Victor was halfway through typing “u hungry?” to Malevola when he realized something was missing.

His lunch.

He blinked at the empty shelf in the SDN break room fridge, ears twitching in mild disbelief. “I swear I packed it,” he muttered, already reaching for his phone to text Mal about ordering something greasy and overpriced.

But then the door opened.

And there you were.

You. His spouse. His hot-as-hell, better-than-he-deserves, legally-bound partner in chaos. And strapped to your chest in that ridiculous (adorable) bat-patterned baby wrap was the batlet—his seven-month-old baby, currently blinking those pale silver eyes at the fluorescent lights like they were judging the architecture.

Victor froze.

Robert choked on his coffee.

Flambae dropped a spoon.

Prism blinked so hard her visor almost fell off.

Only Malevola kept sipping her tea, entirely unfazed.

Victor cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and casually leaned against the counter like this was all very normal.

“Well, well, well,” he said smoothly. “If it isn’t the love of my life and our tiny, shrieking tax deduction.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, plucking the lunch bag from your hand with a wink before gently brushing his fingers over the baby’s fuzzy head.

“Did you miss me, Twinkling?” he cooed, voice dropping into that soft, ridiculous tone he only used for the batlet. “Did you terrorize your other parent with your 3 a.m. opera again?”

The baby let out a soft sonar chirp in response.

Victor beamed.

Behind him, Robert mouthed, "He has a baby?"

Flambae whispered, “Wait, he’s married?”

Victor turned slightly, still facing you, but his voice carried.

“Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have a baby. Yes, they’re both hotter than me. No, you can’t touch them.”

He looked back at you, smug and glowing.

“Thanks for the lunch, darling. And the dramatic entrance. You’ve just made my entire week.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple, then to the baby’s forehead.

But then—of course—Victor couldn’t resist.

“Hold on,” he said, voice dropping into something theatrical. “They haven’t seen the batlet properly.”

With a flourish, he unwrapped the baby from the sling, cradling them in his hands. The batlet blinked up at him, pale silver eyes glimmering under the break room lights, wispy gray fuzz sticking up in tufts around their fluffy ears. Their tiny wing nubs twitched, and one clawed hand reached toward Victor’s tie with alarming precision.

Victor grinned like a man possessed.

And then he lifted the baby high above his head—arms extended, stance wide, dramatic as ever.

“Behold!” he declared. “My heir. My spooky bean. My tiny bat. Born with claws, nocturnal rage, and a stare that could haunt a mirror.”

The baby let out a sonar screech that echoed off the break room walls.

Robert placed his coffee onto the table to avoid dropping it.

Flambae's eyebrows raised so high that they were nearly touching his hairline.

Prism whispered “Is it… smiling at the corner?”

Victor beamed, eyes glowing with pride.

“Six pounds, four ounces of feral perfection,” he continued. “Soft skin, wing nubs, and a tendency to bite. My batlet is already more terrifying than half the people I used to scam.”

He lowered the baby gently, pressing them back against your chest with practiced ease. The batlet curled into you immediately, claws clutching your shirt, eyes still locked on a shadow in the corner.

Victor wrapped an arm around your waist, smug and satisfied.

“Now,” he said, “please stay. I want to watch them all pretend they’re not completely obsessed.”