Chapter 62

The apartment felt unnervingly still the morning of the hearing. It wasn't just quiet—it was that particular kind of silence that settled in before something big, the hush before the curtain rises, before the storm hits. Beth stood barefoot in the kitchen, her heels pressed into the cool tile, clutching a mug of ginger tea that had long since lost its warmth. She hadn't taken a single sip. Her fingers wrapped so tightly around the ceramic it felt like she might crack it from sheer tension alone.

Her heart thudded a relentless, aching rhythm beneath her ribs—too fast, too tight, but holding steady only because it had to. No room for panic. Not yet. The dining table was a battlefield disguised as ordinary: her laptop sat open and ready, its camera checked twice, the microphone settings triple-checked with obsessive precision. A small stack of legal documents was fanned out neatly to her right—highlighted, annotated, color-coded tabs sticking out like flags at the edge of a war zone. On the screen's upper corner, the digital reminder blinked quietly, smug in its simplicity: Virtual Custody Appeal: Henry Anders vs. Bethanie Anders — 9:00 a.m.

Across the room, Cassie sat near the sunlit window in a sprawl of color and joy that didn't match the air around her. She was barefoot too, knees tucked under her as she leaned forward into a pile of sea creature toys, coloring pages, and glittery sticker sheets. Her curls bounced with every movement, every stretch to reach another crayon or rearrange her dolphins and jellyfish into another elaborate underwater drama. She spoke in soft tones, half to herself and half to her toy audience—an endless, rolling stream of make-believe about a turtle school and a crab who couldn't count.

Beth's stomach twisted.

The weight of the hearing hovered over her like storm clouds pressing against the roof. She didn't want Cassie anywhere near it. Not even in the next room. Not with how Henry could sound when he was cornered—self-righteous and venomous, his words sharpened into weapons. He had a way of twisting the truth so casually, so confidently, it could feel like drowning in something invisible. The idea of Cassie catching even a snippet of that—one poisoned sentence, one shouted lie—made Beth's chest seize in cold panic.

So when the knock came at the door—fifteen minutes early—she nearly tripped in her rush to answer it.

Changbin stood there in the hallway, casual but solid, as steady as he'd promised he would be. A clean hoodie hugged his frame, sleeves pushed slightly up, and his jeans were soft and worn at the knees. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he smelled like soap and clean air. He didn't speak right away. He just looked at her—really looked—then let his gaze flick gently over her shoulder to where Cassie played, then back again. He reached out and, without a word, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing lightly against her temple.

"Alex and Chan are downstairs," he said quietly, his voice the kind of soft that people only used when they didn't want to knock over something fragile. "Figured Cassie might like the zoo."

Beth blinked, once, hard—like she could keep the sudden swell of emotion from pushing out through her eyes. Her throat tightened, and her fingers curled a little more around the untouched mug. "You didn't have to come," she said, though the words trembled even as she said them.

"Yes, I did," he replied, his voice low but certain. "And I will, every time."

She didn't get the chance to say more before Cassie looked up and spotted him.

"Uncle Binnie!" she squealed, launching to her feet with all the momentum of a child who'd never known hesitation. She sprinted across the room and into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He caught her with practiced ease, lifting her with a small grunt and spinning her once before settling her comfortably on his hip. Cassie giggled, arms wrapped loosely around his neck as she leaned back just enough to see his face.

"We're going on an adventure today, barnacle," he said with a grin, tapping the tip of her nose. "I heard there are penguins that waddle just like me."

Cassie's laugh was quick and bright. "And jellyfish?"

Changbin gave her a solemn nod. "Maybe even jellyfish. If we're lucky."

Beth stepped forward then, bending slightly to press a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. The softness of Cassie's curls against her lips made her chest ache.

"Be good, baby," she whispered. "Stay close to Uncle Binnie and Alex. And don't forget your backpack."

Cassie nodded earnestly, already pulling the little shoulder bag across her body. Gomi, slightly battered but still proudly smiling, peeked from the opening. She adjusted him carefully, making sure his flipper was sticking out just so, like he was riding shotgun.

