James sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by open tabs on his laptop and a half-eaten granola bar that had somehow become part of his "research process." The screen glared back at him with a mix of medical jargon and forum posts from men who had actually tried induced lactation.

“Possible side effects: breast tenderness, hormonal imbalances, mood swings...”

He scratched his stubble. Okay, so he’d be emotional and a little sore. Big deal. He had survived that one time he had tried hot yoga. This couldn’t be worse.

“Long-term risks: gynecomastia, lowered libido, chemical castration (usually reversible)...”

James paused. He glanced down at his chest. Would it be weird? Probably. He could get surgery after to remove them after everything.. Lowered libido might not be the end of the world, considering how little privacy they would have for some time after the baby arrived. Chemical castration seemed to be reversible upon stoppage of the testosterone blockers. Everything on these lists, he would never have considered before.

He leaned back against the couch, picturing it: him, cradling their newborn, effortlessly providing what they needed while Jennifer crushed it at work. No frantic pumping in airport bathrooms, no guilt. Just Team James-and-Jen, tackling parenthood their way.

Sure, a year of hormones might turn him into a walking pharmacy commercial (Ask your doctor if Dad Milk is right for you!), but then it’d be over. Life would snap back to normal. Mostly. All he could think about was that it would absolutely be worth it if it gave their baby the best start.

His entire life, whenever he had to make big decisions, James had never let convention stand in the way of conviction, and it had served him so well thus far. Regardless of what happened from here on out, this baby was never going to have a shot at a traditional childhood.

Then, before he could overthink it, he shot Jennifer a text:

"Hypothetically… if I went full science experiment for a year, would you still love me if I came out the other side with the chest of a 90s rom-com star?"

He grinned at his phone, already imagining her eye-roll from three miles away.

* * *

The ob/gyn's office had left them giddy – the flicker of a heartbeat on the ultrasound, the official due date circled in Jennifer's planner, the way James had teared up when the technician passes them the ultrasound photo." They'd celebrated with overpriced smoothies and spent the afternoon debating names that definitely wouldn't get their kid bullied.

But now, curled together on the couch as dusk settled, Jennifer turned to James with “the look”– the one that meant business.

"About your text today," she began.

"Ah. The Dad Milk proposal."

"Yes, well, I didn't reply because..." She twisted the hem of her shirt. "I needed to really think about it. Not just laugh it off."

James nodded, and took her hand. "Okay. Let's talk."

The Case For Dad Milk (Presented by James):
Optimal nutrition for the baby: "Breastmilk's benefits are insane."
Maintaining Jen’s career trajectory and our long term financial security: “This is going to be a family of 3 moving forward, we need to plan for the future."
Quality family time: “There aren’t enough hours in the day for work and feeding, If I can handle the feeding, that leaves more time for us as a family.”
Temporary weirdness: “One unorthodox year vs. a lifetime of knowing we gave our kid every advantage.”

The Concerns (Presented by Jennifer):
1. Health risks: “James, lowered testosterone isn't like getting a bad haircut. What if it changes you?”
2. Social stigma: “How do we explain this to your mom? To my mom?"
3. The ick factor: “I love you, but the idea of you lactating is... a lot to process.”

James nodded. "Fair. But counterpoint: Formula exists because not everyone can breastfeed. If I can, shouldn't I try?"

Jennifer chewed her lip. "What if it doesn't work? What if you put yourself through all this and your body just... doesn't cooperate?"

James shrugged. "Then we stop all the treatments, buy the fancy European formula and tell the kid it's artisanal."

Jennifer snorted, but her eyes were wet. "You'd really do this?"

"In a heartbeat." He kissed her knuckles. "But only if you are 100% on board. No guilt, no pressure."

They sat in silence for a long moment, foreheads pressed together.

Finally, Jennifer sighed. "Let's sleep on it. But James?"

"Yeah?"

"If we do this, and at any moment you want to pull the plug, just say the word. No guilt, no pressure. Deal?”

James nodded. "Deal."

That night, they dreamt of chubby cheeks and lullabies, and, in James' case, a very detailed fantasy where he won "Father of the Year" in a nursing bra.

Dr. Elias Mercer’s office smelled like lavender and antiseptic, a combination that somehow made the framed diagrams of mammary glands on the wall feel less intimidating. The silver-haired endocrinologist leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied James and Jennifer with warm, crinkled eyes.

“Let me start by saying,” Dr. Mercer began, “in fifteen years of helping transgender women lactate, I’ve never had a cisgender man walk into my office with this level of commitment. It’s… refreshing.”

James sat up straighter, grinning. “Yeah? So you think it’ll work?”

The doctor chuckled. “Oh, it will work. The human body is remarkably adaptable. But,” he raised a finger. “let’s be very clear about what you’re signing up for.”

