The party is… loud.

Pastel balloons crowd the hedges, sticky-fingered toddlers run around like sugar-high demons, and you’ve been handed a pink cupcake by three different mothers in thirty seconds. You're in a silk sundress and heels too expensive for grass, clutching a plastic plate and regretting everything.

You turn to Xavier, who’s standing by the drinks table looking obscenely calm. Untouchable, even here — white button-down rolled at the sleeves, two open buttons at the collar, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose.

He winks at you over the rim of his lemonade.

You narrow your eyes. Smug bastard.

And then — as if the gods of chaos heard your internal scream — your neighbour appears beside you.

“Oh perfect, sweetheart,” she says, huffing as she bounces a very round, very drooling baby in her arms. “Would you mind just holding him for one second? I need to check on the cake before it melts.”

You panic. “Oh, no — I don’t really— I mean, I’ve never—”

“Just a minute!” she chirps, and before you can stop her, the baby is in your arms. Heavy. Warm. Slightly damp.

You freeze.

He blinks up at you. You blink back. His nose scrunches.

“Please don’t cry,” you whisper.

From across the lawn, Xavier notices. You catch his eye. His expression falters for half a second — then he smirks, lips twitching like he’s holding in a laugh.

You widen your eyes at him, holding the baby like it’s a bomb about to go off.

Do something your eyes scream. Help me. Save me. Call 911. Anything.

He raises his cup to you in a slow, mocking toast.

You mouth, “I hate you.”

He mouths back, “You look hot.”

The baby starts squirming. You bounce awkwardly, trying to remember how humans do this. “Shh. Hey, buddy. We’re not enemies.”

A little drool hits your shoulder. Your soul leaves your body.

Finally — finally — Xavier strolls over, smug and slow, and plucks the baby gently out of your arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Hey, champ,” he says, grinning at the baby who immediately gurgles at him like he’s the chosen one. “That’s more like it.”

You blink. “You know how to hold a baby?”

Xavier shrugs. “I have nieces.”

The betrayal. You glare. “You let me suffer.”

He leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.

“You looked too good to stop,” he murmurs. “All flustered in that dress, begging me with your eyes. I almost lost it.”

You elbow him. “You’re a menace.”

He smiles. “You love it.”

The baby squeals. You sigh.

Xavier passes the baby back to the neighbour when she returns, and she coos, “You two would make such cute parents!”

Your smile freezes.

Xavier just laughs — and wraps an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

“Let’s not scare her,” he says smoothly. “One milestone at a time.”

You mutter under your breath, “Like me not getting sneezed on at a birthday party?”

He kisses your temple. “Exactly.”