Alex appeared in the doorway with her sunglasses perched atop her head and a bottle of sunscreen in her hand. "We've got her," she said, voice warm but firm. "Don't think about a thing. We'll be gone for hours."

Chan followed with a knowing look. He didn't speak—just squeezed Beth's shoulder gently on the way out, like passing her courage through the bone.

And then they were gone.

The door clicked shut.

And the quiet came rushing back in.

Twenty minutes later, Beth sat upright at the dining table, her back straight and her hands clenched together beneath the edge of the wood to stop them from trembling. Her laptop screen glowed with the sterile, segmented view of a virtual courtroom—four little windows, each one a battleground. Michelle's square was to the left, her lawyer's mouth drawn into a flat, unreadable line, eyes sharp behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Every so often, she glanced down at her notes, lips pressed together as if holding in a thousand things at once. Her calm composure was the only thing tethering Beth to the moment.

The court-appointed mediator's window took center stage. She looked polite but impassive, with a soft blouse and stern expression, the kind of woman who had probably seen hundreds of cases like this and had long since stopped showing emotion for any of them. She offered a few procedural remarks at the start—welcomes, reminders of courtroom etiquette, a note about the limitations of video testimony. Her voice was practiced and smooth, designed to keep things moving without acknowledging the human ache underneath it all.

And then—Henry's box lit up.

His square sat to the right, and just the sight of him made Beth's breath catch. He was wearing a navy collared shirt buttoned all the way up, the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow like he was going for relaxed professionalism. His hair was gelled back and tidy, his face clean-shaven, but Beth could see the strain around his mouth, the tightness in his jaw that no amount of grooming could soften. He was in a room she didn't recognize—clean, neutral, impersonal. Probably someone else's house. Probably someone he'd charmed into helping him put on this mask.

Her stomach turned.

Michelle began, her voice steady and measured, introducing the custody appeal with a confidence Beth was deeply grateful for. She presented Beth's documentation packet with practiced ease: detailed visitation logs, medical records, therapist notes, timestamped text exchanges. Every fact felt like a shield, like armor layered over a wound. Henry's attorney—a younger woman with sharp features and a mechanical tone—followed with her own introduction, briefly summarizing Henry's side of the argument in bland legal language.

And then Henry unmuted himself.

"I'd like to speak for myself," he said, his tone smooth, practiced. He folded his hands and leaned forward slightly, as if addressing a room full of donors at a fundraiser. "As Cassidy's father, I feel it's important that I be heard directly."

Beth's shoulders went rigid. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Michelle didn't move, but Beth could see the faint twitch in her brow, the subtle warning in her stillness.

"I'm not trying to take anything from Beth," Henry continued, voice calm in the way manipulators perfected. "But I've been alienated from my daughter for too long. She deserves to know both of her parents. She deserves to feel whole."

Beth's jaw tightened until it ached.

"I understand there's history between us," he added, sighing like a saint preparing for crucifixion, "but I've changed. I've grown. I've started therapy. I've been reading books about fatherhood, about co-parenting strategies. I want what's best for Cassidy."

Beth didn't wait. She unmuted her mic, her voice sharp with disbelief before Michelle could stop her.

"You mean now," she snapped, eyes narrowed. "You want her now."

Henry blinked, his expression curdling into confusion that felt too rehearsed to be real. "I've always wanted to be part of her life," he said, feigning sincerity.

"No," Beth replied, her voice trembling but strong, "you wanted control over me. You showed up when it served your ego, and when it didn't—when things got real—you vanished. You scared her, Henry. You made her cry on FaceTime because she said she missed me, and you told her that made you feel unloved. You made her feel like a burden."

"That's not fair," he cut in, his calm crumbling as his voice began to rise. "You've kept her from me! You turned her against me, Beth. You poisoned her with your bitterness!"

Beth's hands were shaking now. Her throat burned, her vision swimming with hot, furious tears she refused to blink away.