He slid a pamphlet across the desk titled Induced Lactation: Protocols and Realistic Expectations. Jennifer’s fingers tightened around James’ as Dr. Mercer walked them through the process:

Hormone therapy (starting soon): Progesterone and estrogen to mimic pregnancy, followed by domperidone to stimulate prolactin.
Physical stimulation: Regular pumping sessions to “train” the breast tissue.
Side effects: Tenderness, possible weight gain, mood swings, noticeable breast development, loss of libido.”

“How noticeable is ‘noticeable’?” Jennifer asked, voice strained.

Dr. Mercer sighed. “Honestly? It’s hard to tell. Some transgender woman see incredible results after six months. Some don’t even see significant changes after two years. On average, I would say your husband wouldn’t get away with wearing a fitting t-shirt after everything is said and done.. Of course, there are procedures that we can consider down the line remove excessive tissue if need be.”

James swallowed. Right. Okay. Temporary sacrifice for long term gain.

“And the timeline?” Jennifer pressed.

“If you want milk production established by the due date, we’d need to start as soon as possible, latest within the next two weeks,” Dr. Mercer said. “A six month run up gives us the best shot at full supply.”

Two weeks to decide. James’ pulse thudded in his ears.

The doctor softened. “Look, medically, this is safe. You will read about chemical castration, but that’s generally reversible once we get off the hormones. But it’s a marathon, not just for you, James, but for both of you.” He nodded at Jennifer. “You will each be experiencing the pregnancy hormones in your own way, and you will have to be each other’s support system through mood swings and frustration.”

James squeezed Jennifer’s hand. “Still in?”

She exhaled. “I’m still… processing. But if this is what we decide on…” She turned to Dr. Mercer. “How successful is it, really?”

The doctor smiled. “With compliance? I’d give him a 70% chance of producing enough to exclusively feed. And 100% chance of becoming the most interesting parent at daycare.”

They left the office clutching pamphlets and a business card, the weight of the decision settling over them.

“So,” James said as they stepped into the parking lot. “Do I get, like, a ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ mug now? Or do I have to earn it with my soon-to-be acquired milking skills?”

Jennifer burst out laughing, the tension snapping like a rubber band. “God, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

James kissed her temple. “Only if you’re with me. All the way.”

She nodded slowly, watching the sunset paint the clinic windows gold. Two weeks to choose their adventure.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel impossible.

* * *

The baby superstore was a fluorescent-lit maze of pastel-colored gadgets, each aisle a reminder of how their lives were about to change. Jennifer trailed her fingers over a display of impossibly tiny socks while James examined breast pumps with the intensity of a man preparing for a NASA mission. He had gone back to Dr Mercer’s earlier in the week to get bloodwork done to establish the dose of his upcoming hormone regime and had also made a precautionary deposit at the sperm bank.

“This one says ‘hospital-grade,’” he announced, hefting a sleek machine that looked like it belonged in a lab. “Might as well go big, right?”

Jennifer snorted. “Just remember, you are the one who’ll be hooked up to it at 3 AM.”

James waggled his eyebrows. “Worth it.” But then his grin faltered as he caught her expression. “Hey. You okay?”

Jennifer blinked hard, staring at a onesie printed with little rockets. “It’s just… tomorrow, everything starts. The hormones, the appointments, the…” She gestured vaguely at his chest. “Changes. Today’s our last normal day for… a long time.”

James set down the pump and pulled her into a hug right there between the diaper genies and the bottle sterilizers. “Hey. We will still be us. Perhaps just… upgraded.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cheap cologne and fabric softener. “I know. I’m overreacting.”

“Good,” he murmured into her hair. “Means you haven’t been replaced by a pod person yet.”

* * *

That night, they moved slowly, tangling together under the sheets like they had all the time in the world. Jennifer traced the planes of James’ stomach, memorizing the way his skin warmed under her touch. This body, she thought. Soon it would be different.

James cupped her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Whatever happens from here on out,” he whispered, “it will always still be me in here.”

She kissed him, pouring every ounce of love and fear into it. Then, with deliberate slowness, she slid down his body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his hips, his thighs, everywhere she knew made him shiver.

When she took him into her mouth, it wasn’t just about pleasure. It was a reminder. A promise. The way James gasped her name, fingers threading through her hair. No matter how much the world shifted around them, this was them and would always be them.
Afterward, curled against his chest with his heartbeat under her palm, Jennifer smiled.

“Still with me?” James mumbled, already half-asleep.

She kissed his shoulder. “Always.”

Outside, the moon hung bright and unchanging. Tomorrow, the adventure would begin.

But tonight? Tonight was theirs.

* * *

James sat on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling under him as Dr. Mercer reviewed the final bloodwork results. The clinic’s air conditioning hummed softly, carrying the faint antiseptic scent that always made James think of serious business.

"Your baseline testosterone is already on the lower end of normal," Dr. Mercer said, tapping the chart with his pen. "That actually works in your favor – less resistance to the hormone shifts we're about to trigger." He glanced up with a small smile. "You’re an excellent candidate, James. Medically speaking, this should be smooth sailing."

James grinned. "Hear hear! I’m medically excellent."

Dr. Mercer chuckled and slid a neatly labeled pill organizer across the counter. "Let’s go over this one more time."

