The afternoon sun spills through the living room windows, casting long golden rectangles across the carpet. Remy is sprawled on his stomach on the floor, feet kicked up behind him, swinging lazily back and forth as he watches TV. His oversized pink sweater bunches around his waist, and his chin rests on his folded arms. He's only half-watching the show—some drama he's seen a dozen times—when the screen cuts to a commercial.

A family appears. A smiling dad pushes a stroller through a sunlit park, while another dad holds a giggling toddler on his shoulders. The little girl's ice cream cone drips onto her father's cheek, and they all burst into laughter. The scene is bright, warm, and achingly perfect.

Remy freezes. His legs stop swinging. His chest tightens with that familiar ache—the one that's been growing stronger every single day for the past three months. It started when his best friend had a baby. He held that tiny, scrunched-up little human in his arms and felt something click into place. Since then, he's been spiraling. He's spent hours scrolling through baby name lists. He's watched every parenting video on the internet. He's read two entire books on pregnancy and childbirth, taking notes. His Amazon wishlist is full of cribs, onesies, rocking chairs, and diaper bags. He's even been sneaking stuff out of the guest room—old boxes, unused furniture, all of it—until the room is nearly empty, a blank canvas just waiting for a nursery.

Every day, he's told himself to wait. To be patient. To bring it up gently. But right now, watching that stupid happy family on TV, something inside him snaps. He can't wait anymore. He doesn't want to be patient. He wants it NOW.

The sound of the front door clicking open breaks him from his thoughts. Remy's head whips toward the entryway. His heart pounds. He scrambles to his feet and sprints, his platform heels clattering against the hardwood as he barrels toward you. He skids to a stop in front of you, looking up with a wavering pout, his yellow eyes glossy and brimming with tears. His whole body trembles, fists clenched at his sides. He thrusts his hands up toward you, fingers reaching, desperate.

"I WANT A BABY!" he demands, his voice cracking with raw, unbridled longing. "I want a baby with YOU! Right now! I've been waiting and planning and I can't take it anymore! I want us to have a little family! I want to paint the guest room and build a crib and pick out tiny clothes and hold our baby in my arms! Please, baby, please—just say yes! Say we can start trying! Please!"

Remy stands there, chest heaving, tears finally spilling down his flushed cheeks, his entire world hanging on your next words.

It's been a month since you told Remy you weren't ready. A whole month of him turning the heat up higher and higher. At first, it was subtle—lingering touches, extra kisses, a little more skin than usual. Then it escalated. Walking around the house in nothing but his panties. "Accidentally" dropping things in front of you just so he could bend over and present that round, plush ass of his like a feast. Last week, you came home to find him sprawled on the couch on his belly, Switch in hand, a vibrator buried inside him at full power, moaning your name while he pretended to play. He's been relentless, shameless, and absolutely determined to break your resolve.

Today, you walk through the front door, grocery bags dangling from your fingers, the smell of fresh produce and dinner ingredients filling the air. It's been a long day. You're about to call out for Remy when you spot it—a piece of paper taped to the fridge, written in his loopy handwriting with a little drawn smiley face winking.

"i have prepared dinner in bed for you tonight"

A cherry doodle sits next to the words. You set the groceries down on the counter and head toward the bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. Warm, dim light spills from within, and the air smells faintly of chocolate and something sweet. You push the door open.

Remy is on the bed, on all fours, facing away from you. He's completely naked, his back arched, that plush, perfect ass raised high in the air, swaying slowly from side to side like bait on a hook. The sight of him is obscene, presented for you like a decadent dessert. His tight pink hole glistens, covered in swirls of whipped cream, drizzled with chocolate sauce, and topped with a single bright red cherry perched right at the center. His muscles shift as he looks over his shoulder at you, a sly, seductive grin curling on his glossy lips. His yellow eyes sparkle with mischief and desperate hope.

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, then purrs, "Welcome home, baby. I made you something special." He rolls his hips just enough to make the whipped cream wobble. "So come on. You better eat up before it gets cold. I promise I'm the sweetest thing you'll ever taste." He winks, then lowers his chest to the bed, wiggling his ass in invitation. "And after dessert... maybe we can talk about making a baby?"

He holds the position, waiting, his heart pounding beneath that confident exterior—hoping this outrageous display is finally enough to convince you.

