you got the worst timing
Pairing: Stack x Reader (past fling) | Stack & Baby Elijah (Choc) | Stack & Smoke (brother dynamic)
Summary: Stack built his life on detachment. Nights that blurred, names that didn’t stick, and exits that came easy by morning. So when a baby shows up on his doorstep with nothing but a note and a claim he can’t verify, denial comes first, then chaos, then something he never planned for. While waiting on DNA results, Stack stumbles through fatherhood with more attitude than skill, leaning on his twin Smoke as they fumble through diapers, bottles, and sleepless nights. But somewhere between the noise, the mess, and the quiet moments he didn’t expect, the situation stops feeling temporary. And when the truth finally arrives, it doesn’t just give him answers; it forces him to face the fact that something permanent has already taken root.
Warnings: themes of abandonment (child left by mother), unplanned parenthood, emotional vulnerability, light angst, humor, depiction of immature behavior evolving into responsibility, mentions of past casual relationships, domestic chaos, soft fatherhood themes
The bass was still a deep, physical pulse against Stack's ribs when he kicked his front door shut, the sound chasing him inside like it wasn't done with him yet. Laughter bled through the hallway walls, distant, dissolving into the hum of his apartment settling back into its bones. The night clung to him—top-shelf whiskey sharp on his tongue, someone else's floral perfume tangled in his shirt collar, the kind of energy that didn't fade easily, just settled under his skin like a low-grade fever.
She was already inside before he made it to the kitchen.
No invitation.
No hesitation.
Just slipped past him like she owned the place, like she'd been mapping his space in her head for weeks. Stack watched her move, slow, assessing, head tilted as she navigated his apartment like she belonged there. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. The thought barely registered.
"Make yourself at home then," he drawled, voice rough from smoke and amusement.
She laughed, kicking off stilettos that landed with two soft thumps near the couch, the sound light and easy like this was just another Tuesday, just another him. "Don't act like you didn't bring me here for exactly this," she shot back, glancing over her shoulder with eyes that already knew the answer.
Stack smirked, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the counter. He didn't confirm. Didn't deny.
Didn't need to.
The space between them closed the way it always did, magnetic, unspoken, predictable in a way that never felt boring. Hands found places they shouldn't linger in public, voices dropped lower, laughter melting into something softer, something slower. Her dress pooled on his floor like black water. His shirt followed. The night blurred at the edges, sharp focus narrowing to skin on skin, the way her breath hitched when his teeth grazed her collarbone, the taste of sweat and expensive perfume as he flipped her over his kitchen counter, the cool marble against her stomach making her arch back into him.
Fast until it wasn't.
Then morning came.
Pale light sliced through the blinds, cutting across the room in thin lines that landed across tangled sheets, across skin already cooling in the air conditioning. The apartment felt different in daylight. Quieter. Realer.
Stack was already up.
Jeans zipped but unbuckled, moving around the room with the same ease he always had, like this part was routine, like none of this required thought. He pulled his shirt over his head, glanced once toward the bed where she was still watching him with eyes that held morning vulnerability, the kind that wanted more than the night had promised.
"You always leave this early?" she asked, voice thick with sleep as she pushed up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to expose the bite marks purpling on her shoulder.
Stack didn't look at her right away. Just reached for his keys, patting his pockets like he always did, making sure everything was where it needed to be.
"Got shit to do," he said simply.
It wasn't rude.
It wasn't gentle either.
It just... was.
She watched him for a second longer, like she was deciding whether to push it, whether to demand the morning-after tenderness she thought she'd earned.
"You gon' hit me later?" she asked, a little smile tugging at her lips like she already knew the script but wanted to hear it anyway.
Stack finally looked at her then.
Not long.
Just enough.
"Yeah," he said, already turning away as he spoke. "I'll hit you."
He wouldn't.
They both knew it.
But it sounded good in the moment, and that was usually enough.
His phone buzzed on the counter as he headed toward the door, lighting up with a name he didn't bother reacting to. Then another. And another.
He glanced down, thumb swiping across the screen, scrolling without urgency. Different names. Different conversations. Same tone.
Options.
Always options.
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth as he leaned against the doorframe, typing something quick back, already moving on before the message was even fully sent.
Behind him, she shifted in the bed, the sound soft, almost forgotten already.
Stack opened the door, stepping out into the hallway like nothing inside that apartment had weight to it, as it all stayed behind the moment he left.
No attachments. No follow-ups. No consequences. Just another night. Just another name. And nothing that stuck.
The pounding didn't stop.
It hammered through his skull like a jackhammer, loud, insistent, echoing through the walls of his apartment in a way that didn't match the lazy afternoon sun already painting stripes across his floor. Stack groaned into his pillow, one arm thrown over his face as if that alone might block it out. His head was still heavy from the night before, bourbon and someone else's perfume lingering on his skin, body slow, mind not fully caught up to the fact that morning had come, whether he was ready or not.
Then it came again. Harder. Followed by something else. A sound that didn't belong. High. Sharp. Persistent.
Stack's eyes cracked open, brows pulling together as he lay there for a second, listening. The knocking stopped.
The other sound didn't.
A baby.
Crying.
He pushed himself up slowly, blinking against the light creeping through his blinds, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. His apartment wasn't the type of place babies just... showed up in. It was the kind of place women slipped out of before dawn, not the kind where responsibility arrived unannounced. He sat there for a second longer than he should have, like maybe if he stayed still enough, the sound would go away on its own.
It didn't.
"Man, what the hell..." he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cold under his feet as he made his way toward the door, each step slower than the last, irritation building with every cry that echoed through the hallway outside. He didn't rush. Didn't think he needed to.
He opened the door halfway.
And stopped.
A baby carrier sat right there on his doorstep.
Small.
Still.
Except for the baby inside it—a perfect ball of chocolate with cheeks so full they looked like they might overflow, face scrunched up tight as it cried like it had been waiting on him specifically. The baby couldn't have been more than six months old, with skin the color of rich cocoa and fists balled up tight like tiny weapons.
Stack stared at it.
Then down the hallway.
Empty.
Dead quiet.
No footsteps. No elevator ding. No sign of anybody who might've left it there.
"...Nah," he said under his breath, like saying it out loud might undo whatever he was looking at.
He looked back at the baby.
The baby looked back.
Still crying.
Stack opened the door wider, stepping out just enough to glance both directions again, like somebody might pop out and claim this as a joke.
Nothing.
Just him.
And the baby.
"Yeah, aight," he muttered, running a hand over his head. "Y'all got the wrong door."
The baby didn't care.
It cried louder.
Stack exhaled sharply, crouching down like he wasn't fully committing to the situation yet. His eyes caught the folded piece of paper tucked into the side of the carrier.
He hesitated.
Then grabbed it.
Unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the words once.
Then again.
Slower this time.
"I'm not ready to be a mom.
He's yours."
Stack blinked.
Looked back at the baby.
Then at the note.
Then back at the baby again.
"...He?" he said out loud, voice flat with disbelief.
The baby hiccupped mid-cry like it was answering him, those chubby cheeks jiggling with the sound.
