"You know how I've been coming home late from the gym lately?" Marianne said, swirling her wine glass absently. The ice cubes clinked softly, melting into the dark red.
Ethan glanced up from his laptop, fingers pausing over the keyboard. "Yeah? Thought you found a new trainer or something." He hadn’t paid much attention—just assumed it was another one of her fleeting fitness obsessions. Spin classes last year, kickboxing the year before.
Marianne took a slow sip, her eyes steady over the rim of the glass. "Well. It’s not just the gym." She set the glass down carefully. "There’s someone else."
The words hung there, simple and weighty. Ethan blinked, waiting for the punchline. She didn’t joke like this, but— "What?"
Ethan's laugh came out brittle, cracking halfway. "Okay, sure. April Fools is months away, Mar." He closed his laptop with a soft click, as if the conversation deserved its own punctuation. But Marianne’s expression didn’t shift—just that faint tilt of her head she used when she was about to explain something obvious to him. Like how the dishwasher needed loading a certain way, or why his mother’s birthday gift was all wrong.
"He’s here right now, actually," she said, glancing toward the hallway. "In the guest room. Thought it’d be easier if you met him first before… well." She shrugged.
The floorboards groaned underfoot before Ethan even registered the sound of footsteps. Then he filled the doorway—broad-shouldered, tall enough to duck slightly under the frame. "Ethan," the man said, voice warm as if they were old friends. "Marianne’s told me so much about you."
Ethan stood abruptly, chair scraping back. "What the hell is this?" His pulse hammered in his ears, but the man—Christ, he had to be six-four at least—just smiled, stepping fully into the room. Behind him, Ethan caught a glimpse of the guest room’s transformation: pastel pink walls, a crib where the bed used to be.
Ethan's fingers dug into the edge of the dining table, the wood creaking under his grip. "Mar, what the fuck is—"
The man—Jared, Marianne had called him, hadn’t she?—crossed the room in three strides, his hand settling on Ethan’s shoulder with the weight of a sandbag. "Easy, little guy," Jared murmured, squeezing just enough to make Ethan's knees wobble. The nickname sent a jolt of humiliation straight to his gut. Little guy. Like he was some kid throwing a tantrum.
Marianne sighed, swirling her wine again. "Jared’s got this… thing," she said, like she was discussing a quirky hobby. "He likes taking care of people."
Jared’s thumb rubbed circles into Ethan’s collarbone, the touch oddly soothing despite the situation. "We’ve got your room all set up," he said, steering Ethan toward the hallway with terrifying ease. "Pacifiers, onesies—the whole nine yards. Even got you those extra-thick Huggies, the ones with Winnie the Pooh." He chuckled, deep and warm, like this was some adorable inside joke.
Ethan dug his heels into the hardwood floor, but Jared’s grip was immovable—his fingers like steel bands under Ethan’s shirt. "Stop," Ethan hissed, but the word came out thin.
Marianne trailed behind them. "You’ll adjust," she said. Jared’s chuckle vibrated through Ethan’s back. "Course he will. Deep down, he's just a Daddy's boy." The casual ownership in his tone made Ethan’s stomach twist. Boy.
The door at the end of the hall—formerly Marianne’s home office—was ajar, revealing a frilly canopy crib and a dresser stacked with pastel onesies. A changing table, stocked with wipes and powder, sat under a framed print of cartoon giraffes. Ethan’s pulse thrashed in his throat. "This isn’t—"
Jared nudged him inside with a hip, the motion effortless. Ethan’s knees hit the edge of the crib, its bars pressing into his thighs. Jared’s hands settled on his waist, thumbs hooking under his belt. Ethan’s belt buckle jingled as Jared’s fingers worked it loose with a mechanic’s precision. "Wait—" Ethan grabbed at Jared’s wrists, but the man didn’t even pause, just adjusted his grip like Ethan’s resistance was part of some script they’d rehearsed.
"You’re gonna love these," Jared murmured, nodding toward an open pack of Huggies on the changing table. Ethan’s jeans slid down his hips before he could process the movement—Jared’s hands were everywhere, efficient and unyielding, like he’d done this a thousand times before.
Marianne crossed her arms, watching with detached interest as Jared guided Ethan onto the padded changing table. The vinyl crinkled under Ethan’s back, the sound grotesquely infantile. "Stop—" Ethan bucked, but Jared simply pressed a palm to his sternum, holding him down with infuriating ease. "Shh. Almost done." The man’s voice was syrup-thick, the kind of tone reserved for skittish animals or, well, babies. Ethan’s cheeks burned.
The diaper unfolded with a rustle in Jared’s hands. Ethan thrashed again, but Jared just chuckled, lifting his legs with one arm like Ethan weighed nothing. "There we goooo," Jared cooed, taping the sides with a few brisk motions. The fit was snug, humiliatingly so—Ethan could already feel the padding between his thighs, the way it shifted when he tried to sit up.
Ethan’s hands flew to the waistband, but Jared caught his wrists, pinning them to his chest with one hand while the other reached for a pastel-blue onesie hanging nearby. "Ah-ah. No touching." The fabric slipped over Ethan’s head before he could protest, the snaps between his legs clicking shut with finality.
Ethan’s breath came in short, sharp gasps as the onesie settled over his shoulders, the soft fabric clinging like a second skin. The snaps at the crotch pressed against the thick diaper beneath, a constant, undeniable reminder of his new reality. Jared stepped back, admiring his handiwork with a satisfied grin. "Look at you," he murmured, ruffling Ethan’s hair like he was a toddler. "Perfect fit."
Jared’s hand returned to Ethan’s shoulder, steering him toward the crib. "Nap time," he announced, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Ethan dug his heels into the plush carpet, but Jared’s grip was unshakable. "Come on, little guy. You’ve had a big day." Ethan’s face burned, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Jared lifted him effortlessly over the side. Ethan scrambled to his knees, clutching the rails, but before he could even think of climbing out. But then Jared's thumb brushed his lower lip, and without quite meaning to, Ethan parted his mouth. A pacifier slid between his teeth with a soft pop, the taste of sterilized rubber flooding his tongue. He almost gagged—almost—but Jared's fingers curled under his chin, tilting his face up. "Good boy," he murmured, and then his lips pressed warm and firm against Ethan's forehead. The kiss lingered just a second too long to be casual. "You're being such a good boy for Daddy."
Ethan's stomach lurched. Daddy. The word slithered under his skin, settling somewhere deep and shameful. He sucked reflexively on his pacifier. Jared chuckled, ruffling his hair. "See? Natural." Behind him, Marianne leaned against the dresser, her wine glass abandoned now, arms crossed. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between satisfaction and clinical curiosity, like she was watching an experiment unfold.
Jared straightened, his shadow swallowing Ethan whole as he loomed over the crib. "Now, listen up, sport," he said, his tone shifting—still warm, but edged with something darker, something that made Ethan's toes curl against the crib mattress. "When Daddy comes back to wake you from your nap, those Huggies of yours better be used." He tapped the thick front of Ethan's diaper with two fingers, the plastic crinkling obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Soaked. Messy. However you wanna get there. Or—" He leaned down, his breath hot against Ethan's ear. "There’ll be consequences."
The word consequences landed like a stone in Ethan's gut. His pacifier bobbed as he swallowed hard, hands clutching the crib rails. Jared straightened with a grin. The casualness of it all was worse somehow—like this was just another Tuesday for him. Marianne uncrossed her arms. "If you want to make a good impression," she murmured. "You should choose messy." Her fingers lingered at his shoulder, the touch almost tender. Almost.
Then they were gone, the door clicking shut behind them.
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