It was funny because, well, it was true. “It’s more than that,” I insisted, fighting back tears. “If anything good has come from this fucked-up situation it’s that it allowed me to look past all of our problems—the pot, the lack of sex, my job—and realize that none of it matters. All that matters is that we’re together. I want to be your husband. I want the doctors and nurses to know that the person by your side is your husband. And he would do anything for you.” I took a deep breath, looked into his eyes, and repeated the question at hand: “Will you fucking marry me or not?” He cracked the
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