"Yours?"
His head tilted slightly, confusion shifting fast into irritation.
"WHO?"
The word echoed louder than he meant it to, bouncing off the hallway walls.
The baby flinched.
Then cried harder, little tears tracking paths through that perfect chocolate skin.
Stack cursed under his breath, looking down at the carrier like it had personally offended him.
"Nah, nah, nah," he muttered, shaking his head as he stood back up. "This ain't... this ain't mine."
But he didn't close the door.
Didn't walk away.
Didn't leave it sitting there either.
The crying didn't give him that option.
He crouched again, slower this time, staring at the baby like it might explain itself if he looked long enough. The baby had eyes the color of warm honey, now swimming in tears, and a shock of soft curls that were already damp with sweat.
It didn't.
It just kept crying.
Loud.
Relentless.
Stack exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed now, one hand bracing against his knee as the other hovered awkwardly over the carrier.
"...Aight," he muttered. "Aight, shut up. Damn."
He reached down.
Paused.
Adjusted his grip like he wasn't sure what part of it he was supposed to hold.
Then picked the carrier up like it might explode if he moved too fast.
The crying didn't stop.
If anything, it got worse.
Stack stiffened immediately, arms locking in place as he held the baby out slightly, like distance might help. It didn't. He froze. Standing there in his doorway. Holding a crying baby. Looking like he had absolutely no idea what the hell to do next.
Stack made it three steps into his apartment before he stopped.
Just stood there. Door still open behind him. Baby was still crying in his hands like it had something to prove. He looked down at it slowly, like maybe the angle would change something.
It didn't.
"...Nah," he said again, quieter this time, like he was trying to convince himself instead of the empty hallway. "Nah, this ain't... this ain't right."
The baby cried harder, those chocolate cheeks turning blotchy with effort.
Stack's jaw tightened.
"Aight, aight, I hear you," he muttered, shifting the carrier awkwardly from one arm to the other like it was a hot potato. "Damn, you loud. You got lungs on you, I'll give you that."
He nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click echoing a little too final for his liking. Now it was just him. And the baby. Inside. Stack froze again for a second. Then immediately started pacing.
Back and forth across his living room, like movement would solve something his brain hadn't caught up to yet, the carrier bumping against his leg with every other step.
"This gotta be a mistake," he muttered, more to himself than anything. "Somebody got the wrong Stack. Ain't no way. I use protection. Mostly."
The baby cried.
Unimpressed.
Stack ran a hand over his face, already stressed, already irritated, already overwhelmed, and he hadn't even made it ten minutes into this situation.
"Aight... think," he said, pointing at the floor like he was addressing himself in a meeting. "Think."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Then he started talking.
Out loud.
To the baby.
"You got the wrong one," he said, pacing again, shaking his head. "It ain't me. I don't even be... like that. I'm the wrong kind of nigga for this parenting shit. You need a responsible one. Maybe my brother Elijah? He's the calm one. I'm the... other one."
The baby let out a sharp cry that sounded a lot like disagreement.
Stack stopped mid-step.
"...Don't do that," he said, pointing at it now. "Don't do that like you know somethin'. You can't even talk yet."
The baby kept crying.
Louder.
Stack sucked his teeth, frustration climbing fast as he shifted the carrier again, grip awkward, unsure.
"Aight," he muttered. "Aight, let's run this back. Let's make a list."
He started pacing again.
"Keisha?" he said, thinking out loud. "Nah. Keisha moved to Houston. And she had that little dog—she wouldn't even... nah."
The baby cried.
"Right," he said quickly, nodding like the baby confirmed it. "Exactly. Not her."
He kept going.
"Jasmine?"
Pause.
His face twisted.
"...Nah. Jasmine don't even like kids. She told me that. Like, aggressively. Said if she ever got pregnant she'd 'take care of it' if you know what I mean. And I did not stick around to ask questions."
The baby cried again.
"See?" he said, gesturing like he was making a point. "You hear that? She don't like you. You dodged a bullet with that one, little man."
The baby wailed louder.
"Damn, aight!" Stack snapped, immediately scrubbing a hand over his face again. "You ain't gotta take it personal. I'm just trying to figure out who your mama is so I can return you like defective merchandise."
He kept pacing.
"Brianna?" he tried next, slower this time. "Wait..."
He stopped.
Thinking.
Then shook his head.
"Nah, Brianna had a boyfriend. I remember that. She was stressin' him out, not me. Plus she was allergic to latex, so we used... other methods. Very thorough methods."
The baby cried.
Relentless.
Stack exhaled hard, chest rising and falling faster now as the noise started to get to him.
"This don't make no sense," he muttered. "Y'all just be droppin' kids off like it's Amazon or somethin'? I ain't order this. I didn't even get a confirmation email."
The baby did not care.
Stack stopped pacing and looked down at it again, really looked this time, like he was trying to find answers in its face.
All he saw was a tiny human screaming like the world was ending.
"...Aight," he said slowly, voice dropping like he was about to negotiate. "What you need? You hungry? You wet? You need to... I don't know, burp or some shit?"
The baby screamed louder.
Stack blinked.
"...That ain't helpful," he muttered.
He shifted again, trying to adjust how he held the carrier, then frowned like something about it felt off.
"Do I... take you out?" he asked, genuinely unsure. "Is that allowed? Like, are you supposed to stay in there until you're 18 or some shit?"
The baby cried.
Stack looked around his apartment like answers might be sitting on his couch.
Nothing. No instructions. No manual. Just him.
"Man..." he muttered under his breath.
He crouched down slightly, setting the carrier on the couch like he was defusing something dangerous.
The crying didn't stop.
If anything, it echoed louder in the space now that it wasn't moving.
"Aight, aight," he said quickly, hands hovering over the baby like he was about to perform surgery with no training. "I got you. I got you."
He didn't. He reached in. Paused.
Then awkwardly slid his hands under the baby, lifting it out with stiff, uncertain movements like he was afraid it might break.
The crying spiked immediately.
Stack stiffened.
"Oh nah," he said, eyes widening. "See? I knew I shouldn't have did that. You don't like it out here. Okay, back in you go."
He started to put the baby back in the carrier, but the baby's tiny fist caught on his chain, yanking it hard.
"Ow! Damn, little man, you strong as hell!" Stack yelped, fumbling to free himself while keeping the baby from falling. "Aight, aight, you win! You can stay out."
He held the baby out slightly, arms locked again.
"Hey," he said, trying a different tone, like talking to an adult. "Relax. You good. Ain't nothin' happenin'. We just gonna figure this out. Adult to... tiny adult."
The baby screamed.
Louder.
Stack grimaced.
"Okay, so that don't work," he muttered.
He tried rocking it.
Too fast. Too stiff. Like he was shaking a problem loose.
The baby hated that. Cried even harder.
"Aight—damn!" he snapped, immediately slowing down, panicking now. "Aight, my fault, my fault. Too much. Got it."
He tried bouncing next.
Then patting.
Then just... holding it.
None of it worked.
"Man, you hungry?" he asked suddenly, like that might be it. "You want some water?"
