Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 14

[Selene’s POV]

Monday morning, there's coffee on my desk.

Not the burnt sludge from the break room that tastes like regret and poor life choices. Actual coffee from Ember & Oak, the place three blocks away that charges nine dollars for a latte and makes you feel like maybe you deserve nice things.

I stare at it like it might explode. No note. No name. Just one perfectly crafted oat milk latte with cinnamon—exactly how I mentioned I liked it once, months ago, in some casual staff conversation I barely remember having.

My first instinct is suspicion. My second is to drink it anyway because caffeine is caffeine and I'm running on four hours of sleep.

Tuesday: another coffee. Same place, still warm when I arrive at 7:30 AM, which means someone's been here earlier than me. The competitive part of my brain that shouldn't care about coffee delivery timing absolutely cares.

Wednesday brings coffee and a chocolate croissant. My favorite. The one I eat approximately twice a year because my thighs have opinions about regular croissant consumption.

By Thursday, I know it's them.

Has to be. The whole facility could be orchestrating an elaborate coffee-based conspiracy, but Occam's razor says it's the two men who've been giving me space while simultaneously making sure I know they exist.

They're professional in the hallways—polite nods, brief "good mornings" that don't linger. In team meetings, they sit on opposite sides of the room, never drawing attention to the fact that we have approximately seventeen tons of unresolved history.

But every morning, there's coffee.

Friday afternoon, I'm loading my work bag into my car—laptop, session notes, the remnants of my professional dignity—when I spot Axel crossing the parking lot toward his car.

This is my moment. I've been building up to this confrontation all week. Time to be direct, professional, and absolutely not intimidated by six-foot-eight of Nordic stoicism.

"Hey!" I call out, way louder than necessary. Very smooth, Selene. Very professional.

He turns, and I march over before I can chicken out. "The coffee. It's you, isn't it? You and Mateo."

Axel doesn't even try to deny it. "Yes."

"Ember & Oak is three blocks away. That's a fifteen-minute round trip. You've been doing that every morning for a week."

"Twelve minutes if you walk fast."

"That's not the point! The point is—" I stop, realizing I'm not actually sure what my point is. That I noticed? That it's working? That I'm equal parts annoyed and touched? "Why?"

"You mentioned once that you liked their oat milk lattes. Seemed like the kind of information worth remembering." He shifts his weight, and there's something almost uncertain in his expression. "Was I wrong?"

"No, you weren't—that's not—" I run a hand through my hair, frustrated at myself more than him. "You can't just leave me fancy coffee every day and expect me not to have questions."

"What questions?"

"Like what do you want? What's the endgame here? Are you trying to caffeine-bribe your way back into my life?"

"Is it working?"

"That's not the point!"

"You keep saying that." The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "But you're not saying no."

I open my mouth. Close it. He's right, and I hate that he's right.

Axel takes a breath, and suddenly the almost-smile is gone, replaced by something more serious. Vulnerable. "Do you have plans tomorrow night?"

The question shifts everything. "Why?"

"Come to dinner. At our place." He says it simply, like he's not asking something enormous. "Just the three of us. No expectations, no strings. Maybe it's time we actually talked instead of dancing around each other in hallways and leaving passive-aggressive coffee."

"It wasn't passive-aggressive. It was just coffee."

"Right. And you confronting me in a parking lot is 'just conversation.'" Now he's definitely almost-smiling. "Mateo thinks you hate us."

"I don't hate you."

"I know. But he spirals, and when he spirals, he needs proof that the world isn't ending." Axel meets my eyes. "This is me providing proof. For both of us."

My first instinct is to say no. To maintain boundaries, keep distance, protect the life I've carefully constructed where I'm enough and I don't need complicated men making me feel things.

"Does Mateo know you're asking?"

"It was his idea, actually. But he was too nervous to ask himself, so I'm doing it for him." The honesty in his voice disarms me completely. "He spent forty-five minutes this morning practicing what to say, then chickened out in the parking lot."

Despite everything, I laugh. "That sounds like Mateo."

"He also made me promise to tell you there would be good food. And wine. And that you could leave whenever you wanted, no hard feelings." Axel pulls out his phone, types something, and my own phone buzzes with a notification. An address. "Seven o'clock. But only if you want to. No pressure."

He walks away before I can change my mind, which is probably strategic. Leaving me standing in the parking lot holding my phone with his address glowing on the screen like a dare.

Next evening, I'm staring into my closet when Naomi appears in my doorway.

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" I pull out a blazer, consider it, put it back.

"The thing where you reorganize inanimate objects while freaking out." She leans against the doorframe, Sören on her hip. "What's happening tonight?"

"Just dinner. At their apartment. Completely casual."

"Right. And that's why you've pulled out seventeen different outfits?"

I look at my bed. Seventeen outfits scattered like a fabric explosion. "Maybe I'm slightly concerned about wardrobe choices."

"It's not a date," I add quickly.

"Right. Just dinner with two men who've been leaving you fancy coffee all week. Totally not a date."

"We're just talking. Old friends catching up—"

"Selene." Naomi cuts through my spiral. "You're allowed to want this. Don’t overcomplicate it."

"What if I let them in and they leave again?"

"What if you don't and spend the rest of your life wondering?" She shifts Sören. "I'm not saying marry them tomorrow. I'm saying have dinner. See what happens. And wear the soft sweater, not the blazer. You deserve to feel like more than a walking professional boundary."

"Nice metaphor. You should write it down for our descendants," I deflect (as a professional that I am).

She rolls her eyes. "Text me updates. If this goes badly, I need to know whether to send a rescue squad or wine."

I throw a sock at her. She catches it one-handed without dropping Sören.

The soft sweater is cream-colored, comfortable, makes me feel like a person instead of a title. I pair it with the dark jeans, minimal makeup, hair down in loose curls.

In the mirror, I look like someone who might be ready to talk. Someone who might be brave enough to let the past back in, just for one night.

Naomi appears behind me, nods approvingly. "There she is. Now go. And remember: if anyone gets weird, you can always claim sudden-onset food poisoning and escape."

"That's your advice? Fake illness?"

"I'm a nurse. I know thirty-seven different convincing illnesses. Use them wisely."

I grab my keys, my phone, and what's left of my courage. Seven o'clock. Their apartment. Just dinner.

How complicated could it possibly be?