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“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.