Two nights later, Taylor stood on her doormat, looking as out of place in the hallway of her modest apartment building as a hawk in a canary cage. He held a leather-bound notebook and a pen, his expression radiating the same crisp efficiency he brought to their quarterly budget meetings.

“Ready for Operation Enduring Family?” he asked, forgoing a hello.

Sara grimaced, stepping back to let him in. “Don’t call it that.”

His presence immediately seemed to shrink her living room. It was one thing to see him across a boardroom table; it was another entirely to have him here, standing on her favorite rug, his gaze sweeping over her collection of mismatched throw pillows and the teetering stack of novels on her coffee table. He smelled faintly of expensive soap and something crisp, like cedar and ambition. It was an unsettlingly pleasant scent to have mingling with the lavender-vanilla of her diffuser.

“Right,” he said, all business. He sat on the edge of her sofa, placing the notebook on the coffee table with a decisive thud. “Let’s establish the foundational narrative. How did we meet?”

Sara perched on the armchair opposite him, hugging a cushion to her chest. “Okay. I was thinking… we met at the dog park. It’s cute, it’s wholesome. My mom would love it.”

Taylor scribbled a note, then paused, his pen hovering. “Neither of us owns a dog.”

“It’s a hypothetical dog park, Taylor. I was there with a friend’s dog. You were… jogging past and you stopped to pet him.”

He looked up, his brow furrowed in deep, analytical thought. “What breed of dog?”

“What?”

“The dog. What breed? Your father will ask. He’ll want to know if it’s a working breed or a lap dog. It’s a character detail. It matters.”

Sara stared at him. “It’s a golden retriever. His name is Max. He’s very friendly. Can we move on?”

“Fine. Max the golden retriever,” he muttered, writing it down. “I find this scenario weak. It relies on too many external variables. A friend, a dog, my hypothetical jogging schedule. I propose a cleaner origin: we met at the annual tech-sector charity gala six months ago. We were seated at the same table. It’s plausible, professional, and easily verifiable.”

“It’s boring,” she shot back. “It sounds like a networking event, not a romance. ‘He complimented my Q3 projections and I was instantly smitten’? No. We need something with a spark.”

“A spark is not a quantifiable metric, Sara. Believability is.” He tapped his pen on the notebook. “Let’s move on to the first date. Per my timeline, this would have occurred three days after the gala.”

“Your timeline?” She leaned forward, the cushion falling to the floor. “You made a timeline of our fake relationship?”

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He turned the notebook toward her. It was a flowchart, complete with branching possibilities and color-coded phases. Phase One: Initial Contact. Phase Two: Courtship Initiation.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, a horrified laugh bubbling in her throat. “You’ve turned our fake love story into a project plan.”

“How else would we do it?” he asked, genuinely confused. “Okay, first date. I suggested dinner at that new Italian place, Aloro. You countered with the little tapas bar in the North End because you find tasting menus pretentious.”

A flicker of surprise went through her. He was right; she did find them pretentious. “How did you know that?”

“I overheard you complaining about it to marketing after the Henderson dinner,” he said dismissively. “Pay attention, remember? So, we went for tapas. We argued playfully about whether calamari is better grilled or fried.”

“It’s better grilled,” she said automatically.

“It’s better fried,” he countered, a glint in his eye. “And that’s our first ‘charming disagreement.’ We bonded over a shared love for patatas bravas and a mutual disdain for people who clap when the plane lands.”

She found herself smiling despite the absurdity of it all. “Okay, that’s… not bad. What about our first kiss?”

The air in the room shifted. The business-like facade faltered for a second. Taylor cleared his throat, his gaze dropping back to his flowchart. “End of the first date. I walked you to your door. It was… tasteful. A brief, closed-mouth press of the lips. A promise of things to come.”

“No,” Sara said, shaking her head. The idea was so sterile, so clinical. “That’s not how it happened.” She didn’t know why it suddenly mattered so much, but it did. “It was raining. We were huddled under that tiny awning at the tapas place, waiting for my Uber. We were laughing about the calamari debate, and you just… you leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t planned. It was impulsive. And it wasn’t brief.”

