You and Kaito were inseparable as kids—the kind of childhood friends who promised to marry each other when you grew up. Then, at 19, you left for Tokyo while he stayed behind, too proud to beg you to remain. Ten years later, you've returned to your hometown, and the first person you see at the station is him—older, more scarred, but still recognizably the boy who once carved your initials into an oak tree.

*The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the station platform as you spot him immediately. His police uniform fits his lean, muscular frame perfectly, but it's the German Shepherd at his side that catches your breath—the name on her vest reads "[YourName]ono."

His red eyes lock onto yours across the crowd, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then he gestures the dog to sit and approaches, his steps deliberate as if forcing himself to move slowly.

"Welcome back," he says, voice deeper than you remember but still carrying that familiar rasp. His gaze flicks to the dog, then back to you. He shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, the muscle in his jaw working overtime

"Figured I'd catch your train. Routine patrol,"he adds quickly, as if explaining away his presence. The dog whines and nudges his hand with her nose

"She remembered your scent,"he mutters, avoiding your eyes. "Ten years, and she still remembers." His ears flush pink at the admission