Chapter 4: The Negotiation He stared at the footed sleeper Paige had left draped across the chair. Stars and moons printed on light blue fabric. The snaps running down the front gleamed under the bedroom light. This couldn't continue. Not like this. He sat down on the edge of the bed, still wearing the clothes he'd had on at work. The normalcy of his button-down shirt and slacks contrasted sharply with the infantile garment waiting for him. "Paige," he called out. His voice came out steadier than he expected. "We need to talk." She appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a glass of water. She looked calm. Almost serene. "About what?" she asked. "This." He gestured at the sleeper, then at the closet full of onesies and footed pajamas. "All of this. It's destroying both of us and it cannot continue." Paige took a sip of water. She didn't sit down or move from the doorway. Just waited for him to keep talking. "I want to propose something," he said. "A formal deal between us." That got her attention. She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "What kind of deal?" He'd been thinking about this all afternoon at work. Running through different approaches in his head while pretending to focus on spreadsheets. The key was giving Paige something that satisfied her need for control while preserving his basic dignity. "I will wear medical-grade incontinence protection at night," he said. "I'll accept your practical assistance with the bedwetting problem. You can help me put them on, check them in the morning, whatever you think is necessary." Paige's expression didn't change. She took another sip of water. "But only adult medical products," he continued. "No baby items. No diapers with cartoon prints or nursery patterns. Just plain white medical protection designed for adults with incontinence issues." He paused to see if she would respond. She didn't. "And I retain complete autonomy during daytime hours," he added. "I wear normal clothes. I go to work. I live my life like an adult. The protection is only for nighttime, only for the practical purpose of managing a medical issue." The silence stretched between them. Paige set her water glass down on the dresser. She walked over to the bed and sat down across from him, far enough away that they weren't touching but close enough to maintain eye contact. "So you want me to treat this like a medical problem," she said finally. "It is a medical problem." "Maybe." She folded her hands in her lap. "But you're asking me to give up a lot of control. After you already broke our agreement once." "I'm not asking you to give up control," he said. "I'm asking you to redirect it. You still get to help with the nighttime routine. You still get to be involved in managing this issue. But we do it in a way that doesn't involve infantilizing me." Paige looked at him for a long moment. He couldn't read her expression. The woman who had smiled while showing him a closet full of baby clothes had disappeared. This version of Paige was calculating something. "I have conditions," she said. Relief washed over him. Conditions meant negotiation. Negotiation meant she was considering it. "Okay," he said. "You keep one complete outfit for work purposes only," Paige began. "One suit, one shirt, one pair of shoes. That's what you wear to the office. But at home, you wear whatever clothing I select." He started to protest but she held up a hand. "Let me finish," she said. "I'm not saying baby clothes. I'm saying I choose what you wear when you're here. Comfortable clothes. Appropriate clothes. But my choice, not yours." That seemed reasonable enough. Most couples had opinions about what their partners wore around the house. Paige wanting to pick out his loungewear wasn't exactly unusual. "What else?" he asked. "Daily check-ins," Paige said. "Every morning and every evening, I physically verify you're wearing your protection. Not just a visual check. I actually inspect to make sure everything is in place and working correctly." The idea of Paige checking his underwear like a parent with a small child made his stomach turn. But if it was just a quick inspection, he could handle it. Better than being forced into footed sleepers and treated like an infant. "And third," Paige continued, "you attend a doctor's appointment. I'll schedule it. We'll get a proper medical evaluation of your bedwetting and follow whatever treatment plan they recommend." He blinked. That was actually the most reasonable condition yet. "You want me to see a doctor?" "Yes." Paige's expression softened slightly. "If this is a medical issue like you say, then we should treat it medically. Get professional help. Figure out if there's an underlying cause or a treatment option we haven't considered." The logic made perfect sense. He'd been avoiding doctors because the bedwetting embarrassed him. But if medical intervention could solve the problem entirely, that would eliminate all of this conflict. "So those are your terms," he said. "One work outfit, you choose my home clothes, daily inspections, and a doctor's appointment." "That's right." "And in exchange, no more baby treatment? No infantilization? We handle this like adults dealing with a medical condition?" Paige nodded. "As long as you follow the agreement completely. No rebellion. No throwing away the protection I lay out for you. No deciding you know better than me." He thought about the alternative. The closet full of onesies. The footed sleepers. The constant humiliation of being treated like an infant in his own home. Paige's terms were strict but they were survivable. "Deal," he said. He held out his hand. Paige looked at it for a second, then shook it firmly. Her grip was stronger than he remembered. "I want this in writing," she said. "What?" "A written agreement." Paige stood up and walked to the desk in the corner of their bedroom. She pulled out a notebook and a pen. "If we're making a formal deal, we should document the terms. That way there's no confusion later about what we agreed to." That made sense. He watched as she opened the notebook to a fresh page and began writing in her neat, precise handwriting. "Agreement between Paige and her husband regarding management of bedwetting condition," she wrote at the top. Then she listed out each term they'd discussed. The medical-grade protection. His retention of one work outfit. Her selection of his home