˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖Sunny bunny˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Dennis Whitaker was six years old when he met you for the first time, and for the rest of his life, he would swear that the moment felt less like meeting someone new and more like the world quietly shifting on its axis without warning, like it was rearranging every direction he thought he once knew (okay twilight). Your family’s truck had pulled up in a cloud of Nebraska dust that hung in the late afternoon sunlight, the engine rumbling as it idled beside the old fence line that separated your newly purchased land from the Whitaker farm. Dennis had been crouched in the dirt, pushing a broken toy tractor through a carved out trench, completely absorbed in his own world, until his older brother, George, whistled from the porch. 

“Looks like we got neighbors,” he said. 

Dennis didn’t care for neighbors. Neighbors meant adults talking too much and kids he didn’t know trying to touch his things. He only looked up because the passenger door opened and you hopped down, your sneakers landing in the dirt with an excited little bounce that made your braids swing. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t linger around your parents. Instead, you spotted him and started walking straight toward him like he was already someone important to you. Your confidence made him suspicious, but then the dog jumped out right behind you. 

The creature unfolded itself from the truck like a moving mountain of fur, paws the size of dinner plates hitting the ground with soft thuds that seemed far too gentle for something so enormous. Dennis was sure at that age that something so large couldn’t possibly be just a dog. Its tongue lolled lazily and its tail swished once, twice, sending clouds of dust into the air. 

He absolutely froze. His brain, small, dramatic, and six years old, concluded with certainty that he was about to die. Then the dog began trotting towards him, right behind you. He screamed, scrambled backwards, nearly tripped over his own feet, and bolted towards the fence. His hands gripped the rough wood as he tried to climb with all the coordination that a six year old could have. His sneakers slipped, his knees scraped, and he hauled himself halfway up before he dared to look back at you. The creature had stopped a few feet away, sitting down next to you calmly as if  confused by the panic. You ran up to the fence, slightly out of breath, but laughing. 

“Wait!” you called out. “He’s friendly!”

“He’s going to eat me!” Dennis clung to the fence.

“He would never!” you said, feeling offended on your dog’s behalf. 

“This is Bear. He’s a Newfoundland, a guard dog!” 

“Guard…? Guard from what?” His grip tightened. 

You looked deep in thought at that question, then shrugged.

“Mostly from loneliness, I guess!” you beamed.

He didn’t quite understand that then, but eventually he would. 

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It took two weeks before Dennis let Bear come within arm’s reach, three before he dared to touch him, and a month before he would fall asleep on the dog’s massive stomach while you sat beside him, flipping through a book about animal anatomy that you were far too young to understand. You loved animals in a way that was almost reverent, and even at six, Dennis noticed the difference between how you looked at people and how you looked at creatures that couldn’t speak. Your voice softened and your hands moved carefully. Your entire presence shifted into something patient and gentle. 

“I’m going to be a veterinarian one day,” you told him one afternoon, lying on your back in the grass while Bear’s tail thumped lazily nearby. 

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a doctor for animals.” 

“You’ll fix cows?” he rolled onto his side to face you. 

“And horses.” “Even dogs?” “Especially dogs.” you reached over to scratch Bear’s ears. 

“You’re gonna be famous.” Dennis nodded like it was the most logical plan in the world. 

“That’s exactly what I’m going to be.” Your smile lit up your entire face. 

He didn’t realize then that he would remember that exact expression years later, that it would replay in his mind in a quiet moment, that it would anchor him in ways he wouldn’t fully understand until much later. 

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Your house became his second home slowly, then all at once. Broken Bow had expectations–tight unspoken rules that wrapped around families like barbed wire disguised as tradition. Most people attended the same church and most lives revolved around it. Dennis’ family did, too, at least outwardly, though George would roll his eyes through every service and Tucker always seemed one step away from rebellion.

Your family did not take part in that part of farm life. Your parents were polite but distant, friendly but separate, and your land felt different. It was lighter, quieter, and free in a way that Dennis couldn’t name. He started to drift there after school, and at first, he told himself it was for Bear. Then, it was because you always had something interesting planned. Whether it was building a makeshift obstacle course for the goats, trying to teach chickens to follow commands, or patching up scraped up knees with surprising seriousness, eventually, he stopped making excuses. He simply showed up and you welcomed him every time like you’d been waiting. 

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At age ten, everyone began to notice. 

“Where were you Dennis?” George would ask after dinner. 

“With her.” Tucker would answer. 

“Y’all are attached at the hip.” George smirked. 

“We are not!!!” Dennis whined.

You sat beside him on the porch swing, looped your arm through his and grinned. 

“We kind of are.”

His ears burned bright red. 

You got along with his brothers effortlessly and it was something he both loved and secretly resented. George taught you how to drive the old tractor. Tucker taught you how to climb the big, old tree that stood in between y’all’s land. You laughed with them easily, slipping into the rhythm of their family like you’d always been there. He always hated how natural it looked. Not because he didn’t want you there, but because he didn’t like sharing. He didn't realize then that the feeling blooming quietly in his chest wasn’t just possessiveness. It was something deeper. 

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He realized he loved you when he was fifteen. It happened on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that shouldn’t have changed anything. A calf had caught itself on barbed wire, leaving a shallow cut along its side. You knelt down beside it, hands steady, carefully cleaning the wound with warm water while murmuring nonsense to soothe the little one. 

Dennis leaned against the fence watching you. Sunlight feathered through your hair as your brows furrowed in concentration. You stuck your tongue out slightly as you worked. The entire world tilted when you looked up at him with a smile (okayyyy imprinting). His chest tightened so suddenly that it startled him. Something heavy and warm settled beneath his ribs, unfamiliar and terrifying. 

He loved you. Not like a friend. Not like family. It was something else. Something that made his palms sweat and his thoughts tangle, but he didn’t say anything. So the feelings stayed with him, unspoken, growing quietly like the roots beneath your feet. 

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High school passed in a blur of shared classes, whispered jokes, and late nights laying in truck beds beneath the stars. People assume you were together, but you weren’t. However, neither of you corrected them. There were moments where the both of you almost confessed. Moments where your hands brushed his, where his gaze would linger too long. Silences thick with truth and possibility, but silence nonetheless. 

Graduation came too fast. Caps flew in the air, smiles and cameras flashed. You stood beside him for every photo, shoulders brushing. The very same night, Dennis made a decision that would fracture everything. 

He climbed through your window after midnight, the familiar creak of the frame was barely audible. You slept on your side, curled into a hoodie of his that he gave to you one chilly night. You were breathing softly, completely unaware. 

He stood there for a long time watching you, memorizing you. He placed a letter on the bed beside you. His hand hovered near your cheek before he brushed a strand of hair away. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though you couldn’t hear him. 

Then he left. By the time you woke up, he was already gone and the silence he left behind felt louder than any goodbye. 

You woke up to sunlight slipping through the curtains in soft, indifferent streaks, the kind of quiet morning that should have felt comforting, family, and ordinary, except something was wrong. Something that made your stomach twist before your eyes were fully open. At first, you thought it was the stillness. Dennis always woke you up on days off by throwing little pebbles at your window and the lack there of was starting to make you anxious. You rolled out of bed and looked at your window out of habit, fully prepared to hear the pebbles, but were met with nothing. 

You frowned as your hair fell into your face. Then you saw the letter on the bed. Your name written in family, slightly messy handwriting that you could have recognized from miles away. Your heart dropped. 

No. 

No, no, no. 

Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, the paper already soft from being handled too much, like he’d rewritten it a dozen times before settling on this version. The window beside your bed was cracked open just slightly, and a breeze lifted the edge of the curtains, confirming what your gut already knew. 

He had been there. He had been close enough to touch and he left. You opened the letter with shaking hands, your eyes scanning too fast, and your brain trying to make sense of sentences that felt like they were dissolving as you read them. 

He wrote about needing to leave, about not being ready, about finding himself. He wrote about how Broken Bow felt like a cage and how he couldn’t ever breathe, how he needed distance, how he couldn’t say goodbye out loud because he knew he’d stay if he saw your face. Was that so wrong? He wrote about everything except the words you had been waiting for. 

Your vision blurred. You didn’t realize you were crying until the paper softened beneath your grip and your breath came out in uneven, broken sounds that didn’t quite feel like they belonged to you. It felt surreal, like you were hearing someone else fall apart from a distance, like the room tilted and you couldn’t quite find the ground anymore. 

Your parents found you curled up on your bed half an hour later, the letter clutched in your hands, eyes swollen, and voice hoarse. 

“He left…” you whispered, the words barely audible. 

Your mom sat beside you immediately, pulling you into her arms, but it wasn’t the same steady, grounding comfort that you were used to. 

“Where did he go?” your dad asked gently. 

“Didn’t say.” your voice quivered. 

The fact that he didn’t tell you hurt the most. He told you everything except that one thing that mattered. 

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George showed up an hour later, slamming his truck door with such intensity that it echoed across your yard. You heard him before actually seeing him, his boots heavy on the porch steps, voice already raised. 

“You heard from him?”

You wiped your eyes before stepping outside and one look at you caused him to swear under his breath. 

“He didn’t tell you, did he?”

You shook your head, holding onto that letter for dear life. You could see George’s jaw tighten. 

“That idiot,” he sighed. 

