“What are you doing?” he hisses. “We’re having sex,” I whisper. “God, Ash.” His entire body tenses. “You belong in a mental institution,” he says. “It’s not even noon!” “We can’t have fake sex before noon?” What kind of fake relationship am I in? “Oh my God, do you really have a scheduling kink?” “Do I have a what? You just told her you were going to sleep for the next twelve years.”
