Cassian

I have a splitting headache when I wake up the next morning. There's also a kink in my neck from sleeping on the couch with Pen. Speaking of Pen... We're a tangle of limbs and body heat. Her head is pressed against my chest. My arm is threaded behind her back, hand resting on her stomach. It strikes me as odd, then comforting. I have to note the way her body moulds perfectly with mine. She also smells of stale alcohol with a hint of orange blossoms. Her breath is hot through the thin fabric of my shirt. 

Then, when I realize just how close we are, I feel a sense of guilt. Fuck. Did we hook up? But when I prop myself up on my elbow, careful not to disturb her, I see she's still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. I glance at my body. So am I. I flop back against the couch, whacking my head against the armrest. A sharp note of pain reverberates through my skull, enhancing the hangover-induced headache. I'm too relieved to curse. I'm amid feeling things out like Jake told me to. Sleeping with Pen would only complicate things. This early in the game, I can't fuck things up. If she's in love with me or has a crush on me—whatever they call it nowadays—love is such an overused word it's lost meaning—then I need to be careful and consistent with my actions and words. It's wrong to lead someone on and not acknowledge their feelings. Emotions are muddling my feelings, but that doesn't mean I'm allowed to hurt Pen.

However, I'm still curious. With my free hand, I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, noting the honey highlights beneath the rays of sunshine, and observe her face. Her lips are pouty and a soft-pink. Makeup smudges the corners of her eyes and the area beneath. If I stare long enough, she has a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. A crease forms between my eyebrows. How have I never noticed those? Feeling bold, I rub the pad of my thumb against her cheekbone, then the bridge of her nose. Her skin is soft and warm.

Shame burns within me. Why was I so insensitive with Penelope? Why did it take Jake and Gemma hinting to make me realize? I should've noticed a month after she joined our team. The effort she's put in for me has been impeccable—and I've asked her to do some pretty difficult tasks. And then there are the small things. Every morning, she'll buy me a coffee and a muffin. She'll support me, offer me advice. Hell, she's even picked me up after getting drunk at the bar with friends..

A small smile spreads across my lips as I remember that night. It was just after Jake and Gemma had left for West Kelowna to review the final details of their wedding. I'd been hanging out with some friends from high school, and I'd lost count of my drinks. When Penelope picked me up, I was gooned. Yet I still remember her telling me she'd put her bra back on for me. And if I'm not mistaken, a woman putting her bra on again is a big deal.

I flick my gaze away from her face, sighing. I'm willing to admit I have strong feelings for Pen. Since the day we met, I've enjoyed her presence. She has a vibe that will instantly draw you in. She's also fun to talk to because she's a no-bullshit type of woman and can relax. But even as I analyze those traits, I realize I'm not giving her enough credit. My words aren't enough to define her personality. Just like Jake, Gemma, and Hanna, Penelope reminds me of home. I can kick back and be myself. She accepts the colour of my skin and the diversity embedded in my genes. Equality shouldn't be something foreign to me. I belong on the same pedestal as white people. But the cold, hard truth is that I'm not. When people see me, an Indigenous man, I'm categorized in their minds alongside the criteria false portrayals of Indigenous Peoples has created. I'm not passive and submissive. I'm not primitive or violent or devious. I believe in the passing down of knowledge, the interconnection of life and our indispensable part in the circle of life. My personality holds humility and tolerance, and I appreciate that my journey in life is for great understanding, wisdom, and contentment with myself and life around me. I have personal strengths and weaknesses, and I act upon my values and judgements I've gained from personal experience. I also have a semi-terrible addiction to anxiety smoking, but that's hardly a trait.

Penelope knows all this; she's aware of my skin colour and the culture I come from. She respects me and treats me as her equal, and she's not afraid to ask me questions about the rights and wrongs of a white person's perception of Indigenous Peoples.

And I've been fucking blind.

Reaching up, I run a hand through my hair and—

Hold on one fucking minute.

With panic weighing heavily in my chest, I slide my arm out from beneath Penelope and ease her down to the couch, making sure she doesn't hit her head against the armrest. I swing my legs over the couch and stand up, stumbling to the bathroom in the hallway. My head is foggy and the room spins as I stumble across the hardwood, clutching the wall for support. An uneasy feeling permeates my gut, making me question if I'm going to vomit or not. I shove that feeling down and flick on the light. Vomiting can come later. I need to know what the hell happened to my hair.