The Regimen:
1. Spironolactone – Twice daily, to suppress testosterone. ("Say goodbye to morning wood," the doctor said dryly.)
2. Combined Estrogen-Progesterone Pills – The same cocktail used in birth control, now repurposed to mimic pregnancy. ("Mood swings and cravings are not optional,"* Dr. Mercer warned.)
3. Domperidone – Four times a day, to kickstart prolactin production. ("The real MVP of milk-making.")

James nodded along, committing it to memory. "So when do the fun side effects start?"

"Give it a week for the fatigue and tenderness," Dr. Mercer said. "Full lactation potential won’t kick in until month four or five, assuming compliance." He handed James a folder. "Weekly bloodwork at first, then monthly. Any concerning symptoms–uncontrolled blood pressure, severe depression–you call me immediately."

James swallowed the first round of pills under the doctor’s watchful eye, washing them down with a sip of water that suddenly tasted like “the future”.

* * *

The subway ride home felt surreal. James clutched the paper bag of medications to his chest, hyperaware of the weight of them. He pulled out his phone and snapped a selfie–Day 1: Officially a science experiment– sending it to Jennifer with a thumbs-up emoji.

Her reply was instant: Proud of you. Also, I bought pickles. The universe demands clichés.

James laughed, his chest tight with something that wasn’t hormones yet – just love, and maybe a flicker of nerves.

By the time he unlocked their apartment door, a weird calm had settled over him. He set the pills on the kitchen counter, lining them up like soldiers.

Jennifer appeared, leaning against the doorway with a smirk. "So. How’s it feel to be "medically excellent"?"

James pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her hair. "Like I’m about to nap for a decade."

She snorted. "Domperidone drowsiness?"

"Mhm." He nuzzled her temple. "Also, your husband is officially on birth control. Which is wild."

Jennifer’s laughter filled the apartment, bright and warm. "Welcome to the sisterhood."

That night, as James drifted off with Jennifer’s hand resting over his (still-flat, but not for long) chest, he thought:

This is happening.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a leap, just the next step forward, together.

* * *

James stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirtless, poking experimentally at his left nipple.

"Ow. Ow. What the hell." He prodded again, wincing. "Jen! Come here!"

Jennifer appeared in the doorway, toothbrush dangling from her mouth. "Mmph?"

"Something's wrong with me," James announced gravely. "I think my nipples might be... defective."

Jennifer spat out her toothpaste. "Let me guess. They hurt?"

"Like they've been rubbed with sandpaper! Is this normal? Am I dying?"

Jennifer wiped her mouth, trying and failing to hide her grin. "Congratulations, babe. You've officially hit puberty, part two." She reached out, gently swatting his hand away from his chest. "Stop poking them! You're making it worse."

James groaned. "How do women live like this? I can't even wear a shirt without wanting to scream."

Jennifer opened their closet and began rifling through her drawers. "First lesson of having sensitive nipples: cotton is your friend. Second lesson..." She tossed him a silky lavender bralette. "Get ready to upgrade your wardrobe."

James held up the delicate garment between two fingers like it might bite him. "You want me to wear... this?"

"It's padded. No seams. Trust me, it'll change your life."

James eyed it skeptically. "I feel like this is a trap."

Jennifer folded her arms. "Do you want to keep whimpering every time the AC blows on you?"

"...Fine."

Five minutes later, James emerged from the bedroom looking like a man who'd just discovered fire. "Oh my God. Oh my God." He cupped his hands under his newly-supported chest in awe. "It's like they're floating on clouds. Why don't all clothes feel like this?"

Jennifer smirked. "Welcome to the dark side. We have better underwear."

James did a little spin, admiring himself in the mirror. "Do they make these in black? Maybe with some skulls or something? You know, to preserve my masculinity?"

Jennifer tossed him her phone, already pulled up on a lingerie site. "Babe, by the time we're done, you're going to have opinions about underwire."

James flopped onto the bed beside her, scrolling through options with newfound reverence. "This is so weird. And also... kind of amazing?"

Jennifer kissed his shoulder. "Just wait until you discover the joy of wireless bras."

James sighed dreamily, already clicking "add to cart".

James fidgeted in the examination room, the lace-edged bralette suddenly feeling far more noticeable under his t-shirt than it ever had at home. When Dr. Mercer knocked and entered, James instinctively crossed his arms over his chest, then immediately felt ridiculous.

The doctor, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye. "How’s the tenderness?" he asked, flipping open James’ chart.

"Better, honestly. The uh," James gestured vaguely at his chest, "support helps. A lot."

Dr. Mercer nodded approvingly. "Good. Let’s take a look."

The physical exam was clinical, measurements, gentle palpation. But James’ face burned anyway. Until Dr. Mercer paused, eyebrows lifting.

"Well. This is progressing faster than expected." He tapped the calipers against his palm. "You’ve developed noticeable breast tissue, Tanner stage two, verging on three, after only six weeks. At this rate, you’ll need proper bras in a couple of months."

