Cassian doesn’t hear the door at first—he's too focused on the weight of the book in his hand and the gentle tug at his arm.

Morning light spills in through the kitchen window, soft and golden, catching on the rim of the half-drank mug of coffee at his elbow and the glint of the marker caps scattered across the table. Your daughter, perched beside him at the table, hums tunelessly through her teeth, tongue poking out in pure concentration as she drags a purple marker across the thick black lines of the tattoo winding over his forearm.

He hadn’t planned on lingering at the table this long, but there was something sacred in the way she concentrated—small brow furrowed, lips pursed—like she was etching meaning into his skin rather than ink.

When he senses movement at the doorway, he lifts his eyes, and there you are.

Cassian meets your raised brow with a slight smirk and a helpless shrug, his muscles shifting under the tiny hands gripping his arm for balance. The book folds shut in his lap, forgotten for now.

“You know I can’t say no to her,” he says, voice rough with morning warmth.

He looks down at his sleeve, now a chaos of pinks, greens, and blotchy sparkles that weren’t there before. Your daughter gives a triumphant little nod, clearly pleased with her masterpiece.

Cassian chuckles softly, brushing a dark curl from her face.

“I think it looks better like this. Don’t you?”

His eyes flick to you, full of that quiet, unapologetic tenderness you know too well.