Hi guys! I stayed up all night, and wrote a little.
TW: unprotected sex with coworker, but not detailed mentioned, pregnancy, kinda raising the baby alone, manipulation from Daniel‘s side. Y/N.
Before you start reading this: It’s my first time writing a fic, also english isn’t my first language, so i used translator, not chat gpt. I wrote this whilst being high, so don’t expect too much. I’d like to hear a few feedbacks, so please let me know what i could do better! Have fun!
The restaurant hums with the low thrum of mid-afternoon chatter, clinking glasses and the faint scent of rosemary and butter drifting from the kitchen. You’re tucked into a corner booth, your one month-old babygirl, liora cradled in the crook of your arm, her warm little breaths puffing against your skin, she’s looking up to you with her big, innocent eyes. Every tiny sigh from her seems louder than the conversations around you, maybe because your nerves are coiled tight. Across from you, two mutual friends — old faces from the paddock — keep the conversation moving, laughing about something from last year’s race calendar. You smile when they glance your way, but you’re mostly focused on the slow, rhythmic pat of your hand on your daughter’s back. Then the door opens.
You feel it before you look — that shift in the air, the tiny prickle at the nape of your neck. When you finally glance up, he’s there. Daniel.Your teammate, the father of your baby girl. Easy grin, cap pulled low, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt and his shorts revealing that damn thigh tattoo you rode a few months ago. He spots your table almost instantly, that familiar flash of recognition lighting his eyes before his gaze drops… to the small bundle in your arms.
His smile falters.
You weren’t supposed to care what he thought — you told yourself that months ago when he made it clear he wanted no part in this. “Do what you want,” he’d said, voice flat, hands shoved into his pockets like he was keeping himself from touching you. “But I’m not getting involved.“, as if he wasn’t the father of liora.
Now, standing only a few feet away, he hesitates. The friends wave him over — they don’t know the whole story, just pieces, just enough to be awkward. He comes anyway, sliding into the empty seat beside them.
The air between you is thick. He leans back in his chair, trying to play it cool, eyes darting to the baby every few seconds. She stirs, letting out a tiny sound, and his jaw tenses just barely.
“You okay?” one of the friends asks him.
“Yeah,” Daniel says quickly, too quickly. His accent wraps around the word like it’s nothing, but there’s something else in his face; a flicker of uncertainty, of something unguarded.
You adjust your daughter Liora in your arms, brushing your thumb across her cheek. Her tiny fingers curl instinctively around you, as if she notices the tension, grounding you in a way no amount of preparation ever could.
For a moment, Daniel’s eyes soften. And then he looks away, reaching for the menu like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.
It’s not the time or place for a confrontation. You keep your gaze on your baby, pretending you don’t notice him looking again, pretending his presence doesn’t tighten every muscle in your chest.
But you do notice.
And you know he does too.
The meal passes in fragments — scattered laughter from your friends, the soft rustle of your baby against your chest, the occasional brush of Daniel’s gaze when he thinks you’re not looking. You can’t read him. Is it guilt? Curiosity? Something else entirely?
When the bill arrives, conversation shifts to weekend plans. You’re half-distracted, gathering the baby’s blanket and your diaper bag, when you catch Daniel watching you again, this time openly. There’s no smirk, no shield of charm. Just that steady, unreadable stare.
You excuse yourself first, murmuring a quick goodbye. The late afternoon air outside is warmer than you expect, sunlight gilding the quiet street. You’re halfway to your car when you hear his voice behind you.
“Hey.”
You stop, turning just enough to see him jog the last few steps. His hands are in his pockets again, head tilted slightly like he’s approaching a skittish animal. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Your daughter makes a soft, sleepy noise, and his eyes drop to her.
“She’s… tiny,” he says finally, almost to himself.
"She’s a month old,” you reply, adjusting her against your shoulder.
He swallows. “She looks like you.”
The comment is simple, but it lands heavier than it should. Maybe because he’s never once asked about her before.
You shift your weight, ready to walk away, when he takes a step closer. “I… I don’t know how to do this,” he admits quietly, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “And I don’t want to promise something I can’t give. But…” He hesitates, eyes flicking from you to liora and back again. “Can I—? Just for a second? Please, i just.. wanna see her.“
You study him, searching for some sign that this isn’t another half-hearted gesture he’ll regret. But his expression is bare, almost fragile.
