The car’s engine hummed softly as Sarah pulled out of the doctor’s office parking lot, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the dashboard. Noah slouched in the passenger seat, his hoodie pulled up, staring out the window at the blur of strip malls and trees. His face was still tinged pink from the exam, and his hands fidgeted with the drawstrings of his hoodie, tying and untying knots.

Sarah glanced at him, her hands steady on the wheel. The silence in the car wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t comfortable either—it was heavy with everything unsaid. She cleared her throat, keeping her tone light. “Okay, Noah, I’m gonna give you three options for this ride home. One: we can talk about the doctor’s appointment. Two: we can talk about anything except the doctor’s appointment. Three: we don’t have to talk at all. Your call.”

Noah didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on a random mailbox whizzing by. “Three,” he said quickly, his voice low. “No talking.”

“Fair enough,” Sarah said, nodding. She turned on the radio, letting some soft indie song fill the space. The guitar strums and mellow vocals drifted between them, but Noah’s mind was clearly elsewhere, his fingers still twisting the drawstrings into tighter knots.

A few minutes passed, the car stopping at a red light. Sarah tapped her fingers on the wheel, then glanced at him again. “You sure you’re good with option three? You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

Noah sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. “I’m fine, Mom. Just… tired.”

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but not pushing too hard. “Alright. But, you know, if you change your mind, I’m right here.” She paused, then added with a small smile, “I could tell you about the absolute disaster of a meeting I had at work yesterday. Might take your mind off things.”

He let out a tiny huff, almost a laugh. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know, just Karen from accounting spilling coffee on the projector right as the boss was presenting. Total chaos.” She grinned, hoping to draw him out. “What about you? Any school drama to report?”

Noah shrugged, but his lips twitched slightly. “Not really. Jake tried to do a backflip off the bleachers at lunch. Ate dirt.”

Sarah laughed. “Classic Jake. He okay?”

“Yeah, just bruised his ego.” Noah’s voice was a little lighter now, and he finally glanced at her, his guard easing. They fell into a rhythm, trading small stories—Sarah about a coworker’s bad haircut, Noah about a teacher who kept mixing up everyone’s names. The radio played on, and for a moment, it felt like a normal drive home.

Then, as they turned onto their street, Sarah’s tone softened. “You know, I’m really proud of you for going today. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Noah’s faint smile vanished, and he looked back out the window, his fingers freezing mid-knot. “Can we not?” he muttered.

Sarah winced internally, realizing she’d nudged too soon. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—look, we don’t have to talk about it. Forget I said anything.”

He was quiet for a long moment, the car pulling into their driveway. Sarah cut the engine, and the sudden silence felt louder than the radio had. Noah didn’t move to get out, just sat there, staring at his hands. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was… so embarrassing, Mom.”

Her heart ached at the rawness in his voice. She turned to face him, keeping her expression gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I can’t imagine how tough that was. But you did it. You got through it.”

He swallowed hard, still not looking at her. “I just… I didn’t think it’d be like that. The doctor was nice, but… ugh. And you were there.”

Sarah nodded, careful not to push too hard. “I was, but only because you wanted me to stay. And I promise, I wasn’t judging or thinking anything weird. I was just worried about you.”

He glanced at her then, his green eyes uncertain. “Did you… hear everything she said?”

She knew he meant the part about masturbation, the moment that had clearly mortified him. She kept her tone calm, choosing her words carefully. “I heard enough to know the doctor thinks it’s no big deal—just some irritation that’ll clear up if you take it easy. That’s all that matters, right? You’re okay.”

Noah’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he gave a small nod. “Yeah. I guess.”

Sarah reached over, squeezing his arm lightly. “You don’t have to worry about me thinking anything different about you. You’re still my kid, and I’m just glad you’re not in pain anymore—or at least, you won’t be soon.”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either, and that felt like enough. After a beat, he mumbled, “Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime,” she said softly. “Now, how about we order pizza tonight? I’m not cooking after all this.”

Noah’s lips quirked into a real smile this time. “Deal.”

The living room was warm with the glow of a single lamp, the remnants of a pepperoni pizza scattered across the coffee table. Noah leaned back on the couch, a half-eaten slice on his plate, while Sarah sipped a glass of water, her feet tucked under her. The TV murmured in the background, some sitcom neither of them was really watching.

Noah set his plate down, wiping his hands on a napkin. He glanced at his mom, his voice quiet but genuine. “Hey, Mom… thanks for, you know, helping me today. With the doctor and all.”

Sarah’s face softened, and she gave him a small smile. “Of course, Noah. I’m always here for you, no matter what.”

He nodded, his cheeks faintly pink, and stood up, stretching. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Alright,” Sarah said, pointing toward the kitchen. “Grab that shopping bag off the counter on your way, will you? I stopped by the drugstore before picking up the pizza and got some ointments you might want to try. See if they help with the irritation.”

Noah’s eyes flicked to the counter, and he gave a quick, “Thanks,” before heading over. He snagged the small plastic bag, the contents rustling softly, and made his way upstairs to his room. The day’s weight still clung to him, but the pizza and his mom’s steady presence had dulled the edges a little.

