I show up at Miles's apartment next morning at seven AM with overpriced coffee and anxiety. Four flights of stairs later, I'm rehearsing what to say to my now-fake-discussing-marriage-boyfriend.
Miles answers in dinosaur pajama pants and a shirt reading "I Survived Another Meeting That Should Have Been An Email."
"You're early," he says, then sees the coffee. "You're forgiven."
His apartment is obsessively organized except for his chaos zone—pizza boxes and a science experiment in a mug.
"So." He sets down the coffee. "Before we do this fake dating thing, we need to talk."
I freeze mid-sip. "Are you breaking up with me already? Because technically, we haven't even started fake dating yet."
"I'm serious, Rae." He pulls out a notebook. "We need boundaries. Rules. A framework that keeps us from imploding like every rom-com where the fake couple catches real feelings and someone ends up crying at an airport."
"That's oddly specific." I watch him flip to a page covered in handwriting. "Did you stay up planning this?"
"Till three AM, yes." He doesn't look embarrassed. "Listen, I've seen what happens when people go into these arrangements without clear expectations. Remember Tom and his fake girlfriend for his high school reunion? They're married now with two kids and a shared Netflix password. That's a cautionary tale."
"Miles…" I start, but he's in spreadsheet-wizard mode.
"Rule one: no kissing," he says, tapping his pen. "Kissing complicates things. Kissing leads to feelings, and feelings lead to someone moving to Vermont to make artisanal cheese while the other one cries into spreadsheets."
I blink. "Vermont? Cheese?"
"My cousin Derek. Different story. The point stands." He keeps writing. "Rule two: no surprise physical contact. If we need to hold hands or whatever for appearances, we discuss it first. I'm not trying to get sued for unauthorized hand-holding. HR would have a field day."
"We don't have HR," I point out. "We have you doing HR's job badly while eating string cheese."
"Which is why we need rules." Pink creeps up his neck. "Unless the situation specifically calls for strategic touching, in which case, yes, we establish a touching treaty with clear terms of engagement."
"Strategic touching treaty," I repeat. "You've really thought this through."
"Rule three." He's on a roll. "Regular check-ins about comfort levels. If something feels wrong, we say it immediately. No suffering in silence, no martyrdom, no pretending everything's fine while secretly googling 'how to fake your own death and start over in Canada.'"
I move closer, reading over his shoulder. He smells like coffee and bulk-buy fabric softener. He smells like home, maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so comfortable with him.
"These are all about what we can't do. What about what we can do? Like, am I supposed to know your middle name? Favorite color? That thing where you organize M&Ms by color before eating them in specific order?"
"That's a perfectly normal candy consumption method," he defends, looking sideways. "Wait, you noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you," I say without thinking, then add, "Because we're friends. Friend noticing. Very platonic observation skills."
Miles clears his throat. "Right. Well. My middle name is Alexander, my favorite color is that specific blue that only exists in clear skies after storms, and my childhood trauma is mostly being terrible at basketball while being the tallest in class."
"Miles Alexander Lynn. Sounds like someone who should be running a Fortune 500 company, not helping me lie to my terrifying grandmother."
"Speaking of terrifying grandmothers." He flips the page. "We need positive parameters too. Our story, how long we've been together, first date, all that couple trivia families interrogate you about."
"Going back on boundaries, can I suggest one?"
"Shoot."
"Either of us can call it off anytime, no questions asked. If this gets too weird or too much, we stop. No guilt, no explanations required."
Miles looks at me with an expression I can't decode. "That's... actually really thoughtful."
"Don't sound surprised. I have moments of emotional intelligence. They're rare, like solar eclipses or edible airplane food, but they happen."
"Should we shake on it?" Miles asks. "Make it official? Maybe get it notarized? There's a guy on the third floor who's a notary, though he might be running an illegal ferret breeding operation."
I extend my hand with mock solemnity. "Aurelia Victoria Valmont, disaster heiress, hereby enters into this fake relationship agreement with— Wait, your middle name is really Alexander?"
"As opposed to what?" He takes my hand, fighting a smile.
"I don't know, something more... you. Like Eugene. Or Bartholomew."
"Bartholomew?" His hand is warm. "You thought my middle name might be Bartholomew?"
"Miles Bartholomew Lynn does have a certain ring to it."
We shake on it, formal and ridiculous. Neither of us lets go immediately.
"So," I say, finally releasing his hand. "We should prep for brunch. Grandmother's going to interrogate you like you're applying for security clearance."
Miles pulls out his phone.
"Way ahead of you. I made notes last night. Did you know your grandmother has published fourteen academic papers on orchid cultivation? Also, she owns shares in three different biotech companies, has a weakness for Victorian poetry, and once got into a public feud with Martha Stewart over the proper way to propagate succulents."
"You researched my grandmother?"
"I research everything. It's my superpower. Well, that and finding the one formula error in a five-hundred-row spreadsheet." He scrolls through a comprehensive dossier. "I also practiced eight different ways to compliment her home without sounding like I'm casing the joint for a heist."
I stare at him, this beautiful chaos of a human who's color-coded his notes about my grandmother. "You're taking this seriously."
"You asked me to do this," he says simply. "So I'm going to do it right. Even if your grandmother terrifies me more than that time I had to present quarterly projections to that venture capitalist who collects medieval torture devices."
"Miles…" I start, but don't know how to finish.
"We should practice," he says. "Basic couple stuff. How we met, how long we've been together, our song, that kind of thing."
"Our song?" I laugh. "What are we, protagonists in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation where someone definitely dies at the end?"
"Every couple has a song. It's a basic fake dating protocol. I Googled it."
"You Googled fake dating protocol?"
"I Google everything. Last night I also learned six ways to tie a Windsor knot and how to tell if an orchid has root rot." He's scrolling again. "Oh, and apparently we should have a story about our first kiss ready. Grandmothers love first kiss stories."
"We just established no kissing," I reminded him.
"Right, but we need a story about a kiss that theoretically happened." He looks up, completely serious. "I'm thinking something weather-related. Rain is classical. Snow is romantic. Unexpected hailstorm adds drama but seems geographically unlikely."
"How about we kissed during a regulatory compliance seminar?" I suggest. "Really set the mood with some light discussion of tax codes."
"Sexy," Miles agrees. "Nothing says passion like itemized deductions and fiscal responsibility."
We spend the next hour constructing our fake relationship.
Miles builds spreadsheets while I pace, adding details he fact-checks. He's architecting this like a fortress—every rule a wall, every boundary a moat. Smart. Relationships always explode.
At least we'll have documentation.
Miles shows me his color-coded timeline, and I pretend his boundaries are enough to protect us. Even though the way he wrote my name—with an asterisk like I need special explanation—suggests we're already deeper than either admits.