He stepped forward and pulled you into a rough, but sincere hug, his hand rubbing your back in awkward circles as you cried into his shoulder. 

“He left us the same way.” George muttered. “Packed up before sunrise and didn’t tell anyone. Just up and left.” 

“Everyone?” you stiffened. 

“Yea.” he brushed some hair from your cheeks. “You weren’t singled out or anything… he didn’t tell anyone.” 

His words should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t. 

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Dennis told himself that he was doing the right thing. He told himself that leaving quietly was kinder, that dragging things out would only make it harder. He told himself that if he stayed long enough to hear your voice, to see your face and those gorgeous eyes, he wouldn’t go at all, and then he’d be trapped in the same small town, the same expectations, and the same unspoken pressure that had been building his entire life. 

However, the farther he drove, the more the silence pressed in. Your laugh echoed in his head, your voice, your smile… He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, swallowing hard as he told himself over and over that he needed to do this, that he needed to become someone confident enough to come back and tell you the truth. He just didn’t realize how long that would take. 

You, on the other hand, forced yourself to move forward. It wasn’t graceful, or immediate, but slow, painful, and full of setbacks. Eventually, you got out of bed without crying, packed for college, and eventually, you felt Broken Bow with a hollow feeling that refused to disappear. You told yourself you’d get over him, that he wasn’t your dream, that you had bigger goals. You had animals to save, a career to build, a life to create, but every time you came home during breaks, your heart betrayed you. 

The first time you returned home, you saw George at the gas station.

“You just missed him,” he said casually, trying not to make it a big deal. 

“What?” your stomach flipped. “He was here last weekend.” 

You nodded, pretending it mattered, but it mattered more than anything in the world. 

The second time, you arrived late at night, exhausted from finals. Tucker greeted you with a hug. 

“You're bad at timing.” he teased. 

“Why’s that?” your lips tugged into a smile. 

“Dennis left this morning.” “I see…” your chest tightened so sharply that you had to look away. 

The third time, you actually saw his truck. You pulled into town just as it passed you, both cars moving too fast to stop. You caught only a glimpse of him, his older, sharper profile was still painfully familiar. Your heart leapt into your throat and you almost turned around, but didn’t. 

The near-misses became a pattern. A cruel rhythm that you were used to now. You arrived; he left. He arrived; you left. You were orbiting each other with no hope of ever colliding. George began to notice the pattern. 

“You two doing this on purpose?” he asked once, half-joking. 

“I’ve got some pretty wicked luck.” You forced a laugh, but he didn't look convinced. 

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“Is she doing okay?” Dennis would try to ask about you sometimes. 

“She’s good.” George would shrug. 

“Still wearing that vanilla perfume?” he leaned against the barn door, trying to sound casual. 

“Why do you care?” his brother’s eyes narrowed. 

“Just asking…” Dennis looked away. George didn’t respond after that. 

Soon, years passed–six to be exact. Six years of almosts and what-ifs and memories that haunted the both of you. You built your life, he built his, but Broken Bow remained the same, waiting for the quiet moment when everything would finally collide. So, when you drove back that summer, you never expected that the timing would finally line up. 

The air felt heavier than you remembered, thick with humidity and the familiar scent of hay, warm dirt, and something nostalgic that settled deep in your lungs the very second you rolled the windows down. The road stretched out in front of you in the same lazy curve it always had, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was about to beat out of your chest the closer you got to the Whitaker farm. 

You told yourself that you were only here to see your parents, the animals, and the life you had built outside of him. So why were you still hoping to see him this time? You told yourself that six years was enough, that you were over him. You told yourself that the hollow space in your chest wasn’t still shaped exactly like Dennis Whitaker. 

The gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled onto your parents’ land. Bear, who was just a little older now, still got excited as he recognized the scenery in front of him. The younger animals greeted you both enthusiastically, but the familiarity of everything made your chest ache. You spent the first day with the farm animals, grounding yourself, and convincing your mind that this visit would be different from the others, that you wouldn’t think about him, wouldn’t wonder where he was, wouldn’t ask about him in any way, shape, or form. 

You made it almost twenty four hours. The next morning, your mom casually mentioned that the Whitakers would be having company this weekend. 

“I think Dennis is back in town.” she said softly. 

“Oh…” your heart stuttered so violently you had to grip the edge of the counter.

“You’ll probably see him.” she added. 

You nodded, though your stomach twisted in a sick knot. You didn’t expect it to happen like this. 

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The sun sat high and warm in the sky when you wandered over to the Whitaker property the next afternoon, telling yourself that you were just visiting George, that this was normal, that you had grown up here and had every right to walk across the familiar stretch of land without feeling like you were trespassing onto something fragile. You heard laughter before you saw anyone. It startled you. It was bright, loud, familiar in a way that pulled something loose in your chest before you realized that it was your own. George spotted you first. 

“Look what the cat brought in.” he called, grinning. 

You smiled, relief loosening your shoulders as you walked closer, exchanging a quick hug that felt easy, as if months hadn’t passed. 

“You’ve gotten shorter?” he teased. 

“You’ve gotten ruder?” you nudged him. 

He laughed at your response and gestured toward the orchard. 

“Help me grab some apples, would you? Mom wants to make pies and cobblers for the guests we’re having.” you saw him bend down and before you could protest, you heard him say, “Hop up.” 

“George–” you blinked.

“C’mon, you always needed help reaching the top ones.” 

You laughed despite your hesitation and climbed onto his shoulders, gripping his free hand as the other arm steadied your legs and balance. You stretched toward the highest branch, the leaves brushing your arms, sunlight filtering through your hair in golden fragments, and for a moment, you felt sixteen again, carefree, warm, untouched by the years that had complicated everything. 

“Almost–!” you said, reaching. 

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Dennis heard your laugh from across the field. It sliced through him. He froze mid-step, breath catching as his brain struggled to process the sound. He had imagined it so many times over the years that he almost thought he was hallucinating again, that his mind was playing tricks on him like it did late at night when the memories came too vividly. Then he turned and saw you perched on George’s shoulders, hair catching sunlight, smiling widely as you reached for an apple. Your arms wrapped loosely around his brother’s head for balance, your voice light and unguarded in a way he hadn’t heard in six years. 

Jealousy hit him so hard that he felt dizzy. It wasn’t rational nor was it fair, but it surged anyway. It was sharp and immediate, twisting in his chest as he watched George steady you, as he heard you laugh, as he saw how easily you fit into the space that he had once occupied. He hadn’t even spoken to you yet and he already felt like he was losing something. One thing’s for certain, he fell in love all over again in a single glance. 

You didn’t see him. Not at first. You were too busy laughing, too busy enjoying the moment, too busy pretending that everything was normal. Eventually, you climbed down, brushing the leaves from your skirt, gaze drifting across the field when your eyes landed on him. Everything stopped. He looked older, broader in the shoulders, his jaw was sharper, his posture was now confident, but the expression on his face–wide-eyed, almost stunned–felt achingly familiar. For a moment, neither of you moved, the distance between you heavy with six years of silence and everything in between. You faltered and looked away first. 

“Hey, Tucker’s inside.” George said, still unaware of the silent collision that had just happened. “Amy’s bringing the baby tomorrow too.

“Amy?” your stomach dropped.

“Yeah,” Tucker called from the porch after hearing his name. “Dennis is going to lose it when he sees her. He’s been talking about them nonstop.”

Your chest tightened. 

Baby. 

Them.

Dennis. 

Your mind filled in the gaps instantly, painfully, illogically. Of course he had built a life. Of course six years had meant something different for him. The idea settled like a weight in your lungs, making it harder to breathe. You smiled weakly, nodding as if you were processing normal information instead of feeling like the ground had shifted beneath you. 

“I… I should get back home…” you murmured. 

No one questioned it. You left before you could see Dennis take a step toward you. 

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The next day, you didn't return. You told yourself that it was fine, that you needed space. You told yourself you didn't want to intrude on his family, didn’t want to stand awkwardly while he held someone else’s child, didn’t want to see the confirmation of what you already convinced yourself was true, but the farm buzzed with activity. Dennis continued to glance toward the road.

“Where is she?” he finally asked George. “No idea.” He shrugged back. 

“She was here yesterday.” “Mhm.” 

“Did she say she was leaving?” Dennis’ stomach twisted as George gave him a look. “Funny, coming from you. 

The words hit harder than Dennis expected. He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away.

You stayed away the entire day, listening to the distant laughter that the wind carried, imagining scenes you didn’t want to picture. Scenes that included Dennis holding a baby, Dennis standing beside someone named Amy, Dennis looking content, complete, and settled in a life that didn’t include you. By evening, you decided to leave. Not forever, just… early… before you embarrassed yourself. Before you did something reckless like confronting him. You packed your bags quietly, hands moving faster than your thoughts. 

Dennis noticed your absence growing louder with each passing hour and by sunset, he was restless. By nightfall, he began pacing. 

“She didn’t come back?” he asked Tucker. “No.”

Something cold settled in his chest. He remembered the letter, he remembered leaving, he remembered how it felt to disappear. Panic spread through him. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out the door. 

“I’m going to check–” he didn’t finish because across the field, he saw the lights of your car. 

He saw you loading your bags into the trunk. Fear surged so violently that it stole his breath and he started running. He didn’t think, just ran, boots pounding against the ground, heart hammering as the possibility hit him all at once–you were leaving, again–and he hadn’t even spoken to you. 

