He was sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign. Clothes dirty. Beard overgrown. But his eyes…
They didn’t match the rest of him.
They were calm. Kind. Present.
I don’t know what came over me, but I stopped.
And before I could overthink it, I said:
“Do you want to get married?”
He blinked at me like I’d lost my mind.
“I’m serious,” I added quickly. “It would just be… an arrangement. I help you, you help me. No pressure.”
He studied me for a few seconds. Then he gave a small, almost amused smile.
“Stan,” he said. “And yeah… why not.”
That’s how it started.
I took him to get cleaned up, bought him clothes, got him a haircut.
And I won’t lie — once all the layers were gone… he was actually handsome.
Three days later, I introduced him to my parents as my fiancé.
They were ecstatic.
Exactly what they wanted.
A month later, we were married.
And here’s the strange part…
Living with Stan didn’t feel fake.
He was easy to be around. Funny in a quiet way. Observant. Helpful.
