Elliessickhabits

The sun sat mercilessly high above the field, hanging like a weight in the sky, baking the turf into a blinding shimmer of green. The air felt heavy and unrelenting, as though every bit of heat pressed directly against your skin. You shifted your pom-poms from one hand to the other, fingers slick against the smooth plastic strands, and tried to ignore the way your uniform clung. Standing at the edge of the field waiting for the rest of the squad was dull, but at least you had a view.

The players were still dispersing toward the locker room, helmets tucked under arms, jerseys darkened with sweat. You tracked one in particular without realizing it, broad shoulders, the confident swagger in his gait, the way he laughed when one of his teammates shoved him playfully. He looked back once, and you offered him a small smile, subtle enough that maybe he wouldn’t notice. But before the moment could turn into anything, he ducked into the shadow of the locker room doorway and disappeared.

The sudden stillness pressed in. Empty field, empty stands, the faint buzz of cicadas from beyond the track. You might have stayed rooted where you were, but then you saw him, or what you thought was a him. A lone figure sat slouched on the bleachers, high enough up to catch the sunlight directly across their face. Cap tugged down low, arms folded over knees, sneakers tapping idly against the metal. At first glance, it was the same posture you’d seen a thousand times on the football team: restless, cocky, like the field already belonged to them.

You hesitated. For all the times you’d promised yourself to rein in your extroverted impulses, the urge to move, to do, usually won. The rest of the squad wasn’t here yet, and there was no one else around. Curiosity tugged harder than restraint. Adjusting your skirt so it didn’t lift with the lazy breeze, you climbed the first few steps of the bleachers, sneakers clanging softly against the heated metal.

“Hey,” you called, your voice light and teasing as though you already knew him. “You on the team?”

The figure shifted, sitting up straighter, pushing strands of reddish-brown hair back under the brim of the cap. Then the reply came, unexpected, soft, undeniably feminine. “I’m on tryouts. Or, I was supposed to be.” She tilted her head toward the field, green eyes catching the sun even as she squinted against it. “Manager made it pretty clear he’s not interested in girls on the roster.”

For a second, all the air seemed to thin out around you. You stopped mid-step, heat rushing to your cheeks faster than the sunlight could manage. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I thought, I didn’t realize you.., I just assumed—”

Her lips quirked into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace, and she lifted a hand to wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. Kinda the point, right? I blend in just enough, then get told to go home anyway.” The words sounded like she’d rehearsed them, but then her expression softened, a streak of color blooming across her freckled cheeks. “Besides…” she hesitated, then, with a sudden boldness that seemed to surprise even herself, added, “I don’t really mind when a cute girl like you mistakes me for a guy.”

The sentence hung heavy in the warm air. She said it with more confidence than her body language carried, her hand immediately went to rub at the back of her neck, her gaze darting away, the blush deepening to crimson.

You blinked at her, caught between flustered and intrigued, the word cute echoing louder in your mind than anything else. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, laughing a little too high-pitched. “That’s… not exactly what I was going for, but thanks? I think?”

Her smirk tugged back into place as she leaned her elbows on her knees again, clearly pleased she’d managed to fluster you. “You’re welcome.”

You swallowed, your eyes dragging over her now that you were actually looking. The cap was faded and fraying at the edges, her auburn hair messy but intentional, tufts curling around her ears and neck. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks like someone had painted them on for effect. Her T-shirt was worn soft, sleeves pushed up to her shoulders, showing lean arms dusted faintly with sunburn. And those eyes, bright, restless green, watched you like they were daring you to say something else.

“So…” you started carefully, gripping your pom-poms tighter. “If they won’t let you on the team, why even bother sitting here? Doesn’t it feel… like torture?”

She gave a short laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, probably. But I like watching. Guess I can’t help it. This whole place, it’s…” She trailed off, like she wasn’t sure how much to admit to a stranger she’d just met, then shrugged. “It’s just where I wanna be.”

You tilted your head, curiosity rising again. “Even if they keep telling you no?”

Her jaw tightened at that, her eyes flicking briefly away. “Especially then.”

Something about the conviction in her tone, quiet as it was, made your chest tighten. You wanted to ask more, who she was, why she wanted this so badly, but before you could form the words, a chorus of voices rang out from the field.

“Hey! Get down here already!” one of your squadmates shouted, waving frantically at you from the sideline.

You flinched, twisting back toward them, realizing the rest of the team had finally gathered while you were distracted. When you turned back, Ellie was watching you with that same half-smirk, though there was something softer underneath it.

“I, uh, guess I should…” You gestured helplessly toward your teammates.

She nodded, like she’d expected you to be pulled away. “Yeah. Go. Don’t let me get you in trouble.”

You hovered for a moment longer than you should’ve, wishing you had something clever, memorable, anything to leave her with. Instead, you blurted out, “Good luck. With the whole… tryout thing.”

She tipped her chin at you, the smallest of grins tugging at her lips. “Thanks, cheerleader.”

Heat rushed to your face again, and before she could see you turn red, you spun on your heel and hurried down the bleachers, metal rattling under your sneakers. One hand gripped the hem of your skirt tightly with every step, keeping the fabric pinned down so nothing would flash as you rushed.

The moment your sneakers hit the grass, you knew you weren’t slipping back into the group unnoticed. The squad was waiting, all bows and bright smiles turned sharp, their formation already neat and impatient. You hadn’t even opened your mouth before Madison let out an exaggerated gasp, her manicured hand clutching her pom-poms like pearls.

“Oh my god,” she drawled, her voice thick with disbelief. “Tell me you weren’t just up there… actually talking to her.”

Laughter rippled through the girls, some muffled behind hands, some loud enough to make your ears burn. You blinked, clutching your pom-poms closer, thrown off by the collective hostility. “What? She was sitting there. I didn’t—”

“Didn’t know?” Sarah cut you off, stepping forward with her usual scornful tilt of the head, ponytail swinging. “You seriously didn’t know who that is?”

“Apparently not,” you muttered, bristling.

“She’s Ellie,” Sarah said, like the name itself was a warning sign. Her voice dropped lower, conspiratorial, but sharp enough that you knew she wanted everyone to hear. “She tried out last year. Coach told her no, obviously. She just doesn’t get the hint. Shows up anyway. Hangs around. Watches.” She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose. “It’s pathetic.”

“Loser behavior,” Madison agreed, nodding solemnly as if this were gospel. Then her solemnity slipped into that sly grin she was known for, eyes flicking back up at the bleachers. “Weirdo outcast. Always on her own. Honestly? It’s kinda creepy.”

A couple of the other girls murmured agreement, glancing up with narrowed eyes before looking away quickly, like they didn’t want to be caught staring.

“She looks like a guy,” one of the freshmen whispered behind you, not quite low enough.

“Exactly,” Madison pounced, her grin widening. “No wonder you didn’t realize. Don’t worry, we’ll forgive you. Just… don’t let it happen again.”

Something in your stomach tightened. “I wasn’t— look, I was waiting for you guys. She was there. I said hi. That’s it.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Madison cooed, saccharine. “You really don’t wanna be seen with her. Trust us.”

“Yeah,” Sarah added with a nod, her tone clipped and final. “People already think she’s a joke. Don’t get dragged down with her.”

Your face flushed hotter than the sun beating down on you. You opened your mouth, ready to push back, but the shrill blast of the coach’s whistle cut across the field, and the conversation snapped shut like a trap.

The squad fell into motion with a collective swing of ponytails, and you followed, though your thoughts lagged stubbornly behind. Practice settled into its rhythm: the squeak of sneakers on the turf, the rhythmic clap of pom-poms, the chant-counts you could do in your sleep. The heat pressed into your skin, sweat collecting along your hairline, but you moved with the automatic grace of repetition. Smile, jump, land, clap, spin. Again. Again.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to focus, your eyes kept straying.

Ellie was still there.

She hadn’t budged from her spot, still slouched on the bleachers like she had nothing better to do. One leg bounced against the metal rung, arms folded, cap tugged low. She looked both relaxed and intent, green eyes following the field with a steadiness that unnerved you the longer you felt it.

Between drills, when the squad shifted formations and you dared to glance up, her gaze caught yours. She didn’t look away. Instead, she lifted two fingers in a lazy mock-salute, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Heat surged up your neck. You spun back to the group, nearly stumbling over Madison’s perfectly pointed foot.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” Sarah demanded during water break, shoving her bottle into the crook of her arm as she squinted at you.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, fumbling with your own bottle, the plastic crinkling in your hand.

“Uh-huh,” Madison hummed knowingly, her eyes following the direction you’d glanced in. She let out a sharp laugh. “Oh my god. You’re not actually, like, into that, are you?”

“Shut up,” you snapped, but the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.

The whistle blew again, saving you from more interrogation, and the squad shuffled back into formation.

The rest of practice blurred in the usual haze of sweat and movement, but your awareness of Ellie never dimmed. Every count, every chant, you knew she was still there, still watching. The others saw a creep. You, against your better judgment, thought it was something else entirely.

At one point, during a stunt, when your skirt threatened to flip higher than it should, you caught yourself tugging it down mid-air, and when you landed, steady and breathless, you knew she’d seen. She tipped her head, almost imperceptibly, like she was laughing at you from across the distance.

The thought lodged in your chest and refused to leave.

By the time practice wound down, your muscles ached, your throat was raw from calling counts, and sweat plastered your uniform to your back. But when the squad collapsed in a heap on the grass, panting and laughing, you found your gaze sliding upward again.

She was still there.

Still watching.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, not to Madison, not to Sarah, not even to yourself, you smiled. A small, secret thing, tugging at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it.

Because it wasn’t creepy at all. It was… stubborn. Quiet. A little bit ridiculous. And, if you let yourself admit it, it was adorable.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It started happening so often that you couldn’t call it coincidence anymore. Every hallway you turned down, every shortcut across campus, every time you ducked into the corner store near school, it was like Ellie was already there, slouched against a wall with her hands shoved deep into her pockets, or pretending to study a vending machine, or sitting on a bench with her headphones tugged low over her ears. At first you thought it was funny, then you thought maybe it was deliberate, and one afternoon you couldn’t help yourself, you said it.

“Are you, like… stalking me or something?” you teased, half-smiling, brushing past her shoulder in the hallway.