Dennis didn’t realize he was running until his lungs were already burning and the gravel at the edge of the drive cut sharply through the soles of his boots. His body was moving on pure instinct as the sight of you placing the final bag into your trunk triggered something primal and desperate inside him, something that had been simmering quietly ever since he saw you the day before and now erupted into full-blown panic at the realization that he was about to lose you again before he had even managed to say your name.

“Wait–!”

The word tore from his throat, raw and strained, like it hurt to get it out.

You froze with your hand on the driver’s door, your shoulders stiffening before you slowly turned to face him, and the moment your eyes met his, something in his chest twisted painfully because you looked like you were already bracing for impact, like you were preparing yourself for disappointment before he had even opened his mouth.

The air between you felt heavy, thick with everything unsaid over six years, and he suddenly became hyperaware of how close he was, how familiar the sight of you was, how much older you both looked and yet how nothing about the way his heart reacted had changed at all.

The scent of your perfume reached him first–soft vanilla, the exact same one you’d worn since high school–and the familiarity hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out, the sensory memory colliding with the present until he felt momentarily disoriented, like he’d stepped backward in time only to be slammed forward again by the reality that you were leaving.

“Where are you going?” he asked, breathless, his voice rough from the run and the fear tightening his throat. “Why are you leaving me?”

You let out a small laugh that didn’t hold any humor, your lips trembling slightly. 

“Why do you care?”

The question struck deeper than he expected, because he had no idea how to compress six years of missing you into a single coherent answer, no idea how to explain that seeing you again had undone him in seconds, that watching you disappear now felt unbearable in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Because I–I just–you got here and I–” he stumbled, words colliding uselessly.

“You don’t have to pretend.” You shook your head, tears already gathering in your eyes.

“I’m not pretending—”

“You have a whole life, Dennis.” “What?” He blinked, confused.

“You have Amy,” you said quietly, your voice breaking. 

“You have the baby. I heard everyone talking about how you’ve been helping her, how excited you were for her to visit, how she wanted to see your family farm. I’m not stupid. I can put two and two together.”

“That’s not–” His stomach dropped.

“You left me,” you cut in suddenly, the words spilling out like they’d been trapped for years, your composure crumbling in real time. 

“You left me with a letter and no explanation, and I spent months wondering what I did wrong, wondering if I imagined everything between us, wondering if I meant anything to you at all.”

He swallowed hard, guilt flooding him.

“You were my best friend,” you continued, your voice shaking but growing stronger as the truth poured out. 

“You were the person I told everything to, the person who knew me better than anyone, the person I thought I’d always have, and then you just… disappeared. No goodbye, no warning, nothing.”

“I thought–” he tried, but you were already unraveling.

“I waited for you,” you admitted, wiping at your cheeks. 

“Every time I came home, I thought maybe this would be the time we’d run into each other. George told me you’d been there, Tucker told me you’d just left, and it felt like some kind of cruel joke, like we were orbiting each other but never actually colliding.”

Dennis’s chest tightened painfully.

“Then yesterday,” you said, your voice softer now, more fragile, “I saw you again, and it felt like nothing had changed. Like I was still that girl who fell in love with her best friend and never said anything because she was too afraid of ruining everything.”

His breath caught.

“I told myself I was over you. I told myself I’d moved on, that I had my career, my life, my own dreams… but the truth is, I never stopped. Not once in six years did I ever stop loving you.” You laughed weakly. 

The words landed like a blow.

“And hearing about Amy,” you continued, “hearing about how you’d been helping her on her farm, how you were there when the baby was born, how she wanted to come see your family… I just assumed. I assumed you’d built a life with her. That you’d found someone. That you had the family we never even got the chance to talk about.”

“No–no, that’s not–please–” He shook his head quickly. 

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered, your voice breaking completely. 

“I can’t stand here and pretend I’m okay while you’ve moved on, while you have this whole other life. I can’t keep holding onto something that only ever existed in my head.”

You looked at him then, eyes glassy and full of pain. “I loved you, Dennis. I still do. And maybe if you hadn’t left… maybe things would’ve been different, but you did. And now you have someone else, and I can’t be here watching that.”

He stared at you, stunned into silence, his mind scrambling to process everything at once–the confession, the misunderstanding, the realization that you loved him back all along.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Your face fell as the silence stretched.

“Right,” you murmured, nodding faintly. “That’s… that’s what I thought.”

You turned, sliding into the driver’s seat, your hands trembling on the steering wheel.

“I hope she makes you happy,” you said quietly, not looking at him. “You deserve that and so much more. You deserve the world.”

The engine started.

“Wait–” he croaked, finally stepping forward, panic flooding him as the car began to roll.

You met his eyes one last time, heartbreak etched across your face. “Goodbye, Dennis.”

The tires crunched over gravel as you drove away, and he stood there helplessly, watching the taillights shrink into the distance, his brain finally catching up all at once.

You loved him.

You thought Amy was his partner.

You left because of him.

His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees in the dirt, hands shaking as the weight of it crashed down on him, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. He pounded the gravel beneath him in frustration. 

“Dennis, what happened?” Trinity reached him moments later. 

“She—she thinks Amy—” he choked.

“Amy is your friend. You told her that, right?” Trinity groaned. 

“I froze. I didn’t—I didn’t know what to say.” He shook his head, panic rising. 

“Dennis,” she said sharply, “Amy lost her husband. You helped her because you’re kind and because you missed home. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

“She thinks I have a family. She thinks I moved on.” He pressed his hands to his face, voice trembling. 

“Then go after her.” Trinity’s expression softened slightly. 

 “I don’t know where she’s going.” He looked up, eyes wide with horror.

The realization settled heavy and suffocating. He didn’t know. He didn’t know when you’d be back. He didn’t even know how to contact you and as panic tightened around his chest, Dennis Whitaker realized with crushing clarity that he had just watched the person he loved most drive away… and he had no idea how to find you again. He remained in the dirt long after the dust from your tires had settled, long after the last echo of gravel crunching under your wheels had faded into the night, his knees pressed into the dry ground as though the earth itself were the only thing holding him upright, his mind replaying your words over and over again in a loop that grew more suffocating each time.

I loved you.

I still do.

You have a family.

I can’t do this again.

The silence he had given you felt louder now than anything he had ever said. It roared in his ears, pressed against his chest, and hollowed him out from the inside. He hadn’t meant to freeze. He hadn’t meant to let the moment slip through his fingers. He hadn’t meant to repeat the worst mistake of his life in real time, but that was exactly what he had done, and now he could still see your face when the realization dawned that he wasn’t going to stop you, when your expression shifted from fragile hope to resigned heartbreak, and the memory made his stomach churn violently.

He didn’t even notice Trinity kneeling beside him. .

“Huckleberry,” she said softly, though there was tension threaded through her voice. “You need to breathe.”

He dragged in air that didn’t feel like enough.

Boots approached from behind.

Heavy.

Fast.

George.

“What happened?” George demanded, the sharpness in his tone cutting through the haze.

“She left.” Trinity glanced up. 

George’s eyes snapped to Dennis, and the shift in his expression from confusion to realization to anger was not only immediate, but also explosive. 

“You let her leave?”

“She thinks… she thinks Amy and the baby are–” Dennis swallowed, his throat dry. 

Before he could finish, George grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet with a force that made his head spin, dust shaking loose from his clothes.

“You didn’t tell her?” George demanded, his voice low and furious in a way that was far more dangerous than shouting.

“I tried—” Dennis stammered. “I froze. I didn’t—”

“You froze. That’s your excuse?” George shoved him backward, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to send the message. 

“George—” Trinity warned.

“No,” George snapped, turning on Dennis again. “No, he doesn’t get off easy for this.”

Dennis didn’t fight back. He didn’t even raise his hands. He stood there, shoulders slumped, guilt heavy in every line of his body, because George wasn’t wrong, and some part of him almost welcomed the anger, like he deserved to be hit with it.

“She waited for you,” George continued, pacing now, his agitation barely contained. 

“Do you understand that? Every single time she came home, she asked about you. She’d pretend it didn’t matter, but I could see it. I watched her try to act normal when I told her she missed you by a day. Or by a few hours. Or by ten damn minutes.”

Dennis flinched.

“You left her with a letter,” George said, pointing at him. “No explanation. No goodbye. And now she finally tells you she loves you, and you stand there and let her walk away again?”

“I didn’t know she—” Dennis started weakly.

“That’s the problem!” George exploded. “You never know, because you never say anything! You keep everything locked up until it’s too late, and everyone else pays for it!”

The words landed heavy and unforgiving.

“She thinks Amy—” Dennis’s hands shook. 

“Amy is your friend,” George cut in. “You helped her because she lost her husband, because you’re not a terrible person, and because working on her farm made you feel closer to home. That’s it. And you couldn’t even tell her that?”

Dennis closed his eyes briefly, shame flooding him.

George exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. 

“So what now?”

“I… I don’t know where she went.” Dennis opened his eyes. 

The admission sounded hollow.

“Then you find out.” George stared at him. 

“How?”

George stepped closer again, his voice quieter but still intense. “You don’t get to sit here and feel sorry for yourself. Figure it out on your own. You call her parents, talk to her friends, drive until you find her if you have to. If you love her–and God, Dennis, it’s blatantly obvious that you do–then you fight for her.”

