Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 19

[Selene’s POV]

Saturday morning is chaos incarnate. Aria's wearing oatmeal in her hair, Elio's weaponizing sippy cups, and Sören's suspiciously calm, which means he's plotting something.

My phone buzzes while I'm wiping Aria's face for the third time.

M. Velasco: grocery shopping today. you and the kids want to come? we can help. lunch after?

I stare at the message. Going alone: seven circles of hell. Going with two professional athletes who might be my babies' fathers: complicated, but also—help. Actual help.

S. Marlowe: Okay. What time?

M. Velasco: 10? the big store on pine. axel says we're very good at cart management

I laugh. "Alright, babies. Field trip. Try not to embarrass me."

Sören gives me a look that says he makes no promises.

* * *

Pine Street Market's parking lot is packed. I'm wrangling the stroller—one of those triple-wide situations that requires a commercial driver's license—when I spot them near the entrance.

Mateo jogs over, all enthusiasm. "You came! And you brought the small humans!"

"They're mandatory accessories."

Aria immediately reaches for Mateo with grabby hands and her escalating "pick me up" sound.

"Can I?" Mateo asks, and I'm struck by how he's asking permission. Not assuming. Not entitled. Just—asking.

"Go ahead. She's demanding."

He scoops her up and she immediately pats his face with sticky hands. "Hola, pequeña. Ready to help with groceries?"

Axel's examining the stroller with tactical precision. "I'll push the cart. All three in there—bigger, more stable."

"You've thought about cart logistics?"

"I think about everything. Safer than the stroller. And if Elio tries climbing out, I'll see it coming."

"You've met him once and already have his number."

"He's predictable. Pure chaos with no self-preservation." Axel straightens. "Kind of like Mateo. I respect that."

Surprisingly, Mateo either doesn’t hear it, or pointedly ignores. I snicker, because… well, he ain’t wrong.

Getting three toddlers transferred is a military operation. Elio tries climbing over the side twice. But then we're moving, and it's actually nice.

Axel pushes the cart with precision. Mateo's got my list, grabbing items and entertaining the babies with ridiculous commentary.

"Okay, pequeños, we need bananas. Special grocery store bananas that are different from home bananas because—actually, no idea why. But we're buying them because capitalism."

"Are you explaining economic theory to my children?"

"Someone has to educate them." He tosses bananas in the cart. "Axel, thoughts on quantity?"

"Enough for the week. Factor in waste from overripening and Elio's squishing tendency."

"He squished one banana and you're tracking patterns?"

"Data-driven parenting. It's the future."

An older woman stops to watch us pass. "What a beautiful family. Your children are adorable."

I freeze. The woman moves on, oblivious to the emotional grenade she just lobbed.

We don't acknowledge it. Just keep shopping. But something shifts. Other shoppers smile at us like we make sense together. Like we're exactly what we look like.

We finish shopping. Elio only tries grabbing things off shelves seven times—personal record. Mateo's cart-loading is disastrous, putting bread under canned goods like a monster, but his heart's in the right place.

The parking lot is bright with October sun when we emerge. I'm laughing at something Mateo said about avocados being a scam, Axel's organizing my trunk with military efficiency, and the babies are making happy sounds.

That's when the camera flashes start.

Multiple flashes. Rapid-fire. Professional quality from across the parking lot—someone with a real camera, not a phone.

Everything changes.

Axel moves before I fully process what's happening. He's between the babies and the camera angle, his whole body shifting into protection mode. One hand on the cart, positioning himself to block the shot.

"Stay with them," he tells me, voice flat and certain.

Mateo's already moving, striding toward where the flashes came from with purposeful energy. "Hey! HEY!"

But whoever it was is gone. A car peels out from the far end of the lot—dark sedan, tinted windows, too far away to read the plate.

Mateo stops, breathing hard, hands in fists.

Axel's scanning the area with ice-blue intensity, looking for other angles, other threats. His jaw's so tight I can hear teeth grinding from here.

"Probably just sports photographers," Mateo says, returning. His voice is light, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Happens all the time. Get used to guys with cameras catching us at random places. Nothing to worry about."

"Right," I hear myself say. "Just photographers."

But Axel's not buying it. His expression says he's cataloging every detail, already planning for next time, treating this like a defensive breakdown that needs fixing.

"We should go," I say, even though we're not done loading groceries. "The babies need naps."

It's true—Sören's rubbing his eyes, and Aria's getting that pre-meltdown look. But also I suddenly need space. Need to breathe. Need to process why my hands are shaking.

"Lunch?" Mateo asks hopefully. "There's this place—"

"Maybe another time." I'm already transferring babies back to my car seats, muscle memory taking over. "But thank you. For helping. This was—it was really nice."

"Selene—" Axel starts.

"I'm fine. Really. Just tired. Long week."

They don't push. Don't demand explanations. Just help me finish loading groceries and make sure the babies are secured properly.

Mateo lingers by my car door. "Text us when you get home? Just so we know you're okay?"

"I'm okay."

"Humor me anyway?"

I nod, get in the car, drive away before the weird anxious feeling in my chest can turn into something I have to name.

In the rearview mirror, they're standing in the parking lot watching me leave. Axel's phone is out—already making calls, probably. Mateo's hands are in his pockets, shoulders tight.

I make it home, get the babies inside, put away groceries on autopilot.

That evening, after bath time and stories and three tiny humans finally asleep, I sit in the quiet apartment trying to figure out why I feel so unsettled.

It was just photographers. Happens to athletes all the time. Nothing sinister. Nothing wrong.

So why does it feel like something just shifted?

Like maybe the careful privacy I've built is more fragile than I thought?

My phone buzzes. Text from Mateo: you home safe?

S. Marlowe: Yes. Sorry for bailing on lunch.

M. Velasco: don't be sorry. we get it

M. Velasco: today was really nice though. antes de the camera thing

M. Velasco: we should do it again sometime. minus the paparazzi

I stare at the message, then at my quiet apartment, then at the nursery door where three babies are sleeping.

S. Marlowe: Yeah. We should.

I send it before I can overthink.

Outside my window, Seattle glitters with evening lights. Inside, everything's still and safe.

But that anxious feeling remains—formless, persistent, like my instincts are trying to warn me about something I can't see yet.

I tell myself it's nothing. Just paranoia. Just exhaustion.

I'm probably right.

But probably isn't certainty.

And certainty is what I need to keep my babies safe.