Chapter 6: The Proposal
The key turned with a hollow scrape, the sound of an intruder in his own home. Marcus pushed the door open on a landscape forever altered. The cozy clutter was gone, swallowed by a new ecosystem of function. Cardboard boxes, half-emptied and spilling biodegradable packing peanuts, formed precarious towers. A sleek, alien bassinet stood where the armchair used to be. The air smelled of lemon-scented disinfectant and the milky, sweet scent of newborn skin—a scent that somehow underlined his exclusion.
They were on the couch, a tangle of limbs and sleep. Lydia was on her side, one arm curled protectively. Lyd-2 was behind her, spooning her, their bodies forming a living cradle. And between them, swaddled in a cream-colored blanket, was the baby. Elara. The name had been chosen without him.
Marcus stood frozen in the doorway, his laptop bag slipping from his shoulder to thud softly on the floor. He watched the slow, synchronized rise and fall of their breathing. Three chests. One unit. The sight was more intimate than any sex he’d witnessed. This was a deeper binding.
A tiny fist escaped the blanket, waving in the dim light. The baby made a soft, snuffling noise. Instantly, Lyd-2’s eyes opened. They weren’t drowsy. They were alert, laser-focused, finding him in the shadows. The tenderness in her face for the child solidified into something impassive and hard when it landed on him.
“She’s hungry again,” Lyd-2 whispered, her voice raspy from sleep but devoid of warmth. She moved with a careful, fluid grace, disentangling herself without disturbing Lydia. She lifted Elara, a practiced hand cradling the downy head, and transferred her into the curve of Lydia’s arms. Lydia stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Without a word, still half in a dream, she unbuttoned her pajama top and guided the baby to her breast.
Marcus’s mouth went dry. He watched the baby’s mouth latch, a tiny, desperate suckling. He watched Lydia’s head tip back against the cushion, her eyes closing in a mix of exhaustion and profound relief. A lock of dark hair stuck to her damp temple. This was primal, beautiful, and it excluded him on a cellular level. He was a spectator to the mammalian result of his own DNA.
Lyd-2 stood, padding barefoot past him. She jerked her head toward the kitchen. A command. He followed, his legs numb.
The kitchen was a casualty of new priorities. Unwashed bottles stood in a sterilizer. A burp cloth was slung over the back of a chair. Lyd-2 leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. She was wearing only one of his old band t-shirts, the fabric stretched taut over her fuller breasts, hanging just to mid-thigh. She looked powerful. Recovered. In charge.
“She’s cluster-feeding,” Lyd-2 said, as if delivering a report. “It’s a nightmare. We’re getting maybe ninety minutes of sleep at a time.”
Marcus nodded, searching for an entry point. “Can I… help? Make you something? Or—”
“We’ve ordered food. It’s managed.” She cut him off. Her gaze was analytical, scanning him from his rumpled shirt to his tired eyes. “We need to talk about the structure going forward.”
“Structure?” The word felt corporate, cold.
“The living arrangement. Your role.” She uncrossed her arms, placing her palms flat on the counter behind her. “What happened on the couch that night… the maintenance fuck. That clarified things.”
He flinched at the term, the memory a hot brand of shame.
“Lydia and I,” she continued, her tone impossibly light, conversational, “we’ve talked. A lot. While you were at work. While we were up at three a.m. We’re in agreement. This,” she gestured vaguely between them, “whatever this was supposed to be, your fantasy harem thing? It’s not working for us. Emotionally, it’s a non-starter.”
A spark of hope, stupid and fragile, flickered in his chest. “So… you want me to move out?” He’d almost prefer it. A clean cut.
Lyd-2 laughed, a short, dry sound. “God, no. The mortgage is in your name. The baby needs stability. And, frankly, having you here to run for groceries or fix a leaking faucet is useful.”
The spark died. He was a handyman.
“But romantically? As a partner?” She shook her head. “We’re not interested. You see it. We have everything we need in each other. We’re complete.”
The words were a physical blow. He’d watched that completeness solidify over months, but to hear it stated so plainly…
“Then what am I?” The question was a whisper.
Lyd-2’s lips curved into a small, unnerving smile. “You’re a good breeder, Marcus. Excellent genes, apparently. Healthy sperm. Elara is perfect.” She said it with the same tone one might praise a reliable appliance. “We want her to have siblings. Close in age. A real family.”
The air left his lungs. He stared at her, comprehension dawning with a wave of nausea. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? It’s efficient. You’re already here. The process is… straightforward.” Her eyes flicked down his body and back up. A purely biological assessment. “We’d handle the pregnancy, the birth, the raising. Together. You’d provide the necessary biological component.”
“I’m not a fucking stud horse,” he breathed, anger finally igniting.
“Aren’t you?” She pushed off the counter, taking a step closer. The vanilla-and-milk scent of her was overwhelming. “You proved you were up for the task, even under less-than-ideal circumstances. Remember? Watching you on your knees afterwards was… instructive. You’re motivated by biology in a very basic way. We’re just proposing to channel it productively.”
His face burned. His mind screamed in protest. But beneath the shame and the fury, a traitorous thread of arousal pulled tight. The degrading thrill of it. To be wanted not for himself, but for this one crude, potent function. To be used.
“How would it… work?” The question felt pulled from him against his will.
“When we decide the time is right. We’d tell you. It could be with me again, or with Lydia. Depending on cycles, preference.” She spoke as if planning a grocery run. “You’d perform. You’d get your… release. And then you’d leave us alone until needed. You could watch, if we allowed it. Like before. But you don’t get to stay afterwards. You don’t get to play dad. You’re a tool, Marcus. A very useful, very specific tool.”
She was close enough now that he could see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, identical to Lydia’s. Her body, ripe from recent childbirth, was a potent lure. His body responded, a surge of blood that was part hatred, part sheer animal recognition. His cock hardened, betraying him completely, straining against his chinos.
Lyd-2 saw it. Her smile didn’t widen, but it deepened, satisfied. She reached out and tapped his chest with one finger. “See? Your body understands the agreement already. Your mind will catch up.”
From the living room, Elara’s fussing escalated into a full, rhythmic cry. Lydia’s soft, soothing shush followed.
Lyd-2’s attention shifted toward the sound, her entire posture softening for a millisecond before turning back to him, businesslike. “Think about it. The alternative is you move out, pay alimony and child support through the nose, and get to see your daughter every other weekend in a park somewhere. While we find a less complicated donor. This way, you’re here. You’re part of it, in a way. And you get to fuck us.” She shrugged. “It’s a good deal for you, really.”
She walked past him, back toward the living room, toward her family. At the doorway, she paused. “Oh, and Marcus? The first decision is made. My cycle resets in about five weeks. We’ll start then. I’d prefer it if you were… ready.”
She disappeared into the lamplight.
Marcus stood alone in the clinical brightness of the kitchen, surrounded by the tools of sustenance. The baby’s cries softened, replaced by the soft, greedy sounds of feeding. His own heart hammered against his ribs. He looked down at the obvious bulge in his pants, at the physical testament to his own base complicity.
A tool. A useful tool.
He leaned back against the refrigerator, the hum vibrating through his skull, and closed his eyes. He could still smell her on the air. He was already counting the days.