Chapter 6 - Dane
Dane woke up with a mouth like sandpaper and a headache that felt like someone had taken a crowbar to his skull.
He groaned, rolling onto his side, sheets twisted around his legs, and blinked blearily at the gray light filtering through the blinds. Everything ached. His throat. His back.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.
He hadn’t even drunk that much last night. It was Rick’s idea to crack out the whiskey that had done him in. They’d had such a good day training, and both were in high spirits. Plus, Dane had half hoped Lola might appear at the late-night party.
She hadn’t, of course. She was the morning coffee type, not the late-night drinking games type.
He was decidedly not a morning coffee male. He wasn’t built for polite niceties and Earl Grey and gentle gossip. And he sure as hell wasn’t built for Lola Devereaux. especially not when she’d looked so annoyingly sweet curled up in that armchair, sipping tea and pretending not to notice him.
She had noticed him, though. He knew it.
He could still hear her voice, sharp and dry as bone. “I like to keep my IQ above room temperature.”
The woman was going to be the death of him.
He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. His muscles protested. He hadn’t slept well; dreams had twisted around him, uncomfortable things full of old memories and strange shadows. Maybe it was the guilt.
He shouldn’t have flirted like that. Not with someone like her. It had been stupid, juvenile…trying to needle her just to see her blush.
And yet...
He hadn’t wanted to stop.
Dane grunted and swung his legs off the bed, padding barefoot across the creaky floor. He needed coffee. Maybe aspirin. Maybe a reset on his whole goddamn personality.
He was halfway to the kitchen when there was a knock at the door.
He frowned.
Another knock. Harder this time.
Dane rubbed his eyes. “If that’s Felix checking on me like some overbearing mother hen…”
He yanked open the door.
And froze.
It wasn’t Felix.
It was a woman. Slender. Blonde. Red lipstick smudged like she’d put it on in a hurry. She looked vaguely familiar, some girl or other from Portland. It was hard to say. They all blurred into one after a while.
She was holding something, her knuckles white. A carrier.
A baby carrier.
He stared at it. Then at her. Then back again.
She shifted her weight. “Hey.”
“Uh…hey?”
She pushed the carrier toward him, “He’s yours.”
Dane blinked. His brain did not compute. “Come again?”
“The baby,” she said, like it was obvious. “He’s yours. Probably. You remember me…Sasha? From last year? We met at that party in Portland?”
He didn’t, really. Not clearly. But he nodded anyway, throat tight.
She rolled her eyes, “Look, I don’t want anything. I’m not here for child support or a place to stay or whatever. I just…can’t do this. He was born two days ago. I’ve been driving for hours. I’m exhausted. I’m not cut out for this shifter shit.”
She thrust the carrier forward again. “I figured, if he’s gonna be one of you, he’s better off with you.”
Dane stared down at the bundle. The baby was tiny. Swaddled in a pale blue blanket. Sleeping.
His heart thudded once. Hard.
“He doesn’t even have a name,” the woman added, “I didn’t…I don’t know. I thought maybe someone here could handle it better.”
She didn’t look sad. She didn’t even look guilty. Just…detached.
“Sasha, wait—” he started.
But she was already stepping back. Already turning.
“Sorry,” she called over her shoulder. “But this isn’t my world. Never was.”
And just like that, she walked down the stairs, climbed into a beat-up silver hatchback, and drove away.
Leaving Dane standing barefoot in the doorway, hungover, shirtless, and holding a baby.
“What the fuck,” he whispered.
A door creaked across the landing.
He turned, blood running cold.
Lola stood at the top of the stairs, halfway between her door and his, tote bag in hand, her expression unreadable.
Oh no.
She’d seen. All of it.
Dane felt panic surge up his spine.
He didn’t know what she thought she’d seen. A secret child dumped on his doorstep? A woman scorned? A messy life blowing up at his feet?
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Lola didn’t speak right away.
She just…blinked.
The baby in Dane’s arms let out a hiccupy squawk, limbs twitching inside the too-big swaddle. Dane had no idea how to hold him properly, was vaguely aware that his grip was all wrong, but he couldn’t seem to move. His fingers felt locked, as if he adjusted even slightly, something might break.
And Lola just kept staring.
Her mouth opened once. Closed.
Then she finally muttered, “I…um. Okay. That’s a baby.”
“Yeah,” Dane said, voice rough. “Apparently, he’s mine.”
She blinked again. Her eyes dropped to the baby’s tiny face, now scrunched up and turning an alarming shade of red.
“Is he…alright?”
“No idea.”
The cry built in volume, thin, reedy, then sharp and angry.
“Shit,” Dane hissed, rocking the baby slightly, which only made him arch backward and shriek louder, “What do I do? He’s overheating or something…he’s combusting!”
Lola flinched at the noise, then visibly squared her shoulders, clearly trying to assemble some composure from the ruins of her morning.
“I…tea. I need tea. And probably you need… a formula? And diapers? And a crib? Or a cot? Or…something with sides. Don’t babies need sides?”
Dane blinked. “What?”
“He needs sides! Or he’ll roll off things!”
“He can’t even hold his own head up. I don’t think he’s launching himself anywhere.”
Lola looked helplessly around the corridor, like a helpful instruction manual might descend from the ceiling. Then, quite unexpectedly, she stepped forward.
“Give him to me,” she said stiffly, like she was bracing for a hand grenade.
