Page 20 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
But mostly I want this to be over.
Seventeen hours later, it is.
They place him on my chest, this tiny squirming creature with a shock of dark hair and skin that's just a shade too green to be fully human.
And he opens his eyes.
Crystal green. Bright and alert and absolutely his father's.
"Hi, Orry," I whisper.
He blinks at me, solemn and curious, and I fall completely, irrevocably in love. I enjoy the maternity time off, but all too soon I need to get back to work eight weeks after I gave birth.
Motherhood, it turns out, is less about glowing Instagram moments and more about surviving on three-hour sleep cycles while covered in substances I'd rather not identify.
Orry is two months old when I bring him to Sparkle Beauty for the first time.
Maren takes one look at the portable bassinet I'm lugging and immediately clears space behind the counter. "Oh my God, he's so tiny."
"He's actually pretty average." I settle the bassinet in the corner, tucking a blanket around Orry's sleeping form. "Pediatrician says he's tracking perfectly."
"Can I hold him?"
"When he wakes up. Fair warning, he's got a killer grip and zero concept of personal boundaries."
The morning passes in a blur of customer interactions punctuated by Orry's increasingly insistent hunger cues. I learn to nurse while restocking lipstick displays, change diapers between transactions, and perfect the art of one-handed customer service.
Mrs. Ellen, my regular who buys enough face masks to mummify herself twice over, peers into the bassinet with grandmotherly intensity. "Half-orc?"
"Yep."
"Beautiful boy. Strong features. He'll break hearts."
"He's already breaking my sleep schedule."
She laughs, presses a red envelope into my hand. "For good luck. My grandmother always said orc babies are the Plentiful God’s way of promising a prosperous harvest. You’ve got a lucky one there."
Inside is forty dollars and a dried flower I don't recognize.
"Mrs. Ellen, I can't?—"
"For the baby. Not for you. Big difference." She winks and leaves before I can argue.
By lunch, I've collected three more red envelopes, a hand-knitted blanket from the woman who runs the yarn shop twodoors down, and a freezer bag full of lactation cookies that taste like cardboard but apparently work miracles.
"You've got a village whether you want one or not," Maren observes, organizing the gifts into a pile.
"I noticed."
"Could be worse. Could be alone."
Orry awakes and stares at the ceiling with intense concentration. "Yeah. Could be worse."
The rhythm settlesinto something almost manageable.
Mornings at the shop with Orry in his bassinet, cooing at customers and occasionally screaming his head off for no discernible reason. Afternoons at home, laundry piling up while I try to nap when he naps and mostly fail. Evenings alone with a baby who's discovered he has a voice and likes using it.
My body is a roadmap of motherhood. Stretch marks, soft stomach, breasts that leak at inconvenient moments. I've stopped wearing anything that can't be immediately pulled down for nursing access.
