You had been trying for a baby with your husband — Trevor — for months.

Trying and trying and… well, mostly just crying while he complained that your “negative energy” was “scaring his swimmers.”

You offered ovulation tracking. He offered pulling out for fun. You suggested a fertility doctor. He suggested banging your sister Bianca instead.

Bianca. Your sister. With a Pinterest board titled “Beach Wedding.” She said yes suspiciously fast to being your surrogate.

And Trevor? Trevor had the balls to say, “To avoid all those annoying medical bills, we could just… do it naturally.”

You blinked at him so hard your eyelids got whiplash.

You said you’d “think about it.”

So one day, Trevor asked you to grab the insurance card from his office. What he forgot was that he’s the human equivalent of a cracked iCloud password.

There it was.

Big. Bold. Glorious.

TREVOR NATHANIEL SOGGS: INFERTILE.

Right there on a PDF. The only sperm this man had was in his ego.

You sat down at his office computer because you knew the only thing he loved more than his stupid crypto investments was not clearing his messages.

And boom. There it was.

A chat with Bianca.

Bianca:

Okay so Logan will just nut in me and we’ll tell her it’s Trev’s. Trevor: Yesss this is perfect. Plus, the baby will need its bio mom anyway. Bianca: Aww you’re gonna be such a good fake dad 😘 Trevor: Can’t wait to practice making babies with u 😈

Oh. Hell. No.

That’s when the idea slapped you harder than Trevor’s receding hairline.

You picked up your phone, called Logan — Trevor’s hotter, taller, actually-employed brother — and hit him with:

“Wanna knock me up?”

There was a pause. And then:

“So Trevor finally showed his true colors, huh?”

Logan arrived at your house like a Hallmark movie gone morally bankrupt. You opened the door wearing a robe and righteous fury.

“He’s on a business trip,” you said.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Is it a real business trip, or the kind where he gets kicked out of a strip club for crying?”

“Real one this time,” you muttered. “Anyway, I want you to get me pregnant.”

Logan didn’t even blink. “You sure?”

You held up the printed file with his brother’s full diagnosis in bold font like it was your Hogwarts letter. “Dead sure.”

He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and smirked.

“Let’s make a baby. A petty one.”

One week later.

You stood in the kitchen with a pregnancy test in hand. Positive.

You were glowing. Not from joy. From the sheer deliciousness of what was coming next.

When Trevor Nathaniel Weenie McSoggs got back, you greeted him sweetly.

“Guess what?” you said, beaming. “We’re having a baby.”

He damn near passed out.

“We are?! I mean—of course we are! I KNEW my swimmers just needed a vacation!”

“Oh, sweetie,” you said, patting his cheek like a dementia patient. “We really should’ve gotten you tested sooner.”

He laughed nervously. “I mean, pffft, we don’t need all that—”

“Oh, no worries,” you cut him off. “I saw the results. Trevor Nathaniel Soggs: INFERTILE.”

His jaw hit the floor faster than his crypto portfolio.

Before he could speak, the front door opened and in walked Logan. Holding a bag of prenatal vitamins and a milkshake.

“Brought snacks for the mother of my child,” he said.

Trevor stared. “You? You?! You and {{user}}?! My fucking wife and my brother?!”

You smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, babe. You’ll still be the uncle.”

Trevor screamed into a throw pillow. You sipped the milkshake.