Page 92 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"It's proof. That I'm his dad. That he's mine."
My chest squeezes. "Yeah. It is."
He looks at me. Something soft in his eyes. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For him. For. For giving me this. Even if you didn't mean to."
"Gunther—"
"I mean it. He's. He's the best thing that ever happened to me. And I know that sounds. Dramatic. Or. Or premature because I've only known for sure for five minutes but?—"
"I get it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I touch his arm. Brief. "He's the best thing that ever happened to me too."
We leave the clinic. Step into pale spring sunlight. The world looks. Different. Sharper. Like someone adjusted the contrast.
Gunther is Orry's dad.I have a co-parent. We're doing this.
Morning light slices through my apartment windows like an accusation. I've been awake since five. Made coffee. Remade coffee. Stress-cleaned the kitchen until the tiles gleamed. Reorganized Orry's toy bin by color because apparently I've caught Gunther's neuroses like a cold.
He's due in twenty minutes.
Our first official co-parenting meeting.
The phrase tastes foreign. Clinical. Like something from a custody handbook I never wanted to read.
Orry babbles from his playpen. Stacking blocks. Knocking them down. Rebuilding with the focused intensity of a tiny architect. He's wearing the green overalls with the duck patch. His hair's doing that thing where it sticks up at the crown no matter how much I smooth it.
He looks happy. Unbothered. Blissfully unaware that his entire world just got rewritten.
Lucky kid.
I check my phone. Again. No messages. Gunther said eight-thirty. It's eight-seventeen. He'll be early. He's always early.
Calm down. It's just a conversation. You've had thousands of conversations.
Right. Conversations. About scheduling. And boundaries. And whether two people who barely know each other can build a functional family unit from the wreckage of a one-night stand and fourteen months of mutual ignorance.
Piece of cake.
The knock comes at eight-twenty-four. I open the door.
Gunther stands there holding a messenger bag and two coffees from the cafe three blocks over. The good cafe. The one that uses actual beans and doesn't microwave their milk.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"I brought coffee. I didn't know how you take it so I got. Options." He produces a third cup from the bag. "This one's oat milk. This one's regular. And this is black with sugar on the side in case you wanted to?—"
"Gunther."
"Yeah?"
