Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 25

[Axel’s POV]

I've never been to Selene's Seattle apartment. Capitol Hill, brick building, surprisingly normal for someone whose life just became internet entertainment.

Mateo's been silent the entire drive, clutching groceries—formula, diapers, things Google said babies need—like tactical gear.

"You ready?" I ask.

"No. Definitely not. Let's go anyway."

Naomi appears in scrubs, hair in a ponytail that's staging a revolt.

"You're here." She sounds relieved and suspicious. "Good. Shift in thirty minutes. They've been fed, changed. Elio's climbing. Aria's teething. Sören's plotting world domination."

She's out, leaving us with chaos—playpen, toys everywhere, three babies spotting new targets.

"So," Mateo says. "This is happening."

"This is happening."

Elio sees Mateo and his face lights up like someone just announced free cake. He crawls toward us with the determination of someone who's discovered their life's purpose, which apparently is reaching Mateo at any cost.

"Hola, pequeño," Mateo says, dropping to the floor. Elio immediately uses him as a climbing structure, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hauling himself up with zero regard for physics or Mateo's comfort. "Ay, tu eres fuerte—you're strong, aren't you?"

Elio responds by pulling Mateo's hair and giggling.

Aria's watching me. Just staring with those dark eyes that see everything, processing whether I'm threat or opportunity. She's sitting in the playpen with perfect posture for someone whose skeleton is mostly cartilage, holding a stuffed elephant like it owes her money.

I cross to her slowly—same approach I use for hostile crowds—and crouch down. "Hi."

She blinks once. Reaches out one hand and pats my face with the precision of someone conducting quality inspection.

Something in my chest does this thing—not painful, just this sudden awareness that I'm being evaluated by a tiny human who might share my DNA, and the evaluation matters more than any championship game ever has.

"You want up?" I ask.

She makes a sound that might be yes or might be a tiny war cry. I pick her up carefully—and she immediately grabs my beard with both hands and pulls.

"That's attached," I tell her.

She pulls harder, grinning.

Sören's in the corner watching everything with intellectual curiosity. When I look at him, he looks away—playing it cool.

Selene emerges from the kitchen in jeans and a "COFFEE FIRST" t-shirt, hair down, looking exhausted but more relaxed.

"You came," she says, like she half-expected us to bail.

"We said we would." Mateo's currently being used as a jungle gym by Elio, who's attempting to reach the ceiling via human ladder. "Also, this one's determined to climb Mount Mateo."

"That's his afternoon hobby. Morning hobby is destruction." She checks her phone. "Two forty-five. Statement goes live in thirty minutes."

The weight of that lands. Thirty minutes until we find out if taking control was brilliant or catastrophic.

"We should probably sit down," Selene suggests. "Get comfortable before the internet has opinions."

We migrate to the couch—Mateo with Elio still attached, me with Aria examining my face like she's memorizing it for a lineup, Selene collecting Sören who goes willingly after thorough deliberation.

Three fifteen arrives with zero fanfare. Selene opens her phone, we crowd around—Mateo pressed against my side, warm and solid, Selene close enough that I can smell her shampoo which is some kind of coconut situation—and she hits post.

The statement goes live simultaneously across all three accounts.

For ten seconds, nothing happens. Then notifications start—first a trickle, then a flood, numbers climbing so fast the screen can't keep up.

Comments roll in:

Finally some clarity

Respect for setting boundaries

This is so mature I'm mad about it

Some are invasive—people demanding DNA tests like they're owed Selene's entire medical history. But mostly it's supportive. The boundary holds.

"It's working," Mateo says. "Share count's at ten thousand."

Aria chooses this moment to spit up on my shirt—direct eye contact, deliberate.

"She does that when she likes you," Selene says, laughing. "Marking territory."

By four PM, the narrative's shifted from scandal to "mature response."

We won. Maybe not permanently, but for now—we won.

Elio starts fussing around five, which triggers Sören, which makes Aria join in. Universal baby agreement that something must be wrong, probably starvation.

"Dinner time," Selene announces, standing with Sören. "Fair warning—again—it's still chaos."

"Ah, that’s alright," Mateo says, following her to the kitchen with Elio. "I live with Axel. I'm professionally trained." I eye him suspiciously, but he just grins in that disarming way of his, and I shut up.

The kitchen is small—barely room for two adults, definitely not designed for three adults plus babies plus coordination. But Mateo and I work around each other the way we do in the apartment: knowing instinctively where the other person needs to be, moving in rhythm without discussion.

"Bottles in the fridge," Selene directs, pointing. "Need to warm three—"

"I've got it." I'm already pulling them out, checking labels because apparently babies have preferences about temperature like tiny demanding customers.

Mateo handles the high chairs while Selene preps actual food. Mashed something, orange and vaguely threatening.

"What is this?" Mateo asks, examining it.

"Sweet potato. Theoretically nutritious. Practically a disaster waiting to happen."

She's not wrong. Feeding three babies simultaneously is like trying to conduct an orchestra where every musician is actively rebelling. Elio wears more food than he eats. Sören's methodical but slow. Aria's got opinions about texture that she expresses through projectile rejection.

Bath time is controlled chaos—the bathroom flooding because Elio thinks splashing is an Olympic sport, Mateo making ridiculous faces that make all three babies laugh, water everywhere.

I find myself smiling. Actually smiling, while Mateo does his terrible fish impression and Sören giggles.

By seven thirty, three babies are in pajamas, and Selene handles bedtime while Mateo and I tackle the kitchen disaster.

"Think we did okay?" Mateo asks, scrubbing something orange off the counter.

"We kept them alive. That's a win."

"Low bar, but I'll take it." He's humming—something Spanish, rhythm unconscious—hips swaying slightly while he cleans.

I catch myself watching. The way he moves, that easy grace even doing domestic tasks, how he fits into this space like he's always belonged here.

When Selene emerges forty minutes later, she looks wrung out. Eyes half-closed, moving on autopilot, that particular exhaustion that comes from being needed by tiny humans constantly.

She collapses between us on the couch. Not planned, just gravitating to the space we've left open, and suddenly we're pressed together.

Nobody speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Existing. The apartment's quiet except for the baby monitor's static whisper.

"Thank you," Selene says quietly. "For today. For all of this."

"You don't have to thank us," Mateo tells her, and his hand finds hers. Not thinking about it, just reaching out like it's natural.

"I do though. Today was—" She stops, searching for words. "I couldn't have done it alone."

"You shouldn't have to do it alone," I say, and reach over. Touch her face gently—asking permission with the movement, giving her time to pull away.

She doesn't pull away. Leans into my palm instead, eyes closing, and the air shifts.

Charged. Expectant. Electric.

Mateo's watching us, something hungry in his expression. Selene's breathing has changed—faster, shallower. My thumb traces her cheekbone, and she makes a sound that goes straight through me.

We're all aware something's about to start.

All three of us, balanced on this edge, ready to fall.