Chapter 2 - Alan

There was a rhythm to walking dogs.

It wasn’t just about the leashes or the routes—it was the quiet in between. The slow, deliberate steps. The weight of paws hitting pavement. The occasional huff or sneeze from someone sniffing too close to a tulip.

I liked the noise of the city from a distance, not in it, but near it. Moving through side streets with half a dozen dogs gave me cover. I wasn’t invisible, but didn’t have to be seen either. People saw the dogs first. They smiled, pointed, and asked if they could pet the fluffy one or guessed Rufio’s breed like it was a game. I let them. I smiled when it was expected, nodded when I had to, and kept my head down when I didn’t.

It was safer that way.

People didn’t ask about your past when you were holding a bag of poop and a leash wrapped around your wrist. They didn’t ask where you were from. What your last name was. Why you flinched when certain kinds of cars drove past.

Anonymity was underrated.

I’d built a life out of it. Simple. Quiet. Predictable. I liked waking up early, feeding Rufio while the kettle boiled, and walking the same loops through the streets with the same dogs weekly. My clients trusted me. The dogs liked me. That was enough.

Or at least, it had been.

Until Amaya Rosario said she wanted to help.

She hadn’t even hesitated—just jumped into the idea like it was natural. Like she belonged in my routine. Like this thing I’d built was something you could just casually sign up for.

And I’d told her I’d think about it. Then, I thought about it longer than I wanted to admit. Because as much as I didn’t want anyone getting too close, something about Amaya had stuck. She was funny. Confident. The kind of person who made space for herself without even realizing it.

And Rufio—my disloyal, traitorous dog—loved her instantly.

Sure, I’d seen him do the same with Tinkerbell and Zeus, but they were family. He didn’t just roll over for anyone. But Amaya? He practically melted at her feet. So yeah. I texted her.

Three days later, I watched her wrestle three dogs and come out the other side winded, covered in fur, and somehow still grinning. I didn’t expect to smile back. But I did. Because something about her—wild hair, stubborn energy, and all—fit into my careful, quiet world just a little too easily. And that scared the hell out of me.

Rufio was still wired long after the walk ended.

Normally, once we made it home and I unclipped his leash, he’d flop onto the couch or drag his favorite chew toy into a sunbeam like he’d just run a marathon. But today? He paced the apartment like he was waiting for someone to show up. Every little sound from the hallway had his ears up and his tail going. At one point, he even sat at the door and whined—like he thought I’d forgotten to invite someone in.

“Seriously?” I muttered, my fingers hovering above the keyboard as I glanced up from my laptop. The screen’s glow cast a bluish hue on my face, but I barely noticed. “She’s not coming here, like ever.”

He tilted his head at me, his chocolate-brown eyes wide, as if I was the unreasonable one. My energetic companion, Rufio, usually didn’t dwell on things like waiting for attention. He had never dropped his leash at my feet more than once in a day, yet here it was again, lying at my feet just five minutes after I hung it up.

“Rufio,” I said slowly, trying to maintain my composure, “it was one walk.”

His tail thumped against the floor enthusiastically, a rhythmic beat that echoed the hopefulness radiating from him.

I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me.

Maybe it wasn’t just Rufio’s eagerness that was unsettling. Perhaps it was me. I couldn’t shake off how she had wiped dirt off her jeans, her laughter ringing like a tinkling bell as if the whole experience had been an amusing challenge she was gleefully relieved to have faced. How she had calmly navigated Skipper’s frantic pigeon-chasing antics, poised under pressure yet undeniably frantic, struck me as both admirable and unsettling. And the way she had looked at me—not with the expectation that I needed to entertain her, but with a comforting certainty that I was already enough—made my chest tighten.

It felt too intense, too immediate. And now, my dog had apparently declared war on my carefully maintained equilibrium.

“Don’t get used to her,” I said softly, almost as a plea, mostly to myself.

Because that’s what this was—a fleeting interlude. Amaya was helping out, walking dogs to fill the void between her classes. Sooner or later, she would move on. People like her always did.

And what about me?

People like me didn’t get to keep the soft, fragile things in life. Those delicate treasures never stuck around long enough to matter. I had built walls to protect myself; letting anyone or anything soft into my life was akin to inviting danger.

At that moment, Rufio defeated my internal conflict by hopping onto the couch, laying his head in my lap as though he hadn’t just spent the entire evening trying to emotionally manipulate me. I scratched behind his ears, his fur warm and inviting beneath my fingers. Even if I didn’t trust this unfolding scenario—this wavering dance of connection—even if I knew better than to let it develop further... a part of me couldn’t help but want to see what day two would bring with her presence still lingering in my life.

The next morning, I told myself I would keep things the same.

Routine. Familiarity. Distance.

Then I texted Amaya the walk schedule. I didn’t even wait a day. I just typed it out: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Group walks. Flexible start time, but no whining if it rains. Bring water. Don’t forget poop bags. Meet me at the usual spot.

Her response came five minutes later:

“I already bought my own fanny pack. See you at three.”

