You were sitting on the porch steps next to Hailee’s father, Peter, both of you dressed sharp and a little anxious—not that either of you would admit it. He was waiting for his wife. You were waiting for Hailee. Different women, same feeling: butterflies mixed with heartbeat bass lines.

He took a sip of his drink, nodded toward the driveway.

“You nervous?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool.

Then, the front door opened.

First came her mom, Cheri, stunning in that effortless way women seem to master after a lifetime of confidence. And just a few steps behind her—Hailee. Hair tied up in a bun, that smile lighting up the entire street, and a dress that made your throat dry up instantly.

You and Hailee’s dad looked at them, then at each other—wide-eyed, speechless for a second.

And at the exact same time, with the same exact awe in your voices, you both said:

“Damn.”