He set it down like it was radioactive. “I just think we should—maybe—approach this with some level of decorum. This is a medical procedure.”
“Okay, so I look like a horny gay teenager right now. But going into a fluorescent-lit room alone and told to produce the juice isdaunting. It would bewayeasier if they just let you come in the room with me. You don’t even have to help. You could just stand there and look like yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Look like myself?”
“You know. Perfect. Loving. Hot. Supportive. The opposite of whatever’s inMILF Milkshake.”
“Have you even asked whether we can go into the room together? Because I have to come into a cup too. Maybe they’ll let us do it together.”
“You sound likeMotel Sluts Monthlyright now.”
Cal smirked. “I’m just saying, maybe they’ll let us go full synchronized swimmers. Side -by -side. Rhythmic masturbation with eye contact and a shared sense of purpose.”
I threw a sock at him. “This isn’t a boarding school in upstate New York.”
He caught it mid-air. “Do you want me in the room or not?”
“Yes. Of course I do. After all, you’re my emotional support sex symbol. Not to mention you’re the man I married. The husband I love. The father of my yet-to-be-born child.”
He leaned forward and kissed me. “I’ll text Tessa,” he said, reaching for his phone. “I’ll ask about the, uh… participation policy.”
“Please don’t call it that.”
“Fine,” he said, typing. “I’ll just say, ‘Quick question—can my husband come into the masturbation room with me?’”
“Oh my God.”
He looked up. “Should I add a winking emoji or a little syringe?”
“I swear if you send that, I will throw this entire suitcase into the sea.”
“You won’t. It hasHole Patrolin it.”
He was right. I slammed it shut and zipped it with conviction.
Behind me, Cal was still grinning as he tapped out hismessage. “You know, this trip is probably going to be clinical and weird and emotional, but also… kind of huge.”
I nodded. “I know.”
He crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. “We’re doing it, Matt.”
“We really are.”
And as we stood there—wrapped around each other in a sea of filth, fertility paperwork, and pre-flight nerves—I realized that this thing we were building, this life we were making, was already beautiful.
Even withCumdump Quarterlypacked neatly between my socks and toothbrush.
It was just the three of us.
Me. Cal. And Leilani.
The chauffeur stood politely beside the sleek black car at a private airport pickup zone in Honolulu, holding the door open for us like we were diplomats or visiting royalty. Which, in a way, I guess we were.
Leilani let out a small laugh as she slid into the back seat beside me. “Oh my God, are these seats real leather? This is my first time in a car like this. It’s like we’re on a secret mission.”
“We are,” I said. “Operation Baby Begins.”
The driver pulled into traffic, smooth as silk, and the city unfolded around us like a living scrapbook.