The effect was immediate. Her head snapped up, eyes wide, freckles going pink across her cheeks before the color spread deeper. “What? No! No, I’m not—” Her words stumbled over themselves as she tried to defend, hands lifting out of her pockets like she needed to physically ward off the accusation. “I wasn’t— Jesus, no. That’s— why would you even—”

You burst into laughter before she could spiral further, clutching your books to your chest. “Relax, I’m kidding. God, you should see your face.”

Ellie groaned, dragging a hand down over her cap, trying to shield her burning cheeks from view. “Not funny,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward like she couldn’t fight the grin entirely.

“Kind of funny,” you pressed, enjoying the way she squirmed, the way she never seemed to know what to do with herself when you looked at her too long. “You go red so fast it’s like a warning sign.”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, but there was no real venom in it. Just the soft, flustered defensiveness that you were already beginning to find… adorable.

It might have been cute to you, but your friends didn’t see it that way.

They noticed, of course they did. It wasn’t hard. The way Ellie seemed to appear wherever you were, the way her eyes drifted to you even when you weren’t supposed to be paying attention. By the end of the week, the whispers started, slipping sharp and poisonous between stretches and water breaks at cheer practice.

“She’s literally everywhere,” Madison sneered one afternoon as you unlaced your sneakers. “Like, does she even go to class? Or does she just follow you around all day like a lost puppy?”

Sarah snorted, flicking her ponytail back. “Please. Puppy implies she’s cute. She looks more like a stray. Seriously, have you seen the way she dresses? Those jeans are, like, ancient. And that hoodie? God, it looks like she pulled it out of a dumpster.”

A chorus of giggles rippled through the squad, sharp and cutting. “Totally homeless vibes,” another girl added, wrinkling her nose. “Like, does she even own a brush? She’s such a mess.”

You sat stiffly on the bench, pretending to fuss with your shoelaces, not trusting yourself to say anything. The words dug under your skin, leaving something sour in your chest, but what could you even say? If you defended her, they’d eat you alive, and if you agreed, you’d feel worse.

So you kept your head down, let the laughter roll over you, and stayed quiet.

But later, when practice ended and the squad dispersed in a swirl of bows and perfume, you slipped away. You found her sitting where she always was, on the bleachers, or leaning against the chain-link fence, or crouched by the parking lot curb, pulling at loose threads in her hoodie.

“Hey,” you greeted softly, catching the way her face lit up despite the tired slump of her posture.

“Hey,” she echoed, voice quieter than usual, like it was just for you.

After school you found yourself walking beside Ellie down the cracked sidewalks, the late afternoon sun cutting long shadows between the houses. She didn’t say much at first, just kept her hands shoved deep into her hoodie pocket, shoulders hunched like she was waiting for you to change your mind and peel off toward your own street.

Her boots scuffed against the pavement, slow and dragging, and every once in a while she’d flick a glance at you like she couldn’t quite believe you were still there.

By the time you reached the corner where your routes usually split, Ellie hesitated. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, teeth catching on her lip, before she muttered, “Uh… you don’t have to, like, head home right away, do you?” Her hand came up to rub at the back of her neck, eyes darting anywhere but at you. “You could, y’know… come over. If you want.”

Her tone carried this strange mix of offhand and vulnerable, like she was pretending it was no big deal but the edge of hope in her voice gave her away. You could see the faint pink creeping up the tips of her ears, the way she was already bracing for you to say no.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder and said, quietly but steady, “I… kinda do wanna see your house.”

For a second, Ellie just stared, almost disbelieving, before her mouth twitched into a grin she couldn’t stop. She ducked her head, trying to hide how much your answer mattered, and muttered, “Yeah? Cool. Uh… it’s just down this way.” She jerked her chin toward the quieter end of the block and started walking again, her pace a little quicker now, like she suddenly had something worth showing off.

When you arrived at her place, it wasn’t at all what you expected.

The house was small, a bit run-down, with paint peeling in corners and the lawn only half-mowed. Trash bins leaned precariously against the side, and a few old bikes were chained to the fence, their tires flat and rust eating away the spokes. It looked lived-in, but not in a polished, “Instagram aesthetic” kind of way. This was her world, messy, chaotic, and completely untouched by anyone else’s judgment.

You hesitated at the door for a moment. “Um… where are your parents?” you asked, stepping inside.

Ellie shrugged, pulling off her hoodie and tossing it onto the sagging couch like she didn’t care if it hit the floor. “Just my dad. He’s working late. Nothing fancy, really.” Her tone was casual, but there was a tiny edge of pride in it, like she didn’t feel the need to apologize for her home being what it was.

Her room was another story entirely. It was cluttered, sure, but full of personality. Posters of comic book heroes lined one wall, shelves sagged under the weight of comic collections, games stacked haphazardly on the floor, and a few potted plants tried valiantly to cling to life near the window. There was even a small corner devoted to dinosaur figurines, each one painstakingly painted and positioned as though they were mid-battle. It was chaotic, yes, but alive. And Ellie was in her element.

“So… what’s your favorite?” you asked, sitting on the edge of her bed, carefully avoiding knocking over a leaning tower of graphic novels.

Ellie lit up, gesturing animatedly toward a set of shelves. “Oh, that one,” she said, grabbing a game and holding it up. “This is the new indie dungeon crawler I’ve been obsessed with. It’s brutal, but the level design is insane. And the characters, don’t get me started on the characters. I’ve literally spent hours just theorizing what their backstories could be.”

You laughed, leaning back against the wall. “You… really know a lot about this stuff.”

“Of course I do,” she said with mock indignation, puffing her chest out slightly. “Just because I look like a scrappy, street-kid mess doesn’t mean I don’t have taste, intellect, or skill. Comics, games, plants, dinosaurs, you name it, I know it.” She pointed to a battered notebook on the desk. “I even write a bit. Doodles, stories… just whatever pops into my head.”

You couldn’t help the way your lips curved, watching her flail around, passionate and unapologetic. “You’re… actually really smart,” you said quietly.

She froze for half a second, cheeks heating again, before she shrugged. “Eh, I guess. Don’t sound too impressed though, or I might start charging you for tutoring.”

You laughed, shaking your head. Somehow, it didn’t matter that your friends had made a mess of opinions about her, calling her names or rolling their eyes when you mentioned Ellie in passing. Here, in her room, she wasn’t a “weirdo” or an outcast, she was vibrant, intense, and utterly magnetic. And you felt yourself leaning closer than you probably should have, drawn in by her energy, by the ease she had in talking about everything she loved without shame or apology.

The afternoon melted away in a blur of comics, debates about which dinosaur could beat which in a fight, and playing through the dungeon crawler game she’d obsessed over. Every time she laughed or furrowed her brow in concentration, your chest tightened a little, and you couldn’t quite explain why you kept coming back. Even with the whispered judgments of your friends echoing somewhere in the back of your mind, you found yourself utterly unable to stay away from Ellie.

By the time the sun started to dip low and paint her room in warm amber, you realized that this was more than just curiosity or amusement. There was something about her, her confidence, her intensity, the way she seemed entirely herself, that had you hooked, no matter how much your friends would frown, whisper, or sneer. Even if the rest of the world didn’t get her, you did.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

A week later, the morning of your birthday, you woke to your phone buzzing against the sheets, sunlight spilling through the blinds in sharp strips. For a moment you just lay there, half tangled in your blanket, staring at the glow of the screen like you already knew who you wanted to reach out to. Your friends had been planning things for days, decorations, playlists, food, but none of that made your chest tighten in the same way as the thought of Ellie stepping into your house, into your orbit, and seeing you in that light.

You thumbed open her name, hesitating a second before typing, hey, it’s my bday tonight. having people over. you should come by. The words looked too casual for how fast your heart was beating, so you added, come later tho, when it’s calmed down. easier that way.

The three dots blinked, disappeared, blinked again, and finally her reply came through: later works. happy birthday btw. guess i’ll bring myself as a present. You couldn’t help but smile, biting your lip as you stared at the screen longer than you needed to, the kind of grin you’d never admit to your friends.

That night, your house was buzzing with laughter, music, and the faint smell of cake lingering in the air. People moved from room to room, glasses clinking, conversations overlapping in a warm, chaotic hum.

It was around seven-thirty when you spotted her through the living room window, standing hesitantly on the porch, guitar case slung over her shoulder. The house was still loud, still full of people, but the sight of her made your chest flutter in a way you hadn’t expected. You practically ran to the door.

“Ellie!” you called, and her head jerked up, eyes wide, cheeks already pink from either the walk over or seeing you, or maybe both.

She smiled nervously, pushing her hair out of her face. “Hey… uh… happy birthday,” she said softly.

Your face lit up, a grin spreading that felt almost involuntary. “Come on, let’s get out to the backyard,” you said, grabbing her hand and tugging her gently along. Not because you didn’t want her inside, maybe you did a little, but because you wanted a space where it was just the two of you.

Once outside, the cool evening air wrapped around you, and the distant music of the party felt muffled, like it belonged to another world. Ellie followed you to a patch of grass, settling beside you on the edge of the garden, her guitar case leaning against the fence.

“You… uh… wow,” she started, eyes flicking to your dress. “You look really pretty.” Her voice was quiet, soft, and the blush spreading across her cheeks made you want to reach out and brush it away.

“Thanks,” you said, grinning. “I like it too. But I think you just beat me with that compliment.”

Her blush deepened, and she fidgeted with the strap of her guitar case, looking anywhere but at you. “I brought my guitar. I wanted to… maybe play a song for you? For your birthday.” She finally looked at you then, cheeks red, gaze a mix of hope and embarrassment.

You felt your chest tighten, nearly making you want to cry right there. “Ellie… you can?” you whispered, voice almost breaking.

“I… yeah, if that’s okay?” she said, voice trembling slightly. She sat cross-legged, fingers brushing the strings lightly as if they were delicate threads she didn’t want to snap.

“Of course it’s okay,” you assured her. “I’d love that.”

She strummed softly, a gentle melody that matched the warm glow of the string lights you’d set up in the backyard. Her voice, slightly raw and hesitant at first, grew steadier as she sang, a song entirely for you, each word carrying an earnestness that made your heart ache. When she finished, you were shaking slightly, overwhelmed by how much thought, effort, and feeling she’d poured into this moment.

