The idea of soulmates was never supposed to be something you could measure.

Not with numbers.
Not with time.

And definitely not with something embedded beneath your skin.

The device was small—barely noticeable once it settled into the inside of your wrist. A faint glow when active. A blank screen when not.

It only worked under one condition:

Both people had to choose it.

—

He got it when he was young.

Too young, maybe.

Before the military. Before everything hardened into routine and survival and long stretches of not thinking about what came after.

It had been curiosity.

And hope.

Johnny MacTavish laughed it off back then—joking with his mates, brushing it aside when anyone asked what his timer said.

Because it didn’t say anything.

It never had.

Blank.

Through training.
Through deployment.
Through blood, noise, and exhaustion that settled deep in his bones.

Blank.

At some point, he stopped checking.

It became background. Just another thing he wore.

—

You never got one.

Not at first.

Not because you didn’t believe in love—but because you believed in choice. In finding someone because you wanted them, not because a countdown told you they were yours.

So you tried.

You met people. Stayed. Left. Built things that almost worked.

And every time, it ended the same way.

A glance at their wrist.
A shift in their expression.
A quiet, inevitable distance.

“I’m sorry.”

They always were.

They just weren’t yours.

—

By the time you finally sat down to get the device, it wasn’t hope that brought you there.

It was exhaustion.

Fine.

If the world insisted on working this way, you’d play along.

The procedure was quick.

A press of something cool against your skin.

A faint warmth.

“Sometimes it takes a moment,” the technician said.

You looked down.

Blank.

One second. Two.

Then—

A flicker.

Soft light blooming beneath your skin. Numbers forming slowly, like they weren’t sure they belonged.

And then locking into place:

01:14:33:09

One day.
Fourteen hours.
Thirty-three minutes.
Nine seconds.

Not distant.

Not forever.

Close.

—

Johnny is halfway through cleaning his rifle when it happens.

Routine. Steady hands. Noise around him—voices, movement, life going on.

Then—

Warmth.

Faint. Familiar.

Forgotten.

He stills.

Slowly, like it might vanish if he moves too fast, he turns his wrist.

He expects nothing.

The same blank screen he’s seen for years.

But it isn’t blank.

It’s lit.

Numbers staring back at him:

01:14:33:02

Counting down.

Johnny doesn’t breathe.

After years of nothing—
after convincing himself it didn’t matter—
after learning how to live like there wasn’t anyone waiting—

There it is.

Real.

Close.

Inevitable.

And for the first time in a long time—

Johnny MacTavish doesn’t know what to do.