He paused.
Blinking.
"...You don't drink water, do you? You probably need that... what's it called... milk? Formula? I don't have none of that. I got almond milk for my smoothies. You want almond milk? It's vanilla flavored."
The baby screamed.
"Yeah, that sounded stupid when I said it," he muttered quickly.
He started pacing again, baby in his arms now, movements uneven, energy frantic.
"Aight, what else babies do?" he said, thinking out loud. "Eat. Sleep. Cry. You already cryin' so what that leave?"
The baby answered by crying louder.
Stack stopped.
Closed his eyes for a second.
Took a breath.
Then opened them again, looking down at the baby like he was out of options.
"...Nah," he said finally, shaking his head slowly, exhaustion and disbelief settling in at the same time. "Nah... this ain't mine."
But he didn't put it down. Didn't walk away. Just stood there. Holding it. Stressed. Overwhelmed. And very, very aware that the situation wasn't going anywhere.
Stack didn't even think about it. He just grabbed his phone. Still pacing.
Still holding the baby like it was a problem he couldn't put down.
The crying hadn't stopped, just shifted, louder in some moments, quieter in others, but constant enough to sit right behind his eyes like pressure.
He scrolled through his contacts too fast, thumb flicking with no patience until he found the one name that made the most sense in a situation that didn't make any.
Smoke.
He hit call immediately.
Didn't even think twice.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then picked up.
"...What?" Smoke's voice came through rough with sleep, irritated in a way that said this better be worth it.
"Pull up," Stack said instantly.
No explanation.
No context.
Just urgency.
Smoke went quiet for a second.
"...Why?"
"Just pull up," Stack repeated, sharper this time, pacing faster now as the baby let out another sharp cry right against his chest. "I got a situation."
There was a pause.
Then—
"...What kind of situation?"
Stack stopped pacing just long enough to look down at the baby like it might answer for him.
"It's a baby," he said flatly.
Silence.
"...What?"
"A baby," Stack repeated, already irritated at having to explain it out loud. "Like a real one. Small. Loud. In my house."
Another pause. Longer this time. Then Smoke laughed. Not a small laugh either.
A full one.
"Man, get the fuck off my phone," he said, clearly not believing him.
"I'm dead serious," Stack snapped, shifting the baby again as it cried harder. "Somebody left this baby at my door."
That got his attention.
"...You serious?"
"Yes!"
The baby cried again, loud enough for it to carry through the phone.
Smoke went quiet.
Then—
"...I'll be there in ten."
The line clicked.
Stack didn't move for a second.
Just stood there, breathing heavier than he realized, the weight of the baby settling into his arms whether he wanted it to or not.
"...Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Hurry up."
By the time Smoke knocked, Stack was still pacing.
Same spot.
Same path worn into the floor.
Baby still crying.
Energy still frantic.
He opened the door quickly this time, like relief was standing on the other side.
Smoke stepped in slow.
Took one look at Stack.
Then, at the baby.
Then back at Stack.
And blinked.
"...Oh, you wasn't lyin'," he said, voice flat with disbelief.
Stack didn't even respond.
Just held the baby out slightly like he was passing off a problem.
"Take it," he said.
Smoke stepped back immediately.
"Hell no."
Stack frowned.
"What you mean hell no?"
"I mean hell no," Smoke repeated, holding his hands up like that boundary was solid. "That's yours."
"I don't know that," Stack shot back instantly. "That's the whole problem."
The baby cried.
Right between them.
Smoke winced slightly.
"...Damn, he loud," he muttered.
"Man, I said that already," Stack snapped.
They both stood there for a second.
Looking at the baby.
Listening to it cry.
Neither moving.
"...Why you holdin' him like that?" Smoke asked finally.
Stack glanced down.
"...Like what?"
"Like he finna explode," Smoke said.
"...He might," Stack muttered.
Smoke huffed a quiet laugh, stepping a little closer now, curiosity winning over hesitation.
"...Lemme see," he said.
Stack hesitated.
Then, slowly and awkwardly, he shifted the baby toward him.
Smoke reached out.
Paused.
Adjusted his hands.
Then took the baby like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
Which he didn't.
The baby cried harder.
Smoke stiffened immediately.
"...Oh nah," he said quickly, eyes widening. "He don't like me."
Stack snorted.
"He don't like me either."
Smoke tried rocking him.
Too slow.
Then too fast.
Then stopped altogether.
"...Aight, I don't like this," he said, handing the baby right back.
Stack took him automatically.
Like it wasn't even a question anymore.
They both paused.
"...So what babies need?" Smoke asked, looking around like the answer might be sitting on the counter.
Stack stared at him.
"...You the one with ideas."
"I ain't got no ideas," Smoke shot back. "I just came to see what the hell you talkin' about."
The baby cried.
Louder.
Stack groaned.
"Aight, Google it," he said, nodding toward Smoke's phone.
Smoke pulled it out, already typing.
"...Why baby cryin' so much?" he read out loud.
They both leaned in slightly.
Like this was serious.
Like the answer mattered.
"...It says they cry when they hungry, tired, or need a diaper change," Smoke said.
Stack blinked.
"...That's all of it."
"Yeah," Smoke said, scrolling. "That don't help."
The baby cried again.
Relentless.
Stack shifted him, trying again, bouncing a little softer this time.
"...Try holdin' him different," Smoke suggested.
Stack adjusted. Carefully. Awkwardly. But slower this time. Less panicked.
The crying…
Hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then lowered.
Just a little.
Both of them froze.
"...You hear that?" Smoke said quietly.
Stack didn't respond.
Didn't move.
Just held the baby exactly how he was.
The crying softened.
Not gone. But less. Breathier.
Like it was running out of energy.
Stack's shoulders dropped slightly without him realizing it.
Smoke leaned in a little.
"...Don't move," he whispered.
"I ain't movin'," Stack muttered back.
They stood there.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
The baby let out one more small sound.
Then…
Quiet. Not fully asleep. But calm.
For the first time.
Stack blinked down at him. Smoke blinked too.
Neither said anything for a second.
Then Smoke let out a slow breath.
"...We did that?"
Stack shook his head slightly.
"...I don't know what just happened."
They both stared at the baby.
Like they just survived something.
Like they didn't trust it to last.
And for the first time since it started…
It was quiet.
Smoke stepped closer, tilting his head as he really looked at the baby for the first time. His eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with realization.
"Damn," he said quietly, a slow grin spreading across his face. "He look just like you."
Stack frowned, glancing down at the baby's face. "What you talkin' about?"
"The mouth," Smoke said, pointing with his chin. "Same pout you had when we were little. And those cheeks... man, you were a big-ass crybaby too. Cried over everything. Couldn't find your favorite toy? Cry. Mama wouldn't give you extra dessert? Cry. I pushed you in the mud? Cry for an hour straight."
Stack shot him a look. "I didn't cry for an hour."
"You cried until Mama gave you that special attention," Smoke shot back. "This little dude got your exact same 'the world is ending' cry face. Look at that bottom lip sticking out. That's all you, bruh."