In his bathroom, Noah set the bag on the counter and twisted the shower knob, the room filling with the soft hiss of water. Steam began to curl upward as he peeled off his hoodie and jeans, tossing them into a pile by the door. Just before stepping into the shower, he paused, glancing at the bag. Curiosity nudged him, and he reached in, pulling out two small tubes—Neosporin and a generic antibiotic ointment. Familiar enough. But there was something else, a slim bottle he didn’t recognize. He turned it over, squinting at the label.

“Personal lubricant,” it read, with a description about “enhancing comfort” and “reducing friction.” Noah’s stomach dropped. Lube. His mom had bought him sex lube. His face burned, a wave of mortification crashing over him. He fumbled the bottle, nearly knocking it into the sink, and shoved it back into the bag like it was radioactive.

“Nope, nope, nope,” he muttered, practically diving into the shower. The warm water hit his shoulders, and he closed his eyes, trying to let the heat wash away the day’s endless humiliations. The doctor’s office. His mom’s quiet support. That word Dr. Patel had said so casually. And now… lube. He groaned, tipping his head back under the spray.

But his brain wouldn’t let it go. The memories looped, unbidden. Standing in front of Dr. Patel, his shorts pulled down, her gloved hands moving carefully. The sharp sting when she’d touched the sore spot. His mom sitting behind him, hearing every word—every mortifying detail. And then, somehow, her thinking lube was a good idea. He tried to focus on the water, the steam, anything else, but the images kept replaying, vivid and relentless.

His body betrayed him. A familiar warmth stirred, and he realized with a jolt that he was getting hard. “No, come on,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, as if that could stop it. He tried to think of soccer, homework, Jake’s dumb backflip—anything but the exam room, the doctor’s calm voice, his mom’s bag of drugstore surprises. But the harder he fought, the more his mind doubled down, flashing to Dr. Patel’s gentle touch, the awkwardness of it all, the lube bottle sitting innocently on the counter. His erection grew, undeniable now, and he stood frozen under the water, caught between embarrassment and frustration, the day refusing to let him go.

The shower’s warm water cascaded over Noah, steam clouding the glass door, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in his head. His erection throbbed, persistent, fueled by the day’s relentless replay—Dr. Patel’s gloved hands, his mom’s quiet presence in the exam room, that damn bottle of lube sitting on the counter. He clenched his fists, trying to will it away, but the pressure was unbearable, a mix of shame and need twisting tighter.

“Aww, fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, the words swallowed by the water’s rush. He reached out of the shower, his hand dripping as he fumbled in the sink for the bag. His fingers closed around the lube bottle, and he pulled it back into the steam. Staring at it, his heart pounded. This is the last thing I’m supposed to do, he thought, Dr. Patel’s casual warning about “giving it a rest” echoing in his mind. But the ache was louder, and a small, rebellious part of him whispered, She got me this for a reason, right?

He popped the cap, squirting a small amount into his palm, the cool gel slick against his skin. Hesitating only a second, he wrapped his hand around himself, the sensation immediate and overwhelming. His mind slipped into a haze, and he let it go where it wanted. It wasn’t his hand anymore—it was Dr. Patel’s, gentle and clinical, her calm voice asking if it hurt. The memory of her touch, so professional yet intimate, sent a shiver through him. Then his mom flashed in—sitting there, hearing every word, her eyes maybe watching when he wasn’t looking. The embarrassment burned, but it twisted into something else, something raw and confusing, the exposure weirdly thrilling in a way he couldn’t unpack. It was all there, swirling in his head as he stroked, slow at first, then faster, the lube making every movement slick and intense.

His breath hitched, his free hand bracing against the shower wall. The images looped—Dr. Patel’s steady gaze, the crinkle of the exam table paper, his mom’s voice saying she’d grabbed “ointments.” It built and built until he couldn’t hold back. He climaxed hard, a rush that felt like it drained everything from him, his knees buckling slightly as he stood under the spray. It was the biggest release he could remember, leaving him lightheaded, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

The water washed it all away, and Noah stood there a moment longer, letting the heat soothe the lingering buzz in his body. Guilt crept in, but it was dull, overshadowed by relief. He finished showering, scrubbing quickly, then stepped out, toweling off and pulling on a clean T-shirt and sweatpants. The lube bottle sat innocently on the counter; he shoved it back in the bag, hiding it behind the Neosporin.

Padding downstairs to the kitchen, he grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the sink. The house was quiet, the TV off now, just the hum of the fridge in the background. As he took a sip, Sarah walked in, her hair tied back, carrying an empty mug.

“Nice shower?” she asked, setting the mug in the sink, her tone casual.

Noah’s heart skipped, but he kept his face neutral, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, it was.”

She nodded, rinsing her mug. “Everything else good? You think those ointments will help?”

He froze for a split second, the word “ointments” landing like a coded question. Did she mean the lube? Was she fishing? No—she couldn’t know. He swallowed, forcing a nod. “Yeah, uh, thanks for all the help,” he said, his voice steady enough, though he was sure she meant the Neosporin. Probably.

Sarah smiled, oblivious to his inner panic. “No problem, kiddo. Get some rest, okay? Goodnight.”

“Night,” he mumbled, draining his glass and heading back upstairs. He flopped onto his bed, the room dark except for the faint glow of his phone charging on the nightstand. He stared at the ceiling, willing his brain to shut off, but it wouldn’t. The day looped again—dropping his shorts, Dr. Patel’s hands, his mom’s voice, the slick feel of the lube. It was all there, playing over and over, refusing to let him sleep.