Page 75 of That Defining Moment

“More rice, Colin? You’ve barely touched yours.” He set the bowl beside Colin’s plate, his hand brushing Colin’s shoulder as he passed. “And there’s more longganisa coming. I’ve got a second batch in the pan.”

Colin’s gaze remained fixed on a point three inches above Lysander’s head. “Diwa,” he said, in his most pleasant voice, “will you tell my son, since he clearly won’t listen to me, that he needs to finish his food, or your feelings will be hurt.”

Diwa paused with the serving spoon hovering over the garlic rice.

“Lysander,” Diwa said, turning to face him, “you’re fine. Honestly. Don’t strain yourself if you’re full.”

Colin opened his mouth to respond, and Diwa picked up a longganisa from the serving plate with his fingers and posted it directly between Colin’s parted lips.

Colin’s outrage stalled. His jaw worked once around the sausage, his eyes narrowing into slits above the protruding end, and for a fraction of a second the coin spun between his fury and capitulation.

He bit down, chewed, and swallowed.

“That’s quite good,” Colin admitted, in a tone that made the compliment sound like a personal failing.

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Diwa said, already retreating to the kitchen. “She’d be upset if you didn’t have another.”

Colin reached for a second sausage without breaking his stare at the space above Lysander’s head.

Lysander let out a slow breath through his nose. His plate held a scoop of garlic rice, two longganisa, and a fried egg whose yolk was still intact. But his stomach had been in open revolt since he’d woken up at quarter past five with what today was sitting on his chest.

He picked up his fork. The longganisa was sweet and garlicky, dense with fat, and he could admit that under normal circumstances he’d have demolished three of them by now. He cut into one, brought it halfway to his mouth, and Cassian’s arm shot across from the seat beside him, his fork spearing the sausage clean off Lysander’s and transferring it to his own plate.

“Thanks, Sander,” Cassian said, already chewing.

Lysander stared at his empty fork.

“You weren’t eating it,” Cassian pointed out, through a mouthful of stolen pork. “It was just sitting there. I watched it for ages.”

“It was on my fork, Cass. I was lifting it to my mouth.”

“But you hadn’t committed.” Cassian swallowed and reached for Lysander’s remaining sausage. “If you’re not going to commit to a sausage, Sander, somebody else has to step up.”

Lysander slapped his hand away.

From the far end of the table, Colin’s mouth twitched. “Good boy, Cassian,” Colin said.

Cassian’s entire body lit up. His shoulders rolled back, his chin lifted, and he practically vibrated in his seat.

Lysander looked between the two of them and wondered whether he should be concerned about the devotion Cassian was developing for his father. It had been building through little acts since they’d arrived. Cassian trailing Colin from room to room, fetching his rooibos before Diwa could get there, positioning himself at Colin’s elbow during every meal as though guarding a flank.

Two days ago, Lysander had walked into the bedroom to find Cassian sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Colin’s chair, examining the silvery stretch marks on his father’s belly and sighing about how wondrous it was that he’d brought life into this world three times.

Colin set his mug of rooibos down with a crack that made Diwa look over from the hob. He’d been building to this since the longganisa, and Lysander could track his approach in the tightening of his spine.

“Take Hamish with you,” Colin said.

There it was.

Lysander kept his voice level. “No.”

“You shouldn’t be going on your own, Sander.”

“I’m twenty-seven, Daddy.”

“And Dane’s bigger than you, and older than you. He spent seven years taking whatever he wanted from you, so don’t sit there and tell me your age like it changes anything.” Colin’s jaw was set so hard that the tendons in his neck stood out. “Take your alpha.”

“Dad!”