After a pause, she reached into the case and pulled out a small piece of paper with a tiny bag attached. She held it out, fingers trembling. “I don’t have a lot of money, and I hope… I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I wanted to give you something anyway.”

You took it from her hands carefully, lifting the paper. Inside was a drawing, yourself, captured perfectly in pencil. The details were intricate: the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. It was beautiful, breathtaking, and your throat tightened so badly you couldn’t find words.

“Oh my god, Ellie, this… this is amazing,” you whispered, heart hammering. “I don’t even… I don’t know what to say.”

She looked down at her feet, cheeks bright red. “I just wanted… you’re my friend. I… I thought maybe you’d like it.”

“And I love it,” you said softly, then picked up the small bag. Inside was a delicate necklace, the pendant catching the last glow of the sun and glittering in a way that made your chest flutter.

“Ellie… it’s beautiful,” you breathed. “Can you put it on me?”

Her hands shook visibly as she took the necklace, and when she fastened it around your neck, her fingers brushed yours. You felt a jolt, a mix of electricity and warmth that made you hold your breath for a second. She finally looked up, eyes wide, slightly panicked, then quickly looked down again.

“You okay?” you asked gently, noticing the tremor in her hands.

“I… yeah,” she said quickly, shoving a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks burning brighter. “Just… nerves, I guess.”

You laughed softly, reaching over to lightly squeeze her shoulder. “It’s okay… we’ve been out here for a while, huh? I think the party’s still going, but I kinda just want to stay out here a little longer.”

Ellie nodded, sitting back on her heels, but you noticed she didn’t move to leave. “I… yeah. Sure. I can stay.”

You smiled, heart pounding in a way that made the night feel suddenly electric. “Stay put, okay? I’ll be right back,” you said, knowing you had to check inside for a second, maybe grab some water or just glance at the remaining guests, but already, you felt that this backyard, this quiet moment, was the place you wanted to be, with her here, guitar by her side, and warmth between you that nothing else could touch.

Her eyes met yours, and you could feel the unspoken promise hanging in the air, tonight wasn’t just a birthday. Tonight was something entirely yours, shared in the quiet chaos of lights, music, and the soft strum of strings.

You practically barreled back inside, weaving through groups of friends and party guests, only to be stopped cold by the looks on their faces. That immediate, heavy silence that tells you, they’d seen everything.

“Whoa,” one of them started, smirking cruelly. “Is that… seriously Ellie out there? What the hell, you actually invited her?” The words were sharp, dripping with judgment.

Another leaned in, shaking their head like it physically pained them. “She’s… pathetic. Look at her, sitting there like some stray dog. Who even does that?”

A third joined in, echoing the sentiment, “Totally. She doesn’t even belong here. I don’t get why you’re wasting your time.”

Your chest tightened, but instead of defending Ellie, you felt this weird, sharp pressure to act like you belonged with them, to throw Ellie under the bus yourself. You opened your mouth, letting the words slip out without thinking.

“She’s… kind of a charity case, you know?” you said, forcing a casual shrug. “I mean… she’s sweet and all, but let’s be real, she’s just… there because nobody else wants her.”

Immediately, you felt the weight of the words in your own mouth, but your friends perked up, nodding vigorously, leaning into the cruelty.

“Exactly!” one of them said, smirking. “See? You get it. She’s totally pathetic.”

You could practically hear the soft shuffle of footsteps against the grass outside, subtle but unmistakeable. You froze mid-step, heart hammering, as you realized… Ellie had been standing there, right in the backyard doorway, hearing everything.

You turned slowly, and your stomach dropped. Her eyes were red, the kind of red that made your chest twist painfully. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even move at first, just looked at you, stunned and hurt.

And then she turned on her heel and ran. Her small figure disappeared into the night, barely making a sound beyond the shuffle of shoes against the patio. The second you saw Ellie’s frame vanish past the back gate, something inside you snapped. The laughter and chatter from the party became background noise, meaningless, a blur of voices you couldn’t even process. All you knew was that you had to catch her. You couldn’t let it end like this.

You tore after her, the sound of your heels smacking against the pavement echoing harshly in the cool night. “Ellie! Ellie, please, stop!” you shouted, breathless. The skirt of your dress tangled around your legs as you stumbled forward, hair whipping in your face. You could feel people staring from the porch, but you didn’t care, not even for a second.

Ellie kept moving, her figure hunched and stiff as she bolted down the empty street. Her shoulders were tense, her fists clenched, her whole body radiating anger and humiliation. You pushed harder, your lungs burning, until your heel caught on a crack in the sidewalk. You pitched forward and nearly slammed face-first into the ground, catching yourself on your palms with a sickening scrape. “Fuck—” you hissed, pain shooting up your hands.

Ellie must’ve heard the thud. She slowed, then stopped several feet ahead, chest heaving as she turned reluctantly. Even from a distance you could see her face; wet, red and streaked with tears glistening under the streetlight. She hesitated, but then came back, muttering under her breath. “You’re such an idiot,” she said, reaching down to grip your arm and haul you back up. Her hands were rougher than they looked, strong from the guitar and whatever else she did. “You’re gonna break your damn neck in those heels.”

“Ellie, please,” you blurted the second you were standing again, clutching her wrist like a lifeline. “Just… listen to me, okay? I didn’t mean any of that. I swear I didn’t—”

She yanked her arm back violently, eyes flashing with fury through her tears. “Don’t lie to me!” she snapped, her voice cracking but sharp enough to cut through your chest. “I heard you. Every single word. You called me a charity case.” Her voice rose until she was screaming, hands balled at her sides. “Do you have any idea how that felt? Sitting out there, waiting for you to come back, and hearing you… say that shit? Like I was some, some fucking pity project you dragged along to make yourself look better?”

You shook your head frantically, stepping closer, reaching for her. “No, no, Ellie, that’s not what I meant, I swear, I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did!” she shouted, backing away from your hands, her tears catching on her lashes. “You did. And you know what? You should’ve never talked to me. You should’ve just kept walking that first day, pretended I wasn’t there. Because this? This—” she gestured wildly between you two, her voice raw “is worse. I should’ve never met you. I should’ve never thought…” Her breath hitched and broke, like the words hurt too much to finish.

The sight gutted you. Her cheeks were flushed, streaked with hot tears, her lips trembling as though holding back more. Instinct took over, you reached forward, cupping her face with both hands despite the sting in your scraped palms. Her skin was hot, damp from crying, her jaw tense under your fingers. “Ellie,” you whispered, desperate, your own throat tightening, “please, look at me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t care what they think, I care about you.”

She froze at the touch, lips parting in shock, and for a moment you thought she’d soften. Heart pounding, you leaned in, closing the space between you, your lips almost brushing against hers—

But Ellie jerked back violently, eyes wide with betrayal. “No,” she snapped, voice shaking. She shoved your hands away from her face. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare. I don’t want your pity, and I definitely don’t want some… some slut who opens her legs for anyone pretending like I matter to her now.”

The words hit like a slap across the face, each syllable heavy, poisonous. You flinched, stunned, your breath catching in your chest. For a second, all you could do was stare at her, the burn of tears pricking your eyes, threatening to spill over.

Ellie didn’t wait for you to answer. She turned on her heel and ran again, faster this time, her sneakers pounding against the pavement until her silhouette blurred and vanished into the shadows at the end of the street.

You stood there in the glow of the streetlight, trembling, the cool night air biting at your exposed skin. Your hands dropped uselessly to your sides, palms throbbing from the fall. Slowly, your gaze fell to them, staring at the faint bloodied scrapes, and that’s when the tears finally broke loose. You bit down hard on your lip, choking on the sob that ripped through your chest.

By the time a full week had passed, it felt like someone had ripped Ellie straight out of your life and left a gaping hole where she used to be. Your phone was still littered with unsent drafts of messages, apologies you kept retyping and deleting, half-hearted jokes you thought might make her laugh, desperate little “please just talk to me” pleas, but every one you actually sent was left unanswered. No read receipts. No replies. Just silence.

When you went to her house, knocking until your knuckles hurt, her dad answered once with a confused look and told you she wasn’t home. The second time, you could swear you saw the curtains shift in her bedroom window, but no one came to the door.

And practice, god, that was worse. You kept glancing at the bleachers out of habit, expecting to see her slouched there, pretending she wasn’t watching while she totally was. But they stayed empty, like she’d never even existed in the first place. You hated how heavy that felt, how the absence made the field seem too wide, too quiet, even with your teammates shouting all around you.

Of course, your so-called friends noticed everything. And they didn’t let it slide.

“Dude,” one of them snorted in the locker room after practice, tossing his shirt into his bag, “you seriously ran after her? In heels? What were you even thinking?”

“Tragic,” another chimed in with a fake sigh, grinning at the others. “Imagine chasing after a homeless weirdo like that. I thought you had standards.”

Laughter broke out, echoing off the tiled walls. You shoved your shoes into your locker harder than necessary, pretending not to care, but your ears burned.

“Better yet,” someone else added, “maybe she put some spell on you. That would explain why you keep looking at the bleachers like she’s gonna come crawling back. Creepy.”

You slammed the locker shut with a metallic clang. “Shut up,” you muttered, but that only seemed to encourage them.

“What? You mad because your little girlfriend ditched you? Boohoo. Poor thing, guess even the charity case doesn’t want you.”

They howled at their own jokes, and you wanted to scream, but you didn’t. You bit your tongue so hard you almost tasted blood. Because even though you couldn’t stand them in moments like this, you still stayed. Some twisted part of you clung to the group, to the familiarity, to the way their approval kept you afloat at school. It was pathetic, and you knew it, but you stayed anyway.

The cherry on top was the football guy, the one you’d crushed on for months, cornering you at lunch with that cocky grin plastered across his face. “So,” he drawled, leaning over your table, “everyone’s saying you’re single. You wanna change that? Go out Friday?”

Your friends perked up instantly, eyes wide, nudging each other like they’d just witnessed a miracle. “Say yes!” one hissed under their breath. “Come on, he’s hot.”

The entire cafeteria seemed to wait for your answer. And for a split second, you thought about it. Saying yes, letting yourself get swept up in the noise, maybe drowning out Ellie’s absence with someone else. But the thought made your stomach twist.

You looked him dead in the eye and shook your head. “No.”