Stack rolled his eyes but kept looking at the baby, really seeing it this time. The resemblance was undeniable.
"Whatever," he muttered. "That don't tell me who his mama is."
Smoke's expression sobered slightly. "Yeah, about that." He crossed his arms. "Who the hell did you knock up? And don't say you don't know, 'cause I know your count better than you do."
Stack shifted the baby, now more comfortable in his arms. "I been thinkin' about that. Keisha moved to Houston. Jasmine don't even like kids. Brianna had a boyfriend..."
Smoke shook his head. "Nah, none of them would do this. This feels... personal. Like somebody who knows you enough to know you'd be home this morning, but don't know you well enough to know you ain't equipped for this."
Stack frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means somebody who thought you'd step up," Smoke said simply. "Somebody who believed in you more than you believe in yourself."
Stack looked away, jaw tight. "Ain't nobody ask for this."
"Well somebody asked for something nine months ago," Smoke shot back. "And now you got consequences showing up at your door like a Domino's order you didn't remember placing."
The baby stirred slightly, letting out a soft whimper. Both men froze, watching until he settled again.
"You need to get a DNA test," Smoke said quietly. "As soon as possible. And you need to figure out who left him here."
Stack nodded slowly. "I know."
"You also need to figure out what you're gonna do with him in the meantime," Smoke added, gesturing toward the baby. "'Cause he ain't going nowhere until you do."
Stack looked down at the baby's face, peaceful now in sleep, those chocolate cheeks still puffy from crying. For the first time, he didn't see just a problem; he saw a tiny version of himself, complete with the same dramatic flair and need for attention.
"Damn," he muttered. "I really was a crybaby, huh?"
Smoke laughed softly. "The biggest. But you grew out of it." He paused, then added, "Mostly."
Stack shot him a look but didn't argue.
"So what we doin' now?" Smoke asked.
Stack looked around his apartment, suddenly seeing it differently. Not as his space, but as a space that wasn't equipped for a baby.
"First," he said, determination replacing panic in his voice. "We figure out what babies need. For real this time."
Smoke nodded, pulling out his phone again. "Aight. 'What to buy for a six-month-old emergency baby situation'."
Stack snorted but leaned in to look at the screen with him, the baby still sleeping peacefully in his arms, completely unaware that he'd just changed everything.
Smoke's thumbs flew across his phone screen, eyes squinting as he scrolled through what seemed like an endless list of baby supplies.
"Aight," he said finally. "Diapers. Wipes. Formula. Bottles. Something called a 'burp cloth'—the hell is that? And... baby food? He six months, right? He probably eatin' solids or some shit."
Stack adjusted the baby in his arms, the little guy starting to stir again. "Just get the essentials. And hurry. I think he's about to wake up fully."
"I'm on it," Smoke said, already heading for the door. "Don't do nothing stupid while I'm gone."
"No promises," Stack muttered, watching the door close behind his brother.
Five minutes later, the baby's eyes fluttered open. Five minutes after that, he was crying again.
"Aw, hell no," Stack muttered, bouncing him gently. "We was doing so good. Don't do this to me, little man."
The baby responded by crying louder, his face scrunching up like he'd just witnessed the world's greatest injustice.
"Aight, aight, what is it?" Stack said, pacing again. "You hungry? 'Cause uncle Smoke comin' with the goods. You wet? 'Cause I ain't figured out how to check that yet. You just missin' your mama? 'Cause I can't help you there either."
The baby cried harder.
Stack groaned. "This is exactly why I wrap it up. Every time. Except for that one time with... actually, there was like five times I didn't. But four of them were in the shower, so that don't count, right?"
The baby didn't answer.
Just kept crying.
Twenty minutes later, Smoke bust back in with three plastic bags hanging from each arm.
"I got everything," he announced, dropping the bags on the counter. "And the lady at the store looked at me like I was a kidnapper. Had to explain this was an emergency situation."
"Did you tell her it was your nephew?" Stack asked, still bouncing the crying baby.
Smoke paused. "Nah, I just said it was complicated. Which part of these is the diapers?"
"The ones that look like little underwear," Stack said, nodding toward one of the packages.
Smoke ripped open the package, pulling out a diaper that looked way too big for the tiny human currently screaming his head off.
"Aight, let's do this," Smoke said, determination in his eyes. "You hold him, I'll change him."
Stack carefully laid the baby on the couch, but the moment he let go, the crying intensified.
"Damn," Smoke muttered. "He really don't like being put down."
"Then hurry up," Stack said, hovering over them. "Before he shatters my eardrums."
Smoke knelt down, fumbling with the diaper. "Aight, first we gotta take the old one off. But how do I... like, do I just rip these sides?"
"Man, how would I know?" Stack snapped. "I thought you was the one with ideas, Mr. Google."
"I'm the one who went to the store!" Smoke shot back, finally figuring out how to release the tabs on the dirty diaper. He peeled it back slowly, then immediately recoiled.
"Oh HELL no," he yelled, jumping back. "That's poop! That's actual poop on my hand!"
Stack burst out laughing. "Welcome to parenthood, Uncle Smoke."
"Don't call me that!" Smoke yelled, running to the sink. "This is disgusting! Why is it so... mustard-colored? And why is it everywhere?"
"It's a baby, Smoke," Stack said, still laughing as he tried to keep the baby from rolling off the couch. "What did you expect, roses?"
"I expected it to stay contained!" Smoke yelled, scrubbing his hands frantically. "That's what diapers are for! To contain! This one failed its one job!"
"Maybe you put it on wrong," Stack suggested.
"I ain't put it on at all! This was the previous one!" Smoke shot back, finally clean but still looking traumatized. "I ain't touching him again. You do it."
"I ain't touchin' no poop!" Stack yelled back.
"You gotta!" Smoke yelled. "He's your son!"
"You the uncle!" Stack yelled back. "Uncles do stuff like this!"
Smoke paused, hands still dripping. "When did I agree to be the uncle?"
"When you walked through that door," Stack said firmly. "Now grab a wipe and help me."
Smoke sighed dramatically, grabbing the container of wipes and pulling one out. "This is the nastiest shit I've ever done."
"Just hurry," Stack said, finally managing to hold the baby's legs up. "I think he's about to go again."
"Don't say that!" Smoke yelled, quickly wiping the baby's butt with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb. "Aight, clean. Now what?"
"Now put the new diaper on," Stack instructed.
Smoke fumbled with the clean diaper, finally getting it positioned. "How tight is it supposed to be?"
"I don't know," Stack said. "Tight enough to hold stuff, loose enough for him to breathe?"
Smoke managed to get the diaper fastened, but it was crooked and barely contained the baby's chunky thighs.
"Well, it's on," Smoke declared, standing up. "That's a win."
The baby immediately started crying again.
"What now?" Stack groaned, picking him up. "We changed you, rocked you... what else you want?"
"Maybe he's hungry," Smoke suggested, pulling out the can of formula. "How do we make this?"
The instructions on the can might as well have been in another language for all the sense they made to two men who'd never mixed formula in their lives.