clothing. The daily inspections. The doctor's appointment. She added a few clarifying details as she wrote. The inspections would occur at eight AM and eight PM unless work schedules required adjustment. She would schedule the doctor's appointment within the next two weeks. He would comply with all aspects of the agreement or the deal would be void. When she finished, she read it aloud to make sure he agreed with every point. He listened carefully, looking for any traps or loopholes. Everything sounded reasonable. "Sign here," Paige said, pointing to a line at the bottom of the page. He took the pen and signed his name. Paige witnessed it with her own signature below his. Then she tore the page out of the notebook and folded it carefully. "I'll keep this somewhere safe," she said. "So we can refer back to it if needed." The formality of the whole process struck him as odd but he didn't comment on it. Paige liked structure and documentation. That was part of her personality. If having a written contract made her feel more secure about the arrangement, that was fine. "So what now?" he asked. "Now you change out of your work clothes," Paige said. "And I'll get you something appropriate to wear for the evening." She went to the closet while he unbuttoned his shirt. The relief of having negotiated a reasonable compromise made him almost optimistic. They could make this work. Handle the bedwetting like mature adults instead of playing out some twisted parent-child dynamic. Paige returned with a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Normal clothes. Comfortable but completely adult. "Thank you," he said, taking them from her. She smiled. "We're partners in this. That's what the agreement means." He changed into the sweatpants and t-shirt while Paige gathered up his work clothes to hang in the closet. The single suit she'd promised him hung by itself on one side. His one connection to his professional life. That night, Paige brought him a package of medical-grade incontinence briefs. Plain white. No patterns or prints. They looked like slightly thicker versions of normal underwear. "These are what the hospital uses for patients with bladder control issues," she explained. "Very absorbent but discreet." He put one on in the bathroom, relieved to see that it didn't bulk up like the diapers had. Under pajama pants, no one would even notice. The eight PM inspection was quick and professional. Paige asked him to lower his pants, checked that the brief was positioned correctly, then nodded and told him he was good for the night. He slept better than he had in weeks. The next morning, he woke up wet as usual. But the brief had contained everything. No wet sheets. No mess. Paige performed the eight AM inspection, helped him remove the soiled brief and dispose of it properly, then left him to shower in peace. This was manageable. This was sustainable. He went to work in his designated suit, spent the day feeling almost normal, and came home to find Paige had laid out different sweatpants for the evening. These were a soft blue color instead of gray. Still completely normal adult loungewear. "Do you like them?" she asked. "I thought a little color would be nice." "They're fine," he said. The pattern continued for the next two days. He wore his work suit to the office. He came home to comfortable loungewear Paige selected. She performed her inspections at eight AM and eight PM. He wore the medical briefs at night. The bedwetting continued but stayed contained. On the third day, Paige had laid out a pair of pale pink sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt with a small teddy bear embroidered on the chest. Not a large cartoon print. Just a tiny decorative detail that could have been on anyone's casual clothing. He looked at it for a moment but decided not to comment. It was still within the bounds of normal adult clothes even if the color was a bit feminine and the teddy bear was slightly cutesy. Paige was choosing his home clothes. That was part of the agreement. He put them on without complaint. The fourth day arrived with the scheduled doctor's appointment. Paige drove them to a medical clinic across town. The physician was a middle-aged woman with a professional demeanor who didn't react at all when he explained his bedwetting issue. She ran through a thorough examination. Blood pressure. Reflexes. Questions about his medical history and sleep patterns. Then she sent him for blood tests and a bladder scan. The whole process took two hours. He sat in the waiting room between tests, hoping they'd find something fixable. A vitamin deficiency. A minor infection. Anything that could be treated with medication or lifestyle changes. The doctor called them back into her office to review the results. "All your tests came back normal," she said. "Blood work is fine. Bladder scan shows no abnormalities. No signs of diabetes, no urinary tract issues, no neurological problems." He waited for the "but" that would lead to the diagnosis and treatment plan. Instead, she just spread her hands and shrugged. "Sometimes adult bedwetting has no identifiable physical cause," she said. "It can be stress-related, psychological, or simply idiopathic—which means we don't know why it happens." "So there's no treatment?" he asked. "I can prescribe medication that might help, but the success rate is only about fifty percent and it comes with side effects." The doctor pulled out her prescription pad. "Beyond that, management is your best option. Incontinence products, waterproof bedding, avoiding fluids before sleep. Things you're probably already doing." She wrote out a prescription for desmopressin and handed it to him. "Try this for a month and see if it makes any difference," she said. "But don't be discouraged if it doesn't work. Many people manage nocturnal enuresis successfully without ever identifying a specific cause." They thanked her and left. The car ride home was quiet. Paige drove while he stared out the window, processing what the doctor had said. No physical cause. No medical explanation. Just something his body did for no apparent reason. "Well," Paige said finally. "That's interesting." He didn't respond. "The doctor said there's no physical reason for your bedwetting," she continued. "Which means it must be psychological." "Or idiopathic," he said. "That means they don't know." "But she mentioned psychological