When I look in the mirror, my mouth drops open. The length of my hair has been hacked back to my chin in an uneven, scraggly design. I gape at my reflection, my shoulders sagging as my head throbs and I rub my temples. Goddamn this hangover. It's got to be the worst one I've had. All because of my goddamned hair.

Feeling sick, I flick the light off and head for the kitchen. I need coffee. Then I need a smoke. A smoke will distract me from the mop head that is my hair.

For the next five minutes, I bustle around the kitchen, getting a pot of coffee brewing. As it brews, I stare at the living room, specifically where Penelope is sleeping. I feel like a goddamned stalker, but when I notice the scissors on the coffee table and the strands of black hair littered across the floor. My posture stiffens. Our goal was to get drunk last night, but Penelope can't have been the one to cut my hair. Even drunk, she's still fairly rational. If she cut my hair...

Penelope stirs on the couch, yawning as she props herself up on her elbow and glances around the living room. Then, after her brow has furrowed in confusion at the scissors and hair, she glances into the kitchen. Her eyes meet mine, and I note the smudged makeup beneath her eyes and how, instead of making her look exhausted, it adds allure to her character. It makes me wonder why she doesn't use eyeliner along the bottom of her eye—she would look badass. "Cassian?" she asks. Her voice is rough with sleep, but her eyes are alert, wide with shock. "What happened to your hair?" she gasps.

The coffee machine behind me beeps. Collecting my freshly brewed coffee, I breathe in the steam, cocking an eyebrow. There's no way I could have cut my hair alone. She's bound to clue in she's the one who did it while we were drunk. I shake my head. We're stupid. So stupid.

"Oh my God," she gasps, realization hitting her. "I cut your hair."

I set down my coffee and take a deep breath, my hand itching for a smoke. Going out with my hair looking like it's been shredded with cat claws isn't something I'm fond of. It's giving me anxiety. "Penelope, what the fuck did you do to my hair?"

She covers her mouth with her hands, a small giggle escaping her lips. "I cut it," she replies. Her body is shaking with laughter. "Why did you grab the scissors? Why did you agree?"

"I'm the one to blame?" I exclaim. "Are you kidding me?"

Penelope ignores my question with blatant disregard. Instead of answering me, she removes her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and taps at the screen. Knowing Penelope, she's probably going to take a picture of me. "If you take one picture of me, Pen," I warn, "I will toss your phone in the lake."

She clutches her phone against her chest. "Come on, Cass! I know you're pissed, but you'll laugh about this one day! I promise. Can we please take a picture?"

Her doe eyes make my knees weak, and I feel my armour crack. "Fine," I sigh, setting my coffee down. "One picture."

With her giggles shaking her body, Penelope bounds over to the kitchen. A crease forms between my brows. How is she perky this morning? She drank more than I did! Glaring at her, I watch her hold up her phone and tap the screen, setting the camera into focus. "Okay," she says, "ready?"

I continue to glare into the lens.

"Come on, Cassian," she whines. "Smile!"

"No," I reply.

She juts out her bottom lip. "Please? It doesn't have to be genuine. It can be forced or sardonic or sad."

I display my best sardonic smile. "How's this?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Perfect," she beams.

For the next several seconds, Penelope takes a few photos of my God-awful, unwanted haircut. When she's pleased with the product, she slips her phone back into her pocket and heads for the coffee machine. "I'm surprised I'm not crawling across the floor or puking my guts up," she muses, adding water to the machine. She shakes her hands over the sink, splashing small droplets of water across the counter, before grabbing a mug from the cupboard. The mug is placed beneath the machine and left there. Leaning against the counter, Penelope grabs a butter knife, a jar of Nutella, and a banana. After peeling the banana, she coats it in Nutella.

I'm not normally one to succumb to such immature references, but seeing Penelope slip a banana smothered in Nutella into her mouth and take a bite does something to me. As she enjoys the hazelnut spread and banana, I stare her down, my eyebrows slightly raised. Although I can't see my reflection, it isn't hard to feel the heat in my gaze or assume my pupils are dilated. I lick my lips, wondering what it would feel like to have her go down on me.

Gah! What the fuck is wrong with me?

There's something wrong with me—that I can guarantee—but I'm not ashamed of fantasizing about Pen's mouth exploring my dick.

