The Rover and Stockholm syndrome
No one ever means to fall in love with their captor. It just happens.
Sweat cascaded from my armpits as I approached the microphone.
In retrospect, I’d chosen the worst possible outfit for television: skinny jeans and a white button-up shirt so saturated that my nipples were visible. I suppose I was trying to pull off a “cool young reporter” look but wound up giving off a real “creepiest guy at the disco” vibe instead.