She hadn’t realized she’d been staring at his mouth as she said it. When her eyes flicked back up to his, his expression was unreadable. The pen was still in his hand, but he wasn’t writing. The space between them felt charged, filled with the ghost of a kiss that had never happened but suddenly felt intensely real. He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“That’s… more cinematic,” he said, his voice a fraction lower than before. “But it leaves more room for error. What if it wasn’t raining that night?”

“Who’s going to check the historical weather data for our first kiss, Taylor?” she asked, exasperated. “My family wants a love story, not an audited report. They want to believe I’m happy.”

He looked from her flushed face back down to his rigid, useless flowchart. He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair in a rare gesture of frustration. The meticulous plan was failing. Their clashing instincts—her need for believable emotion, his for verifiable fact—had brought them to a complete standstill.

“Fine,” he conceded, snapping the notebook shut. “Your version has more… narrative appeal. But it’s going to require more data. I need to understand the audience. I’ll do some research on your family. Figure out their pressure points, their expectations. We’ll reconvene when I have a more robust profile.”

He left soon after, leaving behind a faint scent of cedar and a living room that felt both emptier and more chaotic than before. Sara sank back into her armchair, picking up the cushion he’d dislodged. The idea of Taylor, with his flowcharts and data points, trying to "research" her family was laughable. Her family wasn't a data set; they were a swirling vortex of inside jokes, unspoken grudges, and fiercely loyal, chaotic love. He wouldn't find them on the internet.

But Taylor, true to his word, approached the task with the same relentless focus he applied to a hostile takeover. Two nights later, in his starkly modern apartment where every surface was either glass, steel, or a shade of grey, he sat hunched over his laptop. The only light came from the screen, illuminating a web of open tabs that would have given Sara a panic attack. He had found her mother’s cheerfully public Facebook page, her younger brother’s Instagram, and a handful of articles from the local newspaper’s digital archive. He was building his dossier.

Subject: Mark (Father). Taylor typed, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Profession: High School History Teacher. Notable Achievement: Winner, 2014 Twin Rivers County Chili Cook-Off (Category: Spiciest). Key Interest: Horticulture. He clicked through a photo album on Sara’s mom’s page titled “Mark’s Garden.” It was mostly pictures of slightly wilted tomato plants and a lopsided zucchini. But one photo caught his eye. It was of Sara’s dad, a stoic, broad-shouldered man, standing proudly next to a truly hideous, pot-bellied ceramic pig with a chipped ear. The caption read: “Mark and his prize-winning pig! Another blue ribbon for Bartholomew!”

Taylor zoomed in. He cross-referenced the name "Bartholomew" with swine-breeding registries. Nothing. He concluded it must be a local, informal competition. Note, he typed, Engage father on the topic of competitive pig husbandry. Show interest in Bartholomew’s diet and lineage. Potential bonding opportunity.

Subject: Karen (Mother). He tabbed over to her profile. It was a sea of inspirational quotes, photos of sunsets, and shared recipes. It seemed straightforward enough. Then he found an album from a family vacation two years ago. The photos showed the family huddled on a rocky beach, battered by wind, rain plastering their hair to their faces. They all looked profoundly miserable. Sara’s brother was giving the camera a furious glare. The caption, however, read: “Another perfect family vacation! Nothing beats the bracing sea air!”

Taylor nodded, analyzing. He knew from corporate retreats that sometimes the most challenging experiences were the most formative. Note, he added. Family enjoys rugged, windswept coastal excursions. Mention a shared love for challenging weather and character-building holidays.

Subject: Liam (Brother). The Instagram profile was a goldmine of cryptic inside jokes. Taylor scrolled through years of posts, looking for patterns. He found a recurring theme. On Sara’s birthday every year, Liam posted an old, unflattering photo of her with the caption, “Never forget the Great Muffin Incident.” In one, a teenage Sara was covered in what looked like blueberry batter. In another, she was holding a smoking baking tray.

Taylor’s brow furrowed. This was clearly a point of significant past trauma for Sara. A failure so profound her brother still used it to mock her years later. He felt a strange, protective surge. He would be her champion. Note, he typed decisively. Liam uses ‘The Great Muffin Incident’ as a tool for psychological dominance. Defend Sara’s honor if the topic arises. Frame it as a learning experience that demonstrates her resilience. Do not treat it as a joke.

