was instantaneous, as if someone had flipped a switch in Cassian’s wiring. The omega who’d spent the afternoon interrogating Lysander about Colin’s morning sickness and Stephen’s cravings vanished. In his place was a creature of wide eyes and soft compliance, angled towards Hamish like a satellite dish tracking a signal.

“Alpha.” Cassian appeared in the kitchen doorway before Hamish had even set down his bag, his voice dropping to that breathy, pliant register that made Lysander’s back teeth grind. “How was your day? Can I get you anything? Would you like me to run you a bath?”

Hamish softened visibly. “I’m good, Cass. Thanks.”

“I could make you tea?”

“Already got the kettle on.”

Cassian drifted closer, and the manoeuvre was so practised that Lysander had to admire the choreography. One step into Hamish’s space, the chin tilted up, the eyes going liquid. His shirt slipped off one shoulder in a way that was absolutely not accidental. Hamish’s hand came up and settled on Cassian’s back, a reflex of care so ingrained by now that Lysander doubted he even clocked himself doing it.

Cassian leaned into the warmth of Hamish’s side and stayed there, his lashes low, his body broadcasting a contentment that bordered on the narcotic.

Lysander watched this performance from his stool at the kitchen island and said nothing, because he’d promised Hamish he wouldn’t punch Cassian, and keeping that promise required a certain economy of engagement.

It was Thursday morning when Hamish decided that Cassian needed to learn how to make toast by himself.

“It’s just bread and a toaster, Cass.” Hamish set the loaf on the counter and positioned Cassian in front of the appliance. “You put the bread in, push the lever down, and wait for it to pop up. That’s the whole job.”

Cassian picked up a slice of bread between his thumb and forefinger and lowered it into the slot.

“Good. Now push the lever down.”

Cassian pushed the lever down.

“Brilliant. Now we wait.”

They waited. Cassian stood in front of the toaster with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the coils glow orange through the slots, his eyes fixed on the glow within, like he was communing with the bread on a spiritual level. Lysander drank his coffee.

The toast popped up. Cassian flinched, then recovered with dignity.

“See?” Hamish was already reaching for the Vegemite. “Easy.”

“I want to do another one.”

Another slice went into the toaster, the lever went down, and this time Cassian bent down close enough that his nose was nearly touching the chrome.

Lysander saw what was going to happen a full second before it did.

Cassian reached into the toaster.

His fingertips barely grazed the bread before he yanked his hand back with a yelp, his eyes flooding with tears as he cradled his fingers against his chest. The yelp escalated into a thin, keening wail that brought Hamish across the kitchen in two strides, his hands already reaching for Cassian’s wrist.

“Let me see, let me see — Cass, let me see your hand —”

Cassian held out his fingers, his lower lip trembling, his lashes clumped and wet. Two fingertips were pink from the brief contact, barely a mark on them.

“See?” Cassian’s words came out wobbly. “This is why I need you to make the toast for me, alpha.”

Hamish was already running the tap, guiding Cassian’s hand under the cold water, his thumb stroking the inside of Cassian’s wrist while Cassian leaned into his chest and sniffled.

Lysander set down his mug and stared hard at Cassian across the kitchen island.

Cassian’s eyes met his over Hamish’s shoulder. Then the wobbling lip stilled and his eyes were perfectly clear. Cassian pressed his cheek against Hamish’s collarbone and his eyes fluttered shut, his burnt fingers held beneath the running water, his body melting into the alpha’s care.