The word fight settled deep.Dennis nodded slowly, determination flickering through the panic.

“I will.” “You better,” George muttered.

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The next morning, Dennis drove to your parents’ house before the sun had fully risen, the sky still painted in muted shades of gray and pale gold, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary as anxiety churned in his stomach. He rehearsed what he would say over and over again, but the words still felt inadequate, too small for the weight of what he had done.

Your dad answered the door, his expression hard and callous.

“She left,” he said matter of factly.

“I know,” he replied, voice tight. “Do you know where she went?”

He hesitated, studying him. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I messed up,” he admitted quietly. “And I need to fix it.”

His expression softened slightly, but he shook his head. “She didn’t tell us. Just that she needed space.”

Dennis nodded, disappointment heavy.

He didn’t stop there.

He called old friends. He called George’s contacts. He searched social media. He drove to places you used to go–parks, cafés, the lake–knowing it was unlikely but unable to sit still.

Days blurred.

Sleep became optional.

Food felt irrelevant.

He replayed your confession constantly, clinging to it like a fragile lifeline.

She loved me.She still does.

He couldn’t lose that.

Not again.

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Nearly a week later, he was back at work when he received a text from George 

“She posted something.” was all he said

Dennis didn’t notice the texts at first.The emergency department was loud in the way it always was–controlled chaos, voices layered over monitors, the steady rhythm of urgency that never quite stopped. He moved through it on autopilot, exhaustion sitting heavy in his bones, mind carefully avoiding anything that might drift back to Broken Bow because Broken Bow meant you.

It meant apple trees and late summer heat, gravel stuck to the bottoms of bare feet, and a laugh that still echoed in his head at the worst possible times—like when he walked past the park and saw someone tossing a tennis ball for their dog, or when he smelled vanilla and citrus and something distinctly you.He had gotten very good at not thinking about those things.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice.Three times.

He ignored it, scrubbing his hands, glancing over labs, finishing charting. He couldn’t afford distraction–not when every second mattered, not when thinking too hard meant remembering the look on your face when you drove away. The way your knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel. The way he had stood there, useless, silent, watching you leave for the second time in his life.

The fourth buzz finally made him pull it out.

George:

You need to call me.

Now.

She’s in Pittsburgh.

She posted.

Said she’s visiting.

Dennis froze. Everything else blurred. The words burned into him, hot and disorienting. You were here. Not a memory, not a ghost tied to an apple orchard and dusty gravel road, but here. In his city. Walking the same streets. Breathing the same air. His chest tightened so quickly it almost hurt.

His hands trembled as he started typing.

Where–

“Incoming GSW! Two minutes!” someone shouted.

Dennis shoved his phone away instantly. Training overrode everything else. “Trauma three,” Robby called, already moving. “Prep blood. Two large-bore IVs. Let’s go.”

He didn’t allow himself to think about you again. He couldn’t. Not now. Sirens wailed outside ad the ambulance doors burst open.

“Female, mid-twenties,” a paramedic reported breathlessly. 

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Single entry. BP’s dropping.”

Dennis stepped forward, eyes scanning the wound, the blood soaking through fabric. He moved quickly, pressing gauze down, voice calm, controlled.

“Stay with me,” he murmured automatically.

Your skin was pale, lips slightly parted, breaths shallow. He focused on vitals. On pressure. On protocol.

“…Den…?” Your head turned slightly.

The sound barely reached him, swallowed by noise. He didn’t register it fully–just a flicker, a hesitation. Your perfume hit him next. Soft, familiar, and wrong in this sterile place. His chest tightened, but he pushed it aside. 

“BP?” “82 over palp.”

“EFAST exam,” Trinity ordered, swallowing hard.

The ultrasound showed free fluid, internal bleeding.

“Call OR,” he said quickly. “She needs surgery now.”

He grabbed your hand without thinking, squeezing. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice strained.

Your fingers curled weakly around his, eyes fluttering. Recognition softened your expression like you had found something safe in the middle of chaos, but before his mind could catch up, before he could truly see, you slipped again, and the team rushed you toward surgery. He walked beside the stretcher, heart racing for reasons he didn’t fully understand. Something tugged at him, something deeply familiar, but adrenaline kept him locked in.

The OR doors closed. Silence followed and Dennis slid down the wall outside, breathing hard, your blood still staining his scrubs. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to steady himself. His palms smelled faintly metallic, and he couldn’t shake the strange, aching pull in his chest.

That’s when the commotion started. Raised voices.

“There’s a dog in here–!”

“Whose dog is that?!”

Dennis barely looked up at first before he heard the whine. Low. Deep. Worried. It pierced straight through him. He stood slowly, legs unsteady, and turned toward the ambulance bay.

The ED had parted. The staff hovered cautiously and in the center stood a massive black Newfoundland, chest heaving, fur damp, eyes frantic as they searched the hallway. Dennis’s breath caught.

“Bear…?” he whispered.

The dog’s head snapped up instantly. Bear recognized him immediately and rushed forward, nails clicking loudly, whining softly.

Dennis’s stomach dropped. Bear. Your Bear. Your guard since childhood. The pieces slammed together with brutal force.The perfume, the voice whispering his name, the familiarity he couldn’t place, the way she had looked at him like she knew him, the patient. You.

“Fuck–” His voice broke. “No… no, no…”

He dropped to his knees as Bear reached him, pressing his massive head into Dennis’s chest. Dennis gripped the thick fur, shaking.

“You followed her…” he whispered hoarsely.

Around him, paramedics explained.

“He ran after the ambulance.” “Wouldn’t leave her side.” “He kept nudging her hand.”

Dennis squeezed his eyes shut. You hadn’t been alone. Bear had stayed. Dennis hadn’t even realized it was you.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t know it was her… I didn’t–”

Guilt crashed over him, heavy and suffocating. It felt like Broken Bow all over again, another moment where you needed him, another moment where he froze, another moment where he failed to see what was right in front of him.

He replayed it over and over again–your voice faintly saying his name. The way you looked at him. The recognition in your eyes, soft even through pain. You had known. You had seen him and he… He hadn’t recognized you until now. Dennis pressed his forehead into Bear’s fur, shoulders shaking. 

“She’s in surgery,” he murmured. “They’re trying to save her.”

Bear whined, glancing toward the OR doors, restless and anxious. Dennis wrapped an arm around him, holding on like he might fall apart otherwise.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered. “I should’ve seen you… I should’ve noticed… you were right there… you even said my name…”

His voice fractured completely. Memories flooded him, your laugh under the apple tree, the way you used to swing your legs off the fence while Bear laid at your feet, your voice confessing in the dark, trembling but brave, while he stood there mute.

“I keep failing you,” he choked. “Every time… I freeze… I don’t say what I should… I don’t fight hard enough… I let you walk away… twice…”

Bear leaned heavily against him, grounding him. Dennis looked toward the closed OR doors, eyes burning.

“You came all the way here,” he whispered. “And I still almost lost you… I didn’t even realize I was holding your life in my hands…”

His breathing hitched, uneven and shaky.

“I love you,” he said softly, the words finally spilling free. 

“I loved you when you taught me not to be scared of Bear… I loved you when you said you’d be a veterinarian… I loved you when you cried in my arms the night before graduation… I just… I was too much of a coward to say it.”

The hallway remained silent. He pressed his hand over his mouth, voice muffled.

“When you make it out of there,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you every day. I’ll beg if I have to. I’ll drive to Broken Bow, I’ll beg, I’ll sleep on your porch, I’ll–I’ll do anything… just don’t leave me again.”

Bear’s tail thumped once against the floor.

Dennis rested his head against the dog’s, tears slipping free.

“I don’t deserve another chance,” he admitted. “But I’m begging for one anyway. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you… I swear I will… just please… please come back.”

The OR light remained on.

And Dennis stayed there on the floor, clinging to Bear, heart breaking and yearning all at once, whispering into the quiet—

“Please… please just come back to me.”

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The OR doors finally opened nearly three hours later.

Dennis had stopped noticing time after the first hour. He sat on the floor beside Bear, back against the wall, fingers buried in thick black fur, whispering half-formed apologies into the silence. Every time the surgical light flickered, his heart jumped into his throat.

When the doors swung open, he was on his feet instantly. His legs nearly gave out again when he saw the blood on the surgical team’s gowns. Dr. Garcia stepped out first, pulling off her gloves. Her expression wasn’t unreadable, but Dennis knew her well enough to recognize the careful neutrality she wore when things were… uncertain.

“Dennis,” she said gently.

That alone made his chest tighten. She never used his name like that.

“How–” His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. “How is she?”

“She’s alive.” Dr. Garcia exhaled slowly. 

The words hit him like oxygen after drowning. His shoulders sagged, relief washing through him so hard it made him dizzy, but she didn’t stop there.

“The bullet caused significant internal damage,” she continued carefully. “It entered the left lower abdomen. We had to repair a section of her small intestine. There was also injury to the mesenteric vessels…she lost a lot of blood. We controlled the bleeding, but she went hypotensive for a while.”

Dennis’s medical brain translated automatically. Severe. Very severe.

“She’s stable now,” Dr. Garcia added, softer. “But she’s not waking up yet. She’s in a medically supported coma. Partly from sedation, partly because her body’s been through a lot. We want her to rest.”

