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When I hear him say Henrik’s full name, I freeze. Oh fuck, this is real. I’m getting married to Henrik Johan Björn Karlsson.
As I stand here, heart racing, the truth settles over me: I don’t want Teddy out with another man tonight. I want him home, laughing with Karro on the couch, making banana splits, and teaching me to braid her hair. I want him home with me.
My god, don’t even get me started on my past romantic partners. When you’re generous, people take from you. They fucking drain you dry.
My most toxic trait is that I’ll usually stick around a month too long because the physical feels too damn good. I let it cloud my rationality.
My god, as if. Colin Holliday? The man eats yogurt with a fork. He wears boot-cut jeans. He thinks Lunchables are an acceptable form of charcuterie. I quite literally would never.
I’m on my toes, pressed against the side of this damn truck, with Henrik holding my cash and fucking prizes like a dragon clutching his treasure.