James blinked. "That’s... good?"

"Very. Most trans women would envy your response to HRT." Dr. Mercer made a note. "Any other changes? Mood, libido?"

James hesitated. "I haven’t had morning wood in weeks. And when I, uh," he cleared his throat, "try to get off the old-fashioned way, it’s like my dick’s half-asleep."

The doctor didn’t look surprised. "Testosterone suppression does that. But orgasms don’t disappear, they just work differently now. You might find other areas more... responsive." He gestured vaguely toward James’ chest.

James stared down at himself. Oh.

* * *

That evening, locked in their bedroom while Jennifer worked late, James decided to experiment.

It was frustrating at first, his usual methods failing, his body stubbornly refusing to cooperate. Until, on a whim, he brushed a thumb over his nipple, now noticeably fuller, sensitive in a way that made his breath hitch.

Oh. Oh God.

He kept going, lighter now, teasing circles until his back arched off the bed. It wasn’t like before– sharper, deeper, everywhere– and when it hit, it rolled through him in waves, leaving him shaking and gasping.

James lay there, dazed, as two realizations crashed over him:

1. He’d just had what was unmistakably a female orgasm.
2. Jennifer was never letting him live this down.

He reached for his phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before deciding some things were better shown than typed.

Instead, he simply texted: "We need to buy more bralettes."

Jennifer’s reply was instant: "???"

James grinned at the ceiling.

This parenting thing was taking them places nobody’s baby books had covered.

* * *

The bedroom was cast in the soft, hazy glow of a single lamp, the kind of light that blurred the edges of the world and made confessions feel safer. Jennifer, now four and a half months pregnant, was just beginning to show, a gentle curve to her belly that James loved to rest his hand on.

She lay on her side, watching him as he read, his new, more substantial bralette a soft grey shadow beneath his t-shirt. He’d complained earlier that his chest was aching again, a growth spurt, he’d joked, with all the melodrama of a teenager. But now, in the quiet of the evening, Jennifer’s curiosity was a low thrum beneath her skin.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice drawing him from his book.

He looked over, his expression softening. “Hey, you. Baby not kicking up a storm?”

“Not yet.” She shifted closer, her fingers tracing the hem of his shirt. “I was thinking… about your text. The other night.”

James’s cheeks colored slightly, a faint pink that was becoming more common. “Ah. The bralette budget meeting.”

“More than that,” she murmured. She propped herself up on an elbow, her gaze dropping to his chest. Her own breasts felt tender and full, a familiar symptom of pregnancy she’d read about.

But looking at him, she realized they were navigating two different, yet strangely parallel, versions of puberty. “You said… things felt different.”

He swallowed, his vulnerability a tangible thing in the space between them. “Yeah. They do.”
Hesitantly, Jennifer reached out, her hand hovering over his chest. “Can I…?”

He nodded, his breath catching.

Slowly, she flattened her palm over the thin cotton of his shirt, right over his heart. She could feel its frantic, thudding rhythm. Beneath her hand, she felt the unmistakable soft swell of breast tissue. It wasn’t much, nothing to cup yet, but so profoundly different from the hard muscle that used to be there. Her thumb brushed over the center and James flinched, a sharp hiss of breath escaping his lips.

“Sorry,” she whispered, pulling back.

“No,” he breathed, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Don’t stop. It’s just… a lot.”

Emboldened, she moved with more confidence, her fingers learning the new shape of him. She slipped her hand under his shirt, her skin meeting his. He was warm, and the flesh was incredibly sensitive, the nipple pebbled and hard under her touch.

She’d never touched another woman’s breast, had never had the desire to, but this wasn’t another woman. This was James. This was the man who was rewriting his own biology for their family. The thought sent a dizzying wave of love and pure, unadulterated lust through her.
She leaned in, replacing her hand with her mouth, her tongue tracing a wet, hot circle where her fingers had been.

James cried out, a raw, breathy sound she’d never heard from him before. His hands tangled in her hair, not to pull her away, but to hold her there. "Jen," he gasped, his back arching.
The sound shattered the last of her hesitation.

This was new territory for both of them, a strange and exhilarating landscape they were exploring together. She suckled him gently, mimicking the motions she’d read about in breastfeeding pamphlets, and the effect was immediate and electric. James bucked beneath her, his whole body trembling as a low groan rumbled in his chest.

The sight of him, so completely undone by her touch, was the most powerful aphrodisiac she’d ever known. Her own body ignited, the familiar ache between her legs intensifying into a sharp, demanding need. She moved against him, her own swollen belly pressing into his side as his hips began to move in a desperate, searching rhythm.

“Please,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Oh, God, Jen, I’m so close.”

That was all it took. Her own climax, which had been building steadily, crashed over her in a tidal wave. She cried out his name, her body convulsing as stars exploded behind her eyes. Her release triggered his, and James arched into her with a shattered shout, his orgasm not the familiar, focused release she knew, but a full-body tremor that seemed to shake him to his very soul, leaving him gasping and shuddering in her arms.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, mingled breaths. James lay limp beneath her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

Finally, he stirred, his voice a hoarse whisper against her skin. "I think… you just broke my brain."