"It say mix two scoops with six ounces of water," Smoke read, squinting at the tiny print.
"Where we get six ounces of water?" Stack asked.
"From the sink?" Smoke suggested, as if it were obvious.
"I don't think that's right," Stack said. "Ain't it supposed to be... sterile or some shit?"
Smoke looked around the kitchen, then spotted a water bottle on the counter. "Aight, this water is purified. That's close to sterile, right?"
"Close enough," Stack decided, already trying to get the baby to take the bottle nipple.
The baby refused.
Turned his head.
Cried harder.
"He don't want it," Stack said, frustrated.
"Maybe the milk is too cold?" Smoke suggested.
"Or too hot?" Stack countered.
"Or maybe he just don't like your delivery," Smoke shot back. "Let me try."
Smoke took the bottle, but the baby refused him too.
"Man, what is wrong with him?" Smoke asked, exasperated.
"Maybe he ain't a formula baby," Stack said, pacing again. "Maybe he needs... real food?"
Smoke pulled out a jar of baby food peaches. "Aight, let's try this."
Stack managed to get the baby seated, though he kept trying to stand up. Smoke dipped the tiny spoon in the jar and approached cautiously.
"Aight, little man," he said softly. "Just a taste."
The baby opened his mouth.
Smoke spooned in a tiny amount of peach puree.
The baby's face scrunched up in confusion.
Then he smiled.
Then he grabbed the spoon.
Then he smeared peaches everywhere.
In his hair.
On his clothes.
On Stack's arm.
On Smoke's face.
"OH FUCK NO!" Smoke yelled, jumping back again. "Not again! Why is everything so messy?"
"That's what babies do!" Stack yelled back, trying to contain the chaos. "They make messes!"
"Why didn't nobody tell us that?" Smoke yelled, wiping peach puree from his cheek. "His ass should come with a warning label!"
They finally managed to get most of the peaches into the baby's mouth, though they both looked like they'd been in a food fight by the end of it.
The baby, however, seemed satisfied. His crying stopped. His eyes drooped.
And just as Stack was cleaning peach puree from his own arm, the baby's head lolled forward onto his chest.
And everything went quiet. Stack froze. Smoke froze.
They both looked at the baby, now asleep against Stack's chest, tiny breaths warm against his skin.
"Don't move," Smoke whispered.
"I ain't movin'," Stack whispered back.
They stood there for a full minute.
Just watching.
Just breathing.
Stack looked down at the baby's face, peaceful now in sleep, those chocolate cheeks still smudged with peach puree, tiny fists curled against his chest.
"...Man," he said softly, so quiet Smoke almost didn't hear him.
Smoke stepped closer, looking down at the baby too. "Yeah," he said quietly. "He really is your mini-me, huh?"
Stack didn't answer. Just kept looking at the baby. Like he was seeing him for the first time. Not as a problem. Not as a mistake. But as his.
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of chaos, exhaustion, and moments neither brother would admit were actually kind of sweet.
It started with the baby waking them both at 3 a.m. with a cry so piercing it cut through Stack's expensive sound system still playing softly in the background. They stumbled through a diaper change that left both men questioning their life choices, followed by a bottle feeding that ended with formula on the ceiling; neither could explain how it got there.
By morning, they'd figured out the baby's schedule: cry, eat, poop, sleep, repeat. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes all at once.
Stack tried to maintain his distance, calling himself "the babysitter" and referring to the baby as "the situation." Smoke, meanwhile, had fully embraced his role as "uncle," even though he still flinched every time the baby made a sound that suggested another diaper change was imminent.
They took turns holding the baby when he cried, discovered he liked being bounced gently while watching sports highlights, and learned the hard way that babies can projectile vomit without warning.
By the second night, both men were running on caffeine and desperation, the apartment littered with baby supplies and takeout containers they hadn't had time to throw away.
"You know," Smoke said around 2 a.m. as they both stared at the baby sleeping in a laundry basket padded with pillows (the makeshift crib Stack had refused to buy), "we've been calling him everything but his name."
Stack didn't look away from the baby. "His name wasn't on the letter."
"So we gotta name him?" Smoke asked, a hint of panic in his voice.
"I ain't naming him," Stack said immediately. "I'm the maybe daddy. Maybe daddies don't name babies."
Smoke snorted. "Maybe Daddy? That's what you're going with?"
"Until the test results come back," Stack confirmed. "Then I'll be the definitely not daddy or the oh shit daddy."
"Well, we can't keep calling him 'the baby' or 'chocolate baby' or 'little dude' forever," Smoke pointed out. "What are we gonna call him?"
Stack shrugged. "I don't know. Baby John Doe?"
Smoke rolled his eyes. "We're not calling him that. And we're definitely not naming him after you."
"What's wrong with naming him after me?" Stack asked, genuinely offended.
"Everything," Smoke said flatly. "The world does not need another Elias 'Stack' Moore. One of you is more than enough, trust me."
Stack shot him a look but didn't argue.
They fell silent again, both watching the baby sleep.
"You know," Smoke said quietly, "you've been acting like a dad even if you won't admit it."
Stack frowned. "How?"
"You check on him every five minutes when he's sleeping," Smoke pointed out. "You bought that expensive baby formula when the store brand was right next to it. You're currently sitting here watching him sleep instead of getting your own rest. That's dad shit, bruh."
Stack didn't respond, just kept watching the baby's chest rise and fall.
"I need proof," he said finally, so quiet Smoke almost didn't hear him.
"What?"
"I need to know for sure," Stack said, looking at his brother. "One way or the other. I can't... I can't keep doing this without knowing."
Smoke nodded slowly. "So what's the plan?"
"DNA test," Stack said simply. "Tomorrow."
The next morning, Stack found himself standing in a pharmacy, staring at the wall of DNA test kits like they were written in a foreign language. The baby was strapped to his chest in a carrier he'd bought at 3 a.m. from a 24-hour store, the little man now awake and chewing on his own fist.
"Which one?" Stack muttered to himself. "There's like ten different kinds."
The baby let out a soft sound, like he was trying to help.
"Yeah, you're a lot of help," Stack muttered, grabbing the most expensive one. "If you're mine, you got expensive taste, so this one's probably right."
Back at the apartment, they stared at the kit.
"Aight," Smoke said, reading the instructions. "It says we need to swab his cheek. And yours."
"What if he bites me?" Stack asked, genuinely concerned.
"He's six months old, Stack," Smoke said. "I don't think he's got teeth yet."
"Still," Stack muttered, opening the swab package. "He's strong. And he's got a temper. Definitely gets that from his mama."
Smoke snorted. "Or his maybe daddy."
Stack carefully approached the baby, who was now sitting on the couch surrounded by pillows. "Aight, little man," he said softly. "I just need to get a little sample from your cheek. Won't hurt a bit."
The baby opened his mouth willingly.
Stack quickly swabbed his cheek.
The baby didn't even flinch.
"See?" Smoke said. "That wasn't so bad."
"Now for me," Stack said, swabbing his own cheek. "Aight, now what?"
