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The sun had barely lifted above Alderbridge, and Seasons Park was already awake. Dew shimmered on the grass, the air carried the crisp scent of damp earth, and the winding trail that cut through the trees was dotted with early risers—some running with steady, purposeful strides, others strolling lazily, letting birdsong fill the silence between their breaths.
Clarissa Dovey belonged firmly to the second group. Every morning, just after dawn, she set out for her walk in tailored leggings and a pale lavender windbreaker, her blonde hair pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place. She held herself with the same grace she carried into her classroom, even here among joggers and dog walkers. One hand held a bottle of water, the other occasionally tugged at the cord of her headphones as if making sure Bach hadn’t abandoned her midway through his sonata.
Her pace was steady, unhurried—meant more for reflection than exercise. She often found herself admiring the trees, or pausing to smile at a child trying to race their golden retriever.
Leonora Lesso was the opposite. A dark streak of motion cutting through the path, she ran with a predator’s rhythm—black running gear, earbuds blasting something fast and defiant, hair pulled back in a rough ponytail that caught the morning light like copper fire. Her pace was relentless, as though slowing down meant losing.
And it was inevitable, really, that their worlds would collide.
Quite literally.
Clarissa had just slowed near a curve in the path, distracted by a squirrel darting up a tree, when Lesso came barreling around the bend. The collision was a brush of shoulders, hard enough to jolt Clarissa off balance. She gasped, clutching her bottle, nearly stumbling into the grass.
Lesso, without breaking stride, glanced sideways and let a smirk tug at her lips.
“Need to pick up the pace, princess,” she drawled, her voice low and teasing, before shooting ahead again.
Clarissa blinked, stunned—not so much by the impact, but by the audacity. She straightened, smoothing her jacket as though that could mend the rudeness she’d just endured. Her brown eyes narrowed, sharp as glass.
“Excuse me?” she called after her, though Lesso was already a dozen steps ahead.
The redhead slowed just enough to glance back, smirk deepening as if she’d expected nothing less. “You heard me.”
Clarissa’s jaw tightened. She was not in the habit of being spoken to like an errant child on the playground. Raising her chin, she replied with all the cool precision of a schoolmistress correcting a particularly insolent pupil.
“Perhaps you might consider watching where you’re going. Not everyone feels the need to sprint as though chased by demons.”
That earned a laugh. Short, sharp, undeniably amused.
“Fair enough,” Lesso tossed back, and then she was gone, swallowed by the curve of the trail, leaving only the echo of her footsteps and the faint thrum of her music hanging in the air.
Clarissa stood for a moment, hands on her hips, trying to decide whether she was more offended or intrigued. By the time she resumed her walk, she found herself muttering under her breath—something about manners, and pace, and the sort of people who clearly thrived on antagonizing strangers.
Still, the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest, reluctant curl of a smile.
The next day dawned much the same—mist clinging to the edges of the grass, the sky streaked in pale pinks and silvers. Clarissa told herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular as she stepped into Seasons Park, but her eyes betrayed her. Every flicker of red hair in the distance tugged at her attention, as if she were waiting for lightning to strike the same place twice.
Her walk began as usual, measured and purposeful. Yet, at the far end of the trail, she spotted it: a tall figure in black running gear, a mane of copper curls bouncing in rhythm with a swift stride. Her stomach tightened, an unfamiliar impulse sparking.
She adjusted her pace—faster than she would normally allow herself this early. Not quite a jog, but urgent enough that she felt the strain in her calves. Ridiculous, she chided herself, yet kept moving. What excuse she would find if she caught up, she hadn’t the faintest idea. To correct the woman on her deplorable manners? To return the insult with one of her own? Or—though she hated to admit it—to simply prove that she, too, could keep pace.
The figure slowed near the benches by the pond, stretching casually, hair catching the sunlight in fiery strands. Clarissa’s breath caught. This was it.
“Excuse me,” she began as she reached earshot, voice clear and practiced. “I believe you—”
The woman turned.
And Clarissa froze.
The freckles were there, the copper hair too, but the eyes staring back at her were a muddled hazel, not the piercing green she remembered. The smile that followed was uncertain, polite, not the sly smirk that had needled her yesterday.
“Sorry?” the stranger asked, tugging out one of her earbuds.
Clarissa blinked, heat rising to her cheeks, though she mastered her expression before it betrayed her fluster. “Ah. My mistake,” she said smoothly, drawing herself up. “I thought you were someone else.”