His grin faltered. “No?”

“Yeah. No,” you repeated, louder this time. “I’m not interested.”

Gasps and groans broke out around you like you’d just committed a crime. “Are you serious?” one of your friends blurted, staring at you like you’d grown a second head. “You turned him down? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“She’s hung up on the freak,” another snickered, pointing his fork at you. “Told you, she’s obsessed.”

Heat crawled up your neck, but you didn’t fight them. You just shoved your tray away, stood up, and walked out while their voices chased after you.

That was the moment you knew you couldn’t keep letting this spiral. Ellie wasn’t just ignoring you, she was gone. Completely, deliberately, out of reach. And the longer you let it drag, the worse it would get.

So you started thinking. Scheming. Turning it over in your head during sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling. How the fuck were you supposed to get her to talk to you again? Apologies hadn’t worked. Showing up at her door hadn’t worked. Waiting around like an idiot definitely wasn’t working.

It took days of pacing, of scribbling plans only to tear them apart, of second-guessing every idea until finally something clicked, a way to catch her off guard, to make her look at you and really listen. Something bold enough that she couldn’t just brush off, something so unlike your usual careful, image-conscious self that maybe she’d believe you meant it this time. You knew exactly when and how you were going to do it.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The stadium lights burned like artificial daylight, white beams cutting into the Friday night sky. The bleachers were packed, the hum of voices blending with the thrum of drums from the marching band and the sharp whistles of coaches corralling players onto the field. The air smelled of popcorn, hotdogs, and late autumn chill, the whole town pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in anticipation of kickoff. Around you, your teammates stretched and adjusted bows, some laughing at the football players jogging onto the field, their easy chatter filling the sidelines. But your stomach wasn’t knotted over the game, or the crowd, or even the performance waiting under those blinding lights.

It was because you’d seen her.

Ellie.

She was slouched near the far end of the bleachers, hood pulled up even though it wasn’t cold, legs tucked beneath her. You caught her instantly, like your eyes had been scanning for her all along. She wasn’t looking at you, she was pretending to be focused on some sketchpad balanced on her knees, but you knew. You knew she saw you. And if she didn’t, she would.

Your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted out. You could still back out. You could go through the motions, cheer like normal, stay safe, and go home pretending this whole idea never crossed your mind. But that wasn’t enough anymore. You’d already lost her once. If you didn’t do something drastic, something stupid, she’d slip away completely, and the thought of that was unbearable.

So while the others lined up to get ready for the halftime routine, you touched the little mic clipped at your collar, the one you’d begged the captain to let you test for a “special performance.” Your palms were sweaty, knees weak, you almost laughed at yourself because this felt like something out of a dumb movie. Except this wasn’t for a crowd, not really. Not for the guys on the field. Not for your friends who’d roll their eyes. It was for her. Only her.

The whistle blew, and the cheer squad jogged out onto the grass, the crowd erupting in cheers. Your teammates grinned, flashing their practiced smiles. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Because the second you hit your mark in the center of the field, your chest seized up, but you forced yourself to breathe. Forced yourself to move.

And then you did it.

You broke from formation, ignoring the confused glances, and started the cheer you’d been practicing in your bedroom mirror all week, loud, bold, a little clumsy, but completely yours.

“Ellie, hey, this one’s for you!
Not the team, not the crowd, not the whole damn crew!
You’ve got me spinning, flipping, falling apart,
So here’s my cheer straight from the heart!”

The words tumbled out too fast, but your voice carried across the field through the mic, echoing against the bleachers. Gasps and laughter rippled through the crowd, you could feel your teammates staring at you like you’d grown a second head, but you kept going, refusing to look at anyone else. Not even the football players warming up.

“E-L-L-I-E,
You’re the only one who matters to me!
Forget the game, forget the score,
It’s you I’ll cheer for forevermore!”

Your arms shot up in the motions you’d practiced, clapping, spinning, even throwing in a jump you almost botched from how much your legs were shaking. Somewhere in the stands, someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted “what the hell is this?” But you tuned it all out, locked in on the vague outline of Ellie’s hooded figure.

“And when the lights are shining bright,
I swear I’ll fight for you tonight!
So, Ellie, please just look my way,
And know I’ll cheer for you every day!”

You finished with a final clap above your head, dropping into a bow, chest heaving, face burning so hot you swore the whole school could see your humiliation from space. For a heartbeat, the crowd was silent. Then the noise hit, laughter, confusion, your teammates whispering furiously among themselves.

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. Couldn’t. The second the last word left your mouth, you sprinted off the field, ignoring the stares, shoving past the line of girls who grabbed at your arm. “What the fuck was that?” someone hissed, but you didn’t answer.

Your only thought was get out, get out, get out.

You hit the dressing room hard, the door clanging shut behind you. The noise from the field dulled to a muffled roar through the walls, but your pulse was still thundering louder than any of it. You sank down on the nearest bench, covering your face with your hands, heat searing your skin.

“God,” you muttered into your palms. “What the fuck did I just do?”

Because maybe it was brave. Maybe it was insane. Either way, it was done. And you had no idea if she’d stay in those bleachers, or if she’d bolt the second your voice had reached her ears. But for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel paralyzed. You’d actually done something. Even if it killed you with embarrassment.

The thud of your heart hadn’t even slowed down when there was a cautious knock on the dressing room door. You froze, mid-sit on the bench, fingers still tangled in your hair, because your brain immediately went through a hundred horrifying scenarios. Coach, parents, teammates, the marching band, all of them just waiting to mock you mercilessly. You groaned, brushing imaginary lint off your uniform and muttered, “Yeah… come in.”

The door cracked open, and there she was.
Ellie.

Even from just a few feet away, you could see her face was flushed, as red as yours probably was, almost blending with the pom-poms scattered across the locker room floor. Her hood was down this time, hair messy, strands sticking out like she’d run her hands through it too many times, but somehow she still managed to look effortlessly perfect in that way that always made your chest tighten. You wanted to laugh, cry, and pull her into your arms all at once.

“I…” she started, voice trembling, so soft you had to strain to hear her over the faint echo of the stadium outside. Her eyes darted down to the floor before she forced them back up to yours. “I thought it was… really cute. What you did.”

You froze, breath catching. Cute? Your knees felt like they were about to give out. “Ellie…” you whispered, not even knowing where to begin.

She shifted, pulling at the edge of her sleeve, fidgeting like she wanted to fold in on herself. “Did you do that for me? I mean, I know you’re a cheerleader, you do stuff like that all the time, but this… it was for me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” you breathed out, chest tight. “For you. Only you.”

Her face softened for a second before her mouth pressed into a thin line. Her shoulders rose as if she was bracing herself. “I need to say something.” She swallowed hard, her voice low, almost breaking. “I shouldn’t have called you that. A whore. I—” her voice cracked and she shook her head, blinking fast. “I was angry, and jealous, and I didn’t know what to do with it, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Your heart clenched. You took a step closer, words tumbling out before you could even think. “Ellie… no, I should be sorry. I didn’t stand up for you when I should have. I said things I shouldn’t have. I should’ve said something to defend you, instead of letting people look at you like that, talk about you like that. You didn’t deserve that. And I hate myself for not doing more.”

Ellie’s lip trembled, just for a second, before she bit it back and gave the smallest, messiest nod.

“I forgive you,” you said quickly, desperate for her to hear it, to believe it. “I really do. And I don’t ever want us to hurt each other like that again.”

Her eyes lifted to yours, green and wet and burning with something that felt like relief. “I forgive you too,” she whispered, her voice steady now, even as her hands still twisted in the hem of her hoodie. “But… if you ever do something like that again, make me feel like I don’t matter—” she hesitated, breath shaking. “…I’ll walk. I swear I’ll walk. No warning, no second chances.”

Your chest ached at the weight of it, but also, God, it was a second chance. She was still here. “Okay,” you whispered, nodding so hard you nearly stumbled forward. “I promise.”

And without thinking, you lunged forward, wrapping your arms around her. She stiffened at first, like she wasn’t sure if she should let herself melt into you, then slowly gave in, hugging back, her face pressing into your shoulder. The warmth of her, the faint scent of rain still clinging to her hair, mixed with the sweet trace of shampoo, made your head spin.

When you finally pulled back enough to look at her, you kept your hands tangled in hers, terrified to let go. “So…” you tried, your voice still shaky but forcing a smile, “my parents are out of town this weekend, and I’ll be lonely. Do you maybe wanna come over? Just for movies, pizza… whatever.”

Her eyes widened, blinking like she wasn’t sure she heard you right. “You want me to come over?”

“Yes,” you said, nodding quickly. “Just us.”

Her lips twitched, the faintest smile breaking through her blush. “Yeah,” she said softly, finally nodding. “I’d like that. But first… go out there and kick ass. For me.”

The words stunned you, Ellie’s voice had a spark in it, teasing and fierce all at once. You laughed, giddy and breathless, your whole chest buzzing. “I will. Don’t you worry.”

Ellie smiled shyly, tugging the straps of her backpack higher on her shoulders, lingering for just a second longer. “But don’t get hurt. And… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“Ellie…” you started, wanting to say more, but she was already glancing at the door.

“Go,” she said softly, her grin tugging wider now. “Show them what you’ve got.”

You left the locker room still buzzing, Ellie’s arms lingering like phantom warmth around your shoulders, her quiet apology and forgiveness echoing in your head. For the first time in what felt like forever, your chest didn’t feel like it was caving in. She wasn’t gone. She’d said yes to coming over. She’d smiled at you.

But you didn’t even make it twenty feet down the hall before it all shattered.

“Holy shit,” a voice barked, laughter already curling at the edges. You turned your head, and there they were, your so-called friends, lounging against the wall near the bleachers like they’d been waiting for you. “Was that seriously for her?”

Heat rose in your face immediately. You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, another one cut in.

“Yeah, what the fuck was that? Pom-poms and all? You looked like a clown out there, begging Ellie Williams to notice you. That’s low, dude. Pathetic.”

Their voices were too loud, on purpose, echoing down the hall so anyone could hear.

You tried to keep walking, eyes locked straight ahead, but their laughter followed. “She’s never gonna touch you, man. She doesn’t even look at people like you. You really think shaking your ass is gonna change that?” More laughter, sharper this time, mocking.