Carefully, you pull the cozy blanket back from your daughter’s face. He doesn’t touch her — not yet — but he leans in, his breath catching at the tiny twitch of her lips, the soft rise and fall of her chest.
When he finally looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Not commitment, not certainty. But something.
“I’ll… see you around,” he says, stepping back and you just nod. His voice wavers, like he’s not entirely sure of it himself.
And then he’s gone, leaving you with the faint scent of his cologne and the unsettling sense that maybe — just maybe — the story isn’t as finished as you thought.
It’s just a few days after the dinner when you hear someone knocking on your door. Not the hurried, neighborly kind, but a slow, deliberate rhythm. You glance down at your daughter, sleeping in her bassinet, and debate ignoring it. But the knocking comes again — three measured taps, a pause, then one more.
When you open the door, he’s there.
Daniel.
He’s dressed down — hoodie, cap, no trace of the public persona he wears like armor. In one hand, he holds a small paper bag; in the other, a folded baby blanket that isn’t yours.
“I didn’t… plan this,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was cleaning out my place and found this. My mum knitted it when my sister had her first. Thought maybe…” He trails off, eyes darting toward the bassinet behind you.
You should tell him it’s late. That this is confusing, maybe even cruel. But something about the way he’s standing there — not cocky, not defensive, just raw and vulnerable — stops you.
“Come in,” you say, and he does.
The air shifts the moment he steps inside. He moves slowly, like he’s afraid to disturb something fragile. You take the blanket from him, soft and faintly scented of lavender, and lay it gently over your sleeping daughter.
“She’s so… quiet,” he murmurs, crouching beside the bassinet. His fingers hover above her, not quite touching. “Guess I thought babies screamed all the time.”
“They do,” you say with a small smile. “You just got lucky.”
For a moment, he just watches her. You can see the gears turning in his head — the way his shoulders sink a little, the way his breath slows. When he finally looks up at you, there’s something in his expression that makes your chest ache.
“I don’t know how to be this kind of person,” he admits. “But… I don’t think I can stay away either. Not after seeing her.. seeing my daughter.“
It’s not a promise. It’s not even an apology. But in his voice, there’s an edge of truth you didn’t expect.
He stands, lingering by the door before he leaves. “I’ll… check in soon,” he says, and this time it sounds less like a throwaway line and more like he means it.
"Dan-", but before you could say something, he was already away. You stand in the quiet, the blanket still warm in your hands, and realize — whether you want it or not — something has just shifted. Two weeks later, you’ve almost convinced yourself Daniel’s “I’ll check in soon” was just another polite exit line. Almost.
Then your phone buzzes.
You home?
You stare at the text, thumb hovering. Before you can decide how to answer, the next one comes.
I’m outside.
When you open the door, he’s leaning against the frame, one hand shoved in his hoodie pocket, the other holding a small box. “Diapers,” he says with a crooked grin. “Apparently you can never have too many.”
You let him in. It’s late — your daughter is already down for the night, the apartment dim except for the glow of the kitchen light. He sets the box on the counter, glancing around like he’s cataloging the changes since his last visit.
“She’s asleep?” he asks.
You nod. “Has been for an hour.”
There’s a beat of silence, thicker than the last time he was here. You can feel his eyes on you, that familiar heat from before — the one you thought you’d burned out months ago.
“She looks more like you every time I see her,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “But… she’s got my mouth.”
It’s meant to be light, but the way his voice dips on the last word sends something sharp through you. You take a slow breath, unsure if you’re more angry or more pulled in.
“You didn’t want this,” you remind him. Not as an accusation, but because you need to hear it out loud. "You left me alone, pregnant. Where i needed you the most.“
He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t think I could want this,” he says, voice low now. “Didn’t think I could want you again either.”
And there it is — the crack in his restraint. He’s closer now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand hovers at your waist, hesitating like he’s giving you the chance to stop him.
You don’t.
The first touch is tentative, almost testing — fingers brushing your hip before sliding to the small of your back. You feel him exhale, the tension in his body shifting into something darker, hungrier.
“Been thinking about that night,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your temple. “More than I should.. how you felt around me.. how you moaned my name..“
Your pulse stutters, the weight of his words thick in the quiet room. The air between you hums with the danger of falling back into something you swore you wouldn’t.