Dennis nodded, though his throat felt too tight to speak.

“She might wake on her own,” Dr. Garcia said. “Sometimes hearing familiar voices helps. Talking to her… it can stimulate neurological response.”

Dennis blinked. “You want me to–”

“Yes,” she said curtly. “Go sit with her.”

He didn’t remember walking to the ICU. One moment he was in the hallway and the next he was standing at the doorway of your room, afraid to step inside. Machines surrounded you. Monitors. IV pumps. Oxygen tubing. The steady beep of your heart rate filled the quiet.

You looked so small…A bandage wrapped across your abdomen. Bruises were already blooming along your skin. Your hand lay limp against the sheet. Dennis’s chest cracked open. He pulled a chair close and sat slowly, like any sudden movement might break the fragile reality that you were still here.

His hand hovered before finally settling over yours. You were warm and that alone almost undid him.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice shaking. “It’s me.”

He laughed weakly. 

“God, I don’t even know if you can hear me… but… Dr. Garcia said I should talk to you. So… I’m gonna talk. And… you don’t get to complain about how much I ramble this time.” His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles.

“Do you remember the first day we met?” he murmured. “You were six. You had mud all over your knees… and Bear—he was so small then… and I was terrified of him. You laughed at me for, like, a week straight.” His voice softened, slipping into memory.

“You grabbed my hand… dragged me right up to him… told me he was just a baby. You said, ‘He won’t bite you, Dennis, he just wants to be your friend.’” His throat tightened.

“You always did that… you made scary things feel safe.” He leaned closer.

“I should’ve done that for you… and I didn’t. I left. I didn’t tell you. I let you think I didn’t care… I let you cry… I let you drive away…” His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.” He paused, swallowing.

“I’ve loved you our whole lives. I just… I didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you. I thought if I left… if I came back better… I could tell you. But I never did. I froze again.”

His voice cracked.

“And then you showed up… and you told me you loved me… and I still froze. God, I hate myself for that. I watched you leave… again.” He bowed his head, resting it on your hand.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped. Not in college, not in Pittsburgh, not for a single day. Every time I saw a big dog… every time I smelled your perfume… every time I passed an apple… it was you.” He laughed softly, wet with tears.

“You’re still ruining apples for me, you know that?” He squeezed your hand gently.

“You came all this way… and you got hurt… and I didn’t even recognize you at first. You said my name… and I still didn’t see it. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I keep failing you.” He leaned even closer, voice barely audible.

“If you wake up… I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I’ll tell you everything I should’ve said years ago. I’ll beg. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… please wake up.”

The monitor continued its steady rhythm.

Dennis brushed his thumb over your hand again, softer now.

“And if you can hear me…” he whispered, “I just want you to know… I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

He swallowed hard, blinking away tears.

“And… when you wake up,” he added gently, “I’ll tell you all of this again… in case you didn’t hear me.”

He squeezed your hand once more.

“I promise… I’ll say it as many times as it takes.”

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It happened quietly.

Dennis had been talking for so long that his voice had gone rough at the edges, each word scraping past a throat that felt too tight. He sat curled forward in the chair, one hand wrapped around yours, the other rubbing slow circles over his brow as exhaustion and fear fought for space in his chest.

“…and you used to steal my hoodies,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “You’d say you were cold, but you just liked wearing them… and I never told you I noticed… because I didn’t want you to stop.”

He let out a small, tired breath. The room was dim, monitors glowing softly in the quiet. Bear lay sprawled just outside the doorway–hospital staff had finally relented after Dennis insisted he was calm, that he’d stay out of the way. The dog hadn’t moved in hours, head resting on his paws, eyes fixed on you like he was guarding you even in sleep. Dennis’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.

“I told you I’d say everything again when you woke up,” he whispered. “I meant it. I’m still gonna–”

Your fingers twitched. Dennis froze. He stared, not daring to breathe. For a second he thought he imagined it–wishful thinking, exhaustion, desperation. Then your fingers moved again, weak but unmistakable.

“Hey–” His chair scraped loudly as he leaned forward. “Hey, hey… I’m here.”

Your eyelids fluttered and he stood so fast the room tilted. 

“It’s okay,” he said, voice trembling. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened. They were unfocused, glassy, drifting across the ceiling before settling slowly on him. For one fleeting second, hope flared so bright it hurt. Then confusion filled your expression. Your brows pulled together faintly. You swallowed, throat dry, voice barely audible. 

“…Where… am I…?”

“You’re in the hospital,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You had surgery, but you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Your gaze stayed on him as if you were searching for something. Dennis’s smile faltered, but he pushed forward anyway.

“It’s me,” he whispered softly. “Dennis.”

You blinked.

“…Dennis?” you repeated, like the name meant nothing and the hope inside him cracked.

“Yes,” he said quickly, nodding. “Yeah. I– I’m Dennis.”

You looked at his face more carefully now, studying him like a stranger. Your eyes flicked to his hand holding yours. You seemed to register the closeness, the familiarity of his posture, the redness in his eyes. Your lips parted.

“I… I don’t…” You swallowed again, visibly distressed. “I don’t remember.”

The words landed like a punch to the chest. Dennis stepped back instinctively, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he said too fast. “That’s–that’s normal. Temporary. You lost blood, you hit your head, you were under anesthesia–it happens.”But his voice was already breaking.

You looked around the room, panic creeping in. 

“Why… why are you… here?” you whispered. “Do… do I know you?”

He couldn’t answer. His mouth opened then closed. 

Your gaze shifted toward the doorway, spotting the massive black shape lying there. 

“Is… that dog… mine?” you asked weakly, confusion deepening.

Bear lifted his head at the sound of your voice, tail thumping softly once. He stood slowly and padded closer, stopping near the foot of the bed, whining low in his throat. You stared at him.

“…He looks like he knows me,” you murmured, uncertain.

Dennis’s chest tightened painfully. 

“That’s Bear,” he said hoarsely. “He’s yours. He followed the ambulance. He… wouldn’t leave you.”

You watched Bear carefully, your expression softening with faint instinctual warmth, but still no memory.

“…I don’t remember him either,” you whispered, which broke something in Dennis.

He turned away abruptly, pressing his hand to his mouth. His shoulders began to shake, the sound he tried to suppress escaping anyway. It was raw, wounded. You flinched slightly, startled. 

“I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve upset you,” you said weakly. “Did I… did I forget something important?”

Dennis let out a broken laugh, half sob. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Yeah… you did, but I’ll help you remember again.”

He wiped at his face, trying to pull himself together, but the tears kept coming. Six years of missing you. Hours of begging you to wake up. Every confession he’d poured into your sleeping silence was gone.

You looked at him helplessly. 

“Were… were we… friends?” you asked softly.

The question gutted him.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Friends.” “…Just friends?” You hesitated. 

Dennis’s breath hitched. He shook his head slowly, unable to lie. 

“No.” Your confusion deepened, eyes darting between him and Bear. “Then… what were we?”

Dennis’s composure shattered completely. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bed rail, tears falling freely now. 

“You were… everything,” he whispered. “You are everything.”

You watched him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the intensity of someone you didn’t recognize grieving you like this.

“I don’t understand,” you murmured, voice trembling.

“I know,” he said quickly, nodding. “I know, I’m sorry… I don’t mean to— I just—”

He looked at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I waited six years to see you again,” he whispered. “I told you I loved you while you were asleep… I promised I’d say it again when you woke up… and now you don’t even know who I am.”

Bear whined softly, resting his chin on the mattress near your leg. You instinctively reached toward him. Your fingers brushed his fur, and he leaned into the touch immediately. Dennis watched, heart breaking in a new way.

“You still… trust him,” he said quietly. “Even if you don’t remember.”

You stroked Bear weakly, eyes flicking back to Dennis. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again. “I wish I remembered… you look… really sad.”

“Yeah. I am.” He laughed through tears. 

He hesitated, then slowly reached forward again, stopping short of touching your hand.

“I’ll… I’ll tell you everything again,” he said softly. “Every memory. Every stupid thing. The apple trees. The farm. How you taught me not to be scared of him. All of it… I just didn’t think I’d have to start from zero.”His voice cracked.

The room fell quiet except for the monitor’s steady beeping and Bear’s soft breathing. Dennis looked at you like he was mourning someone still alive.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, even though it sounded fragile now. “Even if you don’t remember me… I’ll stay. I’ll wait until you do. Or… until you don’t. I’ll still stay.”

And the devastation in his eyes made it clear, he would fall in love with you all over again, even if you never remembered him at all.

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The next few days blurred together in a quiet, fragile rhythm. Dennis barely left your side. He helped the nurses reposition you when the pain made you wince. He held the cup when you were finally allowed small sips of water. He adjusted your pillows, too many times to count, like if he could make you comfortable enough you might remember something.

Bear stayed nearby, often curled at the foot of the bed, occasionally lifting his head when you shifted. You had grown used to his presence quickly, instinctively reaching for him when the confusion overwhelmed you. Dennis watched that every time, something warm and painful flickering behind his eyes.

“Do you remember this?” he would ask softly, showing you photos on his phone–pictures George had sent him, old ones from Broken Bow. You as kids, muddy and laughing. You hugging Bear when he was still half his current size. Apple trees in late summer. You studied them carefully then shook your head.

“I’m sorry,” you would whisper.

