Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 54

Selene’s POV

​​I'm the bridge between two islands, and the water is rising.

Axel has retreated into his glacial silence—the same wall he builds when emotions become too complicated to process. Mateo is locked in his depression, unreachable behind barriers of his own making. And I'm stretched between them, trying to hold everyone together while pieces keep breaking off in my hands.

The house operates on a schedule now—not the organic rhythm we used to have, but a careful choreography designed to minimize conflict. Axel leaves for practice before Mateo wakes up, coming home after dinner when the living room is quiet. Meals happen in shifts. Conversations are functional, transactional, stripped of the warmth and chaos that used to define us.

I hate it. I hate every single minute of what we've become.

The babies feel the tension. Of course they do—children are sponges for the emotional atmosphere, absorbing what adults try to hide.

"Mama?" Aria tugs at my sleeve one morning, pointing toward the living room where Mateo lies silent, then toward the bedroom where Axel disappeared. "Teo? Daddy?" Her face scrunches with confusion she can't articulate. She pats my cheek, searching for answers in my expression.

The question lands like a punch. She can't form the words, but she feels it. Children always feel it.

"They're both tired, baby. Come here." I scoop her up, holding her close. "Everything's okay."

She doesn't look convinced. Neither am I.

I'm running on fumes. Four hours of sleep if I'm lucky, caught between babies who need a 2 AM feeding and a partner who has nightmares he won't talk about. My own therapy sessions have doubled because Dr. Okonkwo recognized the signs of caregiver burnout before I admitted them to myself.

"You're depleting yourself," she tells me over video call, her face concerned on the screen. "You can't pour from an empty cup. You know this—you tell your clients this all the time."

"I don't have a choice. They need me."

"They need you functioning. There's a difference." She leans forward. "Selene, what happens if you collapse? Who holds everything together then?"

I don't have an answer. Don't want to think about it.

But I don't know how to function less. Don't know how to step back when everything is falling apart. If I'm not holding the center, who is? The whole structure collapses without someone maintaining it.

The lawsuit adds another layer of stress. Diane Chen emails weekly with updates that require decisions—deposition schedules, evidence requests, strategy discussions. Every time I see her name in my inbox, my stomach drops.

Cassian's legal team has been aggressive. They've subpoenaed medical records, financial documents, testimony from colleagues. They're building a case designed to make me look unstable, my relationship unconventional to the point of dysfunction.

Given our current state, they might have a point.

I bring the latest update to Axel because Mateo can't handle it right now. Another burden I'm carrying alone.

"They want to depose me," Axel says, reading the email. "About our relationship. About the children."

"Diane says it's standard procedure."

"Standard." His jaw tightens. "There's nothing standard about any of this."

"I know."

We stand in the kitchen, the island between us like a neutral zone. He looks tired too—dark circles under his eyes, tension in his shoulders that never releases. The playoffs have been grueling, and coming home to this can't be helping.

"How's he doing?" Axel asks quietly.

"Same. Maybe a little worse."

"He said he doesn't want me around."

"He didn't mean it. He's hurting and he's pushing away anyone who reminds him of what he's lost."

"That includes you too."

I don't deny it. Mateo has been pushing me away just as hard, though his methods are different. With Axel, it's direct rejection. With me, it's a slow withdrawal—shorter answers, less eye contact, the careful maintenance of physical distance even when we're in the same room.

"I can handle it," I say, because what else can I say?

"Can you?" Axel's eyes search my face. "When's the last time you slept through the night? The last time you did something for yourself instead of managing everyone else?"

I can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Neither am I. Neither is he." Axel sets down the email. "Something has to give, Selene. We can't keep going like this."

"What's the alternative? Give up?"

"No. But maybe..." He hesitates. "Maybe we need help. Real help. More than what we can give each other right now."

He means professional help. For Mateo. For us. The suggestion should feel like relief, but instead it lands like defeat.

"He won't agree to therapy. Not with someone new. Not when he feels this exposed."

"Then we find another way. But this—" He gestures at the house, at everything. "This isn't sustainable."

He's right. I know he's right. But admitting it means admitting I can't fix this. That being a therapist, being capable, being the one who holds everything together—none of it is enough.

Later that night, after Axel's asleep and the babies are down, I find myself in the living room. The house is quiet in that heavy way it gets after midnight, when all the noise of the day settles into something thick and pressing.

Mateo's awake, staring at the ceiling like always. The glow from the streetlight outside catches his profile—the sharp jaw, the stubble he hasn't been shaving, the hollow look in eyes that used to sparkle with mischief.

"Hey," I say softly.

"Hey."

I sit on the edge of his bed. Don't touch—he's made it clear that touch isn't welcome. Just exist beside him in the darkness, breathing the same air, sharing the same silence.

"I miss you," I say. The honesty feels dangerous. Vulnerable in a way I haven't allowed myself to be lately.

He doesn't respond for a long time. When he does, his voice is barely audible, scraped raw by weeks of not using it properly.

"I miss me too."

The admission cracks something open. I want to hold him, to promise it's going to be okay, to fix this the way I've been trying to fix everything for weeks.

Instead, I just stay. Sit with him in the silence he's wrapped around himself. Let him feel my presence without demanding anything in return.

It's not enough. I know it's not enough.

But right now, it's all I have.

"I'm sorry," he whispers eventually. "For pushing you away. For pushing Axel away. I know I'm hurting both of you and I can't seem to stop."

"You don't have to apologize for being in pain."

"I'm not just in pain. I'm drowning. And every time you throw me a rope, I let go."

"Then we'll keep throwing." I risk reaching for his hand. He lets me take it. Small victory. "Until you're ready to hold on."

His fingers tighten around mine. Brief. Then release.

But it's something. The first something in weeks. A crack in the wall he's built, letting just a sliver of light through.

The ice is thin beneath us. Any moment, it could crack and send us all into freezing water.

But for tonight—just tonight—we're still standing.

I'll take that. I'll take whatever small victories I can get.

Tomorrow, we will try again.