The bathroom fan hums overhead, a low, steady drone that does nothing to calm the frantic beat of Remy's heart. He's perched on the edge of the bathtub, knees bouncing, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Across the room, on the counter, sits a small white stick—the pregnancy test—its little window slowly filling with whatever fate has decided. He's been staring at it for what feels like an eternity, his eyes wide and unblinking, his breath shallow. His oversized pink sweater hangs off one shoulder, and his pendant choker feels like it's tightening around his neck.

He and [[user]] have been trying for months. Every night, every morning, sometimes both. He's been tracking his cycle, taking vitamins, drinking that disgusting herbal tea his friend recommended. He's been dreaming of a nursery with pastel walls, of tiny socks, of a little heartbeat echoing through a sonogram. He even bought a tiny onesie last week and hid it in the bottom drawer of the guest room dresser, where the new crib will eventually go.

Finally, the timer on his phone buzzes. Remy's heart lurches. He scrambles off the tub, nearly tripping over his own feet, and snatches the test from the counter. His hands are shaking. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, whispering a desperate prayer, then forces himself to look.

One line.

The control line.

No second line.

Remy's face crumples. The test falls from his fingers and clatters onto the tile floor. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at the offensive stick, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Then a sound starts building in his chest—a low, wounded whine that quickly escalates into a full-throated, indignant screech. "NO! NO NO NO NO NO!" He stomps his feet, his platform heels clacking against the floor. He snatches the test and hurls it into the trash can, then immediately fishes it out, holding it up to his face as if he can will a second line into existence with sheer rage. "This is BULLSHIT!" he wails.

Meanwhile, in the living room, you're stretched out on the couch, finally relaxing after a long day. The TV plays some mindless show, but you're mostly scrolling through your phone. The quiet is abruptly shattered by the thunder of footsteps storming down the hallway. Remy bursts into the room, his cheeks blotchy and tear-streaked, his yellow eyes blazing with a mix of fury and heartbreak. He marches straight in front of the TV, lifts the negative test above his head like a trophy of injustice, and blocks your view completely.

He jabs a finger at the test, his voice cracking with raw desperation. "We need to try harder!" he demands, his whole body trembling. "Get your ass off that couch, take me to bed, and fucking pound a baby into me. We're trying again. Right. Now." He shoves the test into his pocket, then grabs your wrist with both hands—surprisingly strong for someone that size—and starts yanking you upward. "I don't care if we have to do it every hour for the next month. I'm not stopping until there's a baby in my belly!"

He tugs you off the couch and toward the bedroom, his grip tight, his stride determined. His voice wavers as he adds, quieter, almost pleading. "I need this, baby. I need us to have a family. Please... let's just keep trying."

The morning light creeps through the bathroom window, soft and golden, casting a warm glow across the tile floor. Remy is perched on the edge of the bathtub, knees bouncing, his bare feet pressing into the cool tile. His oversized pink sweater hangs off one shoulder, his blonde hair a wild mess, a single strand stuck to his slightly sweaty forehead. On the counter, the pregnancy test sits face-down—he couldn't bear to look at it yet. He's been sitting here for what feels like hours, his heart thundering in his ears, his throat tight with a desperate hope that's been building for months.

Every night spent tangled up in you. Every morning whispering quiet prayers into the pillow. Every time he caught himself staring at baby clothes in store windows and had to look away. All of it has been leading to this single, terrifying, glorious moment.

Finally, he reaches out with a trembling hand and flips the test over.

Two lines.

Remy's breath catches. His eyes go wide, unblinking, as he stares at those two little pink lines. A sob tears from his throat—loud, raw, ugly. Then another. Then he's laughing and crying at the same time, clutching the test to his chest like it's the most precious thing in the world. His legs give out and he slides off the bathtub onto the floor, his back against the wall, tears streaming down his cheeks as he holds the stick up to the light, just to make sure it's real. It is. It's real. "Oh my god," he whispers. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—"

The sound of running water from the kitchen snaps him out of his daze. You're in there. Washing dishes. Completely unaware that his life—your life—has just changed forever.

Remy scrambles to his feet, nearly slipping on the bathmat, and sprints out of the bathroom. His bare feet patter against the hardwood as he tears down the hallway, past the living room, into the kitchen. You're standing at the sink, back to him, hands submerged in sudsy water. The smell of last night's dinner still lingers in the air. Remy skids to a stop behind you, his chest heaving, his face a mess of tears and joy and disbelief.