A breathless laugh escaped Jennifer’s lips. She pressed a kiss to his damp temple. “Welcome to the club.”

He shifted, turning his head to look at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “No, seriously. My toes are still buzzing.”

She smiled, tracing a lazy finger over his chest. “Mine too.”

They were in uncharted territory, on an adventure that grew stranger and more wonderful by the day. And as they curled together in the lamplit dark, their bodies still hummed with the aftershocks of their shared discovery.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, striping the empty half of the bed beside him. James groaned, reaching a hand out to the cool sheets where Jennifer should have been. Her flight to Singapore had left yesterday afternoon, and the silence in the apartment was a low hum he couldn’t quite ignore.

A text from her, sent from some airport lounge, glowed on his phone screen: Thinking of you. Go show Dr. Mercer your excellent progress! Xo.

He smiled, a little sadly. Excellent progress. Right.

With a sigh, he swung his legs out of bed, the familiar ache in his chest a dull throb that barely registered anymore. He had his second monthly check-up with Dr. Mercer in an hour. Time to get moving.

He stumbled toward the bathroom, peeling off his t-shirt as he went, ready to hop in the shower. And that’s when he saw it. Not in a direct, confrontational way, but a sideways glance in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. He stopped dead, the shirt dangling from his hand.

It wasn’t just the sensitive, slightly swollen nipples anymore. He’d gotten used to those, had even found a strange new intimacy with them. This was different. He turned slowly, facing the mirror head-on, then shifted to profile.

There it was.

It wasn't a trick of the light. It wasn’t morning puffiness. Beneath the skin, a distinct, soft mound was forming. A protrusion. A small, but undeniable, breast. His brain supplied the clinical term Dr. Mercer had used—gynecomastia—but his gut supplied a single, blaring alarm: Wrong.

His breath hitched. He lifted a hand, not to touch, but to hover inches from his own skin, as if he were observing a bizarre museum artifact. The intellectual understanding—the hormones, the science, the goal—felt a million miles away. This was visceral. This was his body, the one he’d lived in for thirty-something years, and it was becoming something he didn’t recognize. A wave of cold, sharp panic washed over him, so intense it made him dizzy. This wasn't a funny story to tell Jen later. This was real. This was his chest.

The clock on the cable box blinked accusingly. 8:15 AM. He had to go.

He showered on autopilot, the hot water doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Back in the bedroom, as he dried off, his eyes landed on the black cotton bralette laid out on the nightstand. The garment that had started as a joke, then became a practical comfort, suddenly looked monstrous.

Putting it on felt like a betrayal. His hands fumbled with the clasp at the back, a motion that was becoming routine but today felt alien and clumsy. The soft fabric settled over the new, tender curves of his chest. It wasn’t a cloud of comfort anymore. It felt like a cage, a costume for a part he hadn't fully agreed to play, confirming the very change that was making his skin crawl.

He pulled on a loose-fitting button-down, the fabric hanging over his chest in a way that was meant to conceal but only made him more aware of what was underneath. He glanced in the mirror one last time, a stranger staring back at him. It was still his face, his eyes. But below the neck, he was becoming someone else.

Grabbing his keys, James walked out the door, the familiar weight of his wallet in his back pocket a strange contrast to the foreign weight on his chest. He was on his way to get commended for his progress, and for the first time, he wasn't sure if he wanted to be praised.

* * *

The scent of Jennifer’s perfume lingered in the bedroom, a welcome ghost that had finally returned. She was back, curled up under the duvet and already half-asleep, exhausted from the jet lag but radiating a contentment that warmed the whole apartment. For the first time in two weeks, the space felt whole.

James stood in the bathroom, the door cracked open just enough to let a sliver of bedroom lamplight cut through the steam. The hot water had done little to unkink the tension in his shoulders. His hair, now several inches past his collar, dripped in heavy strands onto his back. It was getting unmanageable, a constant curtain in his eyes. On a whim, driven by a muscle memory from watching Jennifer a thousand times, he grabbed a clean towel, flipped his head over, and expertly twisted his damp hair into a turban-like wrap.

He straightened up, wiping the condensation from the mirror with his hand, and froze.

The person looking back at him was… not him.

He’d always had a slender build and softer features, but two and a half months of hormones had sanded down the remaining edges. The lack of body hair was now a smooth, almost polished canvas. He’d only shaved once since Jen left, yet his jaw was soft, the shadow of stubble faint and sparse. The towel hid his hairline, reframing his face entirely, emphasizing the width of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lips. And then, his eyes dropped lower. The bralette was off, but the shape it supported remained. The slight, soft swell of his chest was no longer just a tender spot; it was a definitive curve, unmistakable even in the dim light.

Hair up. Soft jaw. Slender neck. Breasts.

