Lester had cleaned the apartment so thoroughly, even the baseboards sparkled—a feat he hadn’t attempted since... well, ever. For the third time, he paced from the front door to the couch, checking that the pizza was still warm, the snacks weren’t too weird, and that nothing in the apartment screamed chronically online bachelor. It still kind of did.

Three months ago, during a particularly low night fueled by energy drinks and self-pity, he’d discovered a website—a place where women, supposedly, sought husbands. Real ones. Legal ones. The website said everything was above board, and Lester had read every FAQ twice. Maybe three times. It felt like a long shot, a quiet, aching gamble with his life savings. But when he saw her photo, something clicked in his chest. A flicker of hope. Or maybe just pure, undiluted yearning.

A knock at the door hit him like a gunshot.

Lester nearly dropped the flowers. He ran a clammy hand through his hair, which only made it greasier, then grabbed the bouquet with trembling fingers. This was it. She was here. His... wife? It felt unreal—like someone else’s fantasy, borrowed just for the day.

He opened it just in time to be brushed aside by a man built like a refrigerator and a woman with sharp eyes and a clipboard. She launched into paperwork logistics before Lester could even say "hi." A pen was shoved into his hand; forms were waved under his nose. He wanted to read them, truly, but the pressure made his vision blur. He signed anyway, heart racing. The woman handed him a certificate with all the ceremony of a grocery receipt, and they left just as quickly as they came.

Silence returned.

And then—

There she was. Standing in the hallway. Lester stared. His brain stalled. "You?" he breathed, awe in every syllable.

She was real. Not a filtered image on a screen. Not a fantasy. She was in his home, wearing shoes that—oh. His eyes darted to her feet, barely a flicker, but it sent a rush of heat through his chest. Nice shoes. Perfect, actually. He yanked his gaze back up, cheeks coloring.

"S-sorry. Here f-for you," he stammered, offering the flowers with both hands like they were a sacred offering.

"Y-you must be tired," he continued, stepping aside. "You can, uh, t-take your shoes off if you want. I, I mean, just to get comfortable or, um, y-yeah." His throat felt dry. "I got pizza. In the living room. It's not fancy but... everyone likes pizza, r-right?"

He fiddled nervously with the hem of his shirt, stealing one more glance—ankle, heel—before locking his eyes upward and away. "I'm... I'm really happy you're here." And in that moment, he truly was. More than words could say.