The knot in your stomach twisted tighter with every word. Your palms were slick, your throat thick. You wanted to yell at them, defend yourself, defend Ellie, something, but your voice wouldn’t come.

One of them whistled low, cruel and cutting. “First she calls you a whore, and now you’re crawling back for more. Jesus. Kinda makes her right, doesn’t it?”

That word. Whore. It punched the air right out of your lungs, left you staggering even though you forced your steps to stay even. The hallway tilted for a second, but you forced your chin up, forced yourself not to look at them.

Because if you looked, they’d see it. The burn in your eyes, the way your jaw trembled. The way their words had gone straight through you.

“Nothing to say?” another jeered. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Their laughter finally started to fade as you pushed through the doors leading back to the field, the air colder, cleaner out there but not enough to wash the sting off your skin.

The stadium lights blazed down, the noise of the crowd hitting you all at once, and you plastered a grin on your face that felt like glass cutting your cheeks. Pom-poms in hand, heart thudding like it wanted out of your chest, you took your place.

Because no matter what they said, no matter how humiliated you felt, you still had to smile. You still had to leap, kick, cheer.

And you did. Every move sharp, every spin precise, every chant louder than it should’ve been, like if you made yourself big enough, loud enough, bright enough, it might drown out their voices in your head.

But you could still feel them. Every jeer clung to your skin, tucked into the corners of your grin. And somewhere, beneath it all, the memory of Ellie’s arms in the locker room clashed hard with the weight of their laughter, leaving you raw, aching, and desperate not to let it show.

After the whole performance, you got into your car, eventually pulling into the driveway, heart hammering a little, but your confidence didn’t waver. Your friends’ snickering and judgmental glances didn’t matter anymore. Not tonight. Tonight, there was only one thing on your mind, Ellie.

She was sitting on the porch, knees pulled up, backpack resting against her side. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear made your chest tighten. Her cheeks were faintly pink in the cool evening air, and her eyes lit up when she saw you. “Hey,” she said softly, almost a whisper.

“You been here long?” you asked, keeping your tone light, even though part of you hoped she’d been waiting.

She shook her head, but her slight shiver told you she’d been here a while. It didn’t matter. You hopped out of the car, letting the cool night air brush past you, and held the door open for her. “Come on. Let’s get inside before I start melting from excitement.”

Her fingers brushed yours as she stepped onto the porch, and you felt the tiniest spark from the contact. Inside, you led her through the hallway, your home glowing softly from the warm lights. You didn’t mind showing her everything, the gleaming trophies on the shelves, the photos of family trips, the expensive details scattered around, but you did it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Finally, you stepped into your bedroom, kicking off your shoes and motioning for her to sit on the bed. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, stretching out across the silky burgundy comforter.

Her eyes were wide, and she didn’t try to hide her amazement. She took in your room piece by piece, your neatly arranged shoe wall, the designer handbags on display, the soft lighting casting gentle shadows across the room. “This… this is so nice,” she breathed, voice a little awed.

“Nice? It’s just a room,” you said, shrugging, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “You’d probably call it extra.”

She laughed softly, and it sounded like music in your ears. “Yeah, okay, maybe it’s a little extra,” she admitted, leaning closer to inspect your closet, eyes bright. “But I love it. I mean, look at all these shoes!”

“Too many to count,” you said, rolling onto your side to face her. “But each one tells a story, you know?”

Ellie’s gaze softened as she glanced around. She lingered over your bookshelf, ran her fingers over the spines of books, and even inspected a small pile of your favorite clothes folded neatly in a corner. “You’re not even embarrassed about any of this?” she asked softly.

“Why would I be?” you replied. “It’s me. Everything in here is just part of my life. If you like it, cool. If not, that’s fine too.”

She smiled, a real smile that made her eyes glimmer. Then her gaze drifted to your TV, a massive screen perched on the wall, practically dominating the room. “Wait… you have a TV this big in your room?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning. “It’s perfect for movie nights. Wanna see?”

She nodded, eyes wide. You picked up a DVD, Jurassic Park, since you’d heard her mention dinosaurs before and popped it in. As the theme music filled the room, her shoulders relaxed against yours, and for the first time all week, she seemed completely at ease.

“I’ve never seen a TV this big,” she murmured, resting her head lightly against your shoulder.

You laughed softly. “Welcome to the ridiculous perks of my life.” Then your tone softened. “But honestly? Your reaction’s way better than any of this stuff.”

Ellie’s cheeks turned pink again, and she snuggled a little closer. “Everything’s so extra,” she said softly, almost shyly. “But I like it. I like that it’s yours.”

You reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m glad you’re here,” you whispered. “Honestly, I don’t care about any of this stuff. I care about you.”

She looked up at you, her eyes shimmering in the soft light. “I’m glad I’m here too,” she whispered back, a small smile playing at her lips.

You hit play on the movie, but neither of you were really paying attention to the screen. Instead, the room was quiet except for the low hum of the opening music and the soft, warm presence of Ellie beside you. The way she rested against your shoulder, the way she laughed quietly at the dinosaurs’ antics, it felt like the first time in forever that the world outside didn’t exist.

The movie had been playing for what felt like forever, though you couldn’t really focus on it anymore. Your attention was too busy stealing glances at Ellie sitting beside you, her leg pressed lightly against yours, her breathing a little faster than it had been at the start. You’d laugh softly when her commentary slipped out, little mutters about the dinosaurs being “scientifically inaccurate” or how she could “totally survive this park better than these dumb scientists.” But beneath the playful chatter, the air between you was heavy, thick, charged with something unspoken.

Halfway in, when the screen glowed with the image of a roaring T-Rex, Ellie suddenly shifted. She turned, eyes locking on yours, lips parted like she was about to say something important. Instead, she hesitated, her fingers tugging nervously at the hem of her hoodie. Then, before you could ask, she climbed into your lap, knees on either side of your thighs, straddling you with a boldness that made your breath hitch.

“Can I… can I kiss you?” she asked, voice low, almost uncertain despite the position she’d just taken.

The fact that she was the one to ask left you reeling. Ellie, hovering above you, her breath warm against your skin, lips so close you could feel the space between them hum, was actually asking for permission. Your chest tightened, heart stuttering, but you didn’t even think about it. You nodded quickly, almost desperately, your hands finding her waist like they belonged there.

And then her mouth was on yours.

It was desperate and messy at first, her lips crashing against yours with the urgency of someone who had been holding this back for too long. She was good, better than you ever expected. She kissed like she wanted to memorize you, like she never wanted to stop.

Her hands explored timidly at first, resting on your shoulders, then sliding down to your ribs, curling against your sides. Yours trailed up her back, urging her closer, until your chest pressed fully against hers. The movie was long forgotten as the room filled with the sound of your mouths meeting again and again, your breath mixing in the space between kisses.

Eventually, Ellie pulled back just enough to look at you, her cheeks flushed pink, her pupils blown wide. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. The way she looked at you was question enough. Slowly, she shifted down, sliding off your lap and settling between your thighs. Her green eyes flicked up, searching yours.

“Can I…?” she whispered, voice husky now, uncertainty slipping through the cracks of her confidence.

Your chest rose and fell sharply. “Yes,” you breathed out, your fingers curling in the sheets. “Please.”

That single word seemed to unlock something in her. She reached for the hem of your cheer uniform, her hands surprisingly gentle, sliding the skirt down your legs. She didn’t rush, didn’t tug carelessly. Instead, she folded the skirt neatly, setting it aside like it was something precious. The small gesture made your heart ache.

Her eyes fell to your panties, and her breath hitched, trembling before she leaned down, pressing her nose against the thin cotton. The heat of her exhale brushed against your soaked folds, and when she sighed into the fabric, it made you shiver violently. “Fuck…” she murmured, reverent, her lips ghosting over you without hesitation.

Your hips jerked up instinctively, your fingers clenching into the sheets as you tried to stifle the moan that threatened to escape. Your nipples hardened under the fabric of your shirt, and she noticed instantly, a low hum vibrating from her chest as she let her fingers trail up to your breasts. Her thumbs brushed over your peaks through your bra, teasing, flicking, and twisting just enough to make your chest ache.

Then her tongue flicked at the damp patch of your panties, hot and wet. Your eyes flew shut, your hand flying to your mouth as a shiver tore through you. She licked again, longer this time, dragging her tongue in slow, deliberate circles over your clit through the fabric. The friction of her wet mouth and the pressure of your panties made your hips press down instinctively, grinding against her face without thinking.

“Ellie…” you whined, voice broken, your chest heaving as your nipples brushed against her fingers, her thumbs rolling over them in sync with the teasing of her tongue below.

A low groan vibrated from her throat as she pressed closer, sucking and licking at your folds through the soaked cotton. Every flick of her tongue, every press of her lips, made your thighs quake and your back arch. Her hands cupped your breasts, kneading lightly, rolling your nipples between her fingers while her mouth worshiped you below. The combination of sensations, nipples pinched, clit rubbed, folds pressed, made you almost lose control.

Minutes stretched into a haze of sensation. Her gaze lifted to yours intermittently, pupils dark and glistening, watching every shiver, every twitch. She murmured breathless praise between licks, “God, you’re so fucking wet… and so fucking perfect…” and dove back in, muffling herself against your cunt while rolling your nipples between her fingers.

Your hands dug into the sheets, your hips moving on their own, desperate for more of her mouth, her fingers, her heat. She teased your clit through the fabric with slow, circling licks, her tongue pressing and dragging until you were trembling, thighs quivering, chest heaving. She alternated between brushing your nipples with her thumbs and dragging her tongue lower, tracing circles over your folds, pressing soft, wet kisses through the soaked cotton.

Every moan, every shiver, every desperate, broken gasp you made seemed to feed her hunger. She didn’t need to speak; her hands, mouth, and green eyes devouring you were enough. You were melting under her attention, utterly consumed by the heat, the friction, the worship, every nerve ending on fire as she worked you, inch by inch, twist by twist, until your body shook with need.

Your back arched, your chest heaving, and your thighs quivered as she continued, relentless, devouring every inch of you through your soaked panties. The room filled with the sounds of her mouth moving over your folds, her hands kneading your breasts, and your broken cries echoing against the walls. Every sensation was magnified, every nerve on fire, and all you could do was surrender to the way she worshiped you.