Dane hesitated, but the baby’s wail cracked higher, and he gladly passed the bundle over.
Lola held him with rigid arms, her back unnaturally straight. She stared at the baby like she wasn’t entirely convinced he was real.
“I’ve never held one this small,” she whispered.
“You’re doing…fine? I think?”
She wasn’t. She looked like she might faint. But Dane didn’t know how to help, and if he admitted how close he was to hyperventilating, they’d both spiral.
Lola looked down at the boy in her arms, his cheeks flushed from crying, his tiny fists batting the air, and for a flicker of a second, her whole face changed.
Not panicked.
Not even awkward.
Just soft.
Awed.
“He’s…he’ beautiful,” she murmured, voice barely audible under the baby’s cries.
Then he let out a particularly high-pitched shriek, and she jolted like someone had fired a starter pistol at her feet. Dane swung the door to his apartment back open, ushering her inside. She marched in, turning around, seemingly looking for a bunch of baby supplies that he decidedly didn’t have.
“Okay, okay, he’s being loud. What does he want? What do babies want?”
Dane scrubbed the back of his neck. “Food?”
“He’s a newborn! What do they even eat at this stage?”
“Formula, I think?”
“You think?! You’re the one who…who made him!”
“Well, I didn’t get a manual either, Devereaux!”
They both talked over the screaming baby, voices rising to combat the din.
“Right,” Lola finally snapped, her cheeks flushed, “you need to go get supplies. Now.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
She gave him a wild-eyed look, “Then you’d better be ready for a full psychological breakdown, because I have no idea what I’m doing! I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, I don’t even know how to make toast properly in someone else’s kitchen!”
Dane blinked.
Then laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Lola scowled, “This isn’t funny!”
“No, I know, I know…sorry. I know. But this is…this is just fucked.”
“Language!”
“He’s a baby!”
“Still,” Lola sniffed, “good to not get into bad habits.” She looked down at the baby again, who’d quieted slightly, one tiny fist now gripping her cardigan. His round, blotchy face burrowed into her shoulder, and her breath hitched.
Dane ventured, “Do you want me to take him back?”
Lola shook her head quickly. “No. I mean… he’s warm. I think he…likes the sound of my voice? Poor judgment, obviously, but I’ll take it.”
She awkwardly patted the baby’s back like she was burping a landmine. Dane could see her knees locked together like she wasn’t entirely sure if sitting would make everything better or worse.
“Okay,” she said after a breath, “You need diapers. Formula. Bottles. Wipes. Blankets. Something to put him in. Probably some kind of lotion? Baby shampoo? And maybe…I don’t know, a parenting book for complete idiots?”
Dane huffed an incredulous laugh, “I think I just need a name first.”
Lola turned toward him, eyes wide. “He doesn’t have one?”
Dane shook his head. “The mother, Sasha…she said he was born two days ago. She didn’t name him. Just dumped him and left.”
Lola’s eyes widened, then dropped to the baby’s face again.
“That’s awful,” she whispered. Her voice cracked just slightly. “He deserves a name.”
The baby whimpered, quiet and pitiful, like a tiny creature that hadn’t asked for any of this.
Neither had Dane.
And yet, here they were.
Lola inhaled deeply, then squared her shoulders again like she was about to give a keynote lecture.
“Alright,” she said, “I’ll stay here. With him. You go get what he needs. I’ll…make sure he doesn’t explode.”
Dane hesitated.
Not because he didn’t trust her. But because something tight and strange had curled around his chest at the sight of her standing in his kitchen, barefoot and flushed and completely out of her depth, but still not backing down.
“You sure?”
Lola rolled her eyes, “No. But go before I change my mind and escape to the library.”
He gave her a nod, grabbed his keys, and backed toward the door.
The last thing he saw before it closed was her awkwardly adjusting the baby in her arms, murmuring something soft to him.
She looked terrified.
She also looked like she might already be falling in love.
And honestly?
That scared the hell out of Dane more than anything else.
***
Dane sat in his truck outside the pharmacy, engine idling, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
He’d filled the basket with every baby product he could grab in a blind panic, two different types of formula, three brands of diapers, a sterilizer he wasn’t entirely sure how to use, and now he was staring at his phone like it was a live grenade.
He muttered a curse under his breath, then hit call.
Felix answered on the third ring. “Hey, Dane, what’s up?”
Dane didn’t even blink. “I need help.”
There was a pause. “You sound weird. What happened?”
“There’s a baby in my flat.”
A longer pause. “You mean metaphorically, or—”
“A literal baby, Felix. Two days old. Human. Male. Possibly mine.”
“What the fu—” Felix stopped himself. “Where did it come from?”
“Woman from last year. Sasha. She just showed up, dumped him in my arms, and drove off.”
“...Holy shit.”
“I know.”
Another beat, then, “Do you have formula?”
“Now I do. And diapers. I think. Maybe six months’ worth.”
“Right. I’m coming to you. I’ll bring the others. We’ll get this sorted, Dane, don’t panic.”
Dane let out a slow breath, “Thanks.”
Felix’s voice softened slightly. “You alright?”
Dane stared out at the rain-slick street. “Not even close.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
The line clicked off.
Dane sat there a minute longer.
Then he grabbed the bags, squared his shoulders, and went home to the baby and the woman currently saving his life.
One moment at a time.