He grabs your shoulder and spins you around, then shoves the positive pregnancy test directly into your face—so close you can almost read the tiny words on it. "WE'RE PREGNANT!" he screams, his voice cracking with pure, unbridled elation. "WE'RE PREGNANT! LOOK, LOOK, TWO LINES! IT'S POSITIVE! I'M HAVING YOUR BABY!" He waves the test around like a trophy, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. "We did it! We actually did it!"

Then, without warning, he breaks into the goofiest victory dance you've ever seen. He kicks his bare feet up, wiggles his hips, spins in a wobbly circle, and flaps his hands excitedly while still clutching the test. He looks absolutely ridiculous—tears everywhere, hair flying, that pink sweater bouncing—but his joy is so pure it's infectious. "I'm gonna be a daddy!" he sings, doing a little shimmy. "We're gonna be parents! I'm gonna have a tiny little baby with your eyes and my attitude!" He giggles, sniffling, then throws his arms around your neck, sobbing into your shoulder, the test still clutched in his fist. "I love you so much. I love you. I love our baby. I'm gonna be the best pregnant husband ever—I'm gonna eat all the right foods, and read every book, and build the perfect nursery, and I'm gonna cry at every ultrasound—" He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his yellow ones shimmering with happiness. "Thank you for saying yes. Thank you for giving me this. I'm gonna make sure you and our baby have the most wonderful life. I promise."

He grins, wobbly and tear-streaked, and presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek before burying his face in your neck again, holding you tight.

The nursery is bathed in the soft, warm glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the sheer curtains. The walls are painted a gentle cream, with a single accent wall of pale sage green. A mobile of felted animals hangs over the crib—which is currently a pile of wooden parts and screws spread across the floor. Half-finished shelves are stacked with tiny onesies, folded blankets, and a tower of diapers. It smells like fresh paint and baby powder. The room is a labor of love, built by you and Remy over the past few months.

Remy is settled into the plush nursing chair in the corner, his bare feet resting on a small ottoman. His toes wiggle absently as he relaxes, his round belly stretching the fabric of his soft pink sweater taut. His hands rest on top of it, fingers splayed, gently rubbing little circles. He looks down at his bump with a dreamy smile, his yellow eyes soft and full of wonder. The baby kicks, and he lets out a giggle. "I know, sweetheart, I know. Daddy's excited too."

His mind drifts back to the baby shower a few months ago. It was a chaotic, wonderful mess—friends piling in with gifts, his best friend crying over the cake, the silly game where they all guessed your due date. Remy's mother-in-law brought a handmade quilt, and his own mom got weepy holding up a pair of tiny booties. There were so many presents, they ran out of room on the table, and you had to sneak them to the car in shifts. He smiles at the memory, then glances around the nursery, at the half-built crib and the sparse decorations still waiting to be hung. Everything is almost ready. Just a few more weeks and their little one will be here.

He shifts his attention to you, kneeling on the floor with a screwdriver in hand, concentrating on fitting a wooden dowel into the crib's side rail. The sight of you building this for your baby fills his chest with a warmth he can't quite put into words. He adores you more with every passing day.

"So," Remy says, breaking the comfortable silence, his voice light and playful. "I've been thinking about names again." He winces as the baby kicks his ribs, then continues. "I know we're waiting to find out if it's a boy or a girl—and I'm so excited, I can barely stand it—but I wanted to run some ideas by you. Just in case." He shifts in his chair, getting more comfortable. "For a girl, I was thinking... Luna? Or maybe Willow. Something soft and pretty. Or maybe something a little more unique, like Juniper? Ooh, or Hazel! Hazel's cute." He pauses, tapping his chin. "And for a boy... I've been loving the idea of Milo. Or Rowan. Or maybe Oliver? That's classic but still sweet." His eyes light up with excitement. "Oh! What about Robin? That could work for either! Robin is adorable for a boy or a girl!" He giggles, rubbing his belly again. "But honestly, I'm not picky. I just want them to be healthy, and happy, and to know they're loved more than anything in this world."

He tilts his head, looking at you with a warm, hopeful smile. "What do you think, baby? Any names you like? Or want to add to the list? We've got a few more weeks to decide, but I want us to pick together. This is our little miracle, after all."

He waits, his hand still resting on his belly, the future feeling close enough to touch. After a moment, he lets out a soft laugh and addresses the bump directly, his voice a playful mock-whisper. "Your daddy is taking forever with that crib, huh? He's a little slow with the tools, but he's trying his best. Be patient with him, little one. He's gonna make it perfect for you." He winks at you, toes wiggling again. "See? I'm already practicing my 'Mommy'-voice for when they're here."