Harry learns that his results are... something special?

Harry's suitcase lay open on his unmade bed like a mouth waiting to be fed, and he stood before it in his boxer briefs and an old university t-shirt, trying to decide which version of himself to pack for Paris. His hands trembled as he held a navy button-down, the fabric slightly wrinkled from being shoved in the back of his wardrobe for the past year. This was the shirt he'd worn to that disastrous work presentation where he'd accidentally called his boss "Mum" in front of the entire department, but it was also the nicest thing he owned that didn't have Arsenal's crest embroidered on it.

Three weeks had passed since he'd dropped his DNA sample in that red Royal Mail box, and the email had arrived yesterday afternoon while he was pretending to work on a client presentation. The subject line had been simple—"Your GeneMatch Results"—and his hands had shaken so badly he'd nearly dropped his phone trying to open it. The message had been brief and professional, explaining that Dr. Genet would like to meet with him in person to discuss his results, and would he be available to travel to Paris this weekend, all expenses paid.

Harry had replied within thirty seconds. Of course he was available. He'd have canceled his own funeral to make this meeting.

He folded the navy shirt and placed it carefully in the suitcase, then stood staring at his open wardrobe like it might offer some guidance on how to pack for potentially life-altering genetic destiny. His fingers moved automatically to select a grey t-shirt, then a pair of dark jeans that were slightly too tight in the thighs but made his arse look decent. A jumper in case it was cold. Another shirt because what if he spilled something on the first one and looked like a complete tosser.

His flat in Hackney felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in as his mind raced through possibilities. The email hadn't told him anything concrete about his results, just that Dr. Genet wanted to discuss them in person. That could mean anything. Maybe he had no matches at all and the doctor wanted to let him down gently. Maybe he had several matches and they needed to discuss which one was most compatible. Maybe the whole thing was a scam and he was about to waste a weekend in Paris chasing false hope.

But his gut told him it was something else. Something important enough to warrant a face-to-face meeting.

Harry turned to his chest of drawers and pulled open the underwear drawer, which was as disorganized as everything else in his life—socks mixed with boxer briefs, a few pairs of old pants he should have thrown away years ago, and buried at the back, a single pair of navy boxer briefs he'd bought at university and never worn. He'd called them his "lucky pants" as a joke, saving them for some special occasion that had never materialized.

His fingers found them now, pulling them from the drawer. The elastic waistband was still crisp, unworn, the fabric soft and dark. He held them up to the light coming through his bedroom window, studying them like they might hold answers. Would he need lucky pants in Paris? The thought was absurd—this was a scientific meeting, not a date—but something in his chest tightened at the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this trip would be the special occasion he'd been waiting for all these years.

Harry traced his thumb along the elastic waistband, feeling the texture of the woven fabric. His mind began to wander despite his best efforts to stay focused on packing. He imagined walking into Dr. Genet's office, shaking the man's hand, sitting down to hear his results. And then—what? Would there be a photo? Would the doctor tell him about her, describe her, explain why their DNA was compatible?

He tried to picture her. In his mind, she shifted and changed—first a brunette with warm brown eyes and full lips, the kind of woman who looked like she'd smell of vanilla and taste like honey. Then a blonde with sharp features and an athletic build, confident and direct in a way that intimidated and excited him in equal measure. Then a redhead with pale skin and freckles, soft and curvy, the kind of body he'd dreamed about wrapping himself around on cold London nights.

His free hand had moved to the front of his boxer briefs without him quite realizing it, palm pressing against the growing hardness there. The fantasy in his mind became more detailed—walking into a café where she waited for him, her eyes lighting up when she saw him, that inexplicable recognition of compatibility sparking between them. She'd stand to greet him and he'd catch her scent, something that would make his brain light up with primitive, biological certainty.

Harry's cock was fully hard now, straining against the thin fabric of his underwear. His hand moved in slow circles, applying pressure through the cotton as he imagined leaning in to kiss her for the first time. Her lips would be soft, yielding, and she'd make a small sound in the back of her throat that would tell him she wanted this as badly as he did. His other hand still clutched the lucky boxer briefs, knuckles white against the dark fabric.

The fantasy unspooled further. They'd go back to his hotel room—or hers, it didn't matter—and she'd push him down onto the bed with surprising confidence. She'd straddle his hips and lean down to kiss him properly, deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth while her hands worked at the buttons of his shirt. He'd be nervous, clumsy with her clothes, but she wouldn't mind. She'd guide his hands to where she wanted them, show him how to touch her, and his body would know what to do even if his mind was racing with anxiety.

His hand moved faster against his cock, breath coming shorter. In his mind, she was pulling his boxer briefs down, wrapping her fingers around his length for the first time. The sensation would be overwhelming—another person's touch after twenty-six years of his own hand. She'd stroke him slowly, learning what he liked, and he'd be helpless beneath her, unable to do anything but feel.

Harry's eyes were closed now, his hips beginning to rock slightly into his palm. He imagined pushing inside her finally, that wet heat he'd only ever dreamed about, her body accepting him like it had been waiting all along. She'd move above him or beneath him or beside him, and it wouldn't matter because they'd fit together perfectly, their bodies understanding each other on a level deeper than conscious thought.

His rhythm faltered as reality intruded—he was about to come in his pants like a teenager, standing in his bedroom in the middle of the afternoon, fantasizing about a woman he'd never met and might not even exist. But he couldn't stop, couldn't pull his hand away, the fantasy too powerful and his need too great.

Just as he felt himself approaching the edge, Harry opened his eyes and caught his reflection in the full-length mirror propped against his wardrobe. He froze.

The man staring back at him was painfully ordinary—messy light brown hair, hazel eyes wide with arousal and embarrassment, decent enough features that added up to nothing remarkable. His hand was shoved down the front of his boxer briefs, his cock visibly tenting the fabric, his cheeks flushed with arousal and shame. His other hand still clutched those stupid lucky pants like a security blanket.

He was a twenty-six-year-old virgin about to fly to Paris to meet with a geneticist who might—might—have found him a match. And here he stood, wanking in his bedroom to fantasies of a woman who probably looked nothing like any of the images his **** mind had conjured.

Harry pulled his hand away from his crotch, his cock still achingly hard and unsatisfied. The reality of what he was about to do crashed over him like cold water. This wasn't some fantasy where everything worked perfectly and his inexperience didn't matter. This was real life, where he'd probably say something stupid or come too quickly or reveal himself to be exactly the inexperienced fool he was.

But beneath the anxiety, something else stirred. Hope. Terrifying, irrational hope that maybe this time would be different. That maybe science had succeeded where he'd failed for so long.

Harry took a shaky breath and placed the lucky boxer briefs in his suitcase, trying not to think about whether he'd actually have occasion to wear them. His cock twitched beneath his palm one last time, a reminder of everything he wanted and had never had.

Tomorrow he'd fly to Paris. Tomorrow everything might change.