"I-I thought you weren't a fan of sweets," I stutter, my voice deep. Mortified, I clear my throat and look away, swallowing thickly. When she doesn't respond right away, I glance up at her through my lashes.

It's a mistake.

She licks Nutella from her thumb, and then shrugs. "I'm not. But Nutella and bananas, just like greasy poutine or a large helping of spaghetti and garlic bread, are a perfect hangover food." Pen pushes the jar of Nutella across the counter, causing it to bump against the backsplash. "Anyway," she continues, "I'm going to shower and get ready for the day. I can give Rocco a call and see if he can squeeze you in."

"Rocco?" I rasp, rubbing my throat. Fuck, it feels like the muscles that control my vocal chords are constricting. I lick my lips, trying to distract myself from this sudden wave of attraction. Goddamn Pen and her Nutella-smothered bananas. Goddamn the tempting muscle motions in her throat.

She stops next to the island, frowning at me. "Yeah. Tessa's brother? The guy who warned us about the crappy bakery? He owns a barbershop, remember?

I blink, clearing the image of Penelope wearing a bikini from my mind—where the fuck did that come from? "Right," I reply. "Yeah. Right. Sure. That would be great. You don't have to call him, though. I can do that while you shower."

Pen smiles at me and waves off my comment. "Please. I'm the one who took scissors to your hair. I owe you an appointment."

The corner of my mouth curves upward. Now that the coffee is setting in, hazy events of last night are becoming clearer. While Penelope was the one who came up with the idea, I spurred her on. I allowed it to happen. The only blamable factor is the alcohol we consumed. Yeah, I'm upset about my hair, but I'm relieved Pen and I didn't sleep together. I'd gladly sacrifice my hair to make sure our first time is special.

My thought pattern catches me by surprise. As Penelope walks away, I stare after her, noting the way her jeans hug her ass. Halfway down the hallway, Pen pauses and glances over her shoulder, smiling at me. "I'm going to find those cigarettes you've hidden," she teases.

Damn.

How could I have been so blind?

Grabbing my coffee, I open a drawer in the island and grab a lighter and my pack of cigarettes. This time, I hid them somewhere obvious so Penelope couldn't find them. She assumes I'm smart enough to hide them in a tricky space. A chuckle escapes my lips as I head for the sliding glass door. The air is bitter this morning, making me wish I'd grabbed a sweater, but it clears my head. I've been blind to Penelope's attraction and my attraction because I fear losing her. When something shifts between two friends, the possibility of losing them if something goes wrong is terrifying.

But I don't know what I'd regret more: missing out on the chance or losing Pen as my best friend.

* * *

"Thanks for squeezing us in, Rocco," Penelope says, smoothing the front of her brown cable-knit sweater. She's paired it with a pair of leather leggings and knee-high brown boots. Her damp hair is tied up into a bun and any remnants of her edgy makeup are gone, leaving her skin flawless and cheeks pink. She's wearing makeup, but she's blended it so well it doesn't seem like she is. "We had quite the, um, experience last night."

Rocco chuckles as he turns on the water and soaks my hair. I close my eyes, allowing my muscles to relax. This is my favourite part of a haircut. The water is warm and Rocco's hands feel like they're giving me a massage as he suds my hair with shampoo. "Drunken haircut?" Rocco jokes.

"How did you know?" Pen laughs.

"They're quite common," Rocco replies. "I haven't inspected the damage done to Cassian's hair, but if I'm being honest, this haircut is one of the better ones I've seen. The last one I dealt with included half a head of hair being shaved off, including his eyebrow."

"Christ," I mutter. "Pen would be dead if she'd touched my eyebrows."

"I don't doubt that," she sighs.

Rocco chuckles and rinses my hair. He then applies a favourable amount of conditioner. As he massages it into my scalp, the smell of rich spices filling my nose. He then rinses it again, soothing my lingering hangover headache with hot water. "I didn't have time to thank you guys for hiring my sister. She's excited to partner with you." He taps my shoulder, signalling for me to sit up. When I do, he drapes a towel over my shoulders and uses another one to squeeze any excess water from my hair.

"It was our pleasure," I reply, glancing at Penelope. She gives me a nod of encouragement. I'm not good at making small talk—unless I'm around Jake, whom I love to poke at, or people I'm familiar with. Although we've met Rocco, he's still a stranger. The fate of my hair is also in his hands. "The sweets she made were promising. It's also beneficial for her to have a kitchen to work out of. We're excited to have someone who knows the area."

