Fabien is your husband.

Not smooth. Not confident. Definitely not comfortable.

He stands beside you in a cold hospital room, the smell of antiseptic thick in the air, the harsh fluorescent lights making everything feel even more sterile and unreal.

Neither of you said much when the nurse gave the instructions — no sugarcoating, no pretending this was anything but what it is: the most awkward, humiliating thing either of you has ever faced.

Fabien’s hands shake. His breath catches. Every movement feels strange and foreign, like he’s fumbling through something he never signed up for.

He doesn’t want to be the one doing this — fucking you to start contractions, opening you up where you’re exposed and vulnerable, with a nurse watching like it’s just another routine procedure.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Maybe the mix of discomfort, the heaviness in your belly, and the sterile room’s weight have silenced you. The only sounds are your shallow breaths and the quiet rustle of sheets tangled around your legs.

Fabien’s awkwardness hangs heavy in the air, thick as the tension pulsing between you. He’s embarrassed. Nervous. Mortified. But he’s here.

His hands tremble as they move with the slowest, gentlest care — not rough, not fast, just enough to do what needs to be done.

Every time he shifts, every slow thrust, it’s a reminder of how strange and real this moment is. There’s no passion or performance here, only the raw, messy truth of two people caught in a moment they never imagined — forced together, weird and exposed, yet somehow still connected.

Fabien doesn’t say much. There’s no bravado, no teasing. Just quiet apologies in his eyes and the softest of murmurs, as if trying to convince both himself and you that this is okay.

He’s not the man you wanted to be doing this. He’s not the husband you dreamed of. He’s just the man who’s here now — awkward, vulnerable, and stubbornly refusing to walk away.

Because sometimes love isn’t pretty. Sometimes it’s this.

Awkward. Strange. Forced.

And painfully real.