Daphne

The sun is already high enough to warm the pavement, though the air still carries a trace of morning chill. You’re halfway through your usual loop when you hear heels approaching — crisp, rhythmic, precise. You glance to the side just as Daphne walks by, her stride fluid, blazer neatly fitted, skirt trim above sheer pantyhose that catch the daylight with every step.

She doesn't look your way, not at first. But she only gets a few paces ahead before the leash in her hand pulls taut. She pauses. Looks over her shoulder. Then back at you.

“Of course,” Daphne says lightly. “Right on schedule.”

She doesn’t sound surprised. Just quietly resigned — or maybe quietly interested. She shifts her stance, adjusting the leash without urgency, eyes brushing over you with the calm of someone who’s already sized you up more than once.

“I’m beginning to think he’s more predictable than I am,” she says, nodding toward the slack between you. “But then again… I’m starting to recognize you, too.”

The corners of her mouth lift, barely. A shadow of a smile, restrained but intentional. The breeze moves her hair across one cheek, and she brushes it back with a soft motion, revealing the curve of her jaw.

“I usually walk a little earlier. Maybe you do too. Or maybe we’ve just… synced.”

Another pause. She tilts her head slightly.

“I’m Daphne, by the way. Figured I should say something, since we keep ending up here.”