By the time twenty minutes had passed, your thighs were trembling and your throat was raw from trying to keep your moans quiet. The movie was long forgotten, hell, you could barely even remember your own name when Ellie was between your legs like that. But still, you found yourself laughing softly, breathlessly, as you reached down to stroke her messy auburn hair.

“Ellie,” you murmured, voice shaky with both amusement and arousal, “it’s alright if you wanna take them off, y’know. You don’t have to keep them on just because… well, if that’s your boundary or whatever. I’m not making you keep them there.”

Her head jerked up slightly, her green eyes wide, lips glistening with how soaked your panties had become. “Wait, you mean I can—” she paused, swallowing like she had to work up the courage. “I can really take them off?”

You grinned down at her, cheeks flushed but your tone confident. “Of course you can. Trust me, you’re not gonna scare me off.”

Ellie blinked, a look of relief and excitement crossing her face all at once, before she hooked her fingers under the waistband and carefully slid your panties down. She didn’t rip or tug, didn’t do anything careless, she took her time, like each second was sacred. When she finally had you bare in front of her, she stared for a beat too long, lips parting like she was trying to memorize the sight.

“Jesus Christ…” she muttered under her breath before leaning back down, her tongue pressing back against your folds without hesitation this time.

The direct contact sent a cry spilling out of you before you could stop it. “Fuck, Ellie—”

She groaned into you, like your reaction alone was enough to keep her going forever. Her tongue moved eagerly, messy and desperate but so, so good. She worked every inch of you like she was starving, and you had to grip the sheets to keep from bucking into her face too hard.

“Ellie,” you gasped again, hips rolling. “Can you—” your voice cracked as her tongue flicked your clit, making you whine. “Can you, um, use your thumb there? On my clit?”

Her eyes shot up at you instantly, her mouth glistening as she pulled back just a little to nod frantically. “Yeah! yeah, I can do that.” Her thumb slid up, pressing against your swollen clit in slow, steady circles as her tongue dipped lower, pushing into you with sloppy precision.

The combination made your back arch, a loud moan slipping out before you could bite it back. “Oh my god! yes, just like that.”

Ellie’s free hand curled around your thigh, holding you open as she devoured you. Between strokes of her tongue, she murmured praises, her voice muffled but still audible. “Taste so good… never wanna stop…” and then, more quietly, “so fucking perfect.”

You could tell she was still learning, but she was a damn quick learner. Every twitch of your hips, every moan that escaped you, she picked up on instantly, adjusting her pace like she’d been doing this forever.

At some point she slowed just enough to ask, voice thick and shaky, “Can you… can you grab my hair? Push me in? I just— I need to make sure you’re really, really enjoying it.”

Your chest clenched at how earnest she sounded, and you immediately slid a hand into her messy hair, tugging just enough to guide her mouth harder against your cunt. “Fuck, Ellie—yes, yes, don’t stop—”

She moaned against you, the vibration making your whole body jerk. Your thighs tightened around her head, your fingers tangling tighter in her hair as she worked you relentlessly, thumb never leaving your clit.

It didn’t take long after that. The coil inside you snapped, and you came hard, moaning her name so loudly you were half afraid the neighbors might hear. Your body shook with the force of it, every muscle tensing before unraveling all at once.

Ellie didn’t let up until you were whining from overstimulation, pulling lightly at her hair to signal her to stop. She finally pulled back, cheeks flushed, mouth shining, her chest rising and falling fast. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and looked up at you like you’d just handed her the whole world.

As you caught your breath, you reached down, tugging at her hoodie. “Ellie, let me return the favor, yeah? Please?”

Her expression shifted instantly, her shoulders stiffened, her jaw tightening. She shook her head quickly, almost too quickly. “No. No, I—I don’t want that.”

Your brow furrowed. “Why not? You deserve—”

She cut you off, her voice firm but not unkind. “I just… I don’t need it, okay? Not right now. I wanted, fuck, I wanted to make you feel good. That’s all I care about.”

The intensity in her voice silenced you, but your heart swelled anyway. She wasn’t refusing because she didn’t trust you, she was refusing because she cared more about you than herself.

Ellie’s gaze darted around your room before she cleared her throat. “Uh… where’s your towels and stuff? I should, y’know, clean you up.”

You chuckled, your chest still rising and falling unevenly. “In the bathroom. Door in the corner.”

Her head whipped toward the small door and her eyes went wide. “Wait, you have a bathroom in your room?”

You grinned, shrugging like it was nothing. “Yeah. Perks of being spoiled, I guess.”

She shook her head in disbelief, muttering something about “rich kid shit” under her breath as she slipped into the bathroom. When she came back with a warm towel, she was careful, almost tender, as she wiped you clean. Every touch was featherlight, every glance toward you filled with something soft and unguarded.

When she was finished, she tossed the towel aside and climbed into bed next to you. You immediately curled against her, her arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you into her chest. The scent of her, cedar and laundry detergent, filled your nose, grounding you as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Thank you,” you whispered, not even sure if you meant for the orgasm, for the care, or just for her.

Ellie pressed her lips against the top of your head, her voice quiet. “Don’t thank me. Just… stay.”

It wasn’t long before sleep pulled you both under, tangled together in a warmth you didn’t want to end.

The morning light bled through the blinds in thin golden stripes, catching on the dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Your room smelled faintly of Ellie, of worn denim, faint smoke, and that cedar-sweetness that clung to her like it was stitched into her hoodie. She was still asleep when you opened your eyes, her head turned toward you on the pillow, auburn hair sticking up in ridiculous angles, her mouth parted just slightly as soft, steady breaths escaped her.

For a long moment you just lay there, your body half curled toward hers, your chest heavy with a kind of quiet realization. This, her, was what you wanted. Not the storybook fantasy you’d grown up with, not the glossy magazine version of the football player boyfriend and the cheerleader girlfriend holding hands in the bleachers. Not the shallow attention or the cliché. You wanted this messy, freckled, stubborn girl, the one who’d crawled on top of you like she was terrified and brave all at once, the one who made you laugh harder than anyone else, the one who looked at you like she couldn’t believe you were real.

You didn’t want the trope. You wanted Ellie.

Your chest tightened as you studied her features in the light, softer like this than you’d ever seen them. Her lashes curled against her cheeks, the faintest crease between her brows even in sleep, like she was always fighting something, even her dreams. You reached out before you could stop yourself, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, and she stirred, nose scrunching like she could feel the weight of your gaze.

She blinked awake slowly, disoriented at first, then looking at you with sleepy green eyes that sharpened the second she realized where she was.

“Mornin’,” she croaked, voice rough, low. Her cheeks colored immediately, pink rising beneath her freckles as if she remembered everything at once.

You didn’t give her time to overthink it. You leaned in, pressing your lips to hers before she could ask why you were staring, kissing her slow, gentle, and sure. She stiffened for only a second, then melted into it, returning the kiss with a sleepy kind of sweetness.

When you pulled back, you whispered it before you could lose your nerve, words tumbling out against her mouth. “Ellie… can I be your girlfriend?”

For a moment she froze, eyes wide, pupils darting across your face like she was trying to see if you were joking. But then her ears went pink, her whole face following suit as her blush spread down her neck. She nodded quickly, shy but certain, her lips tugging into the smallest, most bashful smile.

“Y-yeah,” she whispered, voice cracking a little as if the word alone made her nervous. “Yeah, you can. You already… kinda are, aren’t you?”

You laughed, giddy and light, kissing her again just to seal it, to ground the moment into something real. “Guess I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Ellie groaned, burying her face into your pillow to hide how red she was. “You’re such an asshole.” Her voice was muffled, but the grin in it was unmistakable.

You tugged at her hoodie until she surfaced again, freckles and all. “Maybe. But I’m your asshole now.”

Her eyes softened at that, and she kissed you again, this time with a little more confidence, like the word girlfriend had given her permission to stop holding back.

And lying there, with the morning sun on your skin and Ellie tucked against you, you knew this wasn’t just some temporary rebellion or phase or cliché. This was it. This was her.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Graduation came soon and had barely finished echoing in your ears when Ellie told you. You were still in your cap and gown, her hair messed from shoving her own cap off in relief, when she looked at you with that sheepish half-smile and muttered, “So… I got into this art school. Couple states away.” The words hit harder than the humid summer air clinging to your skin. You swallowed, your grin faltering just slightly as the stadium lights buzzed above.

“A couple states?” you repeated, fighting to sound casual.

Ellie shrugged, fingers worrying at the tassel on her cap. “Yeah. Like… far. But it’s good. It’s, fuck, it’s what I’ve wanted.” Her voice cracked at the end, and you could tell she was bracing herself, waiting for you to flinch, to say no, to let the cliché play out and let her walk away from you.

Instead, you grabbed her face right there, lipstick smearing the corner of her mouth as you kissed her. “Then we’ll make it work,” you said firmly against her lips, ignoring the curious glances from classmates drifting past. “You’re not losing me, Ellie. Not over state lines.”

Her green eyes softened then, shining in the dusky light, and she gave a weak laugh. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“Always,” you shot back, lacing your fingers with hers like you were daring the world to test you.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Long distance was hell at first. Nights were too quiet, your bed too big without her sprawled across half of it. But you both learned fast. You had a rhythm: her dorm room walls covered in charcoal sketches while she sat cross-legged on her mattress with her phone propped up, you in your little apartment after long days of being bossed around by some rich prick who paid you to fetch his coffee and laugh at his jokes.

“Guess what my boss made me do today,” you’d say into the phone, collapsing into your bed still in your skirt and blouse.

Ellie’s grin would stretch through the pixelated screen. “What? Shine his shoes? Iron his boxers?”

You groaned, kicking your heels off. “Worse. His dog’s vet appointment. I swear that thing looked at me like it knew I was below it on the company ladder.”

Ellie laughed so hard she nearly dropped her sketchbook. “Holy shit, you’re telling me you’re basically a dog chauffeur?”

“Don’t start, Williams,” you muttered, but your smile was real, glowing. “What about you? Still drawing sad naked people?”

Her freckled nose scrunched as she flipped the camera toward her sketchpad. “It’s called life drawing, thank you very much. And yeah, lots of naked people. Don’t get jealous.”

You rolled onto your stomach, propping your chin on your hands. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” she teased, winking at the camera before dissolving into laughter at your glare.