"I did what I had to do to protect her from your chaos," she said, her voice rising. "You don't get to abandon a child and then demand she smile when you decide to come back. You don't get to be absent for birthdays, for doctor's visits, for bedtime stories, and then cry parental alienation because I won't let you play hero in front of a judge."

"I have rights!" he roared suddenly, the illusion slipping. Somewhere offscreen, something slammed—a fist, a desk. "I love my daughter!"

Beth's breath caught in her throat. Her heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest.

"Then you should have acted like it," she shouted, and the words came out cracked and raw. "You should've shown up when she asked for you. You should've called when she turned five. You should've asked how she was when she had an ear infection so bad she couldn't sleep without crying. You didn't ask once."

Michelle was waving frantically in her window now, trying to flag the mute button. Henry's lawyer was doing the same, her face frozen in a strained grimace. The mediator opened her mouth, clearly about to intervene.

But Beth wasn't done. Not yet.

"She cried for you last week," Beth said, her voice lower now, quieter, but trembling with something raw and burning beneath the surface. "After a trip to the park. She saw dads holding their kids' hands, carrying them on their shoulders, laughing like the world wasn't fragile. She watched them, and then she came home and collapsed on the floor of our living room. She sobbed into the carpet because you weren't there. Because even after everything, she still wants to believe you'll show up. Do you have any idea what that does to a five-year-old? To grieve someone who's still alive, still breathing, still choosing not to be there?"

Henry's mouth twisted, his face flushing red with anger. "I never meant to hurt her!" he barked, his voice cracking, desperation leaking into the corners of his tone. "I wanted us to work, and when you gave up—"

"Oh, don't you fucking dare—"

"ENOUGH."

The judge's voice cut through the meeting like a bolt of lightning. It was thunder wrapped in authority, loud and unflinching, cracking through the chaos with deliberate finality. The video feed glitched for a second, the courtroom screen stuttering as if even the software flinched from the force of her interruption. Beth stopped mid-breath. Henry's jaw froze open, caught halfway through whatever pathetic defense he'd been about to offer.

The judge leaned forward, her sharp-featured face framed by a halo of storm-gray hair, eyes dark with warning as she looked directly into the camera. "This is not the forum for emotional warfare," she said, every syllable etched in ice. "Ms. Anders. Mr. Anders. I will not allow this hearing to devolve into a personal shouting match. You will both remain silent unless spoken to directly by myself or by your legal representatives. Is that understood?"

Beth swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, her voice thin and tight as she answered, "Yes, Your Honor." Her pulse still pounded behind her eyes.

Henry's face twitched. He gave a stiff nod, his teeth clenched, his jaw working to present some façade of composure. "Understood."

The judge gave a brisk, clipped nod that felt like the slamming of a cell door. "Good. Let's proceed."

Beth could barely feel her hands anymore. They'd gone numb somewhere in the middle of the shouting match, her fingers white from gripping the edge of the table too hard. Her heart thundered in her ears like a stampede. Every breath felt like a test. She couldn't tell if her cheeks were flushed from shame or fury.

Michelle recovered first, her voice sliding back into the measured rhythm of professionalism as she leaned forward into her mic. "Your Honor, I'd like to reiterate that while my client may have responded with visible emotion, the evidence submitted in our documentation supports the claims presented. Emotional expression does not invalidate truth. It reflects the gravity of the situation."

Henry's attorney jumped in just as quickly, her tone cooler but no less pointed. "Your Honor, my client regrets the tone of the exchange. He maintains that his intent is not to create conflict, but to rebuild the bond with his daughter. His past absence is not a reflection of neglect, but of personal challenges he has since addressed. He is committed to proving that he can be a constructive and loving presence in Cassidy's life."

Beth bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, so hard she tasted blood. She didn't trust herself to speak again. Not with that kind of measured dishonesty flooding the screen. Not when she could still hear her daughter's sobs echoing in her memory. She sat completely still, every nerve inside her buzzing. If she moved, she thought she might break apart entirely.

