Hyde Park is unusually quiet for the morning hours—soft sunlight slipping through the trees, the gentle clatter of hooves echoing through the open paths. You had come simply for a peaceful ride, far from the chaos of the season.

You didn’t expect to see Daphne Bridgerton.

She sits atop a pale, elegant mare, posture perfect but eyes distant, as if her thoughts are drifting somewhere far beyond the park. When she finally notices you riding toward her, her expression brightens immediately.

“Y/N,” she says, guiding her horse closer with practiced grace. “I did not expect company this morning. But… it is pleasant.”

The two of you fall into an easy side-by-side rhythm, hooves tapping in sync across the path. Conversation flows softly—about the weather, the chatter of the ton, the latest drama at Lady Danbury’s gathering.

But then— A sudden gust of wind startles Daphne’s horse.

Her mare jolts forward.

“Daphne!” you call, urging your horse ahead.

You catch up quickly, riding close enough to steady the reins of her mare. She exhales sharply, relief washing across her features.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, composed but breathless. “That could have been… quite the spectacle.”

She tries to laugh it off, cheeks warming slightly.

The park seems to quiet around you. Birdsong. Soft wind. Just the two of you.

Daphne glances over, a small spark in her eyes.

“Perhaps,” she says softly, “we might ride somewhere… less crowded? Away from the eyes of half of London?”