I hope Penelope doesn't take that personally. She was raised in the Okanagan, and I'm sure she's knowledgeable about the hidden gems. I'm just trying to continue on with this small talk.

Rocco nods in agreement and gestures to the chair. I stand up, running a hand through my drenched locks. It's much easier to do so now, but I miss the weight of a braid or a man bun.

"So," Rocco asks once I'm sitting down. "Have you thought about any hairstyles?" He positions the barber's cape around my neck, making sure the strap is snug but not too tight.

I shrug, feeling hopeless. Although I'd been wanting to get a haircut, I didn't want it this short, let alone shorter. Braids are part of Indigenous heritage. For me, braids are a symbol of strength and wisdom—something that reflects my identity. They also hold a cultural significance; a connection to my ancestors and the earth. A single braid resided in each man bun. I hid it away from the rest of the world to kep my connection. It bums me out, but I can't blame myself or Pen. We were drunk—we didn't know any better. Besides, my hair will grow back. Next time, though, I'll keep it under control. That way, my drunken mind won't think getting a haircut from my friend is a good idea.

"No," I admit, trading a glance with Pen. "This was... unplanned."

With her cheeks pink, Pen averts her gaze to the floor. She's sitting on a bench next to the front window, her blonde hair a pop of colour against the dark paint. My eyes sweep the area, taking in the aesthetics. I see odes to Rocco's Latino background in amongst a contemporary-industrial style. Brick goes from floor to ceiling along the far wall and the floor is a light grey, contrasting with the darker walls. For such a small barber shop, there's a large amount of character present. I have to admit, I'm impressed.

Rocco chuckles again, running a wide-tooth comb through my wet hair.

"Give him something business-like with a hint of playfulness," Penelope says. I glance at her, noting how she's refusing to make eye contact with me as she speaks. "When we first met, Cassian had a disconnected undercut. Different layers of his hair tapered down to the back of his head, ending with a solid undercut. It was bold and playful, but also made a statement in the office."

Rocco's hand freezes, the teeth of the comb still tangled in my hair. "You're quite knowledgeable about hair styles."

Pen shrugs, keeping her gaze locked on the scuffed floor. "His hair was bold enough to make a statement."

Her voice is so soft I almost don't catch her words. But I do.

And they shake me to the core.

I don't think my hairstyle back then was bold or held a statement. I think Pen remembers such intimate facts because she found me attractive. Tearing my gaze away from her, I focus on my reflection in the mirror. The bags under my eyes are the telltale sign of a nasty hangover, which only adds to me already feeling like an asshole. How long have I been inadvertently leading Pen on? Teasing her? How long have I been suppressing my own feelings? Yeah, I'm terrified to lose her as a friend, but the attraction and the chemistry is undeniable. Friends don't wake up tangled on the couch together.

Rocco runs the comb through my hair, sets it down, and then adjusts the angle of my face, making sure my posture is pristine so he can imagine what the haircut would look like on me. After several seconds, he nods. "I agree with Penelope. With the unevenness of the cuts, I have to remove a significant length. What do you think?" When I don't respond and continue to stare into the mirror, Rocco edges on. "Look, Cassian, I know your hair is important to you. I need to cut and style it, though, or else your hair will grow back uneven."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Pen cringe.

A crease forms between my brows. Why does she seem upset? She shouldn't be upset. Words sit on the tip of my tongue, ready to ask why she's upset, but I hold them back. Something tells me Pen will not say a word until we're alone.

I turn back to the mirror, making eye contact with Rocco. "Yeah, man, that sounds great."

* * *

I set the handheld mirror down, impressed with my new haircut. It's a little more posh than the one I had when Pen and I first met, but I like it. I feel professional and modern. Rocco left just enough hair on top of my head. I should be able to create a small braid. It sets my uneasiness to rest. "I love it," I smile. "Thanks again for the time slot. I know it was last minute."

"Hey," Rocco laughs, "fixing drunk haircuts is my specialty. It was my pleasure."

"Stop by the coffee shop any time," Penelope smiles, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She's aware of the next client that's loitering in the waiting area. Although Rocco finished my hair within half an hour, he's five minutes late for the next appointment. "Any siblings of our business partners are always welcome!"

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Rocco replies. He gestures over Penelope's shoulder. "Sorry to cut this conversation short, but I've got another client. I'll see you guys around."

