Competition makes for superior flirting.

Aaron, my gym crush for the past month, looks over at me from the neighboring treadmill, both of us walking briskly, warming up for the race he’s challenged me to.

“Ready?” His eyes dance. He’s clearly unconcerned.

Poor guy has no idea what he’s up against. “Bring it.”

A quick countdown and we’re off.

Although I’m out of practice, I’m still a former track star. Six minutes after our one-mile race begins, it’s over. I turn to Aaron, panting and victorious.

He slows his machine, trying to catch his breath. “Was hoping… you’d let… me win,” he gasps between gulps of precious oxygen.

“Throw a contest?! Are you kidding?” I protest.

He adds a one-shouldered shrug to his lopsided grin. “I was hoping.”

I laugh, then triumphantly waggle my finger at him. “You have to come to the gym on Monday dressed—”

“As Boba Fett,” we finish together, my tone noticeably brighter than his.

Aaron wipes his sweaty brow as we walk away from the scene of his defeat. “I ran so hard, though.”

“No reneging on the deal.” I poke his shoulder playfully.

“OK, OK!” Smiling, he raises his hands in surrender. “But…”

I wait a moment. “But what?”

“I have no idea where to find a Boba Fett costume. Can I take you to dinner?” He looks hopeful. “Maybe we can figure it out together.”

His blush is adorable. I beam at him.

Two years later, our wedding is Star Wars themed.