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“What if I married you?” I asked, half-joking.
He studied me carefully, as if weighing not just the question but my intentions. “That sounds like a decision you’d regret,” he replied.
“Maybe,” I said. “But it would solve a problem for both of us.”
A week later, we were married at a small courthouse.
My parents were horrified. They cut me off almost immediately, convinced I had lost my mind. But I didn’t care—not at first. I felt powerful, in control for the first time in my life.
Daniel moved into my apartment, though “moved in” might be too strong a phrase. He kept his distance, slept on the couch despite my insistence he take the bed, and spent most of his time quietly reading or going out during the day without explanation.
We had an agreement: this marriage was temporary. A few months, maybe a year. Enough time to prove my point.
But something strange happened over those weeks.
Still, he remained a mystery.
Then came the day everything changed.
It had been exactly one month since our impulsive wedding. I came home earlier than usual, exhausted from work and ready to collapse. But the moment I opened the door, I froze.
The apartment was… different.