But when his lips finally find yours, it’s not careful. It’s months of denial collapsing all at once — heat and memory and the deep, messy truth of how you got here in the first place.
This time, though, there’s no pretending it’s just physical. Not with the Liora sleeping in the next room. Not with his hand curling around your side like he’s afraid to let go, pulling you closer to him.
You don’t remember moving from the kitchen to the couch, but somehow you’re there — you straddling him, his hoodie bunched in your hands, his mouth rough against yours, the low rumble of his voice when he breaks away just enough to breathe.
“You taste exactly like I remember,” he mutters, forehead resting against yours. “And I hate how much I’ve missed it.”
You almost laugh, but the sound catches in your throat when his hands skim your waist, your hips, pulling you closer. The world outside your apartment doesn’t exist — just the heat of his body and the quiet rise-and-fall of your daughter’s breathing from the next room.
It’s you who breaks the moment first. “She’s asleep,” you whisper, “but if you wake her—”
He smirks, slow and dangerous. “Guess I’ll have to be careful, then.”
What follows is a different kind of urgency than that one night months ago. Less reckless, more… deliberate. Every kiss is slower, every touch like he’s memorizing. When you finally pull away, flushed and breathless, he just sits there for a second — staring at you like you’re something he’s trying to figure out.
You half expect him to make some joke, to leave with that lopsided grin and a see you around. But instead, he leans back, arms stretched over the back of the couch, and says, “I’m not driving home tonight.”
You blink, tilt your head. “What?”
“I’m staying,” he says simply, and there’s no trace of the old casualness in his tone. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
It’s easier to argue than to admit the part of you that’s relieved. But when you glance toward the bassinet, you realize you don’t want him to leave. Not tonight. Not after you have him again.
Hours later, you wake to the faintest sound — not crying, just the restless little noises your daughter makes when she’s stirring. You slip out of bed, padding quietly into the living room.
And there he is.
Daniel, sitting on the couch with liora cradled against his chest, one big hand supporting her small head, the other gently rubbing her back. He’s wearing just his boxer now, hair mussed from sleep, voice barely a whisper as he hums something under his breath.
“She’s alright,” he says when he notices you, but he doesn’t hand her over. Instead, he looks at you with a strange softness you’ve never seen in him before. “Go back to bed. I’ve got her. Go and take your long needed rest and sleep.“
You should tell him no, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you just stand there, watching the way she fits against him, looking up at her father with her curios and innocent eyes and realize that whether you’re ready or not — he’s already started to fit here too.
It’s the smell of coffee that wakes you.
Not the instant stuff you usually manage one-handed while holding the baby — real coffee, rich and dark, filling the air.
For a second you forget he stayed. Then you hear the soft clink of a mug being set on the counter and the low hum of a man talking to himself.
You pad into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing the oversized tee you grabbed before bed. And there he is — Daniel — barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, pouring coffee into two mugs like he’s done it a hundred times in your kitchen.
“Morning,” he says, without turning. Like he’s been here a thousand times. Like this is normal.
You lean against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re still here.”
He glances over his shoulder, smirking just a little. “You say that like you weren’t secretly hoping I would be.”
Your baby is in her bouncer on the floor, alert and quiet, eyes fixed on him as he moves. He notices too, crouching down to tap her tiny foot gently. “She was my alarm clock,” he says, “though I think she likes me better than you do right now.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You don’t get to charm your way into this.”
But the truth is, he already has.
He hands you a mug, the heat sinking into your palms. “I thought I’d make breakfast,” he says casually, opening your fridge like he owns the place. “You’ve got eggs. Bread. Cheese. We could do toasted sandwiches?”
You stare at him — not because of the offer, but because of the way he says we.
When you don’t answer right away, he glances back at you, expression softening. “I’m not trying to… bulldoze my way in,” he says. “I just… last night felt right. This..” he gestures between the three of you, "..feels right.”
It’s too much, too fast, and yet your chest aches with the truth of it. You sip your coffee to buy time, but when your daughter lets out a small, impatient whimper, he’s the one who steps forward, scooping her up with surprising ease.
“Hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, settling her against his shoulder. His voice drops, instinctively soothing, and you catch yourself wondering when the hell he learned to hold a baby like that.
You could tell him to leave after breakfast. You could tell him not to come back.
But as you watch him sway gently in your kitchen, messy curls falling into his eyes, her small hand gripping his hoodie — you realize you’re not going to.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