The judge lowered her gaze and shuffled a thick stack of papers beside her keyboard. The soft rustle of documents was the only sound for a long stretch—sharp and excruciating in its quiet. Beth's camera picked up her own reflection in the corner of the screen. Her face looked pale and strained, eyes red around the edges. Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow bursts. She hated how small she looked. How exposed. How real.

Finally, the judge looked up, her expression unreadable as she folded her hands.

"After reviewing the documentation, testimony, and previous court rulings," she said, her voice slow and deliberate, "I am issuing the following decision: Mr. Henry Anders will be granted supervised visitation twice per year. These sessions will be arranged through a court-appointed liaison, at a neutral site approved by both parties and the court."

Beth didn't move. The words landed, but they didn't fully register—not yet. Her limbs remained locked in place, her heartbeat impossibly loud. She barely registered the tiny twitch in Henry's expression, a flash of something smug behind the tension in his jaw. He wasn't grinning, not openly, but she saw it all the same—the way he leaned back slightly, like even a sliver of ground beneath his feet felt like a victory.

The judge continued, her voice cool and direct.

"Ms. Anders will not be required to facilitate communication between Mr. Anders and the child beyond the scope of these supervised visits. Any attempt at direct, unsanctioned contact will be considered a violation of this ruling and grounds for termination of visitation privileges. This agreement will be reviewed in twelve months, contingent upon Mr. Anders' full cooperation and demonstrated commitment to the terms set forth."

Beth blinked slowly, like her brain needed time to translate the words into meaning. Once. Then again. The room around her felt far away—flattened, muted, like she was hearing everything through water. Her lungs tightened, her chest a vice of pressure that refused to let go. She felt something cold wedge itself beneath her ribs, a sharp, metallic sting of disbelief, the bitterness blooming like rot through her gut. It was a win. On paper, it was a win. But it felt like defeat.

Then the judge's voice cut through again—firmer now, deliberate in its clarity, leaving no space for misinterpretation.

"Let me be perfectly clear: this is not a reward. This is a trial period. A narrow window of conditional access. Mr. Anders, you are expected to demonstrate—not with words, but with action—that you are capable of being a consistent, safe, and reliable presence in your daughter's life. Should you fail to meet these expectations, this court will not hesitate to revoke your visitation rights."

Beth latched onto that final line like it was a lifeline tossed into deep water. A promise, thin and taut, that if he failed again, if he proved who he was—as he always did—then maybe, just maybe, she could shut the door for good. But it still didn't soothe the ache under her skin. Because no matter how temporary or conditional, it still meant he had access. It meant she had to open the door, even if just a crack, and watch the man who had hurt them both step through.

Michelle thanked the judge, her voice calm and professional as ever. Beth echoed the words automatically, her lips moving out of muscle memory rather than intention. Henry didn't say a thing. The screen flickered. The call ended.

For a long moment, Beth didn't move. Her eyes stayed fixed on the empty grid where the faces had been, as if the pixels might rearrange themselves, might offer her a different outcome if she stared hard enough. When the weight in her chest finally shifted, it wasn't relief—it was something heavier. Something collapsing inward.

She reached for the laptop lid and closed it slowly, her hand trembling. The soft click of the hinge felt too final and not final enough. Then silence fell across the room like a shroud. There were no more voices, no more static, no buffers. Just the hum of her refrigerator. Just the clock ticking on the wall. Just her heartbeat thudding in her ears like a war drum.

Her tea was still on the table, untouched, long gone cold. She stared at it blankly. Her phone buzzed once, lighting up with a notification—Changbin's name across the screen, a quiet check-in.

She couldn't answer.

Her body moved on instinct. She stood up too fast, the chair scraping harshly across the tile, loud and jarring in the stillness. She crossed the kitchen, rounded the corner, and stumbled into the bathroom. The door barely clicked shut before she dropped to her knees and heaved violently into the toilet.