The runner nodded, bemused, and returned to her stretches. Clarissa, meanwhile, felt her composure wobble for just a moment. She resumed her walk at once, quickening her pace as though distance might smother her embarrassment.
Yet beneath the flush of mortification lingered something sharper, more insistent—disappointment.
Where was the woman with the sardonic smile and merciless stride?
Clarissa didn’t like the answer that bloomed in her chest: she was hoping to see her again.
Three weeks passed, and the memory of the redheaded runner had slipped into the background of Clarissa’s mornings. She had told herself she no longer cared, that her walks were once again for peace, reflection, and nothing else. And for a while, it seemed true.
Until, on an unusually crisp morning, she caught sight of it again.
A flash of copper hair, burning bright against the muted greens of the park.
Her body reacted before her thoughts did. She lengthened her stride, the steady rhythm of her walk breaking into a hesitant jog, then something more urgent. Her heart pounded—not from the exertion, but from the sharp, ridiculous hope blooming in her chest.
Not again, she scolded herself. If it’s another stranger—
But this time, she knew. The gait was unmistakable: powerful, almost arrogant, like someone who didn’t simply run, but conquered the path.
It was her.
Clarissa pushed harder, her breath catching in uneven bursts. The park around her blurred—dogs tugging at leashes, an old man feeding ducks at the pond, children wobbling on scooters—all swept aside as her focus narrowed on the figure ahead. The distance between them shrank, but not quickly enough.
Because Leonora Lesso had noticed.
The redhead’s lips curved into a private smile as she felt the presence gaining on her. Instead of slowing, she accelerated, her pace sharp, boots striking the ground with deliberate force. So the princess learned to run after all, she thought, amused.
And then, in a move that made Clarissa’s stomach twist, Lesso turned—running backwards now, facing her pursuer without missing a step. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief, framed by copper curls dampened with sweat, freckles scattered across pale skin flushed from exertion.
“Well, well,” Lesso drawled, voice carrying easily over the thrum of their footsteps. “Looks like you did pick up the pace, princess.”
Clarissa’s chest heaved with the effort of keeping up. She hated giving her the satisfaction, hated how her lungs burned and how aware she suddenly was of every bead of sweat clinging to her temple. Yet her reply came sharp, laced with indignation and pride.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she managed, her tone clipped despite her ragged breath. “I wasn’t running for you.”
“Oh, of course not,” Lesso said smoothly, still running backwards, every inch of her body language screaming infuriating confidence. “You just happened to sprint after the only redhead in the park, three weeks after chasing the wrong one.”
Clarissa’s eyes widened, a flush creeping over her cheeks. “You— you saw that?”
Lesso laughed, the sound low and rich, echoing through the trees. “Hard to miss someone storming off looking like they’d swallowed their pride whole. Quite the sight, princess.”
Clarissa glared at her, though it lacked the bite she wished it had. Her legs burned, her breath came shorter, but there was no way she would stop now—not while Lesso watched.
“You’re insufferable,” Clarissa said tightly.
“Compliments so early in the morning?” Lesso teased, finally spinning back around to face the trail again, her pace steady but challenging. “Careful, princess. I might start thinking you enjoy this little routine of ours.”
Clarissa bit back a retort, focusing on matching her stride, refusing to let the distance widen again. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the rhythmic pound of their shoes against the path and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
For the first time since she started coming to the park, Clarissa wasn’t walking for peace or reflection. She was running—for pride, for defiance, and, though she’d never admit it aloud, for the thrill of not letting the taller woman slip away.
And Lesso, sensing it, couldn’t help the grin tugging at her mouth.
This was going to be fun.
Clarissa’s chest burned. Each breath dragged through her lungs like fire, and the sharp stitch in her side only deepened the farther she pushed herself. She told herself it was temporary, that if she kept her eyes on the red curls bobbing just ahead, she could endure.
But her body disagreed.
Her steps grew heavier, rhythm faltering, the ground beneath her seeming to tilt. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself forward, refusing to let the runner see her break. Not now. Not when she’d finally caught her.
The redhead, however, noticed. Of course she did.
The sound of Clarissa’s stride shifted, uneven, her breaths loud against the quiet stretch of trail. When the woman glanced back, she caught sight of the sweat glistening on Clarissa’s temple, the stubborn set of her mouth barely holding against exhaustion.