That was it—no follow-up questions, no words of gratitude, just a total commitment that hung like an unspoken promise. I should’ve known better than to underestimate the situation.

The moment she arrived—her dark hair slicked back in a high bun, eyes sparkling with excitement, and immediately kneeling to greet Rufio as if they were long-lost friends reunited after an eternity—I felt the ground shift beneath me, unsettling but exhilarating.

She slipped into our little world too seamlessly. Within mere minutes, she was calling the dogs by their names, her voice warm and inviting, greeting them as if they were cherished regulars at her favorite café. Rufio, usually aloof, practically glued himself to her side, leaning into her touch with a trust I hadn’t seen before. Waffles, ever enthusiastic, attempted to climb her leg in a spirited display of affection. Even Pickles, the old curmudgeon who rarely gave his attention to anyone not confined to a stroller, let out a rare grunt of approval, acknowledging her presence with a flicker of curiosity.

I observed the whole scene from a careful distance, pretending to assess her handling skills while, in truth, I fought the urge to grin like an idiot. It was all happening so fast, and yet it felt oddly right.

“She’s good,” Reese had remarked months ago, recalling our first encounter with Amaya at Makayla’s apartment, a space she was temporarily renting out to Clay and Xenia. “Like scary good. She’ll have you laughing before you even realize she’s wormed her way under your skin.”

At that moment, I hadn’t felt the urge to laugh—not then, not really. But now? Now, I had to remind myself not to chuckle. It was one thing to invite someone into your established routine but quite another to let them subtly shift the rhythm of your day without a second thought.

With practiced ease, she looped the colorful leashes over one hand, glancing at me with an inquisitive spark in her eyes. “You always bring this many at once?”

“Usually,” I replied, careful to keep my tone flat, revealing nothing.

“Ever lost one?” she asked, a playful lilt in her voice.

“Only once,” I deadpanned. “It was Zeus. Took himself on a coffee run and came back with a muffin.”

She snorted, the sound a delightful surprise. “Sounds like your alpha.”

“He thinks he is.” I nodded, glancing at our little troublemaker, who was beginning to plot his next adventure.

As a few of the dogs barked excitedly, pulling us forward, our feet fell into a rhythm. Amaya’s side of the leash crew momentarily tangled—Rufio looped awkwardly around Tinkerbell while Skipper barked indignantly at a fluttering trash can—but she managed everything with an effortless, impressive, and infuriating grace.

I hated how keenly I noticed her fluid movements, the way she was attuned to their energy as if she were an extension of them. Everything about her seemed to fit in this chaotic ballet and looked undeniably right.

I didn’t want to admit it—not to her, and certainly not to myself—but having her there? It didn’t just feel fine. It felt better. Much better.

We made it through the rest of the walk without incident—a miracle, considering Disco tried to roll in something unidentifiable near the storm drain. Skipper launched a protest when we passed a fire hydrant that apparently looked at him wrong.

Amaya handled all of it with that same loose, confident energy I wasn’t sure she even realized she had. Her laughter when Rufio stole her glove was too big for the sidewalk, like it didn’t care who heard it. And I… liked it. Too much.

After we dropped off the last dog, she waved goodbye without making a thing of it. She grinned at me and said, “Same time, Friday?” as if she already knew the answer. Rufio watched her go like she’d taken the sun with her.

I didn’t stop him this time when he whined as she walked away.

Back at my apartment, the light outside had shifted to that smoky gray New York gets before a storm. Rufio passed out immediately on the couch, one paw twitching, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth.

I stood at the kitchen counter with a cup of tea I wasn’t drinking, scrolling through emails on my phone, trying to act like everything was normal. But I felt it—that itch behind my ribs. That whisper I’d trained myself not to ignore.

Something was off.

When my phone buzzed again, I expected a calendar notification or a client question—something mundane and forgettable. Instead, it was a number I didn’t recognize. There was no name, and there was no contact photo.

Just three words:

We know where you are.

I stared at it for too long. Not blinking, not breathing. My thumb hovered over the screen, my pulse tightening at my collarbone. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Rufio shifted in his sleep, and I jumped.

Then, slowly, I tapped the message and held it down until the option appeared.

Delete.

No reply. No trace. Just gone. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. I set the phone down on the counter like it would explode. Every inch of me was coiled tight, and the silence in the room was suddenly too loud and sharp.

It could’ve been a scam, spam, or someone with the wrong number. But I knew better. No one finds you accidentally when you’ve gone out of your way to disappear.

Rufio stirred again, sensing the shift in the air. He lifted his head, eyes bleary but alert. Watching me. I crossed to the window and looked out at the street. There was nothing unusual. A few people were walking, a guy with a stroller and someone on a bike cutting too close to traffic. But still… I couldn’t shake the weight of the words.

We know where you are.

I pressed a hand to the glass, cool beneath my fingers. I’d built this life to be quiet. Controlled. Safe. And in the span of one message, it all felt like glass—thin, fragile, and starting to crack.