She clung to the porcelain with both hands, her grip desperate, knuckles white as her forehead pressed against the chilled rim. Her breath came ragged and shallow, like glass cracking in her chest with every inhale. The nausea rolled through her in punishing waves. She wasn't even sure there was anything in her stomach—just bile, bitter tea, and the corrosive weight of everything she couldn't scream.

When the convulsions eased, she didn't move right away. Her cheek found the tile floor, cold and grounding. Her whole body shuddered, muscles twitching in protest, sweat cooling against her spine. Her fingers had gone numb, her knees bruised and aching.

Beyond the bathroom door, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that screamed. It felt artificial, like a pause in a horror film before something snapped. Nothing in the space had changed, but the air felt heavier now—thicker with dread, thick with failure.

She had done everything. Every single thing the court had asked of her. Every document, every psychological evaluation, every therapist's recommendation. She had stayed up night after night compiling emails and transcripts and timelines. She had read books. She had written essays about her daughter's fears. She had recorded hours of bedtime stories just so Cassie wouldn't miss her voice during overnights that never happened.

And still.

He got access.

A window. A key to unlock the gate she'd fought so hard to close. Twice a year. Enough to destabilize everything. Enough to make Cassie hope again—and hurt again.

Beth didn't cry. Not yet. The tears were there—hot, unrelenting, lodged somewhere deep beneath her ribs—but they wouldn't come. Her body was still in fight mode. Still braced. Still holding itself in check. She could still hear Henry's voice in her head, slick and hollow, echoing like a ghost she couldn't banish.

The knock came a few minutes later. It wasn't loud or impatient—just soft, almost hesitant, like the person on the other side already knew the fragility of the moment and didn't want to splinter it further. It was the kind of knock that didn't demand to be answered, only asked if it could come in. Beth didn't answer right away. She couldn't. Her body still felt like it belonged to someone else, hijacked by adrenaline and grief, her limbs heavy and slow to respond. But eventually, she forced herself to move.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking hand, then reached for a nearby washcloth and pressed it against her flushed face. The cool cotton was jarring—sharp against her overheated skin—and it gave her just enough grounding to stand. Her legs wobbled beneath her like she'd been through a storm, every muscle trembling with the effort of simply holding herself upright. The weight on her shoulders hadn't lessened—it clung to her like wet cement—but she made her way to the door anyway, one step at a time, dragging herself through the aftermath.

When she opened it, the sight on the other side nearly undid her.

Changbin stood there in the hallway, his arms full of her daughter. Cassie was curled against his chest, fast asleep, her face tucked into the crook of his neck with the trust of someone who had never been dropped. Her limbs dangled limp from exhaustion, her curls tangled and wild from the wind. One of her socks had slid halfway down her ankle, and Gomi, the little green turtle, was still clutched tight in her hand like a lifeline. She looked soft and safe and heartbreakingly peaceful, and Beth's breath caught behind her ribs.

Behind them stood Alex, her expression unreadable at first glance but tender if you knew where to look. She held a bottle of water in one hand and a half-opened bag of snacks in the other, but her entire focus was on Beth. Her gaze didn't waver, sharp with perception and soft with concern—a quiet promise that she was there for whatever came next. Just down the hall, Chan was already making his way to the elevator. He didn't look back, didn't need to. He trusted the moment to play out as it should.

Beth couldn't form words. Her throat burned, raw from earlier, every syllable still caught behind the tight coil of tension that had carried her through the hearing. So she didn't speak. She simply stepped aside, barefoot and hollow-eyed, and let them in.

Changbin crossed the threshold with that same careful reverence he always brought into her space, like her home was something sacred, not to be disturbed. Cassie didn't stir in his arms. She only curled closer as he made his way down the hall, as if even in sleep, her body recognized safety. Beth followed, quiet and unsteady, her heart still pounding like it didn't know the danger had passed. She watched as Changbin tucked her daughter into bed, smoothing one wild curl from her forehead with the gentlest touch. He kissed the crown of her head with a familiarity that felt like second nature, like he'd done it a hundred times in dreams before ever doing it for real.

When he returned to the living room, Beth was still standing near the front door, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold everything in.

