I sat in my car at the edge of the park, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. The thought of the upcoming holiday dinner made my stomach twist. Every year it was the same — my mom’s probing eyes, my dad’s hopeful grin, and an unrelenting series of questions that all boiled down to one thing: When will you settle down?

It wasn’t even subtle anymore. The moment I walked in, someone would make a joke about my “mysterious dating life,” and within ten minutes, I’d be trapped in a conversation about marriage, children, and “not waiting too long.”

This year, I couldn’t face it.

My gaze wandered through the park until it landed on a man sitting alone on a weathered bench. His coat was frayed, his hands tucked deep in his pockets. His face bore the kind of lines you get from years of battling both life and the elements. Yet, there was a quiet dignity in the way he sat — shoulders straight, chin up, as though refusing to let the world see defeat.

That’s when the wild idea struck me.

It was reckless, absurd, and possibly the best plan I’d ever had. What if I showed up at the dinner with a fiancé? Someone who could charm my family enough to make them forget their questions — at least for one year?

And why not him?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped out of the car and crossed the grass. He looked up as I approached, eyes cautious but steady.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this was going to sound. “I know this is going to be strange, but… would you consider pretending to be my fiancé for the weekend? In exchange, I can give you a place to stay, new clothes, and all the meals you can eat.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled. “Okay.”

I blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Maybe I should have been alarmed at how quickly he agreed, but relief outweighed my hesitation. “Great. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Back at my apartment, I dug through the closet for some of my ex’s clothes. “Here,” I said, handing him jeans and a crisp shirt. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Take your time.”

The sound of running water filled the silence as I busied myself in the kitchen. What on earth was I doing? I didn’t even know his name.

When the bathroom door opened, I turned — and stopped. He looked like an entirely different man. His hair was damp, his face clean, his posture more relaxed.

“That,” he said with a small grin, “was the best shower I’ve had in years.”

We ate dinner together, and between bites, he introduced himself. “Christopher,” he said simply. His voice was calm, deep, with the faintest trace of sadness behind it.

Over the next couple of hours, conversation began to flow. He liked old westerns, he read Hemingway, and he had a dry sense of humor that caught me off guard more than once. By the time I went to bed, I felt strangely at ease with him.

The next day, I took Christopher to the salon, where his scruffy hair was transformed into something clean-cut and refined. In a suit from the store, he looked… well, like someone who belonged at a family holiday table.

At the dinner, my parents greeted him warmly. My mother seemed impressed, my father relieved. For the first time in years, there were no awkward questions.

But then came the shift.

“You look familiar,” my mother said suddenly, her smile faltering. “Have we met before?”

Christopher shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “What did you do before meeting Mia?”

There was a pause — just long enough for me to notice. “Business,” he said. “But… five years ago, there was an accident. Everything changed after that.”

I felt the air shift. My mother’s grip tightened on her wine glass.

“What kind of accident?” she asked, her voice sharper now.

“A car accident,” he replied evenly.

Her color drained. “Not everyone walks away from accidents unscathed.”

Christopher excused himself, and when I turned to my mother demanding an explanation, her words landed like a blow.

“That accident… it was me,” she confessed. “I hit him. He refused a sobriety test. I didn’t press charges. But Mia — he’s dangerous.”

Outside, I found Christopher leaning against the fence. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “Yes, I was in that accident. But I wasn’t drunk. I was on medication after my wife died. I was driving carefully, but fate had other plans.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring. “This belonged to my wife. You’re the first person I’ve felt connected to since she passed. Thank you for letting me feel human again.”

Before I could respond, he placed the ring in my hand and walked away.

Days passed, but he never left my thoughts. Finally, I placed an ad in the local paper:

Christopher Hartman, if you see this, please meet me at the restaurant where we last had dinner. I’ll be there every evening.

On the second night, he walked through the door. When our eyes met, I knew this wasn’t about pretending anymore. I told him everything — about my mother’s fear, about her role, about her finally returning what she owed him.

By the time we left the restaurant, I realized I’d fallen in love with him. And judging by the way his hand found mine as we stepped into the night, the feeling was mutual.