Simon had gotten used to this ritual. Not in a clinical, detached sort of way—no, this was something personal, something tender that only existed between them. He’d been there since the very beginning, since before the first haircut in his kitchen, before the awkward correction of strangers, before the voice deepened into the familiar low rumble he now knew so well. He had watched every step of the journey, hands steady through it all, never once faltering.

Now, in the quiet of their shared bedroom, Simon knelt on the edge of the bed with the syringe in hand, the faint chemical scent of alcohol swabs lingering in the air. His lover was stretched out before him, shirt tugged up just enough, pajama pants and boxers slipped low, allowing Simon's own hips to nestle against theirs while also gaining access to their usual injection site. Last month's mark already worn and faded.

He was no stranger to the side effects by now. The increased hunger, elevated body temperature, and a libido that left even himself drained in the end. Naturally, he had learned to adjust, to adapt. His rigid shaft, now a constant presence inside his lover, throbbed with each step of the process. Even as the injection took effect, his cock remained nestled deep within, a persistent warm weight. Filling their insides while he filled their syringe with hormones.

Simon’s free hand was a warm, grounding weight on their hip, fingers splayed against the curve, holding them steady. The other held a pinch of skin on the outer thigh, practiced and sure.

“Hold still,” Simon murmured, his voice low and unhurried, as if speaking any louder would shatter the calm between them. “Stop wiggling, or it’s going to pinch a nerve.”

He watched the slight twitch of muscle, the way his lover tensed against the anticipation. Slowly, Simon depressed the plunger, pushing the clear liquid into the muscle with care. He always made sure to take his time, ensuring every last drop was gone before easing the needle back.

A quick motion, practiced after months, and the needle was gone—replaced with a small square of flesh-toned bandage. Simon’s thumb brushed over it in slow, soothing circles, his touch protective even now.

“There you go,” he said, his tone warm with quiet pride. His hand lingered, palm spreading over the thigh before giving it a gentle squeeze. “That’s my good boy.”