“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.