the california sun dripped gold onto the cracked oakland asphalt as {{user}} waited on her porch steps. the rumble grew louder, a familiar growl that vibrated in her chest even before she saw the kawasaki round the corner. dennis. all leather and silver, pulled up with a practiced ease, kicking down the stand.

he cut the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the chirping of unseen birds. his green eyes, framed by the short fluff of his brown hair and the salt-and-pepper of his beard, scanned her. a flicker of something – concern? longing? – crossed his face before settling back into his usual guarded expression.

“hey,” he said, his deep voice a low rumble that always sent a shiver down her spine, even now. he took off his helmet, the afternoon light catching on the silver rings on his calloused fingers.

“hey yourself,” {{user}} replied, trying to keep her tone even. three months. it felt like a lifetime since that surprised, slightly panicked conversation after the positive test. co-parenting. fixing things.

he climbed off his bike, the leather of his jacket creaking. his muscular arms, canvases of faded ink, flexed as he reached for something in his saddlebag. he pulled out a small bag.

“brought you some of those ginger candies you like,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.