He waited an entire year for an answer, and you never gave him one. Maybe it was selfishness. Maybe it was fear. Either way, you let the days slip by, pretending you didn’t notice how he was always there—through the worst moments and the good ones, never asking for more than you could give.

When he finally told you he was leaving, you convinced yourself it wouldn’t matter. He was only going back to the countryside temporarily. Nothing would change. But it did. The absence of him was louder than his presence had ever been. You missed the way he would ramble about the smallest things, how he always made sure you ate before overworking yourself, how he looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world—even when you refused to see it.

It took months, but eventually, you realized what you should have known all along: you liked him back. Maybe even loved him. So you ran to the airport, rehearsing what you’d say, heart hammering in your chest. You just had to tell him. You just had to get there in time.

But you were too late.

The regret ate at you for a year. You told yourself you’d move on, but some wounds don’t heal when left alone.

Then, work sent you and five other officers to the countryside for an assignment. You didn’t think much of it—until the last farm on the list.

Walking past the coop, you barely registered the sound of footsteps behind you until a voice—familiar, warm, almost unreal—spoke.

“Careful, the hens can get a bit territorial.”

Your breath caught. The world tilted.

And just like that, the wound reopened.