factors specifically." Paige turned onto their street. "Stress-related, she said. Or psychological." "Stress is different from—" "Psychological regression," Paige interrupted. "That's what this could be. Your mind reverting to childhood patterns. Childhood behaviors." He didn't like where this was going. "That's not what she said." "But it fits." Paige pulled into their driveway and turned off the car. "No physical cause means the problem is mental. And if your mind is regressing to the point where you wet the bed like a child, that's evidence of deeper mental reversion to childhood." The logic was twisted but he couldn't find an immediate counterargument. His brain was still stuck on the disappointment of the medical evaluation finding nothing. They went inside. Paige told him to sit down while she made dinner. He sat at the kitchen table, turning the prescription bottle over in his hands. Fifty percent success rate. Maybe he'd get lucky. After dinner, Paige led him upstairs. It was almost eight PM. Time for his evening inspection. But instead of having him lower his pants for a quick check, she pointed to the bed where she'd laid out clothing for the evening. A footed sleeper. Pastel yellow fabric covered in small teddy bears. He stared at it. "What is that?" he asked, though he obviously knew exactly what it was. "Your home clothes for this evening," Paige said calmly. "That's not—we agreed on adult clothes." "We agreed I would choose what you wear at home," Paige corrected. "And based on the doctor's findings today, I think appropriate treatment for psychological regression requires appropriate clothing." "That's not what the agreement said!" "Isn't it?" Paige walked to the dresser and pulled out the folded paper. The contract they'd both signed. She unfolded it and pointed to the relevant section. "You agreed I would select your home clothing. That's what I'm doing." He read the clause she indicated. She was technically right. The agreement said she chose his home clothes. It didn't specify they had to be adult clothes. "This wasn't what we discussed," he said. "You know that's not what I meant when I agreed to this." "The doctor said your bedwetting has no medical cause," Paige replied. She set the contract down on the dresser. "That means it's psychological regression. Evidence that mentally you're reverting to childhood. If that's the case, then treating you appropriately for your mental age is the responsible thing to do." "I'm not regressing to childhood!" "You wet the bed every single night." Paige picked up the footed sleeper and held it out. "Just like a child. The doctor confirmed there's no physical reason. So it must be mental. And if your mind thinks you're a child, then dressing you like one is actually helpful. It aligns your external presentation with your internal mental state." The reasoning was insane but she said it so calmly. Like she was explaining a simple mathematical equation. "Put this on," she said. "Or we can void the agreement entirely and go back to the way things were before." Before meant no work clothes at all. Before meant total infantilization with no negotiation. He took the footed sleeper from her hands. The fabric was soft. The teddy bear print was small and subtle but unmistakably childish. "This wasn't what we agreed to," he said again. Weaker this time. "Yes it was." Paige pointed at the contract again. "Read it yourself. Exact language. I choose what you wear at home. You agreed to those terms. You signed this agreement freely." He looked at the handwritten document. She was right. The words were clear. He'd been so focused on negotiating away the worst aspects of her control that he hadn't considered how she might interpret the terms later. "When you proposed your deal," Paige said, "I knew what you were trying to do. You wanted to set limits on my authority. Create boundaries. But by agreeing to any framework where I had control, you gave me the legal and logical foundation to expand that authority." She walked to the closet and opened it. The rows of onesies and footed pajamas still hung there. "You cannot object to me choosing these clothes without breaking our agreement," Paige continued. "And if you break the agreement, we go back to complete infantilization. No work privileges. No adult treatment at all." The trap was perfect. She'd let him think he was negotiating a compromise while actually creating a contract that gave her everything she wanted with his explicit consent. "The daily inspections will continue to evolve," Paige added. "That's part of appropriate treatment too. Making sure you're properly protected and cared for requires thorough checking." He thought about the past few days. How the inspections had started as quick visual confirmations. Then Paige pulling his waistband to look. Then having him lower his pants completely. She'd been gradually escalating the whole time. Testing how far she could push before he objected. "This morning I had you stand with your hands on the wall while I changed you," Paige said. "Did you even notice that shift? From you changing yourself to me doing it for you?" He had noticed. He'd assumed it was just Paige being helpful. Saving him time before work. "Every aspect of our agreement gives me room to expand my control," Paige said. "The medical evaluation was supposed to find a problem I could use to justify more intensive treatment. The fact that it found nothing is even better. Now I can argue your regression is purely psychological. Purely behavioral. Which requires behavioral correction." She gestured at the footed sleeper still in his hands. "Put it on," she said. "And we'll continue with our agreement. I'll keep letting you go to work. I'll keep treating this as a manageable situation. But at home, you wear what I choose. You submit to inspections however I decide to conduct them. You accept that your bedwetting is evidence of regression that requires appropriate response." The alternative was refusing. Breaking the agreement. Losing his work clothes entirely. He looked down at the teddy bear print. Then at the contract on the dresser. Then at Paige's calm, expectant expression. The bargain was a trap from the beginning. By agreeing to any framework of her control, he gave her the legal and logical foundation to gradually expand her authority while rendering himself unable to object without breaking their agreement.