"She had fun," he said softly, his voice low and unobtrusive. He didn't try to make it better. He didn't try to fill the silence with empty reassurance. He just gave her something real.

Beth nodded once, the motion almost imperceptible. "Good," she whispered, her voice like paper over flame.

Alex stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, her presence a quiet force. She looked Beth over with the kind of gaze that could read wounds beneath the surface, then asked, "How bad?"

Beth hesitated, her lips parting around the words that didn't want to come out. But Alex waited. And when Beth finally met her eyes, the answer fell from her mouth like the last fragile piece of her composure.

"They gave him visitation," she said, barely more than a breath. "Supervised. Twice a year. With a court liaison. But... they gave it to him."

Alex didn't speak at first. She didn't flinch or gasp or protest. She simply inhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling with the effort to stay calm. A flash of something fierce—protective, outraged—lit behind her eyes, but she kept it tempered. She reached out and took Beth's hand, squeezed it once, firm and grounding, like she was anchoring her back to earth. Then she let go.

Beth could feel Changbin still watching her, that same steady presence radiating from where he stood just a few feet away. He didn't speak either. He didn't need to. His silence was filled with patience, with weight, with the kind of support that didn't demand acknowledgment.

Beth opened her mouth again, trying to force something else out—maybe a joke, maybe a question, anything to break the tension—but before she could speak, a sound interrupted her.

A small, sharp sniffle.

She turned her head instinctively, heart lurching in her chest.

Cassie stood at the edge of the hallway, her little body bathed in the dim light from the kitchen. Her pajamas were twisted, one sleeve bunched awkwardly at the elbow. Gomi was clutched tightly to her chest, the plush turtle looking rumpled from being squeezed in sleep. Her hair was a cloud of loose curls, messy and wild from her pillow, and her eyes—those wide, expressive eyes—were too bright. Too alert.

Beth froze. Every instinct in her body lit up at once.

Cassie took a step forward, her bare feet making no sound on the floor. Her voice was quiet, raspy from sleep, but the words still landed like a blow.

"Mama?" she asked, eyes locked onto Beth's. "Were you talking about my dad?"

The bottom dropped out of Beth's stomach.

Beth hadn't heard the bedroom door creak open. Hadn't registered the soft patter of little feet on the hardwood or the barely audible shuffle of a child half-stirred from sleep. Her mind had been too tangled in exhaustion and grief, her body stretched thin by the aftermath of the hearing. She hadn't even thought to close the door. Hadn't considered that her daughter—light sleeper that she was—might be pulled from sleep by the strain in her mother's voice. And now, here Cassie was, standing in the hallway with wide, blinking eyes and Gomi clutched tight to her chest.

Alex didn't move beside her. Changbin stilled completely near the couch. It felt as if the entire apartment paused, suspended in a moment so delicate it might shatter if anyone breathed too hard. The silence pressed in around Beth, leaving her with no room to think, only feel—the dread, the guilt, the raw, unguarded terror of being overheard.

She crouched slowly, her knees popping in protest, both hands braced on her thighs for balance as her pulse surged through her ears. Her voice, when it came, was low and soft. "Hey, baby," she murmured gently. "What are you doing up?"

Cassie stepped closer on bare feet, her pajamas rumpled and crooked, her curls tangled into a sleepy halo around her face. "I woke up," she said, rubbing one eye with her knuckle. "And I heard you say... 'visitation.'" She fumbled over the word, her brow furrowing like she was trying to untangle its meaning as she spoke. "That's about my dad, right?"

Beth nodded slowly, carefully, the motion small enough to avoid alarming her. "Yeah, it is."

Cassie looked up at her with eyes too wise for five years old. "Does that mean... he's coming?"

Beth's stomach twisted. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to answer. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not soon. But the court said he can see you. Just two times a year. And only with other grownups there, people who'll be watching the whole time to make sure everything's safe and okay."

Cassie's lower lip trembled, the faintest quiver betraying the storm beneath her skin. "But I don't know if I want that," she whispered, voice so small it nearly disappeared between them.

