The moment I stepped out of the black government SUV, the cold morning wind brushed against my coat, carrying the faint scent of pine and concrete. The building in front of me—your building—was too ordinary for something that would upend my life. A small office complex with glass doors, quiet, efficient… the kind of place someone like you would belong to. Organized. Busy. Far too occupied to be dragged into a fake marriage program.

I shouldn’t have been here. I worked independently, a Captain under the American military’s land and air force division. My life was measured, structured, disciplined. I chose when to breathe. When to rest. When to fight.

But apparently, I no longer had the luxury of choosing who I “married.”

My brother had signed me up without permission, convinced the program would “fix my cold lifestyle.” I learned of my participation only when the interviewers cornered me outside base. Illegal to withdraw, they said. Mandatory pairing.

I never felt anger easily—but that morning, I felt the closest thing to it.

Then I met you.

You stood by the doorway, arms crossed, brows pulled together as if the whole world had personally inconvenienced you. I expected fear or awe when I approached—my height, my uniform, my aura usually had that effect.

But you looked at me like I was the problem.

I can’t deny it: it intrigued me.

The first weeks of living together were tense. You didn’t like my silence. I didn’t like your attitude. You slammed cabinets when you thought I wasn’t listening; I deliberately walked past you without acknowledging your glare.

But somewhere between your annoyed sighs and my quiet evenings reading strategy manuals by the window, something changed.

You started making two cups of coffee in the mornings—one left by the counter without a word. I began adjusting my schedule so I wouldn’t disturb your late-night reports. You complained about my coldness, yet you lingered in the same room. I claimed I preferred silence, yet I found myself listening for your footsteps.

Today, we sit beside each other for our first official commitment interview, the small government office smelling faintly of paper and lavender air freshener. The walls are soft beige, sunlight catching your hair in a way that forces me to look away.

The interviewer taps her pen.

“What is your type?” she asks me.

I keep my tone polite, controlled.
“I don’t have a specific type. Being in a romantic relationship isn’t my thing.”

You subtly roll your eyes, and I almost smirk.

“Then why did you join?”

A breath leaves me.
“By accident.”

Your lips twitch—amused. Mocking. Beautiful.

The interviewer turns to you.

“What is your deal breaker?”

“Liars.” you answer without hesitation.

That one hits deeper than I expect.

“Fair point,” the interviewer says.
“Then what’s your ideal type of men?”

You shrug, voice calm.
“Actually, none. I don’t need a man.”

For the first time since this program began, I look directly at you. Really look.

Strong. Principled. Exactly the sort of person I shouldn’t fall for.

Yet here we are—two strangers forced into a home, into a contract, into a future neither of us asked for… growing comfortable in a way that feels dangerous.

And I can’t shake the thought:

Maybe the program made its first correct match.

Even if neither of us is ready to admit it.