Page 126 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"Not yet. But soon. In a few months, maybe."
"I teach her?" Hope lights up his whole face.
Gunther's grinning, that helpless delighted grin he gets when Orry says something particularly Orry. "You can teach her lots of things."
"I teach ABCs. And hewmets. And counting!" He's warming to the idea now, planning already.
"Perfect. She's lucky to have you."
Orry settles in. Sits cross-legged on the bed, watching her with absolute focus. Mesmerized by every tiny movement, every sleepy sound.
"I big brother," he announces after a long moment of study. Says it like he's trying the title on for size, seeing how it fits.
"Best big brother," I say, and mean it with everything I have.
He beams. That sunshine grin that could power the whole city.
The first weekhome's a blur.
Feedings every two hours. Diapers. Spit-up. Orry's jealous tantrums when Mara gets too much attention.
Gunther's on paternity leave. Thank god. He handles the logistics. Charts feeding times. Tracks diapers. Organizes visitors.
My mother shows up with casseroles. Gunther's mother brings traditional orcish baby gifts. Some kind of blessed blanket. A carved rattle.
The Sparkle regulars rotate shifts. Someone's always dropping off food or offering to hold the baby while I shower.
Colum stops by daily. Always with something ridiculous. A "World's Okayest Dad" mug. A tiny Fishborn Financial onesie. A baby book titledSpreadsheets for Infants.
"You've got to be kidding me," I say, taking the book from his hands and turning it over to read the back cover.
"I never joke about financial literacy," Colum replies with absolute sincerity, though there's a telltale twinkle in his eye.
"She's three days old, Colum. Three. She can't even focus her eyes yet."
"Never too early to start building good habits," he says, completely straight-faced.
Orry adaptsfaster than any of us expected, really.
He brings Mara toys, his favorites, the ones he usually hoards like a tiny dragon guarding treasure. Sings to her in his off-key toddler warble, the same songs Gunther hums during bath time. Pats her head with surprising gentleness when she cries, his small hand so careful it makes my chest ache.
"It okay, baby. Orry here."
And she quiets. Those crystal-green eyes, so like his, blink up at him with something that might be recognition. Might be trust.
"See, Mama? See, Daddy? She likes me."
"She loves you," Gunther says, his voice soft in that way that means he's holding back emotion.
"I love her too." Orry says it matter-of-factly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Which maybe it is.
One morning, I find Orry lying next to her on the play mat we've set up in the living room. He's making faces—tongue out, eyes crossed, the full theatrical production. And she's... smiling?
"Gunther. Get in here." I don't shout. Don't want to break whatever magic is happening.
He appears from the kitchen, dish towel still in hand. Sees them. Freezes mid-step.
"Is she?—"
