They met in what can only be described as a uniquely romantic and cinematically charged context: Hinge. (Not sponsored, although they remain available for partnership. Serious inquiries only.) Their mutual swipe right was ostensibly based on a shared enthusiasm for travel. Wanderlust, cultural curiosity, passport stamps, and all the standard indicators of aspirational adulthood. In truth, the rationale was considerably more straightforward. Love is not blind, and they are both objectively attractive. Their first date opened with a cautious greeting that functioned as a mutual background check. “Hello, internet stranger. Kindly refrain from any homicidal behavior.” The exchange concluded with deliberately noncommittal side hugs that signaled interest while preserving plausible deniability. Both attempted to appear normal, with inconsistent results. Beneath the small talk, however, they located suspiciously aligned values and eerily synchronized five-year plans. Odd. Efficient. Entirely them. From that point, the relationship progressed. Preston cooked. Tiffany ate. In a surprising culinary development, Preston, a Caucasian individual from Oklahoma, produced the best salsa Tiffany, daughter of a Mexican mother, had ever tasted. Their days settled into a quiet pattern: Trader Joe’s trips, long walks, and deeply embarrassing attempts at basketball in which neither participant demonstrated coordination. Both insisted that the wind was at fault. Their ping pong games, characterized by questionable sportsmanship and excessive confidence, unfolded on a table they did not own, in a spider-webbed garage decorated with empty Coors Light cans. A limited amount of French was spoken, primarily in the realm of profanity. The setting did not suggest romance. Romance appeared anyway. They proceeded to the conventional relationship stress test: international travel. Specifically Europe. They returned intact, still laughing and still talking, possibly more synchronized than before. Emboldened, they relocated to a new state. Along the way, they survived a recurring series of “You still like me, right?” evaluations, each more suspicious in tone than the previous one. Remarkably, the response remained yes. New jobs entered the equation. Tiffany became the advertiser. Preston became the “mathertiser” at an investment firm of intimidating prestige. His position involves the custodial care of a massive quantity of other people’s money, ensuring that all numerical elements “tie out,” a process that apparently prevents financial catastrophe. Tiffany still does not know precisely what a senior fund accountant does, although the description seems to require high intelligence, excessive handsomeness, and the ability to dominate spreadsheets. None of these tasks occur during bank holidays. Those days are dedicated to spending time with Tiffany. If the identity of the narrator is unclear, it is not for lack of clues. Within a single month, they voluntarily embarked on several of life’s most taxing experiences at once. As Beyoncé observed, they were “crazy, crazy in love.” Now they are planning a wedding and, as you can imagine, they're tired.