"We seal 'em and send 'em in," Smoke said, reading the instructions. "Results in 3-5 business days."
Stack sealed both samples in the provided envelopes, writing his information on one and just "Baby John Doe" on the other.
"You're really not gonna give him a name?" Smoke asked.
"Not until I know," Stack said simply. "Not until I'm sure."
Smoke nodded, understanding. "So what do we do while we wait?"
Stack looked at the baby, who was now trying to eat the corner of a pillow. "Same thing we've been doing. Taking care of him."
"Even if he might not be yours?" Smoke asked.
Stack paused, then shrugged. "Somebody's gotta. And right now, that's us."
Smoke smiled slightly. "You know, you'd make a pretty good dad. If you are one."
Stack didn't respond, just watched the baby, something unreadable in his expression.
"Maybe," he said finally. "But let's wait for the results before we start planning the daddy-daughter dance."
Smoke laughed. "It's a boy, dumbass."
"Whatever," Stack muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Daddy-son dance. Same difference."
They both fell silent, watching the baby, who had successfully gotten the corner of the pillow in his mouth and was now gumming it happily.
Three to five business days. That's what they had to wait. But somehow, it already felt like it didn't matter.
The morning after they sent off the DNA test, Smoke stood in the doorway of Stack's apartment, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
"Aight, I'm heading out," he announced, watching as Stack tried to balance the baby on his hip while making coffee one-handed.
Stack paused, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "What you mean, heading out? You my backup."
"I'm your twin," Smoke corrected, adjusting his bag. "Identical twins. I don't wanna confuse my nephew. He might think there's two of me, and that's just too much awesome for one little dude to handle."
Stack snorted. "You ain't that awesome."
"Plus," Smoke added, ignoring him, "you need to figure this out on your own. You and... little man." He gestured toward the baby. "You need to learn each other's language or some shit."
Stack frowned. "We communicate just fine."
"Really?" Smoke challenged. "What's he saying right now?"
Stack looked down at the baby, who was currently chewing on his own fist while staring at Stack's coffee cup. "He wants coffee. Obviously."
Smoke laughed. "Yeah, okay. Look, I'll be back tomorrow to check on y'all. But you need to do this alone. Call me if it's a real emergency. And by emergency, I mean blood, fire, or if you somehow manage to lose him in your own apartment."
"I wouldn't lose him," Stack muttered, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
"Just... call me if you need anything," Smoke said, his tone softening slightly. "Anything at all."
Stack nodded. "Aight."
Smoke hesitated at the door, then turned back. "Hey, what are you gonna call him while we wait?"
Stack looked down at the baby, who had now managed to get his fist stuck in his mouth and was making frustrated little sounds. "Choc."
Smoke raised an eyebrow. "Choc?"
"Short for chocolate," Stack explained. "He's chocolate-colored, so... Choc."
Smoke considered this. "Could be worse. Could be Baby John Doe."
"He's not Baby John Doe," Stack said quickly. "He's Choc."
Smoke smiled slightly. "Aight then. Choc it is. Take care of my nephew, little brother."
The silence that followed felt heavier than Stack expected. He looked down at Choc, who was now staring up at him with wide, curious eyes.
"Well," Stack said to the empty apartment. "It's just you and me now, little dude."
Choc responded by spitting up on Stack's shirt.
"Great," Stack muttered. "Just what this needed."
The first day alone was chaos. Choc cried every time Stack tried to put him down, which meant Stack carried him everywhere, including to the bathroom, which was an experience neither of them enjoyed.
By day three, Stack had learned to distinguish between Choc's different cries. There was the "I'm hungry" cry (high-pitched and insistent), the "I need a new diaper" cry (more of a whiny, uncomfortable sound), and the "I'm just being dramatic" cry (loud and attention-seeking, which Stack admitted was probably genetic).
"You better not be mine," Stack muttered on day four, bouncing Choc gently as he cried for what seemed like no reason at all. "You hear me? You better not be mine, 'cause I don't have the patience for all this drama."
But even as he said it, his arms tightened around the baby, his movements instinctively soothing.
That night, as Stack was trying to get Choc to sleep, the baby grabbed his finger, wrapping tiny chocolate-colored fingers around it and holding on tight.
Stack froze, looking down at their joined hands. Something warm spread through his chest, something unfamiliar and terrifying.
"Yeah, aight," he whispered, carefully extracting his finger only to have Choc grab it again. "You got a grip on you, little man. Must get that from your mama."
By the end of the first week, Stack's apartment had transformed. The expensive minimalist decor was now cluttered with baby gear, a proper crib (delivered and assembled by a very confused delivery guy), a changing table, and a high chair that Stack couldn't figure out how to fold.
His online shopping history told a story he wasn't ready to admit to himself yet. Baby clothes in sizes 6-9 months. Soft toys that made different noises when squeezed. A stroller that costs more than his car payment. Organic baby food in flavors that Stack couldn't pronounce.
"It's just temporary," he kept telling himself. "Just until we know for sure."
But on day eight, when Choc woke up crying from a nightmare, Stack didn't hesitate. He picked him up, brought him to his own bed, and let the baby sleep curled against his chest, tiny breaths warm against his skin.
In the morning, he found himself watching Choc sleep, tracing the shape of his full cheeks with his finger, marveling at the tiny curls forming on his head.
"You know," he whispered to the sleeping baby, "you got my eyes. Or Smoke's eyes. Whatever. Same eyes."
Choc stirred, opening his eyes and looking up at Stack like he understood.
"Yeah, you hear me," Stack said softly. "You hear everything, don't you?"
Choc responded by grabbing Stack's finger again, holding on tight like he never wanted to let go.
Stack didn't pull away this time.
Just lay there, watching the baby, feeling something rumble inside him.
Something permanent.
Something that felt suspiciously like love.
"Damn," he muttered to the ceiling. "I'm screwed."
Choc let out a soft sound, like agreement, and snuggled closer.
Stack wrapped his arm around the baby, holding him closer.
"You better not be mine," he whispered again, but there was no conviction in his voice. "You hear me, Choc? You better not be mine."
But even as he said it, he was already planning what they'd do tomorrow. A walk in the park with the new stroller. Maybe they'd try that organic sweet potato puree that had cost a ridiculous amount.
Anything. Everything. Whatever this little chocolate-colored dude needed.
And if the test came back positive? Well. Stack would deal with that then.
Nine days after Smoke had left, the knock on the door came at 2 p.m. exactly. Stack didn't even look up from where he was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, watching Choc attempt to crawl across the living room rug.
"It's open," he called out, reaching out to steady Choc when the baby's arms gave out, and he face-planted gently into the rug.
The door opened, and Smoke stepped inside, stopping immediately when he saw the scene before him. Stack—his brother, who once complained if someone breathed too loud in his apartment—was sitting on the floor, cooing softly at a baby who was currently spitting on the expensive rug.
"Damn," Smoke said quietly, closing the door behind him. "Y'all look domestic as hell."
Stack glanced up, a small smile playing on his lips. "Watch this," he whispered, then looked back at Choc. "Come on, little man, you can do it. Just a little further."