Calls lasted hours. Sometimes you both fell asleep mid-conversation, her snoring softly into the microphone, your phone slipping from your hand until it vibrated against your sheets. You sent her little things, care packages with ridiculous snacks, shirts she forgot in your closet, photos of your room when you’d rearranged it. She mailed you doodles, postcards scrawled with messy handwriting: Wish you were here. Everything sucks without you.

The years blurred by faster than you expected. Work became routine, her classes turned into projects, then exhibitions. You both grew, but never apart.

When Ellie finally came home, your chest felt like it might burst. The airport was buzzing, suitcases rattling across the tile, voices blaring from overhead speakers. You wore heels just because you knew she’d tease you for them, but when you saw her, hair longer now, shoulders broader, lugging a backpack heavy with sketchbooks, you forgot about everything except running.

Your heels clacked across the terminal, people staring as you bolted toward her. “Ellie!”

Her head snapped up, and the way her entire face lit up nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. She dropped her bag instantly, arms wide before you even reached her.

You collided, nearly knocking her off balance as you jumped into her arms, legs curling around her waist. She caught you with a laugh, muffled by the way your lips pressed against hers before either of you could say a word.

“Jesus, I missed you,” Ellie breathed against your mouth, holding you so tight you swore she’d never let go.

You pulled back just enough to see her face, her cheeks flushed, freckles brighter than you remembered. “You’re not allowed to leave me like that again. Got it?”

She smirked, brushing her nose against yours. “No promises. But I’ll drag you with me next time.”

You laughed, tears pricking at your eyes as the two of you ignored the stares, the murmurs, the way her bag lay abandoned on the floor.

“C’mon,” you said, slipping your fingers through hers once you finally let her down, though you didn’t let go for a second. “Let’s go home. You’ve got years of cuddles to make up for.”

Ellie grinned, squeezing your hand as if grounding herself. “Guess I’d better get started then.”

And just like that, it felt like no time had passed at all.

Ellie slipped into the rhythm of your apartment life faster than you’d expected. The first week, she mostly hovered around the living room, nose buried in sketchpads, scanning every corner of the place as if she were mapping it out for some secret project. “You have way too many throw pillows,” she muttered one evening, dragging one from the couch into a corner. “And what is this?” she asked, poking at a stack of fashion books on the coffee table.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smiling. “Artistic chaos, Ellie. You’ll get used to it.”

She shot you a skeptical glance, biting her lip before shrugging. “I’ll try. But don’t get used to me not rearranging your entire apartment.”

By the second week, she’d started working at a small local comic design studio, a tiny, sunlit office with walls plastered with sketches and drafts from every artist in town. The team fell in love with her instantly, offering her a full-time position to bring her ideas to life. You watched her excitement bubble over in texts, calls, and sometimes just sitting across from you at the kitchen table, sketching while sipping on black coffee. “They want me to lead a project,” she’d whisper, eyes shining. “They’re letting me design the main characters, plot, everything!”

You leaned over her shoulder more than once, admiring her precision, her messy strokes that somehow made perfect sense. “God, Ellie,” you’d murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re amazing. Honestly, they’re lucky to have you.”

She’d blush, her hair falling into her eyes. “I’m lucky to have you, too. I swear, if I could draw you into my comic, I would.”

Evenings became a world of their own. The apartment would transform from a quiet, tidy space into something alive, chaotic, and undeniably yours. Paints and sketchbooks on the floor, half-finished comics leaning against every wall, blankets strewn across the couch. And yes… sex was very much a part of that world.

It started small, lingering touches while cooking, kisses stolen by the refrigerator while one of you reached for a snack, hands brushing over the counter. But slowly it became bolder. Your first real kitchen counter incident was accidental, of course.

She was standing on her tiptoes to grab a mug from the top shelf, and when she stumbled slightly, you caught her, pressing her against the counter. One kiss led to another, then hands wandering, and soon she was on her knees in front of you while the steam from the kettle curled around the both of you.

The bathroom wasn’t safe either. A simple shower together, supposed to be quick, turned into fingers tracing lines across wet skin, teasing kisses along shoulders and neck, laughing when one of you slipped slightly. The tile floor was cold, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t care, and neither did you.

The bedroom was, of course, the ultimate battlefield of passion and comfort. Blankets twisted around your legs, pillows scattered across the floor as you tried to steal kisses between tangled limbs. Hands explored, lips pressed, breath mingled, and every time you caught each other’s eyes mid-moment, there was that shared thrill of being utterly known, utterly safe, utterly wanted.

Even the couch fell victim to your impulsive lust. One evening, you were watching some random animated movie she’d begged you to sit through, and a simple brush of her hand across your thigh was all it took. You barely made it to the living room rug before the couch became the site of whispered names and soft laughter, punctuated with moans and gasps echoing against the walls.

Yet, it wasn’t all sex. You made sure of that. Dates were sacred too. Farmers’ markets on Sunday mornings, exploring bookstores in town, or simply walking to the nearby park with her sketchpad tucked under her arm. You’d hold her hand in quiet solidarity, sometimes teasing her when she drew overly dramatic versions of pigeons or squirrels, sometimes just kissing her temple and letting her work in silence while you watched.

And through it all, the apartment smelled like coffee, art supplies, and each other; warm, chaotic, and alive. Your neighbors probably did hate you, judging by the muffled sounds that sometimes drifted through the thin walls, but you didn’t care. Every laugh, every kiss, every scream of joy or frustration from a creative brainstorming session or a particularly heated evening in bed felt like the soundtrack to your life together.

Ellie had made your apartment a home, and you had made it hers. And in that chaos, art, passion, and life all rolled into one, you couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

But life isn’t always perfect. Life can fuck you up. And it did.

It was subtle at first. Just a dull ache in your stomach, a slight headache that lingered longer than normal, moments where you felt dizzy when you stood up too quickly. You shrugged them off, blaming stress, long hours at work, or maybe the poor takeout you’d been surviving on.

But when the headaches and stomach pains became daily, consistent, insistent, even your boss noticed. “You okay?” he asked one afternoon, frowning over the rim of his glasses. You had just waved him off with a weak smile. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just tired, that’s all.”

But tired didn’t feel right. And by the time you were shuffled into the doctor’s office, then sent quickly to the hospital for a battery of tests, you knew something wasn’t. You didn’t tell Ellie. You couldn’t. She had work, a full schedule, the excitement of her own projects to manage. You didn’t want to cloud that, didn’t want her to worry over something you couldn’t control yet. So you kept it to yourself, smiled when she walked into the apartment, kissed her softly on the cheek, and pretended everything was fine.

That day, you came home ten minutes before her. Ten minutes where the world felt suspended in a haze of sterile hospital smells that still clung faintly to your clothes, the harsh words of the doctor echoing in your head. Terminal cancer. The words circled endlessly, hitting you in waves you couldn’t stop. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Trying to hold it together. You rehearsed the words in your head, wondering how you could possibly tell Ellie, how you could possibly let her see you like this.

When Ellie finally arrived, pushing the door open with a bright smile and her hair falling messily around her face, you snapped upright, standing to greet her. “Hey,” you said lightly, forcing the warmth into your voice. “How was work today?”

Ellie dropped her bag by the door and smiled, stepping closer. “Long,” she admitted, “but you wouldn’t let me get home and collapse without a snack, right?” She laughed softly, but there was an edge to her laugh you couldn’t quite ignore. Her eyes scanned you instinctively, the same way she always did when something was off.

You kept smiling, let her wrap her arms around you in a hug, feeling the comfort of her familiar warmth, the steady beat of her heart against your chest. It was enough to ground you for a second, enough to forget the fear gnawing at your insides. But Ellie was perceptive. Always had been. Even when you were the best liar in the world, she noticed the subtle tremble in your hands, the way your eyes flicked to the ceiling when you thought she wasn’t looking, the stiffness in your posture.

Four days passed. You continued your charade; working, laughing, cooking together, sharing quiet moments on the couch, but Ellie’s gaze lingered longer than usual, her questions slightly sharper, her smiles tinged with concern. You felt the walls of your own lies pressing in. You wanted to tell her so badly, but the words stuck, a weight in your chest you couldn’t shift.

And then, one evening, she cornered you. Not aggressively, not yelling, just quietly, decisively. You had been folding laundry in the bedroom when she appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes fixed on you. “Stop pretending everything’s fine,” she said softly, but with an intensity that made your stomach drop. “I can see it. I know something’s wrong. You’re hiding it from me.”

Your hands froze over the shirt you were folding. Your chest felt tight, and your vision blurred. The dam broke. “Ellie…” you whispered, voice cracking almost immediately. “I… I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t know how…”

She stepped closer, kneeling in front of you, taking your hands in hers, holding them like she could physically anchor you. “You’re scaring me,” she admitted, voice low, trembling. “I can’t—” Her words broke as her eyes filled, searching yours. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”

And just like that, you couldn’t hold it anymore. Tears streamed down your face as you finally confessed everything: the persistent pain, the doctor, the tests, the words that had shattered your world: terminal. You spilled it all, your voice breaking, your body shaking, your soul aching with the fear of losing her.

Ellie’s hands never left yours, squeezing gently, refusing to let go. Her forehead rested against yours, tears spilling freely now, matching your own. “I… I’m here,” she whispered, voice thick. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll… we’ll get through this, okay? Together.”

For the first time since leaving the hospital, you exhaled. Not because the fear was gone, it wasn’t, but because you were no longer carrying it alone. And even amidst the terror and uncertainty, even knowing the clock was ticking against you, you felt the strength of her presence, the unshakable certainty that no matter how much darkness lay ahead, you wouldn’t face it alone.

Ellie pressed a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “We’ll figure this out, one day at a time. And if you need to cry, scream, or just hold me, you do it. I’m not leaving.”

For hours, you held each other on the bedroom floor, letting the tears fall and the silence stretch, punctuated only by soft murmurs and the occasional sob. And even in that overwhelming despair, there was a glimmer of something else: love, fierce and unwavering, stronger than fear, stronger than any diagnosis.

