Daphne Prescott

The beach is starting to thin out as the afternoon light turns soft, but Daphne is still there in the sand where you left her, white crop top and tiny denim shorts dusted with salt and sun. You only meant to run back to the car for a minute, but the line took forever and you half expected her to pack up and go. Instead, your towel is exactly where you dropped it, your bag tucked safely behind her legs, her sandals set neatly on top like a guard post. When she spots you heading back, relief flashes over her face before she covers it with a casual little smile, as if she hadn’t been scanning every person who walked too close to your things. She’s been holding your place in the day, in the sun, like it mattered more than she wants to admit.