Choc pushed up on his arms again, determination in his eyes as he tried to move forward, managing to scoot about an inch before collapsing again with a frustrated grunt.
"He's been trying to crawl for three days," Stack explained, picking Choc up and settling him in his lap. "Got the arm strength but not the coordination yet."
Smoke watched them, something unreadable in his expression. "You learn all that from Google?"
"BabyCenter dot com," Stack corrected, bouncing Choc gently when the baby started to fuss. "They got articles on everything. Developmental milestones, feeding schedules, how to get them to sleep through the night..."
"You readin' baby articles?" Smoke asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Research," Stack said quickly. "Just research. For maybe daddy."
Smoke nodded slowly, his eyes taking in the changes to the apartment. The baby-proofed corners, the colorful playmat in the middle of the living room, the bottle sterilizer sitting on the kitchen counter.
"You been busy," he noted.
"Gotta be prepared," Stack said, already moving to the kitchen to warm a bottle. "You never know when the results might come back. Need to be ready."
"For what?" Smoke asked, following him. "To hand him over if he's not yours?"
Stack paused, bottle halfway to the microwave. "Yeah. For that."
But even as he said it, he was adjusting the bottle temperature with the expertise of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Testing it on his wrist. Making sure it was perfect.
Smoke leaned against the counter, watching his brother. "You know, when I left, you could barely figure out how to hold him without looking like you were handling a bomb."
"Practice makes perfect," Stack muttered, heading back to the living room where Choc was now chewing on a teething toy.
"You sayin' it ain't yours," Smoke said quietly, following him. "But you ain't put him down yet."
Stack didn't respond, just settled on the couch and positioned Choc for his bottle, the baby immediately latching on with practiced ease.
"I mean, look at you," Smoke continued, his tone softer now. "You got a system. You know his cries. You know his schedule. You bought him clothes that'll fit next season."
"Just being prepared," Stack repeated, but there was less conviction in his voice this time.
Smoke stepped closer, sitting on the coffee table across from them. "Stack."
"What?"
"Look at me."
Stack looked up, and for the first time, Smoke saw something in his brother's eyes he'd never seen before. Something soft. Something vulnerable.
"You're attached," Smoke said simply. "And that's okay."
Stack opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Looked down at Choc, who was now watching him with those wide, trusting eyes.
"I don't know what I am," Stack admitted quietly. "I just know... I can't imagine him not being here anymore."
Smoke nodded slowly. "Yeah. I see that."
They sat in silence for a moment, just watching Choc drink his bottle, tiny fingers wrapped around Stack's thumb.
"What you gonna do if the test comes back negative?" Smoke asked finally.
Stack didn't answer right away, just gently stroked Choc's cheek with his free hand.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I guess... I guess I'll figure it out then."
"And if it's positive?" Smoke pressed.
Stack looked up at his brother, something unreadable in his expression.
"Then I guess I'm a dad," he said quietly. "A really unprepared, probably gonna screw it up dad... but a dad nonetheless."
Smoke smiled slightly. "You'd be a good one."
Stack snorted. "Yeah, right. I can barely take care of myself."
"You're taking care of him just fine," Smoke pointed out. "Better than fine, actually. You're a natural."
Stack looked down at Choc, who had finished his bottle and was now blinking sleepily. "I just do what feels right."
"Exactly," Smoke said. "That's what parents do."
Stack carefully shifted Choc to his shoulder, patting his back gently until the baby let out a soft burp.
"You know," Smoke said quietly, "I was thinking... if he is yours, and if you need help with anything, I'm here. For real this time. Not just as backup, but as... whatever you need me to be."
Stack looked at his brother, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Smoke confirmed. "Uncle Smoke got a ring to it, don't it?"
Stack laughed softly, careful not to wake the now-sleeping baby. "Yeah, I guess it does."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just watching Choc sleep.
Stack shifted Choc in his arms, the baby stirring slightly but not waking. "You know, part of me hopes they don't come back at all."
Smoke raised an eyebrow. "How you mean?"
"Just... this," Stack said quietly, gesturing between himself and the baby. "This is good. This works. If the results come back, everything changes. One way or another."
"And if it stays like this?" Smoke asked.
"Then I get to keep him," Stack said simply. "Even if I'm not his dad. I get to keep him."
Smoke studied his brother's face, saw the raw honesty there, the fear and hope warring in his eyes.
"You know," Smoke said quietly, "it doesn't really matter what that test says. You're already his dad in every way that counts."
Stack didn't respond, just held Choc closer, burying his face in the baby's soft curls for a moment.
When he looked up again, his eyes were shining.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday.
Thin. White. Business-like.
Stack saw it the moment he walked in from grabbing the mail, his heart doing something strange in his chest. He'd been waiting for this—dreading this—for eleven days. Part of him had hoped it would never come, that they could just exist in this weird in-between space where he was the maybe daddy and Choc was his chocolate baby and nothing had to be decided.
But there it was.
The answer.
Sitting on his counter like any other piece of mail.
Except it wasn't.
"Smoke," Stack called out, his voice rougher than he intended. "Get in here."
Smoke emerged from the bedroom, where he'd been trying to teach Choc how to clap his hands (with limited success). "What's up? Did you order more of them expensive baby wipes again? 'Cause I told you, the store brand works just—"
He stopped when he saw the envelope in Stack's hand.
"Oh," Smoke said quietly. "It's here."
Choc started fussing in Smoke's arms.
"Shhh," Smoke murmured, bouncing him gently. "It's okay, little man. It's okay."
Stack stared at the envelope like it might bite him. "You open it."
"Nope," Smoke said immediately. "That's all you, bruh."
"I can't," Stack admitted, the words barely audible. "My hands are shaking."
Smoke stepped closer, shifting Choc to his hip. "You've been waiting for this. You said you needed to know."
"I know what I said," Stack muttered, running a hand over his face. "But that was before. Before... everything."
Before Choc learned to recognize his voice. Before he fell asleep on Stack's chest every night. Before Stack started ordering baby clothes in bigger sizes "just in case."
Before it started feeling real.
"Want me to do it?" Smoke asked gently.
Stack hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I got it."
He took a deep breath, ripped open the envelope with more force than necessary, and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside.
His eyes scanned the words once.
Then again.
Slower this time.
Like his brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing.
Smoke watched him, saw the exact moment the words registered. The way Stack's shoulders slumped slightly. The way his breath caught. The way his eyes closed for just a second.
"Well?" Smoke asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's it say?"
Stack didn't answer right away, just kept looking at the paper like it might change if he stared long enough.
"Stack?"
"It's positive," Stack said finally, his voice flat. "99.9% probability of paternity."
Silence.
Choc let out a soft sound, like he felt the weight of those words.
Smoke reached out, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You okay?"
Stack didn't respond, just folded the paper carefully, like it was something fragile. Something important.
"Stack?"
"Yeah," Stack said finally, looking up at his brother. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
Not really.
There was something in his eyes Smoke couldn't quite read. Something that looked a lot like fear.
"You don't look fine," Smoke pointed out gently.