We say our last goodbyes and then Penelope and I are on our way to the SUV. It's blustery today, with relentless winds and a sharp chill that makes my lungs burn every time I inhale. We're close to Halloween, but it already feels like November. I wouldn't be surprised if it snowed tonight. I suppress an eye roll. Snow before Halloween. How much more Canadian can you get?

Speaking of Halloween... I wonder what Pen's dressed me up as. Personally, I'm hoping it's nothing that takes too much dedication. I don't know how I feel about layers of makeup being painted onto my face.

When I glance at Pen, her demeanour catches me by surprise, causing a memory to surface. It's the day I called out Jake on his immature behaviour after he found out Gemma had been the mastermind behind the pranks. My actions were effective back then. Now, I look like a hypocrite. I stuff my hands in my pockets, that shitty feeling returning. It appears I'm aware of everyone else's relationships but my own.

"Cassian?" Penelope asks.

"Yeah?" I ask, glancing down at her.

"I'm..." she sighs and tries to regain her composure. A stranger would think she's on the verge of crying. Me, however, I know Pen's feeling guilty of something. Whenever she does, she plays with the sleeve of whatever she's wearing. Here, she's picking at the sleeve of her bomber jacket. "I'm sorry about your hair..." she trails off, shaking her head. "I'm disgusted with myself. It's all my fault characteristics of your identity have been taken from you. I should've known better than to cut your hair."

I exhale through my nose as the corner of my mouth curves upward. God, she's perfect. I stop and take Penelope's shoulders in my hand, spinning her around so she's facing me. She stares up at me, her eyes wide and lips parted. "Pen," I laugh. "You have nothing to apologize for. We were drunk. Everyone does stupid things when we're drunk. I'd accept your apology and give you a lesson on identities and cultural meanings if you'd purposely done this or thought it would be a funny prank. But that's not what you did. You cut my hair because we were drunk and having a good time. There's no fault." A soft snort escapes my nose and I run a hand through my hair. "Besides, I'm liking this new style. It shakes things up a little, don't you think?"

Pen pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "But I laughed at you this morning."

A smile blossoms across my face. "Because it was fucking hilarious. The outcome is worth the memory." And it's better than us fucking each other under the influence. "Trust me, Pen, what you did held no racism because the context was innocent. You didn't cut my hair out of malice."

Her wide eyes drill into mine as she clasps her hands in front of her, looking demure and wild at the same time. Several strands of hair have come loose from her bun, blowing in whatever direction the wind sways.

"Do you want to go out for lunch?" I blurt, jerking my thumb to the buildings across Highway 97. "There's an Original Joe's across the street."

Her brow furrows for a moment, as if she finds the question confusing. "Do you?"

I rub my thumb along her collarbone. "Yeah," I murmur, "I'd like to."

In a hypothetic manner, I want to see what an outing with her would feel like now that I'm aware of her attraction and my attraction. If it doesn't feel wrong or awkward, then I'm going to ask her out on a date.

"Okay," she replies.

"Okay," I repeat, pulling her closer. I'm not sure why I do it, but something's pulling me closer to her. The attraction is irrevocable.

Pen loops her arms over my shoulders and links her hands behind my neck, pulling my mouth to hers. Her body shakes against mine as our lips touch. I grip her waist, caught by surprise. I can't believe she's kissing me. Even for Penelope, that's a bold move to make.

What surprises me more is how much I like it. The kiss is slow and tantalizing.

I want to devour her.

My mind skips ahead to pinning her against the SUV and hardening the kiss, making our tongues and teeth clash. The image makes my body tingle with anticipation, and I can't prevent myself from gripping her chin between my thumb and pointer finger to tip her head back, deepening the kiss. Her mouth tastes like the bubblegum she was chewing earlier, and her lips are soft. What fuels me, though, is her passion. She's kissing me back just as hard as I'm kissing her, making me want more. I'm off course. This isn't my plan. I was supposed to tiptoe my way around the possibility of dating her to make sure I didn't hurt her.

But here we are, our lips locked in a battle of passion.

When we pull away from each other, her lips are swollen and mine are throbbing. Fuck. Pen's a damn good kisser. My gaze flicks down to her lips, the longing to devour her in more ways than one a potent emotion.

"So, um," Penelope says, her cheeks flaring. "Lunch?"

She turns around and walks to the passenger side of the SUV before I can respond.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling deeply. "Lunch."