Each apology chipped something inside him. He tried telling you stories instead. 

“You used to climb that old fence behind your house… you’d swing your legs and pretend it was a throne…” Nothing.

“You made me promise I’d never be scared of Bear again…” Nothing.

“You cried when I left for college…” He regretted that one immediately, watching confusion and discomfort flicker across your face.

“I don’t… I don’t remember,” you said softly.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep trying.” He smiled anyway, but the exhaustion was starting to show. His eyes were rimmed red. He barely slept. He talked like someone trying to outrun silence.

On the third day, he brought you apple slices.

“They’re from the farmer’s market,” he said quietly. “Not the same… but close.”

“They’re good.” You took one, chewing slowly, eyes lighting up. 

“You used to–” He smiled, hopeful. 

“I don’t remember,” you finished gently.

The hope dimmed again. Still, he stayed. He helped you sit up for the first time, hands careful at your shoulders. 

“Easy… you’re doing great,” he murmured, voice soft like he was afraid you might break.

Your fingers brushed his wrist as you steadied yourself. The contact lingered. For a moment, something flickered across your expression, maybe familiarity.

Dennis held his breath, but it faded.

“I’m tired,” you whispered.

“Yeah, of course. Rest.” He nodded quickly. 

He pulled the blanket up gently, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Nothing was working. Every memory he offered dissolved into confusion. Every story fell flat. You were kind to him, gentle even, but distant. Like he was someone important you couldn’t quite place, but not someone who lived in your heart. It was slowly destroying him.

That afternoon, there was a soft knock at the door. Dennis was mid-sentence, telling you about the time Bear fell into the irrigation ditch and soaked both of you, when the door opened. A woman stepped in, holding a baby against her shoulder. Dennis froze. You looked at them curiously.

“Hey… I was looking for–” The woman smiled gently. 

Your eyes widened slightly. Something sharp pierced through the fog.

“…Amy?” you whispered.

The room went still. Dennis’s heart dropped straight to the floor. Panic rising in his throat like never before. You stared at her, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused like something painful was surfacing too quickly.

“You remember me? Oh, thank god–” Amy looked relieved. 

You weren’t looking at her anymore. You were looking at Dennis and suddenly, it all came back, not in warm fragments, but in a flood of cold, sharp memory.

Apple trees. The farm. His silence. Tucker mentioning Amy. The baby. The panic. The belief he had moved on. Your confession. His silence again. Driving away with your heart shattered.

Your expression changed. The softness disappeared, replaced with something cold and guarded. Dennis saw it happen in real time, and it terrified him more than the amnesia ever had.

“…You,” you whispered, voice hollow.

 “You… remember?” His breath hitched.

“I remember.” Your eyes hardened slightly causing Amy to shift awkwardly, sensing the tension. 

“I–I can come back later–”

“It’s okay,” you murmured, but your gaze never left Dennis.

The distance between you felt enormous now.

“I think… I need you to leave,” you said quietly.

The words cut deeper than anything.

“What?” Dennis blinked. 

“I need space,” you clarified, voice still soft but firm. “Please.”

“No–wait–please–” He stepped forward, panic rising. “You just got your memories back, you don’t–you don’t understand–” His chest tightened violently. 

“I understand,” you said, calm in a way that felt colder than anger. “You left. Twice. I told you how I felt… and you said nothing.”

“I was in shock–I didn’t–I love you, I just–” Dennis’s face crumpled. 

You shook your head slightly, wincing at the movement. “I can’t do this right now.”

The finality in your voice shattered him. He dropped to his knees beside the bed before he even realized what he was doing.

“Please don’t send me away,” he begged, voice breaking. “I can’t—not again. I just got you back.”

Your expression flickered, but you stayed quiet.

“I was a coward,” he continued, tears falling freely. “I know I was. I froze. I hurt you. I’ve regretted it every day since I told you all of this while you were asleep.I promised I’d tell you again. I love you. I never stopped loving you. Please…” His trembling hands hovered near yours but didn’t touch.

“Please… don’t leave me again,” he whispered. “I’ll stay quiet. I won’t push. I’ll just sit here. I just… I can’t walk out of this room and not know if I’ll see you again.”

Your heart twisted painfully, but the hurt was still too fresh.

“I need time,” you said softly. “I’ll give you time… just… let me stay.” He shook his head desperately. 

 “Dennis… please.” You closed your eyes briefly.

The plea in your voice was gentle, but it was still a no. His shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of him, replaced by quiet devastation.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

He stood slowly, like it physically hurt to move away from you.

“I’ll be right outside,” he added, voice fragile. “If you need anything. If you change your mind. If you… remember something else.” He paused at the door, looking back at you one last time, eyes full of yearning and regret.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.

Then he stepped out, cracking the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, breaking all over again just on the other side, while Bear padded out after him and rested his head on his shoulder. Inside the room, you stared at the door, heart aching, unsure whether pushing him away was protecting yourself or breaking both of you all over again.

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Dennis went back to work because he didn’t know what else to do. The first shift felt unreal, like he was walking through someone else’s life. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The sounds of monitors and overhead pages blurred into meaningless noise. His hands moved on instinct, checking vitals, reviewing charts, responding to consults, but there was no presence behind it. Just muscle memory. He functioned and that was all.

Patients spoke to him and he nodded at the right moments. Nurses asked questions and he answered correctly. He signed orders, reviewed labs, and charted notes. Every action was precise, automatic, hollow. He wasn’t really there.

The only moments that felt real were his breaks. He’d retreat to the empty stairwell or the far corner of the staff lounge, phone clutched in his hand. He’d scroll through photos of you until the world narrowed to just the two of you again, muddy boots at the farm, your hair caught in sunlight, you laughing with your head thrown back while Bear tried to climb into your lap despite being far too big. His thumb would hover over the screen, tracing your face without touching it. Sometimes he’d whisper to the photo.

“I’m still here,” he’d murmur. “I didn’t leave. I’m not going to leave.”

Other times he’d just stare, eyes glassy, shoulders slumped, like he was trying to memorize you all over again in case you slipped away. Then there were the nights. He learned your sleep schedule unintentionally… when the nurses dimmed the lights, when the hallway quieted, when the ICU settled into its low hum. Those were the only times he allowed himself to go back to your room, but he never stayed long. Just enough to stand quietly near the door, watching the rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes Bear would lift his head and wag softly when he saw him. Sometimes Dennis would sit in the chair again, hands clasped, afraid to touch you in case you woke and asked him to leave.

“You look peaceful,” he’d whisper. “I wish I knew what you were dreaming about. I hope it's me.” He’d leave before you stirred.

It was the closest he could get to you now. Trinity noticed immediately. Dennis had always been quiet, but this was different. He moved like someone carrying something heavy inside his ribs. He forgot to eat. His scrubs hung looser. Dark circles carved deep shadows under his eyes. One night, Trinity found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his phone in silence.

“You’re wasting away,” Trinity said bluntly, leaning against the counter. “I’m fine.” Dennis didn’t look up. 

“No, you’re not.” Trinity crossed her arms. “You’re barely sleeping, you don’t talk anymore, and you keep looking at those same photos like they’re oxygen.”

“They kind of are.” Dennis swallowed. 

 “You need to fight for her, man. Not… whatever this is.” Trinity sighed, frustration softening into concern.

“I am fighting,” Dennis whispered.

“By lurking outside her room when she’s asleep?” Trinity pressed. “By starving yourself and hoping she changes her mind?”

“She asked for space.” Dennis’s jaw tightened. 

“And you’re giving her your entire life in return?” She shook her head. “You’re letting this destroy you.”

“It already has.” Dennis finally looked up, eyes dull but intense. 

The words hung heavy in the room.

“You think she’d want to see you like this?” She exhaled slowly. 

“I don’t know what she wants anymore.” Dennis’s voice broke. 

The tough love didn’t land the way Trinity hoped. It just settled into the already-deep exhaustion weighing on Dennis. Days passed like that, gray and indistinct. Then one afternoon, Dennis walked past your room and heard laughter. He stopped. It was soft, but unmistakable. He glanced through the glass.

Your parents were there. Your mom perched carefully at the edge of the chair, your dad standing close, one hand resting gently on the bed rail. George leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but smiling, actually smiling. You were laughing. Not the fragile, polite smile you’d given the nurses. Not the guarded calm you’d shown him. This was real, eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking slightly, warmth lighting your face.

Dennis’s chest tightened painfully. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. He stayed in the hallway longer than he meant to, watching quietly, drinking in the sight of you alive in a way you hadn’t been since waking. It hurt, but it also felt like relief.

“She’s really laughing,” he whispered to himself.

He didn’t notice George glance toward the door until it was too late. Their eyes met through the glass. The smile faded from George’s face.

Later, Dennis was called into the ICU conference room. Dr. Garcia was explaining the details of your injuries, the surgery, the coma, the temporary amnesia. Your family listened carefully, expressions shifting between concern and relief.

“…and emotionally, recovery may take longer,” she concluded gently. “Given the circumstances.”

Your dad nodded slowly. Your mom wiped her eyes.

George’s gaze drifted toward Dennis again. After the meeting ended, George followed him into the hallway.

“You should’ve told us,” George said, voice tight.

 “I–” Dennis froze.

“You knew she was here. You knew she was hurt. And you didn’t call us.” “I didn’t know how,” Dennis admitted quietly.

