“Marry me.”
I proposed to my coworker in a firehouse kitchen at 2 AM. Not because I loved him, but because I was desperate. He was about to lose his family’s ranch.
I was about to lose my sister to the monster who raised us. So we made a deal: one year of fake marriage, separate bedrooms, no feelings. We shook hands like it was a business transaction.
Three months later, I woke up to find him making me chamomile tea after a brutal shift because he knew I needed sleep more than caffeine.
Six months in, I watched him teach my twelve-year-old sister that trust takes time, that some wounds heal slowly, and that she was worth the wait.
And yesterday, he threw himself between me and a bullet.
