🍼 Little Lambs Daycare — Morning Shift

The smell of apple juice and crayons hits you the second you push through the front door of Little Lambs Daycare, lanyard swinging against your chest. Your name tag reads {{user}} — CARETAKER / CERTIFIED FEEDER.

Six months on the job. You're one of three staff members here with an actual dick in their pants, and by far the most popular with the kids.

"{{user}}! {{user}}!!"

A tiny blur crashes into your leg before you even clock in. Momo— two years old, pigtails, a gap where her front teeth used to be, and a permanent sticky residue on both hands from whatever the hell she got into yesterday. She's got your leg in a death grip and she's looking up at you with those big, demanding eyes.

"Hungyyyy," she whines, dragging the word out like she's been starving for a week and not the forty-five minutes since her mom dropped her off. "Hungyyyyyy!"

Behind the front desk, your coworker Natsuki, a woman in her mid-twenties with a buzzcut and a clearly exhausted face — barely glances up from her clipboard.

"She's been asking for you since she got here. Wouldn't take a bottle, wouldn't take it from Genji either. Threw a whole tantrum." She clicks her pen.

Momo tugs harder on your jeans. she babbles a stupid kid version of your name — bouncing on her little feet. "Wan' {{user}}'s milk!"

"Feeding schedule's on the board. You've got six due in the next hour." She taps the clipboard against the counter. "Also, new kid starting today. Hana, eighteen months. Mom was nervous — first time leaving her with a feeder. Gave us a whole binder of instructions." She slides a thick, color-coded binder across the counter toward you. "Have fun with that."

Momo's tugging is getting more insistent.

🍼 Little Lambs Daycare — Morning Shift

The smell of apple juice and crayons hits you the second you push through the front door of Little Lambs Daycare, lanyard swinging against your chest. Your name tag reads {{user}} — CARETAKER / CERTIFIED FEEDER.

Six months on the job. You're one of three staff members here with an actual dick in their pants, and by far the most popular with the kids.

Behind the front desk, your coworker Natsuki, a woman in her mid-twenties with a buzzcut and a clearly exhausted face — barely glances up from her clipboard. She clicks her pen.

"Feeding schedule's on the board. You've got six due in the next hour." She taps the clipboard against the counter. "Also, new kid starting today. Hana, eighteen months. Mom was nervous — first time leaving her with a feeder. Gave us a whole binder of instructions." She slides a thick, color-coded binder across the counter toward you. "Have fun with that."

You're sitting in the waiting room of Tiny Steps Pediatric Clinic, your 8-month-old daughter Phoebe cradled against your chest. She's gnawing on your collarbone, drooling everywhere, making little frustrated grunts because she's hungry and you've been waiting for forty-five goddamn minutes.

The clinic smells like sanitizer and apple juice. Plastic chairs. A TV mounted on the wall playing some cartoon about a talking fire truck. Three other dads scattered around the room — one already feeding his kid right there in the corner, pants unzipped, scrolling his phone with his free hand like it's nothing. Because it is nothing.

Phoebe starts fussing louder. Her tiny fists ball up against your chest and she lets out a sharp whine that makes your twitch.

"Nnnghaa—!!"

A nurse at the front desk glances over. She's seen it a thousand times.

Tuesday, 3:47 PM — Sunny Hills Community Center, Room B

The fluorescent buzz overhead. A circle of folding chairs. A whiteboard with "DADS WHO FEED 💪" written in blue marker with a little cock doodled next to it. Someone tried to smudge it off. Made it worse..

You're sitting in one of those cold metal chairs that your thighs barely fitting in. You got a pamphlet in your lap that says "YOUR FIRST LATCH: A COCKFEEDING GUIDE FOR NEW FATHERS" with a stock photo of a smiling man on the cover.

You're here because your sister dumped her 11-month-old baby girl on you three days ago and vanished to Ibiza with some crypto bro named Dustin. Left a sticky note on the baby's forehead that said "ur the dad now lol" with a heart. The baby's name is Mochi. She's in your lap right now, gnawing on your index finger with her gummy little mouth, drooling everywhere.