“You didn’t know how? She’s family. We deserved to be here from the start.” George’s anger flared. 

“You’re right.” Dennis looked down, guilt settling heavily. 

George shook his head, pacing once before turning back. “She almost died. You went through all of that alone? And we didn’t even know?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Dennis whispered. “I was just trying to keep her alive.”

“You don’t get to carry everything by yourself. Not when it comes to her.” George’s expression softened slightly, but frustration remained. 

“I know.” Dennis nodded faintly. 

George studied him more closely now–the hollowed cheeks, the exhausted posture, the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You look terrible,” George muttered.

 “I feel worse.” Dennis let out a humorless breath.

George’s anger wavered, replaced with something more complicated. “She smiled today,” he said quietly.

“I saw,” Dennis replied, voice soft. “You still love her.” George watched him for a long moment.

“Always.” Dennis didn’t hesitate.

The hallway fell quiet. Through the glass, you were still talking with your parents, your smile lingering. Dennis stood there, close enough to see you, but still on the outside, aching with every breath, holding onto the fragile hope that one day you might look at him and smile like that again.

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Dennis perfected the art of avoiding you.

He learned which hallways to take that didn’t pass your room. He traded shifts when he could. When he had to be in the ICU for consults, he kept his eyes down, charts clutched tightly in his hands like a shield. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you. It was the opposite.

He wanted to see you so badly it felt like hunger, but every time he imagined you looking at him with that calm distance, that careful politeness, it hollowed him out all over again. So he stayed away, living on glimpses, checking the board for your name, asking nurses vague questions, standing at the far end of the corridor just to know you were still there. His routine became mechanical.

Work. Breaks with photos. Nighttime visits only when you slept. Leave before you woke.

Repeat.

Then one afternoon, he was called up to the ICU for a patient with worsening labs. He didn’t realize how close the room was to yours until he turned the corner and stopped. You were standing. Not just sitting up in bed, not leaning against pillows, but standing, one hand lightly gripping the IV pole, the other hovering uncertainly near the wall. A physical therapist stood beside you, encouraging you softly.

“You’re doing great,” she said. “Just a few more steps.”

Dennis forgot how to breathe. You looked stronger, still pale, still careful, but upright. Alive in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine. He should have turned around, but he didn’t. Your gaze drifted across the hallway and landed on him. For a second, neither of you moved. Then, softly, your face brightened. A real smile.

“…Denny?” you called.

The nickname hit him like a drug. You hadn’t called him that in years. Not since before things became complicated. Not since before feelings had sharpened and silence had broken you both. His knees nearly gave out. He grabbed the edge of the counter beside him, steadying himself as emotion flooded his chest too fast, too sudden. The world tilted. His vision blurred. You took a careful step toward him.

“Hey,” you said gently, like you were afraid he might disappear.

That was enough to snap him back into motion. He crossed the distance quickly, then slowed when he saw the slight wobble in your stance.

“Careful,” he murmured, reaching out instinctively.

You smiled again. It was smaller this time, but warm.

“I’m getting better,” you said.

“I can see that,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Before he could stop himself, he pulled you into a hug. It wasn’t gentle.It was desperate as arms wrapping around you like he needed to confirm you were solid, real, not another dream. He buried his face against your shoulder, breathing you in, shaking. Then he froze. You’d asked for space. He pulled back abruptly, hands hovering awkwardly as guilt rushed in. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have–” He was already crying.

Tears spilled freely, his composure collapsing in seconds. 

“You… you smiled,” he said brokenly, like he couldn’t believe it. “You called me Denny.”

“I did.” You looked at him softly. 

“I thought… I thought you didn’t want me near you,” he admitted, wiping at his face but failing. “I’ve been staying away. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

 “You’ve been avoiding me?” Your expression faltered slightly.

“Yeah. I still come by when you’re asleep… I just–I didn’t want you to see me if you didn’t want to.” He nodded, embarrassed. 

The confession sounded small, almost pathetic.

You studied him carefully and saw the weight he’d lost, the exhaustion, the way he looked like someone who hadn’t let himself hope in weeks.

“You look terrible,” you said quietly.

 “That’s fair.” He let out a shaky laugh.

You shifted your grip on the IV pole, then tentatively reached out and touched his sleeve. The contact made him still completely.

“I didn’t mean I didn’t want you,” you said softly. “I just needed… time.”

“I know,” he whispered quickly. “I was trying to give it to you. I just… I missed you.” The vulnerability in his voice was raw.

 “I missed you too.” You squeezed his sleeve gently.

“You… did?” His breath hitched.

You nodded. He looked like he might cry harder.

“I didn’t think I’d get this again,” he admitted, voice quiet and shaky. “You smiling at me. Saying my name. I kept thinking… that was gone.”

 “It’s not gone. ”You tilted your head slightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m… I’m being pathetic.” He laughed weakly, wiping his eyes again. 

“A little,” you agreed gently.

 “Yeah, that tracks.” He nodded, almost relieved.

You both stood there, the air between you softer now, fragile but warmer than before.

“You should sit,” he said suddenly, slipping back into concern. “You’re still recovering.”

“You always do that,” you murmured, amused.

“Do what?”

“Switch from emotional disaster to worried doctor in two seconds.”

“Occupational hazard.” He flushed faintly. 

You took another small step, and he hovered beside you immediately, ready to catch you if needed. Not touching, but just close enough.

“Denny?” you said again.

He looked at you instantly.

“I’m… glad you didn’t stop caring,” you admitted.

“I couldn’t. I tried to give you space, but… I never stopped.” His voice broke. 

You smiled softly and that small, simple expression nearly undid him all over again.

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You made it back to the room with his help, the short walk clearly draining you, but you looked lighter somehow like seeing him had steadied something inside you. Dennis stayed close, hands hovering as you got back on the bed carefully. Once you were settled, he stepped back, unsure where to put himself now that the moment had softened. He shifted his weight, glancing at the floor, then at you, then away again. There was something he needed to say. He swallowed.

“About… Amy,” he started, voice tentative.

You watched him quietly, waiting. He ran a hand through his hair, already unraveling.

“I should’ve explained sooner. I should’ve explained that day when you… when you found out. I just– I panicked. I froze and then everything spiraled and I–”

“Dennis,” you said gently.

 “Right. Sorry. I’m rambling.” He nodded quickly but kept rambling anyway.

“Her husband died,” he said, the words tumbling out. “Just before the baby was born. His name was Teddy. They were… they were high school sweethearts. Grew up together. Like us. Everyone knew them together. They were inseparable. Attached at the hip.”

Your expression softened. Dennis’s voice grew quieter.

“He used to do all the work on the farm. Fix the fences, manage the equipment, everything. And then suddenly she had… none of that. Just a newborn and acres of land she didn’t know how to keep running.” He looked down at his hands.

“I saw her one day trying to fix the irrigation pump by herself. She looked exhausted. And… I don’t know. I just saw you. Or… what you would’ve been if something like that happened to me.” Your chest tightened.

“She talked about him constantly,” he continued. “About how they grew up together. About how he used to walk her home. About how she didn’t know how to exist without him. And it… it reminded me of us. Of everything we had. Everything I was too scared to say out loud.” His voice cracked.

“So I helped. At first it was just once or twice. Then more. I wasn’t trying to replace him–I just didn’t want her drowning in it. I knew what it felt like to lose someone before you even really got the chance to… hold onto them.” You listened carefully, the pieces settling into place.

“And when I realized you thought… that the baby was mine…” He exhaled shakily. “God, I should’ve stopped it right there. I should’ve told you everything. But I didn’t. I just… stood there. Like an idiot.” He laughed weakly at himself.

“I talked to her after,” he added quickly. “After you left. I told her I couldn’t come around the farm anymore. That it hurt you. That I’d made a mess of everything. She understood. She said she didn’t want to be the reason I lost you.”

You frowned slightly.

“You… stopped helping her?”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

 “Dennis… I never wanted that.” You shook your head slowly.

He blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t know the situation,” you said softly. “If I had known… I would’ve told you to keep helping her. She lost her husband. She has a baby. She needs support.”

His face fell in a complicated mix of emotions–pain, admiration, something almost reverent.

“You’re still… like this,” he whispered. “Like what?”

“Kind. Understanding. Bigger than the situation.” He swallowed. “It’s the girl I fell in love with.”

Your gaze softened, but you looked down, unsure what to say.

“You really think I should keep helping her?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “If she needs it. You were doing something good. I don’t want to be the reason someone else struggles.”

He stared at you, eyes shining with something fragile.

“You always put everyone else first,” he murmured.

“I just… don’t want anyone to hurt more than they already are.” You shrugged faintly. 

His expression shifted–hurt threading through the warmth.

“I don’t want to take advantage of that,” he said softly.

 “You’re not.” You looked up.

“But I could,” he admitted. “You’d let me. You’d tell me to go help her even if it hurt you. Even if you were still… trying to figure us out.”

He took a small step closer, voice quiet.

“I don’t want your big heart to cost you anything else. Especially not me.” The vulnerability in his words sat heavy between you.

“I’m not sacrificing anything,” you said gently. “I just… understand.”

“You always did.” He shook his head slightly, eyes lingering on you like he was memorizing every detail. 

Silence stretched, soft but full.

