I have a confession to make: I do, in fact, own several non-fiction books. They sit proudly on my shelf, spines uncracked, radiating intellectual ambition and mild guilt. Occasionally, I dust them. Sometimes I even move them around to create the illusion of engagement.

But when it comes to actual reading? Give me smutty romance fiction or give me… well, probably just more smutty romance fiction.

Look, I’m a woman in my thirties. I have responsibilities. Bills. A back that occasionally clicks for no reason. My brain spends most of the day juggling emails, deadlines, and the ongoing mystery of why I walked into the kitchen. By the time I sit down with a book and my third (fourth?) cup of coffee, I am not looking to expand my understanding of economic theory or the fall of ancient civilizations. I am looking for escapism—with abs.

Non-fiction demands things from me. Focus. Reflection. The willingness to learn. Smutty romance, on the other hand, asks only one question: “What if this emotionally unavailable man with a tragic past fell hopelessly in love with a woman who owns exactly one cardigan and a dream?” And honestly, that’s a question I’m always ready to explore.

There’s also the issue of effort. Non-fiction books are like that friend who suggests a 6am yoga class. You know it’s probably good for you. You respect it. You might even try it once. But deep down, you’d rather stay wrapped in a blanket, sipping coffee, making questionable life choices. Smutty romance is the blanket. It’s the coffee. It’s the questionable life choice—and I regret nothing.

And can we talk about predictability? People love to criticize romance for being predictable, but I find that deeply comforting. Life is unpredictable enough. Don’t get me wrong there is still plot twists with romance but I need to know that despite misunderstandings, dramatic exits, and at least one rain-soaked argument, everything will work out in the end.

Meanwhile, non-fiction is just out here like, “Here are 300 pages about how everything is complicated and nothing is guaranteed.” No thank you. I live that already.

Also, and this is important: smutty romance fiction understands pacing. Non-fiction will spend 20 pages explaining the historical context of bread. Romance gets straight to the point. We meet the characters, there’s tension, there’s banter, and suddenly it’s 2am and I’ve inhaled half the book and all of my snacks. Efficient storytelling. Inspiring, really.

Of course, I tell myself I’ll balance things out. “Next book will be non-fiction,” I say, confidently, as I add another morally questionable love interest to my reading list. And one day, maybe I will. Maybe I’ll sit down, coffee in hand, and finally tackle that serious, thought-provoking book that’s been judging me from the shelf.

But not today.

Today, I have fictional people to emotionally invest in and entirely unrealistic romantic standards to reinforce. And honestly? That feels like the right choice.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my coffee’s gone cold, and someone brooding and fictional is about to make a terrible decision I fully support.