Between the time Vincent selected a cut of bread from the basket and set it on his bread plate, Mal gave him his answer. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Vincent glanced at him, unable to resist a smile. The enthusiasm in Mal’s voice spoke for itself, but his response wasn’t fitted to Vincent’s statement.

“I mean…” Mal pinched his shoulders to his neck, then sighed and let them go. No matter how many years separated them, there was a youthfulness in Mal that appealed to Vincent. His smile broadened. “I mean, I’d like to give us a shot, too. I’m not going to tell the board that we know each other, and I can pretend like we’re total strangers when we’re in the clinic. I don’t want this to end in disaster for me, and I definitely don’t want it to end in disaster for you.”

It was an interesting choice of emphasis. From what little Vincent knew of Mal, he got the impression that it wasn’t uncommon of him to put the comfort of others above his own, but the subject matter they were dealing with was far more serious and sensitive than most. Mal’s future hung in the balance, but he seemed more concerned with whether Vincent kept his job or not. Vincent let the comment go for now, but stored the observation away for further consideration. When he got to know Mal, would that self-sacrificing aspect of his personality change? Vincent wanted to see if he could buff it smooth—treat Mal with such kindness that it didn’t occur to him to put himself second anymore.

If anyone knew what it felt like to put his happiness second, it was Vincent. He didn’t want to see Mal succumb to the same suffering.

“The trial is only going to last until I conceive anyway, isn’t it?” Mal hazarded. “I’m trying to remember the fine print on all the paperwork I signed.”

“The trial will last until the eighth month of the pregnancy, with annual check-ups for the child or children produced by the procedure for at least the first few years of their life.” Talking work was easy, but with Mal sitting across from him, the clomiphene phylacetate solution coursing through his veins and preparing his body to conceive, it was different. Heat spread beneath Vincent’s collar, and his cock twitched despite the dry nature of the conversation. Across from him sat a man he was going to impregnate. Biologically, the child would not be his, and he’d have no legal rights over it, but the concept alone was enough to fuel Vincent’s fantasies. Mal’s body was preparing itself to be fertilized because of what he’d done.

The injections Vincent gave him would send him into heat.

Drive his libido.

Prepare him for fatherhood…

Daddy.

Vincent bit the inside of his lip to pull himself together and continued. “I’ll only be involved with your treatment up until the first ultrasound. Once the pregnancy is confirmed and the fetus appears to be healthy and normal, there’s not much more I can do. I specialize in fertility, not obstetrics. At that point, another doctor will be assigned to the case and we won’t have to worry anymore.”

“So… a few months? Two, three?”

“Three months, approximately, figuring in the stimulation period, the aspiration, and the placement.” Overhead, the strings of small lights bobbed. Shadows flickered across Mal’s face, playing in his curls. The sight tightened Vincent’s heart, and he found himself momentarily speechless. Dinner, while a fantastic concept, lost its appeal. In that moment, all he wanted to do was pin Mal against one of the leafy trellises and kiss him until their jaws were too sore to continue. Vincent had never felt such a strong urge before—a desire for more not linked to obligation or duty. He wanted Mal because he was Mal—painfully sweet, handsome in ways Mal likely didn’t know, and exciting in ways Vincent couldn’t rationalize. It was in the thick feeling in the air when Mal was near, the way Vincent hung on his every word when he spoke, and the impulse to claim that had struck Vincent out of nowhere and brought him to act on that cold January day…

Three months. Ninety days.

He could hold himself back.

“Do you want to…” Mal paused as if searching for the right thing to say. He took a slice of bread from the basket, tore a bite-sized segment from it, and dipped it in the oil. “Do you want to not see each other for the next three months? I know we’ll be meeting in the clinic daily while I receive the injections, but…” He trailed off, taking the time to pop the piece of bread into his mouth.

“No.” What Vincent needed to say was, “Yes,” but his will was too weak to allow it. It was in their best interest that they didn’t let a developing relationship threaten their place in the trial, but Vincent had never felt so liberated as when he was with Mal—and never felt so at ease with who he wanted to be. “As long as we can act like there’s nothing going on between us while we’re at the clinic, I don’t think we have anything to worry about. I’m still so new that no one knows much about me—where I live, what my home life is like, or anything that might give us away. I don’t want to have to wait for you. I feel like I’ve already waited long enough.”

It seemed to be the right answer. Mal dropped his head, but not even that could hide his charmed smile. Vincent’s heart fluttered, and he puffed with pride just slightly, knowing that he’d made the choice that was not only best for him, but best for Mal as well.

Dinner arrived before he could say anything more, and the conversation changed track to other subjects—the food, anecdotes about their lives so far, and cute, stolen glances that made Vincent feel like he was a teenager again.

The attraction flowed both ways.

Mal, who was handsome, kind, and experienced, was interested in him. He only hoped that by the end of the night, Mal would still think the same. There was a truth yet to be shared that Vincent needed to divulge before he allowed his relationship with Mal to progress any further—the same one that had torn apart his marriage and catalyzed his move to Aurora in search of a fresh start. He wouldn’t allow another one of his relationships to be based on half-truths or willful ignorance.

By the end of the night, Mal would know, and Mal would decide for himself if he wanted to see Vincent again. It was only fair, as frightening as it was.

There would be no more shame. No more clinging to the ideals that others established for him. He’d come here to reinvent himself—to find happiness with who he was, not who others wished him to be. If it meant losing Mal, Vincent would shoulder the blow.

As much as it would hurt, for the first time in his life, Vincent loved himself too much to want to do otherwise.