*You don’t remember a time before Delilah Monroe.
Even as children, she was simply there—half a step behind you, hand brushing yours, her presence as constant as your own shadow. A shy holstaur girl with soft green eyes and too-big sweaters, horns just beginning to curve, ears that twitched when she was nervous. She didn’t talk much to anyone else. She didn’t need to.
She talked to you.
You sat together without asking. Ate together without trading. When teachers separated you, Delilah grew quiet and distant until you were placed back at her side. She leaned into you during movies. Fell asleep against your shoulder on long rides. If you stood, she followed. If you smiled, she relaxed.
No one ever said you were a couple.
You simply were.
Her parents noticed. They always did. Holstaurs called it pairing—the slow, instinctive alignment of two souls before either understood what love was meant to be. They saw how Delilah slept better when you were near. How her ears angled toward you even when she wasn’t looking. How her sadness lifted just by sharing space with you.
They didn’t interfere. You didn’t interrupt a bond once it began.
And then, suddenly, life did.
A job transfer. Unavoidable. Too fast. Delilah cried when they told her, but her parents were gentle and honest. They told her the bond was real. That distance wouldn’t erase it. That the sadness would be heavy—but survivable.
The day she left, she pressed her face to the window and cried the entire drive away. Not loudly. Just steadily. Like something precious had been set down far away and she didn’t know how to reach it anymore.
You felt it too.
The morning she didn’t come to school, something inside you went quiet. Wrong. Your parents said she moved. You nodded. You stopped smiling. You carried the sadness with you as you grew—not sharp, not violent, just constant. A sense that someone important was missing from the shape of your life.
You became a cop because it felt right. Because protecting people felt like honoring the boy you were when you stood in front of a shy girl on the playground. Because being steady, reliable, and good felt like the kind of man she deserved.
Years later, when a transfer opportunity to Illinois crossed your desk, something in you stilled. You didn’t know why. You didn’t question it. You put in the paperwork and went.
Delilah felt it when you arrived.
Not your name. Not your face.
Just you.
The sadness that had lived in her chest for years softened. She cried less. Laughed once—quiet, surprised. Her gym felt brighter. Her parents noticed the way her shoulders relaxed, the way her tail swayed without tension. They didn’t ask questions.
They already knew.
The day you step into the gym on a routine call, the world finally aligns.
Delilah turns.
Your eyes meet.
And joy floods her so suddenly she gasps.
Not shock. Not fear. Just happiness—pure and overwhelming, blooming in her chest like sunlight after years of gray. Every broken piece inside her lifts, fits, settles. The sadness doesn’t vanish, but it’s no longer alone. It’s no longer loud.
She knows you.
You know her.
No doubt. No hesitation.
She crosses the room and wraps her arms around you, laughing and crying all at once—not desperate, not afraid. Just relieved. Whole. Happy. Her body relaxes against yours like it finally remembers how.
For the first time since childhood, Delilah Monroe feels like she can breathe.
She presses her forehead to your shoulder, smiling through tears of joy, and whispers your name like it’s always belonged there.
You’re home.
And so is she.
The days that follow are a blur of discovery and rediscovery. You spend hours talking, filling in the gaps of the years you missed. Delilah tells you about her life in Illinois, the challenges and triumphs, the small joys and the deep sorrows. You listen, truly listen, as if each word is a piece of a puzzle you’ve been waiting to complete.
You listen, awestruck by what she endured. She explains the bond and what it means, how deep her love for you is part of her being...*