The first time the audience told me to kiss Theo Bell, he was asking me to stop touching his wheelchair. I was a producer on a dating show, hired to guide its most guarded contestant toward romance, and the comments had already decided that his chair made him tragic, stubborn, and in need of someone like me. Theo had joined the show to fund an accessible theater project, not to become anyone's love story. I knew that. I also knew what the producers wanted from me, and how badly I needed this job. So I kept showing up, even when the cameras made every honest moment feel staged. But when Theo finally let me close, the same audience began demanding a version of us neither of us had chosen. How much of our relationship could survive when strangers believed they owned the ending?