This was Aiden Reed's first time being married.
And definitely his first time sitting alone across from his new father-in-law—with no escape plan.
Valeria had been whisked off to her mother's private study, leaving Aiden to hold the front lines in the battlefield that was the Quinn family living room.
But Aiden wasn't rattled.
Because now, he could see the shape of the game.
Every question Dr. Richard Quinn asked had a rhythm. Every rhythm revealed intent. And once you spotted the beat beneath the words? You could compose your own counter-melody.
He didn't fear pressure. He feared pretense. But if there were rules to this duel, then he could play.
And win.
You pulled a knife at the front door?
Fine.
Don't flinch if I start swinging hammers.
"My parents always believed love should be a choice," Aiden said, voice smooth but centered. "They trust me to know who I want beside me. When I told them about Valeria, they didn't hesitate. They were just happy I'd found someone I could respect and love."
Then, with a slight smile and a touch of ceremony, he added:
"There's a saying I heard once—'When the heart chooses, distance disappears. Love makes its own family.'"
It landed soft.
But underneath the warmth was something sharper:
A measured response to Dr. Quinn's earlier jab about impulsivity—wrapped in poetry, padded in charm.
You want to test my footing?
Fine.
Let's see who slips first.
Dr. Quinn lifted his teacup, hiding a long breath behind the rim. "Well… that's good to hear. Drink your tea."
He took a sip, studying the young man across from him.
One line. That's all it took.
Aiden had effectively locked the entire "secret marriage" discussion in a diplomatic vault.
He'd underestimated the boy.
Aiden lifted his own cup but didn't drink—just wet his lips.
Every gesture was precise.
Every silence was intentional.
Politeness laced with control.
He remembered something a martial artist once told him during a shoot in Chinatown:
No form defeats form.
If you mimic someone's moves, you give them something to anticipate. A structure to counter.
But if you have no form—no script—you become unreadable.
And unpredictable wins.
So Aiden hadn't come in strong.
He'd come in soft.
But now, with one calmly delivered response, he'd shifted the power dynamic.
Respectful? Yes.
Defenseless? Not even close.
Dr. Quinn glanced toward the study, stalling for time. Victoria would expect a full report later. He couldn't just offer her chamomile and small talk. He needed data.
Fine. Time for a new approach.
Phase Two: Casual Warmth.
"So," he said, more relaxed, "how are your parents doing? Good health, I hope?"
"Very good, thank you," Aiden replied. "They're active. Strong as ever."
"And what do they do?"
"They run a livestock farm upstate. It's a small family business. Mostly hogs."
A flicker passed behind Dr. Quinn's glasses. "Hogs? That's… honest work. Tough life. Must've made paying for school challenging."
He smiled as he leaned back. "By the way, did Valeria mention what I do?"
"She did. Chair of Veterinary Sciences at Columbia."
Dr. Quinn nodded proudly. "That's right. So if your pigs ever get sick, you've got a direct line."
His tone was light.
But the subtext was loud.
Do you really think we're on the same level?
Aiden heard it.
And while he had a complicated history with the farm—one that involved mud boots, early mornings, and the motivational threat of manure-filled futures—he didn't tolerate anyone looking down on his parents' sacrifices.
So he sat straighter.
Time to shift the board.
"Actually, I spent a lot of winters working there," Aiden said evenly. "And since I've got you here, I'd love your take on something we could never quite solve."
Dr. Quinn arched a brow. "Sure. Fire away."
Inside, he was smirking.
He had three decades of veterinary expertise. No farm question was going to catch him off guard.
Aiden leaned in.
"Every birthing season, our sows got aggressive. They'd crush the piglets if we weren't careful. But when we separated them too early, the babies didn't get the immunity they needed. We sanitized, used heat lamps, tried rotating pens—but nothing worked long term. Any ideas?"
Dr. Quinn's smile tightened.
That… was specific.
And not exactly his field.
Still, he offered the textbook suggestion. "Best move would be your state's agriculture office. Most offer free vaccine plans. Pretty comprehensive these days."
"We tried that," Aiden said smoothly. "But without maternal colostrum, the vaccines had low absorption. The piglets remained vulnerable. Some seasons we lost entire litters."
Dr. Quinn took a sip.
The tea now tasted oddly bitter.
"We kept everything sterile. Followed schedules. But we couldn't predict when the sow would roll or trample them."
"You could try calming music," Dr. Quinn offered, reaching into the bag of general advice. "Some breeders use classical to soothe aggression."
"We ran a full playlist. Beethoven, jazz, even lo-fi beats. Once we played white noise from a rainforest app. Made her angrier. Maybe she hated birds."
"…."
Dr. Quinn blinked.
No rebuttal.
No clever remark.
Nothing.
Aiden simply waited, innocent curiosity in his eyes.
Meanwhile, the professor's thoughts scrambled.
He specialized in pharmacology. Not behavioral psychology. Not pig postpartum dynamics.
This wasn't his lane—and worse, he knew it.
Could he call his old colleague from Michigan State?
No. That would be absurd.
He took another sip of tea to stall.
But now his bladder was protesting.
His temple had started to throb.
His leg was twitching against the rug.
Why was this twenty-something talking about animal aggression with surgical precision in his living room?
Why was a conversation about pigs more stressful than overseeing tenure reviews?
And most importantly…
When did he lose control of this conversation?
He looked at Aiden—still poised, still polite, still sipping slowly.
And realized something unsettling.
He wasn't evaluating the boy anymore.
He was being interviewed.