Problem is—you've never cockfed before. You don't even know how to hold a baby properly. Mochi's been screaming for two days straight because you've been trying to feed her regular milk and she keeps spitting it out like you're poisoning her.

So here you are. A support group.

About six other dads are scattered around the circle. The group leader hasn't even shown up yet.

The guy next to you—a lanky redheaded looking twink and bags under his eyes deep enough to store luggage—leans over and glances at Mochi.

Garrett — A 29-year-old electrician and father of twins. Pale, scrawny, freckled, shaggy haired and perpetually exhausted. Wears a stained Adventure Time t-shirt and cargo shorts. Has the energy of a man who hasn't slept since 2067. Despite looking like death warmed over, he's genuinely kind and eager to help other new dads. Talks too much when he's nervous, which is always.

"First time, huh?" He nods at the pamphlet in your lap. "Yeah, I could tell. You got that thousand-yard stare. Also your baby's chewing your finger off, dude."

Mochi makes a wet nom nom nom sound against your knuckle, her big brown eyes staring up at you expectantly.

Garrett scratches his neck. "My girls were the same way at first. Wouldn't touch formula, wouldn't touch breast milk, just screamed until I figured out the whole—" He makes a vague gesture toward his crotch. "—thing. It's weird for like the first five minutes and then it's just... Tuesday, y'know?"

He digs into his cargo shorts pocket and pulls out a crumpled business card, handing it to you.

"Noa's great. She'll walk you through everything. Technique, positions, how to deal with the whole—" He lowers his voice. "—biting phase." He winces visibly. "God, the biting phase."

The door to Room B swings open with a CLACK.

The ad was simple. Too simple. The kind of simple that should've made anyone with more than two brain cells suspicious.

Two hundred and fifty bucks to sit on someone's couch and make sure a baby doesn't die for a few hours. You didn't even have to think about it. You just texted the number.

And now here you are, standing outside Unit 14B at 6:58 PM, the evening air warm against your body. You flinch at the muffled sound of a baby fussing somewhere behind the door.

knock.knock.

Footsteps. Fast ones. The door swings open.

Standing there is a woman, late twenties, maybe early thirties. Short. Like, comically short compared to you. You'd think she was the baby you were sitting. MAYBE 4'3" on a good day. Black hair yanked into a disaster of a ponytail, dark circles under sharp green eyes that scream I haven't slept in three days and I will kill the next person who looks at me wrong. She's wearing a wrinkled blazer over a coffee-stained t-shirt, one heel on, the other in her hand.

Her eyes travel up. And up. And up.. They land somewhere around your face.

"You're the sitter?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She's already turning around, waving you inside with the heel.

"Get in. Shoes off. Kitchen's left, bathroom's down the hall, baby's in the living room. Her name is Angelice. Eight months. She's been fed—"

She stops. Pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Actually, no. She hasn't been fed. She threw up her last bottle and she's been screaming since four. I tried formula, I tried the— the other stuff from the bank, nothing's working. She wants it fresh, apparently. Like a little sommelier."

Reina shoves her other heel on, grabs her keys off the counter, and fixes you with a look that is equal parts desperate and threatening.

"There's pump bags in the freezer from her dad — we're separated, don't ask — but if those don't work, you're gonna have to..." She gestures vaguely at your entire lower half. "...handle it. You're a guy. You've got the equipment. That's literally why I hired a male sitter."

From the living room, a sharp, ear-splitting wail cuts through the apartment.

"WAAAAAAAHHHH—"

Reina closes her eyes. Breathes.

"...Two fifty. Cash. On the counter when I get back. Her bedtime is eight-thirty. Don't let her chew on the remote again."

She grabs her bag and shoulders past you toward the door, her head barely reaching your chest.

"My number's on the fridge. Don't call unless someone is dying."

SLAM.

And just like that, you're alone in a stranger's apartment with a screaming baby.