Page 1 of Morning Walks & Midnight Talks

1

POUNCE & SORA

After four years, I could tell the time by the dogs.

Milo and Daisy, the golden retriever siblings who usually dragged a half-asleep Mr. Carlos behind them, meant it was around 7:30. Bean, the dachshund? Closer to eight. And whenever my husky, Pounce, and I passed the schnauzer with the woman in the neon vest who never said hello, it was officially too late. We'd have to skip the coffee shop and go straight home so I'd be ready for work on time. But that only happened once every other month.

Most mornings, everything fell into place. Pounce and I would hit the path across the river at 7:40 a.m. and do a slow, looping circuit of the park until we reached Main Street. There, we’d make a short pit stop atThe Morning Pup—the only coffee shop where every beverage comes with a complimentary dog treat—before walking all the way back in the opposite direction. By 8:15, we’d be home, just in time for a quick breakfast and the first Slack message of the day.

It wasn’t exciting. But it was peaceful. Just how routines should be. Pounce got his exercise, and I got to nod at familiar faces, pat familiar dogs, and feel like I belonged to something, even if it was just the morning air.

Until one Tuesday morning in early October, when the pattern broke.

As we approached the bench under the maple tree where we usually stopped so I could finish my coffee and Pounce could sniff a few desperate blades of grass, I spottedsomeone new.

A guy.

Maybe in his early thirties.

Bent over with his right foot braced on the ground, he struggled to untangle a leash from an overly enthusiastic bulldog puppy.

He let out a low, warm laugh, utterly unaware that Pounce had stopped walking and was now staring at the new dog as if it were love at first sight.

I held my breath, too.

The guy wasgorgeous—dark curls pushed back from his forehead, an open windbreaker over a T-shirt with the vintage logo of our local brewery,Hops & Dreams,and the scruffy, effortless charm that looked like it came with its own playlist. In short, he was the kind of guyI’dlike to play fetch with if I were a dog.

Fixing my eyes on him, I blocked out everything around me, which was probably why my next step forward caused me to stumble over a raised tree root thatI knew was there, one that shouldn't have sent me flying after walking this path over a thousand times.

The guy looked up at the shuffle of my feet as I regained my balance, met my gaze, and...smiled.It was one of those broad smiles where the eyebrows shoot up, as if he were apologizing for the turmoil and begging for help at the same time.

My brain spun like a dog chasing its tail.

The bulldog puppy leaped toward us, its entangled legs causing it to plow into the grass nose first. The guy jumped right after it, dropping to one knee. His fingers moved quickly toloosen the leash, finally freeing the squirming bundle of energy from its misery. “I think she wants to say hi,” he said.

The bulldog yipped in agreement, and Pounce responded with a low, encouraging whine.

“Looks like it,” I croaked, finding my voice near the bottom of my stomach.

Pounce and I made our way over, and the dogs wasted no time doing the classic spiral dance—sniff, circle, tail wag, repeat. The puppy yipped again, its tiny paws hopping excitedly in place. Older and more measured, Pounce released a low chuff that seemed like approval.

“He’s beautiful,” the guy said, nodding toward Pounce. “Big softie, huh?”

I loosened the leash, allowing Pounce to lean into the sniff exchange. “Very big. Very soft. And luckily a cuddler, too.”

The guy chuckled. “I can’t say that about her. She’s more into tug of war. At least, that's what she's wanted to do most since she moved in.”

Out of nowhere, the puppy leaped backward and spun so quickly that she wrapped her leash around herself twice. Oblivious to the consequences, she pulled toward Pounce again and tripped over, looking personally offended by gravity. Pounce tilted his head slightly as if he had no idea what the rookie was trying to achieve.

“Sorry,” the guy sighed, crouching beside the wriggling puppy. “Did your husky always make it look that easy, or is my little one just hopeless?”

“They’ll figure it out eventually.” I chuckled. “She’s your first dog?”

“Yeah. This is also our first time in this park, our first week in this neighborhood, and apparently her first time walking on a leash.” He scooped her up with an embarrassed smile anduntangled her leash again. “Come on. You’ve done so well until now.”

“She’s adorable.”

“And a little rascal,” the guy said, setting her back down, keeping the leash taut so it wouldn’t happen again. “Her name’s Sora.”

---