I insisted on a thorough prenup. I was impulsive, not foolish. But once the paperwork was signed and the performance settled into routine, something unexpected happened.
Living with Stan was… easy.
Too easy.
He was funny without trying hard. Helpful without making a show of it. He cooked. Fixed things. Asked thoughtful questions. Gave me space when I wanted it. We became something like friends, then something even more dangerous — comfortable.
The only thing that never changed was the wall that came up whenever I asked about his past.
If I asked how he ended up homeless, his whole expression shifted. His eyes would go flat, and he’d redirect the conversation so smoothly it almost felt rehearsed.
