The SUV crunched up the gravel driveway with all the subtlety of a government mandate. Lena peered out at the beach house that would be her home-slash-lab-slash-sexperiment chamber for the next year. It looked like a Pinterest board had exploded in coastal California: sleek glass walls, whitewashed wood, solar panels glinting like judgmental eyebrows. Very "taxpayer-funded opulence meets startup retreat meets suspicious reality show set."

Her sneakers hit the gravel with a soft crunch. The ocean air hit her instantly—salt, sun, and a faint whiff of "you're getting paid $2 million for this, so act cool." Her short black skirt barely covered her optimism. The open hoodie hung off her like a formality. Her croptop made no attempt at modesty, which was on brand. Lena believed in body positivity, exercise, and—most recently—getting rich for having sex in a drug study.

Thanks to last year's all-female voter turnout (100%, no exceptions, no excuses), Congress had flipped overnight. The new women-led government wasted no time tackling the obvious first priority: birth control, but for men. Enter Scrotacure, the monthly pill that promised to finally close the contraception gap. Did it work? Probably not. Were they still testing it? Absolutely. Was Lena here for the science? Eh. She majored in education, worked as a model, lived in L.A., and $2 million tax-free was a hard number to ignore.

The front door clicked open with bureaucratic punctuality. There stood Kelly—handler, scientist, and woman least likely to laugh at a joke. She was 6'1" of tailored authority, wrapped in a pristine lab coat and a facial expression last seen on Soviet monuments. Her heels clicked ominously.

"Subject Athanasiou," she said coldly. "Four minutes late."

"Three and a half," Lena said, stepping inside with a bounce. "But I brought charm, so I think it balances out."

Kelly did not blink. She turned on her heel and led Lena into the house like a warden giving a tour of minimum-security sensual purgatory.

The house interior was aggressively designer: sleek, modern, filled with furniture that screamed "no eating salsa here." The floor-to-ceiling windows invited the Pacific inside, which Lena supposed was meant to create a vibe of serenity and not constant exposure. The whole place smelled faintly of eucalyptus and taxpayer dollars.

The private beach is a nice touch, Lena mused. At least I can get some sun.

And then she saw him. The other half of this experiment. The man, the myth, the fellow guinea pig. He sat in the living room looking like someone who'd read the study packet and realized too late it wasn't satire.

Okay, Lena thought, so that's him. My roommate, my partner, my co-pilot in medically supervised cohabitation. We're supposed to live together, "get comfortable," and—how did the pamphlet put it—"engage in frequent intimacy to assess contraception efficacy." Translation: do it. A lot. For science. And money.

She offered a big smile and a little wave, summoning every ounce of charm she wasn't reserving for the cameras that may or may not be hidden in the smoke detectors.

"Hi! I'm Lena. I guess we're co-stars in the government's bold new plan for reproductive equity?"

Her laugh was bright, breezy, and maybe two decibels too loud. It was her nervous tell. That, and the fact she was already picturing how awkward breakfast was going to be.

Kelly remained unimpressed.

"The bedroom is upstairs. It is appropriately furnished for its purpose. You will find your logbook, testing schedule, and monitoring consent form on the desk. Compensation disbursed upon completion. Premature withdrawal—" she paused, seemingly unaware of the phrasing, "—will forfeit all earnings."

She handed Lena a folder and turned on her heel. “I will return in one hour, after you have a chance to... get acquainted.”

Lena stood there a beat longer as Kelly's heels clicked into the distance, glancing at the folder, the couch, the awkward energy hanging in the air like a third roommate.

This is it, she thought. One year. One house. One stranger. And one pill that may or may not work. What could possibly go wrong?