Without hesitation, Beth opened her arms, and Cassie came into them like she was always meant to—like the space between them was a home, not a distance. She clambered into Beth's lap, her whole body curling in on itself, Gomi still clutched tightly to her chest. Her tiny limbs felt weightless and heavy all at once—like she didn't know how to hold herself together and trusted Beth to do it for her.

"You don't have to know yet," Beth said softly, tucking her chin over Cassie's head and pressing her lips to the curls there. "It's okay to feel unsure."

Cassie shifted in her lap, one hand clutching the hem of Beth's shirt. Her fingers moved in restless circles against the fabric, the silence stretching until it threatened to fray. And then, in a voice laced with dread, she asked, "Do I have to go if I don't want to?"

Beth hesitated. The truth rose up sharp and jagged in her throat, too big to swallow and too cruel to serve clean. She tried to swallow it down, tried to find a gentler way—but the words slipped out before she could catch them.

"Yes," she said quietly, too honestly. "I wish I didn't have to take you to see him. But if I don't... the people who make those decisions might take you from me. And I don't want that."

The second she said it, she regretted it. She felt the impact like a punch, saw the way Cassie's shoulders tensed beneath her arms, how her whole body folded in tighter like she was trying to make herself smaller. Beth's breath hitched, guilt crashing over her in a wave of nausea and regret.

"Oh, baby," she whispered quickly, voice breaking mid-breath. "That wasn't fair. I shouldn't have said it like that. That's too much for you to carry, and I'm so sorry."

Cassie didn't respond right away. She just pressed herself deeper into Beth's chest, her small frame stiff but clinging. Gomi was squashed between them, one soft flipper poking into Beth's ribs, but neither of them moved to adjust. Her breath came shallow and uneven, every inhale a question she didn't know how to ask.

Beth gathered her again, this time with more care, her voice a lullaby wrapped in steel. "You're not going anywhere, Cassie. No matter what happens, you stay with me. That's a promise. No judge, no hearing, no lawyer can ever take my love away from you. Ever. You hear me?"

She gently cupped her daughter's cheek, guiding her gaze upward until those tear-bright eyes met hers. "Nothing and no one is stronger than how much I love you. That's forever."

Cassie blinked hard, one tear finally spilling loose. "But what if he's mad again?" she asked. "What if he says I'm bad like before?"

Beth sucked in a breath through her nose, sharp and hot, swallowing the scream that tried to claw up her throat. Across the room, Alex shifted—a sharp inhale, a look of anguish passing through her eyes like lightning. Beside her, Changbin stood still, a statue of steady reassurance. He didn't speak, didn't move, but his presence anchored the moment.

Beth brushed a curl from Cassie's damp forehead and kissed it. "If he ever says anything like that to you again, we leave. Immediately. No talking, no waiting. We get up, and we go. You don't ever have to stay in a place where someone makes you feel small."

Cassie sniffled. "Even if the other grownups are watching?"

Beth nodded without hesitation. "Especially then. Because then they'll see who he really is. And they'll see how brave you are."

Cassie was quiet again for a moment. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, then looked up with a hesitant question perched on her lips. "And... and what if I don't want him to be my daddy anymore?"

Beth froze, every muscle in her body locking down as if her skin alone could shield her from the gravity of what she'd just heard. Her heart clenched—tight and sharp—like someone had reached in and twisted it slowly in their fist. It wasn't just the words themselves. It was the quiet clarity with which they were spoken. The aching finality. This wasn't a question she'd ever rehearsed for, not even in the late hours when her mind turned over every terrible possibility. Not from a child so young. Not with consequences so heavy.

She forced herself to breathe, to swallow the knot rising in her throat. The answer she offered came slowly, built piece by piece with careful hands, voice pitched soft and low. "That's not something we can change just by wishing, sweetheart. He's your biological dad. That's what the law says. But love..." She paused, gathering the weight of the truth before placing it gently into the space between them. "Love isn't the law. You don't have to love him. You don't have to want him in your life. That part is up to you."