A wave of vertigo hit him so hard he had to grip the sides of the sink. A stranger was wearing his face. A soft, pretty, female stranger. The image was a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. This wasn't a funny phase. This wasn’t a science experiment. This was theft. His reflection had been stolen and replaced with this… person.

A choked, ragged sound escaped his throat, half-sob, half-gasp. He stumbled back from the mirror, away from the image, his bare foot slipping on the damp tile. He didn’t fall, but he crumpled, sliding down the cool wall to sit heavily on the floor, his head in his hands. The towel on his head felt like a cruel joke, a costume piece solidifying the illusion. He couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in, the air thick and unbreathable. He was losing himself. He was disappearing piece by piece.

“James?” Jennifer’s sleepy voice drifted from the bedroom. A floorboard creaked. “Babe? You okay in there?”

He couldn’t answer. He was shaking, tremors wracking his body as silent, hot tears began to stream down his face.

Jennifer appeared in the doorway, her face a mask of sleepy concern that sharpened into alarm. “Oh my God, James.” She rushed to his side, kneeling on the bathmat, her pregnant belly pressing against her robe. She wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He could only shake his head, burying his face against her shoulder, his tears soaking into her robe. He tried to speak, but the words were tangled up with the lump in his throat. “In the mirror,” he finally managed to choke out, his voice raw and broken. “Jen… look. That’s not me.”

Jennifer’s eyes flickered to the mirror, to the reflection of them on the floor, she saw exactly what had broken him. The illusion was jarring, and heartbreakingly clear. She saw the gentle slope of his shoulder, the curve of his chest, the femininity in the lines of his face without the familiar frame of his long hair. But she pushed the thought down, burying it deep. Now was not the time for her shock.

“Shhh, baby, of course it’s you,” she whispered fiercely, pulling him tighter, her hand stroking the back of his neck. “It’s you. It’s my James. I’m right here.”

“I’m disappearing,” he sobbed, his voice muffled against her. “I’m turning into someone else.”

“No, you’re not.” Her voice was thick with emotion, but steady. She tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her tear-filled eyes. “You are becoming a father. The most dedicated, incredible father I have ever known. This,” she said, her hand moving from his face to gently cup the side of his chest, her touch firm and grounding, “is for our baby. This is you moving a mountain for our child because I can’t. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her words, the reminder of their purpose, sliced through the panic. The baby. Their baby, sleeping soundly in her womb, blissfully unaware of the sacrifice being made in a steamy bathroom on a Tuesday night. The thought was an anchor in the storm of his dysphoria.

His sobs slowly subsided into shuddering breaths. He leaned into her, his entire weight seeming to rest on her. “I’m just… so scared,” he whispered.

“I know,” she murmured, kissing his wet temple. “Me too. But we’re doing this together.”

She helped him to his feet, and without another look at the mirror, they stumbled into the bedroom. They crawled under the covers, curling into each other like two halves of a whole. James wrapped his arms around her from behind, his face pressed between her shoulder blades, his hand resting protectively over her belly. He could feel the faint, fluttery kicks of their child against his palm.

Tears still tracked silently down their faces in the dark, but the panic was gone, replaced by a profound, shared ache of love and sacrifice. They were rewriting the rules, and tonight, they were just feeling the cost of the ink. They held on tight, and tearfully, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The sunlight streaming into the kitchen felt aggressively cheerful, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that had settled over the breakfast table. Jennifer pushed a piece of toast around her plate, the clinking of her fork against the ceramic the only sound. James was nursing a mug of coffee, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from it as if it held the answers to the universe.

Finally, Jennifer put her fork down. “We need to talk about last night.”

James didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed. “The great bathroom meltdown of 2025? Yeah, not my finest moment.” He attempted a wry smile, but it was a fragile thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m serious, James.” Her voice was soft but firm, laced with the raw concern from the night before. “I hate seeing you like that. It broke my heart. We have a deal, remember? No guilt, no pressure. We can pull the plug on this. Right now. The sooner we stop, the sooner your body can…” She trailed off, not wanting to say go back to normal.

He finally met her gaze, his expression weary but resolute. “Babe, no. We’re not stopping.” He took a deep breath, marshalling his arguments. “Listen, everything that happened last night… it was bound to happen. Dr. Mercer warned us. Mood swings, intense emotions, identity weirdness. I’ve got a cocktail of hormones in me that could power a small village’s worth of teenage angst. It was a perfect storm—I was tired, I missed you, I looked in the mirror at the wrong angle. It was a glitch. A system reboot.”

He reached for her hand across the table, trying to add some levity to his tone. “Besides, if I’m going to be experiencing pregnancy hormones by proxy, I figure I’m entitled to at least one dramatic, ugly cry on the bathroom floor. It’s in the fine print of the ‘Dad Milk’ contract.”

Jennifer’s expression didn’t soften. She squeezed his hand, but her eyes were still troubled. “A glitch? James, you looked like you were shattering. You said you were disappearing. That’s more than just a mood swing.”

The word ‘disappearing’ hung in the air between them, heavy and real.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist.”

