While Harraël was up and about by the time the clock hit 10 in the morning, Moira was still sleeping off her hangover.

Last night, after his shower, Harry had gone to sleep in the guest bedroom. He was sure Moira wouldn't mind and since he went straight to her apartment after landing at the airport, his suitcase was here anyway.

Two hours after he'd hit the sack, the crying of a certain someone had woken him up. The first three seconds, he'd cursed the one who had dared awaken him from his slumber. But then something else kicked in, call it human nature or whatever, but after realizing Ollie was the one crying, he had no trouble getting out of bed.

When he reached the nursery, Moira was already there cleaning his diaper, softly humming to herself. For someone who was drunk off their ass not even a few hours ago, she was handling him surprisingly well. But then again, he was fully aware she was brilliant at being a mother.

Moira got a right scare when realising someone was standing behind her, her heart beating uncontrollably. "Harry!" She gasped.

"Hi."

"Did he wake you also?" Moira asked, gesturing towards her son.

Nodding, he took a step closer and caressed Ollie's cheek. "Do you have to breastfeed him? I'll leave if you want me to? Give you some privacy."

"No, that's fine. I'm going to feed him formula."

"Why?"

She explained that she was scared that the alcohol in her blood had somehow affected the milk and that she would wait a few days until it wore off, just in case. Until then, she'd feed him formula.

Harry offered to prepare the formula and feed him, so she could go to bed -since she was looking rather exhausted and he wanted to help. Not to forget to mention, he'd done it a thousand times before when caring for Bella.

At first, she'd been a little hesitant. But as her eyelids grew more and more tired, she'd quickly given in. Carefully handing Ollie over to Harry, she was acting like the typical, over-protective mother. She'd explained how to hold him and how to make a formula bottle and how to change his diaper and what to do if he got cold, even though he knew all of this already.

He was glad to see she hadn't treated him differently, after the drunken events. In fact, she'd acted a little too normal. Did she even remember? On one hand, he hoped she didn't. Seeing as he hadn't exactly acted like a true gentleman. But on the other hand, he wanted her to remember how needy his lips felt on hers. How right it felt.

Harraël had gone downstairs to prepare the formula and fed Ollie his bottle, which only took about 30 minutes. After that, he continued entertaining the baby until he too, grew tired and Harry had to carry him back to the nursery, and into his crib. He stayed put, his legs frozen, just watching the Oliver warily. There was something, something that kept him there. It made Lizzy's words resurface in his head. Who was Ollie's dad, really?

Moira had never mentioned her baby's father, and tended to avoid the subject at all costs. It was suspicious, but prior to his conversation with Lizzy, Harry hadn't cared enough to keep asking her about it. It was obvious she either felt ashamed or scared to tell him who the father was. Or in the worst case, she didn't even know who he was... However, Harraël didn't pick Moira as a person to carelessly sleep around.

Whether it was to blame on his intense fondness of Moira, Lizzy's words, or because he was simply jealous, he didn't know. But he couldn't help but compare his own looks to Oliver's. His mind came up blank. Not finding any similarities. What the hell had his sister been talking about?

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he scrolled through his iCloud. Coincidentally, his mother had sent a picture to him about a year ago. She'd been clearing out the attic and found a bunch of old pictures of Harraël and Lizzy from when they were young. Finding what he'd been looking for, he stared at the picture for a moment, then back at Ollie.

His breath hitched in his throat.

Oh, dear god.

The same big, emerald eyes, the same plump lips, the same arch in his tiny eyebrows, the same chubbiness in his cheeks, the same chocolate color to his hair.

His mind vanished, forgetting all about the world around him. All he could see was how much Ollie did look like him when he was his age. Hell, he was nearly a precise replica of Harry. Just with a somewhat more modest nose and smaller ears. Harraël's mouth was agape and the color drained from his face. His entire body was instilled with shock.

"Could he be my..?" he whispered to himself, the word 'son' refusing to leave his lips as his heart raced in his chest. By then, it was 9am and thus too late to go back to bed. He doubted he would even be able to, with all the thoughts that were troubling him.

For him to be Ollie's father, Moira must have gone to the sperm bank where he had donated a tube of semen. Which could be a possibility since she had the same doctor he had: Dr. Patel.

Out of the thousands of donors, she must have picked him. Thinking back to the phone call he got from the hospital a few months back, this could all be reality.

It was as if the puzzle pieces were falling in place, this was too much of a coincidence.

There was only one way to find out the truth, and even though it was a complete invasion of privacy and he felt ashamed for even considering it; It had to be done. He was going to have to go through her medical records, just to make sure he wasn't going crazy.

Quietly, he headed off to Moira's office -where he figured her medical records would be. Once there, he began his search through the cabinets and drawers. He thanked his luck Moira was organized enough to name all drawers and cabinets after their contents. Such as 'finances', 'house', 'bills', etcetera. He came up empty handed until he reached one of the last drawers that was named 'Oliver'.

Bingo.

Skipping through the folders, he blamed his own stupidity for assuming things. None of these had anything to do with sperm donation. They were Ollie's medical records, clothes and furniture receipts and reports of his echoes.

He was about to give up hope when he spotted a pitch black folder. Now that caught his attention. He noted how it was constructed professionally but didn't look like your everyday medical record. Even though Dr. Patel's name as well as the title: 'sperm donors' -stated on the front page- indicated that it was.

Holding his breath, he flipped through the pages until the last one came into view, which was highlighted with a neon yellow color. None of the other donors had been highlighted, just this one. Which told him that this was the one.

When he saw the basic information on the donor, his entire world tipped around him. He felt like he was seriously close to fainting; his heart felt like it stopped in his chest, and he couldn't bring his eyes to look away from the words, that he'd first seen six years ago. Just a bunch of words, and it changed everything within an instant. It would make him or break him but one thing was sure: nothing would ever be the same again.

HES-81650

Harraël Elay Stones. And his donor number: 81650.

The realisation chilled him to the bone. He was Ollie's father.

He didn't know what was wrong with him, to be honest. It was like something took over his body; it was like he was drugged and intoxicated, unable to control his actions. This was so different than being drunk or high-it was so much more overwhelming. All his mind was focusing on was the fact he had a son, with the woman he was in love with.

Fuck, he was in love with the mother of his child.

How the hell was he ever going to get through this undamaged? Or a better question, how was he going to tell Moira?