Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 15

I'm standing outside their apartment door at 6:58, clutching a bottle of wine and seriously considering whether sprinting back to my car counts as cardio or cowardice.

The hallway smells like marinara sauce and impending emotional vulnerability. My heels click against the floor as I shift my weight, trying to convince myself people have dinner with their former one-night stands all the time.

The door swings open before I can bolt.

Mateo grins at me like he just won the lottery. "I heard your heels in the hallway. You've been out there for like two minutes doing that nervous shuffle thing."

"I wasn't shuffling. I was... contemplating."

"Contemplating bolting?" His grin widens. "Because I had money on you making it to the door. Axel bet you'd chicken out in the parking lot."

"You were betting on my arrival?"

"In our defense, we're very bored." He steps aside, gesturing me in. "Welcome to Casa de Disaster. Please ignore any evidence of panic cooking."

The apartment is surprisingly homey—actual art, living plants, a couch that looks expensive. And there's Axel in the kitchen wearing an apron that says "KISS THE COOK," stirring something that smells incredible. He looks up when I enter, and something in his expression goes soft.

"You came," he says, like he's surprised.

"You invited me. It would be rude not to show up." I hold out the wine. "I brought... this. I don't know if it's good. The guy at the store said it paired well with 'complicated situations.'"

Mateo barks a laugh and takes the bottle. "I already love it. And I love that you asked for wine pairing advice for emotional disasters. Very on-brand."

"I didn't say—"

"You didn't have to. Your face says it all." He's already opening the bottle, pouring three generous glasses. "Axel's stress-cooking, by the way. Which means either the food will be amazing or the kitchen will be on fire. It's honestly fifty-fifty at this point."

"I don't stress-cook," Axel says, not looking up from whatever he's stirring.

"You made three different pasta dishes this week. Tres. We're two people. That's stress-cooking."

"That's meal prep."

"That's avoidance with carbohydrates."

I laugh—actually laugh—and the tension in my shoulders drops by approximately forty percent. "Should I be worried about the structural integrity of this dinner?"

"Absolutely." Mateo hands me a glass. "But the company's excellent, so even if the food's terrible, you'll have witty banter to sustain you."

Dinner is surprisingly easy.

The pasta is perfect—vodka sauce that makes me want to write poetry about tomatoes. Mateo tells increasingly ridiculous stories about getting lost in Seattle, and Axel provides dry commentary that lands perfectly.

"You went into the rain bookstore voluntarily," Axel says.

"It was an accident!"

"You stayed for forty-five minutes."

"They had a cat! A cat that judged me for my book choices!" Mateo gestures wildly with his fork. "What was I supposed to do, ignore the cat?"

"Yes," Axel and I say simultaneously, then look at each other and smile.

The banter feels natural. Like muscle memory. Like we're picking up a conversation we paused instead of starting from scratch.

But there's tension underneath. Mateo's eyes linger on my mouth when I laugh. Axel's hand brushes mine when he refills my wine, and the contact lasts half a second too long to be accidental.

After dinner, we migrate to the couch with fresh wine. Mateo's on my left, Axel on my right, and the air feels charged.

"So," Mateo starts, "we want you to know we're here for you. Not just the kids."

I set down my wine carefully. "Mateo—"

"I'm serious. Obviously we want to be in the babies' lives eventually—if you let us—but tonight's about getting to know Selene again."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything," Mateo says immediately. "Like, what's your favorite coffee shop? Where do you go when you need to think? What made you stay in Seattle?"

"That's a lot of questions."

"I'm a lot of person. You know this about me."

I laugh. "Okay. Favorite coffee shop is Ember and Oak—which you apparently already know. I go to Kerry Park when I need to think. And I stayed in Seattle because..." I pause. "Because it didn't have ghosts. It was the only place I could breathe."

Axel's voice is quiet. "And now?"

"Now it has you two, which is... complicated."

"Complicated how?" Mateo asks.

"Complicated like I don't know how to be Dr. Marlowe and also the person who had a drunken threesome with you twenty-two months ago. Complicated like I spent two years convincing myself I didn't need anyone, and then you walked back into my life and everything got messy again."

"Messy's not always bad," Mateo offers.

"Tell that to my therapist brain, which is currently having a small crisis about professional boundaries."

"You could try turning it off," Axel suggests. "Just for tonight."

"My brain doesn't have an off switch."

"Try anyway."

So I do. I tell them about Seattle—the rain I secretly love, the farmers market on Saturdays, the city that feels like a fresh start. They tell me about the trade, about leaving everything familiar, about being terrified and excited simultaneously.

The conversation deepens.

"I was so lonely the first few months," I admit. "Pregnancy's isolating anyway, but doing it alone in a new city... There were nights I almost called you."

Mateo reaches for my hand without thinking, then freezes—fingers hovering like he's waiting for permission.

I don't pull away.

His hand closes over mine, warm and solid.

"Why didn't you?" he asks softly.

"Because you left that note that said 'last night was yeah,' and I convinced myself you didn't care. That I was just another hookup."

"Selene—" Axel starts.

"I know that's not fair. But fear isn't rational, and I was terrified and pregnant and convinced I'd ruined everything."

We talk until past midnight. The wine disappears. Mateo's thumb traces circles on my hand. Axel shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine.

I notice everything.

When I finally stand to leave, neither asks about the kids. Neither pushes for promises or timelines.

Mateo just says, "I'd like to do this again. If you want."

"I want," I hear myself say.

Axel walks me to my car. The parking lot is dark, and when we reach my door, he stops me with a hand on my wrist.

"You're even more remarkable than I remembered," he says quietly. "And I remembered a lot."

Then he's gone, walking back toward the building.

I drive home with the windows down, letting Seattle's cool air clear my head. My phone sits in the cupholder, Naomi's demanding texts unanswered.

Because I don't know what to say.

That maybe I just got my friends back? That dinner felt like coming home to a place I didn't know I'd been missing?

That maybe that's the scariest part—not that they want to be in my life, but that I want them there too?