Page 22 of Bad Wolf's Nanny
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.