Cassie didn't cry. Not in the usual way. But she burrowed in tighter, her small face pressing hard into Beth's chest like she was trying to disappear inside the place she trusted most. Her voice, when it came, was no louder than a breath across silk. "I only want you. And Binnie. I don't want anybody who makes my tummy feel yucky."

Beth's eyes slipped closed, a slow exhale leaving her lungs like steam. She tilted her face forward and pressed a kiss to the crown of her daughter's head, breathing in the scent of her sleep-warmed curls. Her hand moved in soft, slow circles over Cassie's spine, anchoring both of them to something solid. "That's all you need, baby," she whispered. "That's more than enough."

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The world around them—the low hum of the refrigerator, the shifting weight of the apartment, even Alex's quiet presence behind them—faded into static. Beth could feel the tiny stir of Cassie's breath against her collarbone, the subtle shift of her weight, the safety blooming in the silence.

And then Cassie whispered again, her voice barely rising above the sound of their joined breathing. "You like Changbin?"

The question caught Beth off guard, though it didn't surprise her. It was simple. Innocent. But laced with something heavier—curiosity, trust, hope.

She nodded gently, not breaking the embrace. "I do. I really do."

Cassie nodded too—so slight Beth almost didn't feel it—but the movement pressed against her chest like a second heartbeat. Then, after a beat of stillness, she added in a drowsy, whispery tone, "I like him so much. He always listens. And he smells like vanilla cereal. And he lets me wear his socks sometimes."

A laugh broke out of Beth, startled and tender. It spilled from her throat like sunlight through a cracked window—unexpected but warm. She pressed another kiss into Cassie's hair and smiled against it. "He does smell like cereal," she murmured, eyes glinting. "That's because he eats three bowls every night."

"I know," Cassie said with a tiny, proud grin. "He let me stir the honey bunches yesterday. He said I was his sous-chef."

Beth's smile flickered then—just for a moment, just enough to leave a tremor behind. She glanced up, her gaze drawn instinctively across the room. Changbin was still standing near the doorway, watching them like the moment itself was sacred. He hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound, his hands still tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. But his eyes—his eyes were full of something she didn't have a word for. Awe. Tenderness. Devotion. Maybe all three.

Beth turned her face back toward Cassie, her voice softer now, threaded through with wonder and disbelief. "She only wants you and Binnie," she murmured, barely more than a breath. "And me."

Cassie stirred in her lap again, lifting her head just enough to glance over her mother's shoulder. Her eyes found Changbin across the room, and her grip on Gomi tightened slightly.

"Is it okay if I tell him?" she asked, her voice cautious but steady.

Beth blinked, brow furrowing. "Tell him what?"

Cassie sat up straighter, still half-cradled in Beth's arms, her gaze fixed now on Changbin's quiet form. Her voice was small but carried the weight of everything she'd carried alone until now.

"I don't want a daddy who makes me feel yucky," she said. "I want you."

The silence that followed was deep and vast, stretching out like space between stars. Beth didn't breathe. She couldn't. Alex exhaled sharply somewhere behind them, the sound breaking like glass over velvet. But Changbin—he didn't flinch.

He blinked once, very slowly, like he was absorbing every syllable. Then he dropped to his knees.

Not with urgency. Not in disbelief. But with reverence.

He moved with the kind of care reserved for fragile things—glass in a storm, porcelain in shaking hands. His arms opened, not as a demand, not even as an invitation, but as a promise: that he would be exactly what she needed, however she needed him.

Cassie slid from Beth's lap without a word and walked straight into the warmth of his chest. She didn't hesitate. Didn't look back. She folded into him like she had done it a hundred times before, like he was already part of her bones.

And Changbin wrapped his arms around her, slow and steady, cradling her to his chest like she was already his.

"I'd be honored, little barnacle," he whispered into her hair, his voice thick with emotion.

Beth watched them—watched her daughter find a kind of peace she hadn't thought was possible—and something inside her cracked open, wide and full of light.