Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 13

[Mateo’s POV]

I discover the daycare by complete accident, juro por Dios. Three weeks in Seattle and I'm still getting lost in this facility.

Then I hear it—baby laughter cutting through the hallway, and underneath it, Selene's voice singing completely off-key.

My feet betray me. They carry me straight to the doorway.

The daycare is tucked where players rarely go. Soft golden lighting, toys everywhere. And in the middle, Selene sits cross-legged on a play mat in jeans and a Sirens t-shirt. Hair messy, something dried on her shoulder, singing with her whole heart. Dios, she's beautiful.

Three toddlers crawl around her.

Two boys and a girl. All with dark curls that catch the light, dark eyes that are wide and curious. Eyes that could be mine. Could be hers. Could belong to one of us, and my heart is doing something complicated in my chest just looking at them.

One of the boys is wearing a tiny Sirens jersey—number seven, mi número—and he spots me first. Goes completely still, staring at me with huge solemn eyes.

Selene follows his gaze and freezes. Her whole body goes rigid, and I watch her face cycle through surprise, panic, maybe hope—I can't tell.

Then the baby in the jersey breaks into this gummy grin. Babbles "Ba! Ba-ba!" and reaches toward me.

My heart shatters.

Selene stands quickly, scooping up the girl. The baby makes a surprised sound but settles against her mom. Defensive posture, mama-bear energy. "Mateo. What are you doing here?"

"I, uh—" My brain has apparently gone on strike. "I was looking for the training room? Got turned around. This place is a maze and I thought if I just kept following the hallway—"

"The training room is on the first floor." Her voice is flat, professional. "You've been here three weeks."

"Right. Yeah. I'm just really bad with directions. One time in Puerto Rico I got lost going to my abuela's house, so really this is just on-brand for me—"

The girl starts fussing, picking up on Selene's tension, and Selene immediately shifts into soothing mode. Bouncing slightly, murmuring soft reassurances.

"It's okay, baby. You're okay. Mama's got you."

"What are their names?" The question comes out before I can stop it.

Selene hesitates, jaw tight, then relents, nodding to each of the kids respectively. "Aria. Elio. Sören."

"Aria. Elio. Sören." I repeat them like a prayer.

One of the boys—Elio, wearing my jersey—starts crawling toward me. Not cautious or hesitant, just straight-up determined, like he's got a mission and I'm the target. His little hands slap against the mat with each movement, and he's making these concentrated baby sounds—"Uh! Uh! Uh!"—with every forward motion.

"Elio, no—" Selene starts, taking a half-step toward him, but he's already at my feet.

His sticky baby hands grab my shoelaces and he giggles. Actually giggles, like my shoes are the funniest thing he's ever encountered in his entire thirteen months of existence. Then he looks up at me with these huge dark eyes—Dios mío, they're so dark, like melted chocolate—and grins again.

I crouch down because standing feels wrong somehow, like I'm towering over him when I should be at his level. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

"Hey, pequeño," I whisper, and my voice comes out rough, emotional in a way I didn't expect.

Elio lets go of my shoelaces and reaches for my face instead. Those tiny sticky hands—they feel like they've been in something, maybe applesauce? Banana?—pat my cheek, my nose, my forehead, exploring with pure curiosity.

His touch is so gentle despite the stickiness, and he's babbling the whole time, this stream of baby sounds that might mean something to him but are complete nonsense to me.

"Hi," I tell him, my throat tight. "Hi there. I'm Mateo."

He pats my face again, then grabs my nose and honks it like it's a toy. Laughs at his own joke.

I laugh too, can't help it, even though I'm pretty sure I'm about to cry. This tiny human who might be mine, who I didn't even know existed three weeks ago, is holding my face with his sticky hands and laughing, and it's the most beautiful and terrifying thing that's ever happened to me.

The other boy—Sören—crawls over, more cautious. He hangs back, watching with skeptical dark eyes.

"Hi, mijo," I say softly. "You can come say hi too, if you want."

Sören considers this, then crawls forward exactly one length. He reaches out one finger and pokes my arm. Testing.

I stay very still.

He pokes again, looks at Elio for confirmation. Elio's still holding my nose, which apparently is the signal Sören needed because he moves closer and pats my other cheek.

Selene looks stricken. Not angry—worse than angry. She looks like watching me with her sons is physically hurting her, like I'm touching something precious that might break if I'm not careful enough. Her eyes are bright, might be tears, and she's holding Aria tighter than necessary.

"They're perfect," I tell her, standing up slowly. Both boys make disappointed sounds—Elio actually whimpers and reaches up with both arms like he wants me to pick him up. Dios, that kills me.

"You're perfect. You're all perfect, and—lo lamento for intruding, I didn't mean to crash your moment. I just—I heard the singing and I couldn't help myself, and that's not an excuse, I know I shouldn't be here—"

I back toward the door because turning around feels impossible, like if I stop looking at them they might disappear. Elio waves at me—actual wave, tiny hand opening and closing—and Dios, I can't breathe properly.

I make it to the parking lot before it hits me.

Those sticky hands. That grin. The way Elio crawled toward me like he knew me.

They might be mine. And I didn't even know they existed until two weeks ago.

The apartment is quiet when I walk in. Axel's in the kitchen making pasta, and he takes one look at my face and sets down the spatula. "What happened?"

So I tell him. The daycare, the babies, Elio in my jersey crawling toward me, those sticky hands on my face, Selene's eyes when she looked at me, how one of us might be a father and we're just standing here cooking pasta like life is normal.

Axel goes very still. “So, you’ve seen them?”

"Sí. I saw them. Elio was wearing my number. And he just—he crawled right up to me and smiled and—" My voice cracks. "I've never felt anything like this before."

Axel sets down the spatula. "What do you need?"

"I don't know." I drag both hands through my hair. "I need to be in their lives. I need Selene to let us close. And I also need to know if one of them is mine and also I don't need to know because what if it's you? What if I have to watch you be a father to a kid I'm already—I'm spiraling, aren't I?"

"Little bit," Axel says, voice gentle.

"I don't know how to want something this much when I have zero control." I stop, swallow hard. "How to be patient when every instinct is screaming at me to fix this. We need to show that we care. About her. About them." I meet his eyes. "We figure it out, right? Together?"

The word hangs between us. Together. Not just about the babies or Selene, but us too.

Axel nods once. "We figure it out. Together."

He turns back to the stove. When he hands me a plate, his fingers brush mine and linger.

I hold on for a second, letting that contact ground me.

We don't acknowledge it. Just let it exist while we eat. But I feel steadier now—knowing we're in this together.