James stiffened immediately, pulling his hand back. “Whoa, no. I don’t need a therapist.”

“It’s not because I think you’re weak, or because I want you to quit,” she pressed on gently. “It’s because this is a massive, unprecedented thing you’re doing. You’re navigating something that almost no one has ever gone through. You should have support. A professional who can give you tools to cope when I’m not here, or when I don’t have the right words.”

“I have you,” he said, his voice quiet but defensive. “I don’t need to pay a stranger to validate my feelings. This is a means to an end, Jen. It’s temporary. I just have to power through it. Talking about it isn’t going to change the fact that my body is changing.”

“It’s not about changing the facts,” she argued, her voice pleading. “It’s about helping you live with them. So that you don’t get lost in the process.”

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears. James stared out the window, watching a car drive by. He saw the logic in her words, but the idea of sitting in a sterile office, admitting to a stranger that he was terrified of his own reflection, felt like a profound failure. But he also saw the unwavering resolve in Jennifer’s eyes, the deep love that was fuelling her fear for him.

He let out a long, slow sigh, the fight draining out of him. “Okay,” he conceded, rubbing his tired eyes. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll think about it. I promise.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. Jennifer accepted the compromise, knowing it was the most she would get for now. She reached across the table and took his hand again, her grip a silent promise of her own. The issue wasn’t resolved, but they were still a team, navigating the fallout together.

Over the next two weeks, Jennifer found herself watching James with a new, quiet intensity. It started from a place of care, a desire to monitor him after his breakdown, to take his emotional temperature and ensure he wasn’t spiralling again. But the more she watched, the more she noticed what they had both seen in the mirror that night.

It was in the small, unconscious adjustments his body was making. One morning, she saw him reach for a coffee mug on the top shelf. Instead of reaching straight up as he always had, he turned his torso slightly, his arm moving in a wider, more careful arc. It was a subtle, protective motion, an instinctual effort to create space for the new, tender fullness of his chest. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was undeniably different. It was the movement of a person navigating a new and unfamiliar body map.

One evening, as they were watching a movie, he shifted on the couch and, without breaking his gaze from the screen, hooked a thumb under the strap of his t-shirt to adjust the bralette beneath. It wasn't the clumsy fumbling of a man unused to the garment; it was a fluid, practiced, undeniably feminine motion, an instinctual twitch she had performed herself a thousand times.

A few days later, she walked past the bathroom just as he was stepping out of the shower. He had his back to her, wearing a plain grey t-shirt, vigorously towelling his damp hair. The damp cotton of the shirt clung to his back, clearly outlining the thin straps of his bralette. The image was jarringly unfamiliar. It wasn't that she hadn't seen him in a bra before. She had. She had even held his new, fuller chest in her hands and suckled on them in a moment of intense intimacy. But that had been in the moment, a deliberate exploration of a change. This was different. This was mundane. The combination of his longer hair falling softly over his neck and that simple, geometric line of the straps created a picture that was… female. Her brain, for a fleeting second, didn't register it as 'James wearing a bra.' It registered the image as 'a woman's back.' The immediate correction—No, that’s James—was what caused the strange, internal jolt. It was like seeing two different pictures flash in succession, her mind struggling to reconcile the soft, feminine silhouette with the solid, familiar identity of her husband. It was a quiet, profound confusion. The lines she thought were clear were beginning to blur in ways she hadn't anticipated.

To his credit, James seemed to be coping well since the breakdown. In fact, a perverse, secret part of her almost wished for another one. Another tearful rejection of the changes would have been an excuse, a door opening for her to say, 'See? This is too much. Let's stop.' But his quiet acceptance was in many ways more worrying than his panic had been, because it offered her no opening. She caught herself wondering if these changes might become too profound, too permanent. For a brief moment, she seriously considered the conversation: the one where she asked him to pull the plug, not just for his sake, but for theirs.

James, on the other hand, spent those same two weeks engaged in a fierce internal campaign of recalibration. The breakdown had terrified him, not just because of the dysphoria, but because it threatened the mission. He would stand in front of that same bathroom mirror, fully dressed, and force himself to see things differently. This is the factory tooling up, he’d tell his reflection. This is progress.

The mood swings still sideswiped him at times, but he framed them as a temporary side effect of the project, instalments that he had to pay on the final product. He had kept his word and given thought to Jennifer's advice, researching therapists specializing in gender and identity issues. He found a Dr. Anya Sharma whose profile seemed perfect. He wrote the name on a sticky note, looked at it for a long moment, then folded it carefully and tucked it deep inside a book on his nightstand. He didn’t need it not. Not yet. He just had to get to the finish line. Once the baby arrived, once the why was a real, tangible bundle of joy in his arms, the strange and difficult 'how' would make perfect sense. These breasts weren't a source of shame; they were the future source of his child's life. He was reframing the narrative, day by day, and with each successful reframing, he felt his conviction grow. It would all be worth it.