He leaned back, cracking his knuckles. He had profiles, data points, conversation starters. He had identified potential threats and opportunities for connection. The messy, unpredictable chaos of a family reunion had been distilled into a manageable series of variables. He closed the laptop, a rare, confident smile on his face. He was prepared. He had the blueprint. The weekend was no longer a vague threat, but a project plan, and if there was one thing Taylor knew how to do, it was execute a plan flawlessly.

The Friday they were due to leave, Sara was a bundle of frayed nerves, triple-checking her overnight bag while Taylor stood by her front door, car keys in hand, looking as placid as if he were waiting for a routine quarterly review.

“Okay, I have my bag, my purse, my phone… Shoot.” Sara’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with panic. “We don’t have a gift.”

“A gift?” Taylor checked his watch. “We’re already running ten minutes behind my projected departure time.”

“We can’t show up to my parents’ house for a weekend empty-handed, Taylor. That’s rule number one of not being a sociopath.” She grabbed her coat. “There’s a home goods store a few blocks from here. We have to stop.”

He let out an audible, put-upon sigh, but followed her out the door. The store was an assault of tastefully arranged clutter—artisan cheeses, imported olive oils, and ridiculously expensive scented candles. Sara made a beeline for the wine section, her eyes scanning for the specific brand of Oregon Pinot Noir her mother loved.

“This is perfect,” she said, grabbing a bottle. “My mom loves this winery. And we can get one of those nice orchid plants for the kitchen counter.”

Taylor came up behind her, plucking the bottle from her hand as if it were a contaminated specimen. He examined the label with a frown. “This is a thirty-dollar bottle of wine, Sara.”

“Yes. It’s a good one.”

“It’s not an impressive one,” he countered, placing it back on the shelf with dismissive finality. “Your father is a high school history teacher, your mother is a part-time librarian. They appreciate substance, value. A single, mid-range bottle of wine says ‘I stopped at a gas station on the way here.’”

Sara bristled. “It says ‘I know what your wife likes to drink because your daughter, my loving girlfriend, told me.’ It’s thoughtful.”

“Thoughtfulness is an intangible. It can’t be quantified,” he said, already striding toward the front of the store where the high-ticket items were displayed. He stopped in front of a gleaming, chrome-and-steel espresso machine. “This, however, is a tangible asset. It communicates stability. Generosity. It says, ‘I am a man who can provide.’”

Sara stared at the machine, then at him, aghast. The price tag was nearly a thousand dollars. “It says, ‘Hello, people I’ve never met, I am trying to buy your approval with a kitchen appliance that is worth more than your couch.’ My dad would take one look at that and assume you’re a drug dealer.”

“That’s a statistically unlikely conclusion,” Taylor said, deadpan. “He’d be more likely to conclude I’m successful in my field, which is the entire point.”

“The point is for them to like you, not to be intimidated by you!” Her voice was rising, and a nearby woman pretending to examine a cheese board shot them a curious look. Sara lowered her voice to a furious whisper. “You can’t just walk in there and throw money at them, Taylor. These are my parents. They’re real people, not potential shareholders you’re trying to woo.”

“The principles are the same,” he insisted, his jaw tight. “You build rapport by demonstrating value. A gift is an opening statement. Yours is a weak thesis. Mine is a confident declaration.”

“Oh my god, you’re unbelievable.” She threw her hands up in exasperation, the argument about the gift melting away to reveal the true, underlying issue. “This isn’t a business deal! It’s not a project plan with color-coded phases! You can’t research my family on the internet and think you have them figured out. You don’t know them. You don’t know that my dad would be mortified by a gift like that, or that my mom would spend the whole weekend worrying you spent too much money.”

His confident facade cracked. For the first time, he looked uncertain. “My research was thorough.”

“Your research was data without context!” she hissed. “You can’t hack a family, Taylor. You just have to show up and be a decent human being.”

