We crest the hill together, and the path levels out. I stand on the pedals, push harder, and let the wind catch my hair.
“Hold on!” I call over my shoulder.
Alysa squeals in delight as we pick up speed. Jesse falls into pace beside me, Amber’s little arms wrapped around his waist from the back seat attachment.
The morning air is crisp. The path is busy with joggers and other families and the occasional dog who thinks bicycles are a personal insult. The sun is high but soft, just warm enough to feel like a promise instead of a threat.
I glance over at Jesse.
He’s grinning.
Not the cocky bar-owner grin.
Not the slow, teasing grin he wore the night we met.
This one is quieter.
Content.
His hair is a little longer now than it was back then. His shoulders broader. There’s a small scar near his eyebrow from that fight years ago, faint but visible if you know to look.
That night feels like another lifetime.
And yet.
Not that long ago, we were two strangers trying to figure out if a misunderstanding at a bachelor auction could turn into something real.
Now we have two little girls shouting for more speed and a minivan parked back at the trailhead.
Life is strange.
In the best way.
We slow near the park entrance, coasting to a stop by the playground.
Jesse hops off first and helps Amber out of her seat.
“Did Daddy go fast enough?” he asks.
Amber nods solemnly. “Yes. But Mommy go fast too.”
I beam.
“See?” I tell him. “Fan club.”
Alysa kicks her legs until I unclip her.
“Again!” she demands.
“In a bit,” I say, lifting her down. “Snack first.”
We settle at a picnic table, unpacking juice boxes and apple slices like the deeply suburban adults we have apparently become.
Jesse catches my eye over the girls’ heads.
“You happy?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t casual.
