Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 32

Axel’s POV

I've prepared a presentation.

Not a formal presentation—I'm not insane—but I have notes. Organized notes. With bullet points and cost estimates and a diagram of the house showing optimal camera placement.

Selene is at work. The babies are napping. This is the perfect time to discuss household security with Mateo, who is currently sprawled on the couch eating cereal from the box like a feral college student.

"We need to talk about the security system," I say, pulling up the document on my tablet.

Mateo doesn't look away from his phone. "We have locks. Locks are security."

"Locks are baseline. I'm talking about comprehensive coverage. Motion sensors, smart cameras, automated alerts—"

"Are we expecting a home invasion?" He finally looks up, eyebrow raised. "Because I feel like that's information I should have."

"We're not expecting anything. That's the point of preparation."

I showed him the diagram. The house layout with camera positions marked in red, sensor zones in blue, the panic button locations in green. It's color-coded. I spent two hours on this.

Mateo stares at it like I've shown him a map to buried treasure written in an alien language.

"Axel." His voice is careful, the way people talk to someone who might be having a breakdown. "This is... a lot."

"It's thorough."

"It's a lot." He sets down his cereal. "You want cameras in the hallways? In the nursery? What, are we going to monitor the babies sleeping like they're suspects?"

"Baby monitors exist for exactly that reason."

"Baby monitors don't record footage to a cloud server with facial recognition capabilities."

He has a point. I don't acknowledge it.

"The nursery camera is optional," I concede. "But the exterior coverage is non-negotiable. We have three children. We've been in the news. People know where we live."

"People don't know where we live."

"People can find out."

Mateo stands, running a hand through his curls in that way he does when he's frustrated. "Mira, I get it. You want to protect them. I want to protect them too. But this—" He gestures at my tablet. "This isn't a home. This is a surveillance state with better furniture."

"That's dramatic."

"You have a panic button in the bathroom, Axel. The bathroom. What am I supposed to panic about in there? Running out of toilet paper?"

"Intruders can corner people in bathrooms. It's a common—"

"Dios mío." He paces to the window, then back. "I grew up in a house with a door that didn't lock properly. Mamá used to wedge a chair under the handle. We were fine. We were happy. Because home isn't about how many cameras you have—it's about how it feels."

My jaw tightens. "And how does it feel to be unprepared when something goes wrong?"

"Is that what this is about?" He stops pacing, studying my face with an intensity I don't enjoy. "Something going wrong?"

I don't answer.

The silence stretches. Outside, a car passes, then another. Normal neighborhood sounds that shouldn't feel threatening but somehow do.

"I want them safe," I finally say. The words come out harder than intended. "I want all of you safe. And I don't know how to do that without—"

"Without controlling everything?"

The accusation lands. I want to deny it, but Mateo's looking at me with something that's not quite pity and not quite understanding. Something in between that makes my chest tight.

The front door opens. Selene appears, gym bag over her shoulder, hair still damp from her post-workout shower. She takes one look at us—me rigid by the couch, Mateo with his arms crossed by the window—and sighs.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," I say.

"Axel wants to turn our house into a maximum-security prison," Mateo says simultaneously.

Selene drops her bag. "Show me."

I hand her the tablet. She scrolls through my notes, my diagrams, my carefully researched camera recommendations. Her expression stays neutral, which is somehow worse than if she'd laughed.

"This is very thorough," she says finally.

"Thank you."

"It's also very... much." She looks between us. "Okay. Sit down. Both of you."

We sit. Like children called to the principal's office. Mateo on the couch, me in the armchair, Selene standing with her therapist face on.

"Axel," she says, "what are you actually afraid of?"

The question hits me wrong. Too direct. Too close. "I'm not afraid. I'm being practical."

"You have seventeen cameras on this diagram. For a three-bedroom house. That's not practical—that's anxious."

Mateo makes a vindicated sound. I shoot him a look.

"And Mateo," Selene continues, "what are you actually fighting against?"

His smugness fades. "I don't—it's not—"

"Because from where I'm standing, this isn't about cameras or locks. This is about control versus chaos. Structure versus freedom." She crosses her arms. "Sound familiar?"

Neither of us answers.

"Axel needs to feel like he can protect us. That's not unreasonable—it's actually kind of sweet, in an intense Nordic way." She looks at me, and her expression softens. "But control doesn't equal safety. Sometimes it just equals control."

I swallow. She's not wrong. She's rarely wrong, which is annoying.

"And Mateo needs to feel like this is a home, not a fortress. That's also not unreasonable." She turns to him. "But some precautions aren't paranoia. They're just smart. Especially given everything we've been through."

The room is quiet. I can hear the baby monitor crackling softly from the nursery—one of the babies shifting in their crib.

"So here's what we're going to do," Selene says. "We're going to compromise. Like adults. Like partners."

The negotiation takes an hour.

We settle on exterior cameras only—front door, back door, driveway. Smart locks with codes we all know. Motion-sensor lights for the yard. No interior surveillance except the standard baby monitors. No panic buttons in the bathroom, despite my protests about statistical vulnerability.

"This works," Selene declares when we're done. "Everyone's concerns are addressed. Everyone's needs are met. See? Communication."

Mateo grins at me across the coffee table. "She's good at this."

"She's a professional mediator. We're being handled."

"I prefer 'guided toward emotional maturity,'" Selene says. "But sure. Handled works."

That night, after the babies are down and the house is quiet, I find myself standing at the back door staring out at the dark yard. No cameras yet. No motion sensors. Just shadows and the distant sound of traffic.

Selene appears beside me, warm hand sliding into mine.

"You okay?"

"I don't like feeling out of control." The admission costs something. "Growing up, there was never—my father controlled everything. And when he didn't approve, you felt it. So I learned to prepare. To anticipate. To never be caught off guard."

"And now you're trying to anticipate everything that could hurt us."

"Yes."

She squeezes my hand. "You know you can't control everything, right? Some things just happen. We deal with them together."

"Together." I turn the word over. It still feels new. Foreign. "I'm working on that."

"I know." She stretches up to kiss my jaw. "For what it's worth? The diagrams were impressive. Unhinged, but impressive."

I almost smile. "I spent two hours on the color-coding."

"It showed."

Mateo's voice drifts from the living room. "If you two are done having a moment, there's ice cream and I'm not sharing unless you come now."

Selene laughs, tugging me toward the light and noise. Toward the life we're building, messy and uncontrolled and nothing like my diagrams.

Maybe that's okay.

Maybe that's the whole point of this—learning to live without the safety net of certainty.