She didn’t wait for his response. Turning on her heel, she marched back to the wine section, grabbed the Pinot Noir, and then snatched a potted gardenia from a display. She slammed them down on the checkout counter, her hands trembling with anger. Taylor appeared at her side a moment later, his expression unreadable. He took out his wallet and paid without a word, the silence between them thick and cold. He carried the plant and she carried the wine as they walked back to the car, the gap between them feeling wider than ever.

The drive began in a silence so thick it felt like a third passenger wedged between them. Taylor focused on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his posture ramrod straight. Beside him, Sara stared out the window, watching the city blur into suburbs, the potted gardenia on the back seat perfuming the tense air with its cloyingly sweet scent. The bottle of Pinot Noir rolled gently against it with every turn, a constant, liquid reminder of their argument.

They were nearly an hour outside the city when Sara finally broke. The dread had been coiling in her stomach, and she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Okay,” she said, her voice tight. “We have to get our story straight.”

Taylor didn’t look at her. “I assumed you’d want to improvise. Be a ‘decent human being’ and let the authenticity of the moment guide you.” The words were clipped, laced with the lingering sting of their fight.

“Don’t be an ass,” she snapped, turning to face him. “This is not the time. My mother will ask questions. Specific ones. How did we meet?”

“At the quarterly strategy meeting,” he answered instantly, as if reading from a script. “I was impressed by your data analysis on the Q3 projections. I asked you for coffee to discuss your methodology.”

Sara groaned, dropping her head back against the headrest. “That is the most unromantic story I have ever heard. It sounds like you were recruiting me for a new department, not asking me out.”

“It’s plausible. It’s professional. It establishes a foundation of mutual respect.”

“It establishes a foundation of mutual boredom. No. We met at the coffee shop near the office. We kept running into each other, we started talking, you asked me out. It’s simple. It’s believable.”

He considered this for a second, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. The coffee shop. How long have we been dating?”

“About six months,” she said.

“Six months, two weeks, and five days,” he corrected. “Precision is memorable.”

“It’s creepy, Taylor. ‘About six months’ is what a normal person says.” She took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising panic. “Okay, quickfire round. What’s my favorite movie?”

He hesitated. “Based on your demographic and stated preference for ‘thoughtful’ gifts, I’d surmise it’s a critically acclaimed independent film. Something French.”

“It’s Die Hard,” she said flatly. “It’s a perfect film.”

He shot her a look of genuine disbelief before his eyes snapped back to the road. “Noted. My favorite movie is The Godfather: Part II.”

“Of course it is,” she muttered. “My middle name?”

“Marie.”

“How did you—?”

“It was on the roster for the charity 5K you ran last year. I cross-referenced it with public records.”

Sara felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the car’s air conditioning. “Okay. We need to stop this. You’re not an intelligence agent, and I’m not a target. This whole weekend is going to be a disaster because you think you can study my family like they’re a stock portfolio.”

“My research is an asset,” he insisted, his jaw tight. “For instance, I know your brother Liam constantly brings up ‘The Great Muffin Incident’ to belittle you. I’m prepared to defend you.”

Sara stared at him, her anger momentarily replaced by bafflement. “Defend me? Taylor, the Great Muffin Incident was when I was eight and tried to bake my dog a birthday cake using a box of muffin mix and a cup of dirt. The oven started smoking and my dad had to use the fire extinguisher. It’s a funny story.”

The confidence in Taylor’s expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. “The captions on your brother’s posts suggested…”

“My brother is a sarcastic jerk, but we love each other. It’s not a psychological weapon, it’s just… what families do.” She sighed, the fight draining out of her. The highway signs were now listing the exit for her hometown. Ten miles. Five.

Taylor turned off the main road and onto the familiar tree-lined street that led to her parents’ house. The frantic energy in the car evaporated, replaced by a cold, heavy dread. The cramming session had only served to highlight how little they knew each other and how ill-equipped they were for this charade.

He pulled into the driveway behind her dad’s sensible sedan. He killed the engine. For a long moment, neither of them moved. They just sat there, staring at the welcoming, two-story colonial that suddenly looked like a gallows.

Taylor finally turned to her, his own carefully constructed composure gone. In his eyes, she saw a mirror of her own panic. “Ready to make a confident declaration?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He just swallowed, his gaze fixed on the front door. “Maybe we should have gone with the espresso machine.”