* * *

The click of the front door was followed by James’s familiar sigh of relief as he dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl on the entryway table. Jennifer looked up from the couch, her six-month bump a prominent, perfect sphere under her sweater.

“Well?” she asked, patting the cushion beside her. “What’s the verdict from Dr. Science? Am I still married to a medically excellent specimen?”

James flopped down beside her, the couch springs groaning in protest. He leaned over and gave her belly a soft kiss. “The specimen is progressing ahead of schedule,” he announced, his voice muffled by her sweater. He sat back up, a more serious expression on his face. “Three months in and everything’s on track. Milk ducts are developing nicely. He wants me to start pumping in six weeks to stimulate production before the baby arrives.”

“Six weeks,” Jennifer breathed. The words landed with a thud in her stomach. Six weeks until the changes became not just visible, but functional. Until they were truly real. She forced a smile. “Wow. It’s getting real.”

“Tell me about it.” James shifted uncomfortably, pulling at the neckline of his t-shirt. He discreetly hooked a finger under the band of his bralette, trying to adjust it.

Jennifer’s gaze, now preternaturally sharp to these new, instinctual movements, narrowed. “Is that thing bugging you?”

James let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s… digging in,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing. “I think I’m officially, uh… spilling out of it.” He gestured vaguely at his chest. “We’re in quad-boob territory. It’s not a good look.”

The awkwardness hung in the air for a beat before Jennifer managed a short laugh. Keep it practical, she told herself. Just solve the problem. “Okay, well, we can’t have that. We need to upgrade your support system.”

“Whoa, let’s pump the brakes,” James said, holding up his hands. “If you’re about to suggest we go get me fitted for something with underwire and lace, the answer is a hard no. I’m not ready to graduate from the Lingerie 101 course you signed me up for.”

The memory of his breakdown was an unspoken presence between them. Jennifer saw her opening. This was her chance to steer. “No, of course not,” she said gently, her expression softening into one of genuine care, though her motivation was a bit more complex. “But you need something that fits, or you’ll be miserable.” She had an idea, a way to frame this that felt safe, that kept it away from the feminine world of lace and silk. “What about… sports bras?” she offered. “They’re functional. Athletic. No frills. They just get the job done.”

James considered it, visibly relaxing. The suggestion was a lifeline, pulling him away from the scary, identity-altering world of lingerie and back to the safe, practical world of 'gear.' “Sports bras,” he repeated, testing the words. “Okay. Yeah. I can do sports bras. For support. And containment. Definitely containment.”

“Deal.” Jennifer smiled, feeling a private surge of relief. One crisis averted. “We can look online later.”

James nodded and stood up to get a glass of water, but paused halfway to the kitchen, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. They were snug, pulling tightly across his hips in a way they never used to. Jennifer’s gaze followed his hands. It was something she had been noticing for weeks, a gradual softening and rounding of his silhouette. The hard, lean lines of his hips were gone, replaced by a gentler, fuller curve. His old jeans, once loose and comfortable, now strained against a shape they were never designed for.

“You know,” she began, trying to keep a teasing lilt in her voice, “for someone who’s supposedly losing all his muscle mass, your pants seem to be telling a different story.”

He shot her a look, half-annoyed, half-resigned. “It’s not muscle, it’s my ass,” he grumbled, turning to give her a better view. “It staged a coup and annexed my hips. None of my pants fit right anymore. The hormones are apparently redistributing my assets.”

“Okay, new wardrobe problem to solve,” Jennifer said, her mind already working on another safe, masculine-coded solution. She patted the couch again, pulling her laptop onto her lap. “Come on. Let’s augment your wardrobe.”

He trudged back over, peering at the screen as she pulled up an athletic wear website. “What are we looking for?”

“Comfort,” she said, her fingers flying across the trackpad as she deliberately navigated to the men’s section. “Good quality joggers. Stuff with a drawstring waist that moves with you.” She clicked on a pair of sleek, tapered sweatpants. “What about these? They look comfortable, and they’d solve the whole… asset redistribution problem.”

James eyed them. They were loose, functional, and definitively not a fashion statement. They were a practical solution to a practical problem. A slow grin spread across his face. “Fine,” he said, collapsing onto the couch next to her. “Add them to the cart with the skull-print sports bra.”

She laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder as they scrolled. “You got it.”

Together, they sat in the glow of the laptop, shopping for sports bras and men's joggers. James knew, on some logical level, that a pair of women's joggers, with their different cut, would probably drape more naturally over his new hips. But that was a line he wasn’t ready to cross. To deliberately choose an item from that side of the store would be going beyond solving the practical issues at hand, and that wasn't something he was comfortable rationalizing at this point. So he embraced the men's joggers with a sense of profound relief; it kept the mission clean, functional, and safe.

Jennifer, for her part, felt a similar sense of profound relief, having successfully managed the narrative and framed every new change within a context that felt logical and controllable. Small changes that maintained the status quo, that didn't upset the delicate balance of how she perceived her husband. The were both relieved, but for two seemingly aligned but quietly divergent reasons.

* * *