Wait. Wait. Wait. We’re best friends . We’re not supposed to star as the leads in a marriage-of-convenience rom-com.

 

We don’t need to share healthcare, or get a citizenship, or win a game show. There is no logical reason for Sean to blackmail me into marrying him just because his father told him to.

 

And yet.

 

Here I am.

 

Moving in with the monster.

 

If I’m honest, this is beginning to feel less like a trope and more like an intervention.

 

It’s a grand twenty-toxic-step recovery plan gilded in sweet nothings, meaningless kisses, and random cuddles.

 

I should absolutely not be okay with it.

 

Alas. It seems more than my relationship with food is unhealthy.

 

So is my taste in men.