And then it happened—Clarissa’s pace stuttered, her knees weakening as she clutched at her side. She slowed abruptly, stumbling to a stop, her hand gripping the nearest bench for balance.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, angry at her body’s betrayal.
The redhead skidded to a halt, spinning on her heel and jogging back toward her. There was amusement in her eyes, yes, but also something sharper—concern, quickly disguised beneath her smirk.
“Well, princess,” she said lightly, though her gaze swept over Clarissa’s flushed face with care. “I didn’t think you’d actually try to kill yourself to impress me.”
Clarissa shot her a glare, though it was weakened by her gasping breaths. “Impress you? Hardly. I was…proving a point.”
“A point that you can wheeze like a dying accordion?” The woman crouched slightly to meet her gaze, still smirking but softer now, voice dipping. “You’re not built for this pace. Stick to your walks.”
Clarissa straightened, still clutching her side, bristling at the implication. “Don’t—don’t you dare patronize me.”
The runner tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief, but her tone softened just enough to betray the truth. “I’m not patronizing. I’m keeping you upright.”
For Clarissa realized only then—her hand had ghosted near her arm, steadying without truly holding, as if offering balance without stripping her of pride.
Clarissa exhaled slowly, trying to summon her dignity even as her body begged for rest. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stubborn,” came the smooth reply. “Terrible combination, but entertaining.”
The corner of Clarissa’s mouth twitched despite herself, the faintest betrayal of a smile. She sank onto the bench with as much grace as her trembling legs would allow, waving a hand as if dismissing the entire ordeal.
The redhead leaned against the end of the bench, arms crossed, regarding her with that insufferable smirk. “Tell you what. Tomorrow, I’ll run. You walk. And if you’re very lucky, I might slow down just enough to keep you company.”
Clarissa turned her head, brown eyes narrowing. “You’re assuming I’d want your company.”
“Oh, princess,” the woman said, grin widening, “I’m not assuming. I’m betting.”
And with that, she pushed off the bench, resuming her jog down the trail, leaving Clarissa behind with her pride bruised, her chest still heaving, and a maddening warmth curling somewhere beneath her irritation.
The next morning, the park was hushed beneath a veil of early mist. The air smelled of wet leaves and pine, and the path gleamed faintly where dew clung to stone. Clarissa walked at her usual, measured pace, determined that today she would not be goaded into running. Her pride was bruised enough already.
Yet when she spotted that familiar flame of copper hair cutting swiftly through the gray, her jaw tightened. She wasn’t going to let the encounter end on the terms of the redhead’s smirk. Not again.
So she stopped in the middle of the trail, lifted her chin, and waited.
The runner slowed upon noticing her, curiosity flickering in green eyes. “Well, well,” she said, pulling out one earbud. “Not chasing me today, princess?”
Clarissa folded her arms across her chest. “Not today. I’m here to collect something you owe me.”
That earned a raised brow, sardonic and amused. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Clarissa replied crisply. “An apology. For nearly knocking me over three weeks ago. And for… that nickname.”
The redhead’s lips curved, wickedly delighted. “Princess? You don’t like it?”
“I find it presumptuous,” Clarissa said, though the faintest flush tinged her cheeks. “And condescending.”
“Funny,” the woman mused, tilting her head. “It suits you. All posture and poise, crown invisible but definitely there.”
Clarissa’s glare sharpened, though her voice remained smooth, precise. “If you insist on mocking me, the least you can do is do so by name. Properly.”
That stopped her. The smirk lingered, but something steadier slid beneath it, as if acknowledging the challenge. “Fair enough,” the runner said at last, extending a hand as though sealing a bargain. “Leonora Lesso.”
Clarissa hesitated only a beat before taking it, her grip firm, her brown eyes unwavering. “Clarissa Dovey.”
Their hands lingered a fraction too long, the shake more deliberate than casual. Then Clarissa withdrew, smoothing her jacket as if to reclaim composure.
“There,” she said, tone brisk. “Now if you must address me, at least you’ll have the decency to use my actual name.”
Lesso grinned, sharp as ever. “Oh, I’ll use it. Occasionally. But ‘princess’… it still fits.”
Clarissa scoffed, turning on her heel to resume her walk, but the warmth blooming under her irritation betrayed her. For the first time, hearing the nickname didn’t sting quite as much as it should have.
And behind her, Lesso fell into step—just close enough to make sure Clarissa knew she wasn’t walking alone.