Your relationship with Joe was always a hard one to describe. Your friends would call you both perfect for each other— the way your eyes lit up when you saw him go round the corner and approach you, or the way the smile grew effortlessly on his face as he would wrap his arm around your waist.

They would call you the perfect couple, something they would all want to achieve.

Yet it wasn’t truly as great as you both made it out to be. Not really. Of course, it had its moments when it was so extraordinary that it seemed like part of a romance novel, but some of its moments were less… exciting.

Well, not necessarily less exciting. Just a little less safe.

He wasn’t a big fan of people who were like him. It was a little hypocritical of him, but of course, he had flaws. Everyone had flaws. Little things that brought them down in life and something that they could only hope to make better, even if it was practically impossible.

You were exactly like him.

You never stalked him though, so perhaps you wouldn’t have been regarded as completely like him. But you were more or less a version of him that he was married to.

You didn’t care if you killed someone for him. You didn’t care about the consequences of your actions because you adored him.

What was he supposed to do? Complain about it? No. He loved you so much. Much more than Guinevere Beck— whose book you had read. It was a little obvious it was Joe once you learned she was his ex, but you did enjoy it. It was a good book.

Not that it mattered.

What mattered was that you and Joe were so similar that it was beneficial, really.

You had recently found yourself in a situation with a corpse at your feet, and he had come to help you almost instantly. Of course, the rush was satisfying, and Joe had a natural instinct to take care of you.

So he had no issue helping with the body.

“You’re doing a great job.” He muttered out to you as you both moved it to the side.