“I don’t love her,” he added suddenly, like he needed you to hear it clearly. “It’s not like that. I never stopped loving you. Even when I was helping her, even when everything got messy… it was always you.”

Your breath caught faintly. He looked almost embarrassed by his own honesty. 

“I just didn’t say it when I should’ve.”

You studied him, the tired eyes, the careful distance he was trying to maintain, the way he looked like he was afraid of hurting you again just by standing too close.

“You don’t have to punish yourself forever,” you murmured.

He gave a small, sad smile. “I’m not punishing myself. I just… don’t want to lose you again because I didn’t think things through.”

Your fingers rested lightly on the armrest, close to his hand but not quite touching.

“You won’t lose me,” you said.

He nodded, no longer able to speak. For the first time since everything had fallen apart, the misunderstanding that once tore you apart felt smaller, replaced by something fragile, hopeful, and painfully careful, like both of you were learning how to hold each other again without breaking.

The room fell into a quiet that felt almost sacred.

Dennis didn’t move right away. He stood beside you, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, like he was afraid even breathing too hard might break the fragile peace settling between you. His eyes kept drifting to your face, then away, then back again—like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t another moment that would dissolve the second he reached for it. He swallowed.

“Can I… ask something?” he said softly, voice almost shy. “You can ask me anything. ”You looked up at him, the gentleness in your expression making his chest ache.

He glanced at the hospital bed, then back at you. The request seemed to embarrass him before he even said it. 

“Would it… be okay if I laid with you? Just… for a little bit. I won’t get in your way. I just… I think I need… I need to hold you.” There was something so small and vulnerable in the way he said it, like he expected you to say no and was already bracing himself.

“Come here.” You smiled softly. 

The relief that crossed his face was immediate and almost overwhelming. His shoulders dropped, tension leaving him in one long breath.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He moved slowly, deliberately, lowering the railing with careful hands. He glanced at you constantly, checking your comfort, making sure he wasn’t hurting you even before he touched you. Then he climbed onto the bed, shifting cautiously so the mattress barely dipped.

For a second, he just sat there beside you, uncertain. Then instinct took over. He curled toward you, sliding one arm around your torso, then the other, pulling you gently into him like he’d been waiting years to do it. His face tucked immediately into the crook of your neck, breath warm and shaky against your skin. The sound he made was barely audible, half exhale, half broken sigh.

“I missed this,” he whispered, voice muffled.

You wrapped your arm around his shoulders, careful but sure, and he tightened his hold in response, fingers gripping softly at your side like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened them.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words spilling out again, softer now. “For everything. For freezing. For letting you walk away. For not telling you… I should’ve told you I loved you. I should’ve chased you. I should’ve–” His voice trembled, fading into quiet.

“I love you,” he whispered again. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”

He breathed you in deeply, like he was trying to memorize the scent of you. His nose brushed your neck slightly, and he let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh.

“You still smell the same,” he murmured. “Like… home.”

Your fingers found his hair. The second you started running them gently through it, he melted completely. His body softened against yours, the tension draining out of him all at once. His grip loosened just enough to become something more comfortable, more trusting.

“That feels… really good,” he whispered, voice already heavy with sleep.

You continued, slow and soothing, nails lightly grazing his scalp. He leaned into it unconsciously, pressing closer, his cheek resting fully against your shoulder now.

“You’re okay,” you murmured softly. “You can rest, Denny.”

He nodded faintly, barely awake. “Don’t… don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back.

His breathing slowed, deepened. Each inhale grew steadier, each exhale warmer against your skin. His hand, still resting at your waist, relaxed fully, fingers uncurling like he’d finally let himself believe you were real. You kept stroking his hair, murmuring quiet reassurances even as his weight grew heavier with sleep.

“Thank you… for being here,” you whispered. “You waited. You stayed. I’m right here.”

He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened briefly, like some part of him heard you.

You watched him, heart softening at how peaceful he looked. The lines of worry that usually pulled at his face were gone. His lashes rested against his cheeks, his brow smooth. He looked younger somehow like the boy who used to sit beside you under the apple trees.

Your fingers slowed, still tangled gently in his hair.

Sleep tugged at you too, warmth wrapping around you both. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you, your own eyes growing heavy.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured one last time.

You drifted off with him curled against you, both of you tangled together, finally at peace.

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Later, after shift change, Trinity walked quietly down the ICU hallway, scanning for him. She hadn’t seen Dennis sign out, and lately that meant he’d probably disappeared somewhere he shouldn’t be—skipping meals, forgetting time, sitting alone.

She nudged the door open gently and stopped.

Dennis was curled tightly against you, one arm wrapped around your waist, his face tucked into your neck like he’d burrowed there and refused to move. You were angled toward him, one hand still threaded through his hair, fingers resting softly like you’d fallen asleep mid-comfort.

Your legs were tangled slightly beneath the blanket, the IV line draped carefully to the side. Bear lay at the foot of the bed, chin resting on his paws, watching over both of you.

Trinity’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh,” she whispered, almost reverent.

He looked peaceful in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. No tension, no exhaustion…just quiet relief. He clung to you like someone who had finally made it home after being lost for too long.

She carefully pulled out her phone.

Snap.

The photo caught everything–the curve of his arm around you, your fingers still in his hair, both of you tucked close together, the soft rise and fall of shared breathing.

She smiled to herself, a small, fond shake of her head.

“He’s gonna pretend to be mad,” she murmured. “But he’ll keep this forever.”

She dimmed the light slightly, making sure the room stayed peaceful. Bear’s tail thumped softly once, but he didn’t move.

Trinity slipped out quietly, leaving the door cracked just enough.

Dennis, who met his best friend (you) at the ripe age of 6, when your family bought the large land next to his family's farm.

Dennis, who was actually terrified of you upon your first meeting.

Dennis, who thought your newfoundland was going to eat him if he got too close.

You, who loved animals so much that you taught Dennis not to be afraid of your big, friendly, giant guard dog.

You, who told everyone you know that one day, you'd be a world famous veterinarian.

You, who got along extremely well with everyone, including Dennis' brothers, much to his despair.

Dennis, who always found escape at your home, one of the only ones who were not a part of the Broken Bow religious cult.

Dennis, who spent all of his free time with you, almost convincing everyone that you were attached at the hip.

Dennis, who suddenly realized one day that he was madly in love with you.

You, who also had strong feelings for him, but was too afraid he didn't feel the same way.

You, who graduated high school with Dennis without ever confessing your true feelings.

You, who woke up the next morning with a letter next to your bed and the window slightly ajar from when Dennis had snuck in.

Dennis, who was already hours away, on the road to college, when you woke up and opened that letter.

Dennis, who completely blindsided you about his plans and left you in the dark.

Dennis, who left his heart with you back in Broken Bow, Nebraska.

You, who broke down crying to your parents about how you didn't know where he was going.

You, who had to be comforted by his brothers who were pissed at him for leaving you like this.

You, who didn't know that Dennis left everyone in Broken Bow the same way he left you--abruptly and secretly.

Dennis, who needed to get out of Broken Bow and start fresh, even if it meant without you.

Dennis, who needed to find his confidence before he could even thinking about confessing his feelings to you.

Dennis, who always has you in the back of his mind.

You, who forced yourself to get up and try to get over this betrayal.

You, who moved away to college to pursue your dreams, even though you always thought Dennis was your dream.

You, who always came back to Broken Bow during breaks to see your beloved animals and parents.

Dennis, who always tried to come back, but wasn't always met with warm welcomes.

Dennis, who tries to ask about you, but doesn't get responses from his brothers.

Dennis, who always misses you a day or even a couple of hours, so you never run into each other.

You, who had to go just about 6 years before finally running into him again.

You, who finally got the timing right and found him on the farm again.

You, who felt almost jealous of the life he had built as you saw the Pitt was also on the farm visiting.

Dennis, who didn't expect to see you on the farm, but got whiplash from hearing your laugh from across the field.

Dennis, who never thought he would be jealous of his older brother carrying you on his shoulders while you tried to pick a juicy looking apple from the tree.

Dennis, who fell in love with you all over again from just a single glance.

You, who felt yourself falter when Trinity began talking about Amy and the baby.

You, who immediately misunderstood, thinking Dennis had a whole entire family now.

You, who didn't make an appearance again until the end of the Pitt's visit.

Dennis, who grew exponentially concerned that you disappeared after that first day.

Dennis, who began to panic that you left without telling him (hypocrite).

Dennis, who ran across the field to chase you to the car, bags already packed, ready to leave Broken Bow.

Dennis, who gets weak in the knees when he smells your perfume--the same one you've used for the past 10+ years.

Dennis, who doesn't understand why you're leaving in such a panic and begs you to stay.

You, who doesn't understand why he would be doing that when he has a whole ass family.

You, who in tears, pours out your entire heart to Dennis, leaving him stunned.

Dennis, who stays silent, not only because he doesn't know how to respond, but because he never imagined you loved him back.

Dennis, who can only look as your heart gets broken again by his silence, your car driving off into the night.

Dennis, who robotically turns to go back to the farm when he's met with Trinity who followed him out.

Dennis, who gets yelled at by Trinity for dealing with you the way that he did.

Dennis, who is now on his knees, having a panic attack because he just processed what happened.

Dennis, who is now realizing he doesn't know where you're going, when you'll be back, or how to contact you.