"I just... I need a minute," Stack said, walking to the window and looking out at nothing in particular. "I need to process this."
Smoke watched him, saw the tension in his brother's shoulders, the way his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"You wanted to know," Smoke reminded him quietly. "You said you needed proof."
"I know what I said," Stack muttered, still not turning around. "I just... I don't know what I thought would happen. What I thought I would feel."
"And what do you feel?" Smoke asked.
Stack turned around then, and Smoke saw it clearly in his eyes. The conflict. The fear. The overwhelming weight of it all.
"I don't know," Stack admitted. "Relieved and terrified at the same time. Like I got what I wanted and what I was afraid of, all at once."
Choc reached out toward Stack, making soft sounds, like he could feel his father's distress from across the room.
Stack walked over slowly, carefully taking Choc from Smoke's arms, holding him close like he was trying to memorize the weight of him.
"Hey, little man," he whispered, pressing his face into Choc's soft curls. "Hey, chocolate baby."
Choc grabbed onto Stack's shirt, holding on tight like he knew.
Like he understood.
"You're mine," Stack whispered, the words barely audible. "You're really mine."
He looked up at Smoke, something raw and vulnerable in his eyes.
"Now what?" he asked.
Smoke smiled slightly. "Now you're his dad. The best damn dad you can be."
Stack looked down at Choc, who was now watching him with those wide, trusting eyes, like he knew exactly who his father was.
Like he'd known all along.
"Yeah," Stack said quietly, bouncing Choc gently when the baby started to fuss. "Yeah, okay."
He didn't say anything else, just stood there holding his son, his future, his everything.
Three days after the results came back, Stack was sitting on his couch, Choc propped against his chest as they watched sports highlights. The baby was now officially named Elijah—after his uncle, who had protested but secretly been thrilled.
"You know," Stack said, adjusting Elijah so he could see the TV better, "you're way too young to be watching basketball. But we gotta start you early. Can't have you growing up liking that weak-ass soccer Smoke tried to get you into."
Smoke, who was sitting on the other end of the couch, rolled his eyes. "Soccer is the most popular sport in the world. It's called culture, Stack."
"It's called boring," Stack shot back. "Ain't nobody wanna watch grown men run around for two hours and only score once. Where's the drama? Where's the trash talk? Where's the—"
Elijah let out a loud fart, followed by a giggle.
Both brothers stopped and looked at him.
"See?" Stack said, pointing. "Even he agrees with me. That was his opinion on soccer."
Smoke snorted. "That was gas, not an opinion."
"Same difference," Stack muttered, bouncing Elijah gently. "You hear that, little man? Your uncle don't appreciate sophisticated sports analysis."
Elijah responded by grabbing Stack's nose with his surprisingly strong grip.
"Ow," Stack complained, but he didn't pull away. "You got your daddy's strength. And your uncle's face. We gonna have to get you tested to make sure you ain't actually his."
Smoke laughed. "Nah, he's all you. Same dramatic flair. Same need for attention. Same inability to just sit still and be quiet."
Stack looked down at Elijah, who was now trying to eat his own foot. "Yeah, well, at least he's cute. That's gonna come in handy."
"What you mean?" Smoke asked, already suspicious.
Stack's eyes lit up with mischief. "I'm just saying... single moms at the playground? They gonna see this cute little chocolate dude and they gonna wanna know who his daddy is. Elijah here is gonna be my new wing man."
Smoke stared at him. "You're not serious."
"Dead serious," Stack said, grinning. "I'll be like, 'Yeah, that's my son. Single dad over here, just trying to make it work.' They love that shit. Makes you look responsible and sensitive."
"You are neither of those things," Smoke pointed out.
"Not yet," Stack corrected. "But I will be. For the playground moms."
Smoke shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm practical," Stack corrected. "Besides, you need to go get some random girl pregnant so Elijah and I can have play dates with you and your baby."
Smoke's eyes widened. "I need to WHAT?"
"You heard me," Stack said, already planning. "We can be those dads at the playground. Comparing notes on sleep schedules and baby food flavors. Chicks dig that shit."
"I'm not getting someone pregnant just so you can pick up women at playgrounds," Smoke said firmly.
"Selfish," Stack muttered, adjusting Elijah when the baby started to fuss. "Just selfish. Here I am, trying to think about your future love life, and you're not even appreciating it."
Smoke watched his brother with Elijah, saw how naturally Stack held him, how instinctively he responded to every sound and movement. It was like watching someone who'd been doing this forever, not someone who'd been thrown into fatherhood less than two weeks ago.
"You're gonna be a good dad, you know," Smoke said quietly.
Stack glanced up, surprised by the sincerity in his brother's voice. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Smoke confirmed. "Even if you plan to use your son as a chick magnet."
"Hey, you gotta work with what you got," Stack said, but there was something soft in his eyes now. "And what I got is this cute little dude who's gonna help me find his new mama."
Elijah let out a loud yawn, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
"Someone's getting sleepy," Smoke noted.
"Yeah, well, it's hard work being this adorable," Stack said, standing up carefully. "Come on, little man. Nap time before your daddy takes you scouting for future stepmoms."
As Stack walked toward the bedroom, Elijah curled against his chest, already half asleep, Smoke watched them go.
"Hey," Smoke called out.
Stack paused at the bedroom door. "What?"
"You really gonna name him Elijah?" Smoke asked. "After me?"
Stack looked down at the baby in his arms, then back at his brother.
"Who else would I name him after?" he asked quietly. "You're the best man I know. If he grows up to be half the man you are... he'll be alright."
Smoke felt something tighten in his throat. "Damn, Stack. Getting all sentimental on me."
"Don't get used to it," Stack called out, disappearing into the bedroom. "I'm still gonna use my son to pick up women at the playground."
Smoke laughed, shaking his head.
A few minutes later, Stack came back out, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear if Elijah woke up.
"So," Smoke said as Stack sat back down on the couch. "What's the plan now?"
Stack leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the couch. "Plan? The plan is to figure out how to be a dad. The plan is not to screw this up. The plan is to raise this little dude to be better than me."
He paused, then added with a grin, "And the plan is to find him a mama who's hot, rich, and doesn't mind that I plan to use our son to pick up women at playgrounds."
Smoke snorted. "Good luck with that."
"Hey, never underestimate the power of a cute baby," Stack said, his eyes drifting toward the bedroom door. "Never underestimate the power of having something that's yours. Something that matters."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just listening to the soft sounds coming from the bedroom.
"Man," Stack said finally, quiet now. "You got the worst timing I ever seen."
Smoke looked at him, confused. "What you mean?"
"Not you," Stack said, gesturing toward the bedroom. "Him. Showing up when I was least prepared. Turning my whole world upside down. Making me... feel things."
He paused, then smiled slightly.
"Best thing that ever happened to me too," he added softly. "But don't tell nobody I said that. Got a reputation to maintain."
Smoke laughed. "Your secret's safe with me."
They sat there for a while longer, just two brothers watching the sun set outside, both knowing that everything had changed.
And somehow, it was exactly as it should be.
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