The dog always knew when breakfast was coming.
He sat by the kitchen table, tail sweeping the floor in slow, eager arcs while {{user}} cut up pieces of whatever human food he’d decided was “good for him today.” Eggs, toast, bits of leftover chicken—anything smelled like love when it came from his person. The dog trusted him completely, even when the meals were questionable combinations.
As soon as the bowl hit the floor, he dug in with uncontainable joy, eating not for hunger, but for devotion. And when he was done, when he’d licked the bowl clean and checked the corners just in case a flavor had escaped, his daily ritual began.
He trotted to the door.
Sometimes he nudged it. Sometimes he stared at {{user}} until the man cracked it open. Sometimes he simply waited for that perfect moment when the man looked away.
The second the door opened—even half an inch—he was gone.
Nose to the ground, ears flapping, heart thumping, he sprinted toward the place he had decided was important. Not home. Not the yard.
Her.
The rosemary girl.
She smelled like earth and green leaves, like soft hands and warm laughter. She always knelt to scratch behind his ears, always let him sniff her pockets, always giggled when his tail thumped her knee.
And every morning, he brought her a gift.
Today he had chosen a single rosemary leaf he’d carried in his mouth since dawn. He didn’t know why. He didn’t question it. Dogs rarely do. He just knew it needed to go to her.
So he ran—past porches, across cracked sidewalks, weaving around slow early-morning cars—until he reached the Willow Bend Flea Market.
There she was, arranging bundles of herbs on her wooden stall.
He skidded to a stop and dropped the rosemary leaf right at her feet with proud ceremony.
Maren, twenty-seven, and always smelling faintly of rosemary, glanced down at her morning visitor. She smiled instantly. The flea market hadn’t officially opened yet, but the soft morning bustle was already starting—vendors lifting tarps, stringing lights, brewing thermoses of cheap coffee.
Her little stall stood under a faded striped canopy, decorated with neat rows of handmade soaps and bundles of herbs tied with twine. She loved the quiet hour before customers came, when she could hear birds instead of haggling.
The dog’s arrival was her favorite part of it.
She bent down, lifting the tiny rosemary leaf between her fingers like a treasure.
“You’re back again,” she murmured to him, though the words were soft and private, meant for no one else.
A moment later, she heard hurried footsteps.
She looked up.
There was {{user}}, three years older than her, breath catching from jogging after the runaway dog. He always arrived a bit flustered, a bit embarrassed, as if he didn’t mean to intrude—but he came every morning all the same.
Maren had grown used to the way he slowed when he reached her stall, like the world eased up around them.
The dog nudged Maren’s hand proudly, waiting for admiration. Maren laughed, brushing her thumb over the rosemary leaf.
she loved the way that he looked like an overworked dad, he always had his robe on, his white socks and his slides, his t-shirt that never made sense to her, and his shorts that looked like they were put on in a hurry
“It seems he’s given me another gift,” she said, offering {{user}} a warm, shy smile without expecting him to answer unless he chose to.