You knew life had thrown you a cruel hand. But with Ellie, maybe you could still find moments of grace, moments of joy, moments worth fighting for, even in the shadow of the inevitable.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Ellie’s world shifted without a word from her. Slowly, quietly, she rearranged her life around yours, making sure you were never alone during the long, grueling hours of treatments and appointments. She started scheduling her workdays around your doctors’ visits, asking for mornings off or shifting shifts, her boss accommodating every request with understanding that went beyond professionalism. “I don’t know how you do it,” her boss said once, after Ellie explained she needed to attend your infusion session. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

Ellie didn’t hear the compliment as praise for herself. She only heard it as validation for what she already knew in her bones: that she would be with you through everything, no matter how long or hard. She showed up at every appointment, sitting beside you in the sterile chairs of hospital waiting rooms, holding your hand through every needle prick, every IV insertion, every dull ache and burning nausea.

As the weeks wore on, your body grew weaker. Chemo and treatments left you exhausted, sometimes barely able to lift a fork, sometimes unable to even hold a book. Sex, once a constant and playful presence in your relationship, disappeared entirely. You never asked for it, and Ellie never mentioned it. There were no complaints, no sighs of frustration, just quiet understanding and a tenderness that almost hurt with its intensity.

Instead, the nights became something different. After dragging yourself to bed, trembling from exhaustion, Ellie would climb in beside you. She never rolled away if you trembled from nausea, never shifted impatiently if your body curled into hers like a fragile shell. She’d cradle you in her arms, kissing your forehead, your temple, the side of your face, whispering soft reassurances that had no need for words beyond their touch.

“You don’t have to move,” she’d murmur, voice low and steady, “I’ve got you.”

Her hands were always there, tracing the curve of your shoulder, sliding through your hair, brushing against your cheek. She’d hum softly when you were too weak to speak, letting the sound fill the silence of the room. Even the small, mundane moments, shifting the blankets over you, bringing you water, adjusting your pillows, were infused with love and attentiveness.

Sometimes you’d wake in the middle of the night to find her still awake, tracing gentle circles along your back as you slept. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” she’d whisper when she noticed you stirring. Even when you were too tired to respond, she never left. The warmth of her body against yours, the soft press of her lips against your head, became your anchor, a reminder that even in the worst days, you were not facing them alone.

And though the intimacy of before; the teasing touches, the shared laughter, the messy, passionate closeness, was gone, there was a new closeness now. A quiet, unspoken bond forged from vulnerability, endurance, and relentless love. You began to see it clearly: Ellie wasn’t just your girlfriend, she was your shelter, your home.

Every touch, every kiss to your temple, every whispered word of reassurance stitched a layer of safety and warmth around you, a cocoon in which the world’s cruelty and your illness could not reach.

Some nights, lying in her arms, exhausted, you would murmur softly, “I don’t deserve you.”

Ellie would smile faintly, brushing her fingers through your hair. “Stop that,” she said gently, “you deserve everything. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Even as the chemo left your hair thin and your body fragile, Ellie’s devotion never wavered. The world outside could keep spinning, the days could grow heavier, the treatments harsher, but within the walls of your shared apartment, in the quiet of the nights, love was patient, love was constant, and love, Ellie, was unstoppable. And yet, even wrapped in that certainty, one ache lingered, the ache of a dream you’d carried with you your whole life.

Marrying.

You’d always been obsessed with the idea of marriage. As a little kid, you’d drawn elaborate wedding plans, filled notebooks with dream venues and dresses, and imagined the faces of the people you loved most gathered around you. That dream had followed you into adulthood, tucked safely into your heart, and Ellie had always known it. Your parents had, too. But since the diagnosis, it felt like that dream had been ripped from your reach, a future you might never touch. Everything had changed, the laughter, the plans, the intimacy of the life you were building, and suddenly, even the thought of walking down an aisle seemed impossible, a cruel reminder of what you could lose.

That evening, the apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the soft ticking of the wall clock. You were tucked under the heavy blankets of your bed, the day’s treatments weighing on you like stones, your body weak and trembling from exhaustion. You barely had the strength to move, let alone entertain the thought of anything beyond the next breath.

Ellie came in a little later than usual, her shift running longer than expected. As soon as she saw you, her eyes softened, a careful, tender worry shadowing her face. “Hey, how are you feeling?” she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant. Her bag fell to the floor with a soft thud, but she didn’t sit yet. She crouched beside the bed, one knee resting on the floor, the other propped up, leaning toward you so she could reach your hand without strain.

You watched her, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest, the one that had always made the world outside fade when she was near. Her fingers brushed yours lightly, hesitating, as if she were about to step into something sacred. Then, she took a deep breath, her gaze steady and unwavering.

“I know things have been… really hard,” she said, her voice catching just slightly. “And I know that your dream of… everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve imagined… it might feel impossible right now.” She paused, squeezing your hand gently. “But I want you to know… I don’t care about impossible. I don’t care about time, or sickness, or anything. I just care about you.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, a mix of fear and hope tangled together. You didn’t have the energy to speak; words felt heavy, and your throat was tight.

Ellie reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a small velvet box. Your eyes widened before you even realized it, a trembling gasp escaping your lips. “Wait— Ellie…” you started, voice trembling.

She shook her head, smiling softly, tears already glinting at the corners of her eyes. “No, just listen.” She opened the box, revealing a delicate ring, simple yet impossibly beautiful, catching the light in a way that made your chest ache. She shifted closer, tilting her head slightly, her eyes locked on yours.

“Will you marry me?” she whispered, the words so soft and full of love they wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt your body respond, not with the exhaustion that weighed it down, but with life, with energy, with pure, unfiltered emotion. You didn’t hesitate. The word tumbled out of you almost instinctively: “Yes!”

Ellie’s eyes lit up, and in an instant, she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around you completely. Her body pressed close to yours, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you, the quiet hum of the apartment and the pounding of your hearts. She slid the ring onto your finger with a gentle, reverent touch, and you could feel the warmth of her fingers lingering against yours.

The tears started then, slowly at first, then in a torrent. You couldn’t stop them, and Ellie didn’t try to. Her own tears streaked down her cheeks as she held you close, whispering your name, murmuring soft “I love yous” over and over, her lips pressing against your hair, your temple, your forehead.

For hours, you cried together, wrapped up in each other, the room silent except for your sobs and her steady, grounding heartbeat. It wasn’t just a proposal, it was a promise, a defiance against the world that had been trying to take everything from you. In that moment, it didn’t matter that the future was uncertain. What mattered was the love you had, the life you shared in every touch, every glance, every whispered word.

And as the night wore on, still wrapped in each other’s arms, the ring glinting on your finger, you realized that some dreams were never truly lost, they just needed someone like Ellie to make them real.

The moment the proposal had settled into your heart, the reality of planning a wedding, any wedding, hit you like a cold wave. You were still lying in bed, wrapped in Ellie’s arms, your fingers tracing the ring over and over, and the thought of months of planning made your chest tighten. There wasn’t time. How could there be? You couldn’t be sure how many months, or even weeks, you had. Every plan felt like it was balanced on a knife’s edge.

Ellie, of course, didn’t let that stop her. She kissed the tears off your cheeks and whispered against your temple, “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll handle it.” And she did.

The next morning, she started pulling every string she could; phone calls, emails, even a personal contact with a local official she somehow knew through her art school connections. By the middle of the week, she’d done the impossible: she found someone, some kind of registrar or government official, to come to your apartment and marry you there. Next week.

You wouldn’t have to leave your bed, wouldn’t have to sit in an office or a chapel that smelled sterile and wrong. You’d be able to do it surrounded by the chaos and love of your home, where you and Ellie had built your life together.

It was surreal, and for a moment, your chest tightened with disbelief. “Ellie… you can’t just— how did you even—”

She cut you off with a grin, brushing a stray hair from your face. “I told you, I don’t care about rules. I care about you. You’re marrying me in your bed if you want. Done.”

The practicalities of the dress came next, and Ellie insisted on making it fun. You weren’t leaving the bed, so there was no chance of a traditional dress shopping trip. Instead, you did it online together. You knew your measurements well enough to navigate the sizing charts, but there was still an undercurrent of nervous excitement every time a new gown popped up on the screen.

Ellie hovered beside you, her shoulder brushing yours as she scrolled, muttering little commentary about every dress. “Ooh, that’s delicate… That one’s got a vintage vibe… I can see you in this one, you’d melt everyone’s heart.”

You laughed, the sound shaky, but genuine. “I don’t even know what ‘vintage vibe’ means in this context.”

Ellie grinned, nudging your shoulder. “It means you look effortlessly perfect in it. Trust me. It’s not about the fabric; it’s about you. Always about you.”

It took hours, hours of scrolling, of imagining, of exclaiming over lace patterns, off-shoulder cuts, and flowing skirts that would never touch the floor because, honestly, who cared about a train when your love could fill a room? You debated satin versus silk, strapless versus capped sleeves, blush versus ivory, and every time you got overwhelmed, Ellie would grab your hand and whisper, “It doesn’t matter what you pick. You’ll look incredible, and I’ll be here the whole time.”

Eventually, you found it, a dress that was soft ivory, flowing without being fussy, delicate lace along the shoulders, cinched perfectly at your waist. You could picture it on you, sitting in bed with Ellie holding your hand, your fingers intertwined as you promised forever to each other.

Ellie clapped her hands softly, her eyes shining. “That’s it. That’s the one. You’ll look breathtaking. And I don’t care if it’s next week, next month, or next year, you’re mine, and I’m yours, and no one else matters.”

You let yourself cry again, this time tears of relief and overwhelming love. The wedding wasn’t going to be traditional. It wasn’t going to be extravagant. You didn’t have months for the perfect dress, a full guest list, or a reception. But Ellie made it more than enough. She made it possible. She made it yours.

That night, wrapped up in blankets, the dress chosen and the officiant confirmed, Ellie pressed a kiss to your forehead and whispered, “We’re really doing this. We’re really getting married. And I promise… it’s going to be perfect because it’s us.”

You leaned into her, feeling the exhaustion and fear of the past months wash away just enough to make room for hope. Your dream of marriage, once a faraway fantasy, was finally within reach, and it wasn’t some picture-perfect fairy tale. It was messy, it was urgent, it was alive, and it was with her.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The morning sunlight streamed through your bedroom window, warm and soft, as your mom gently helped you into the dress. It wasn’t perfect, it didn’t hug every curve the way a tailor might have wanted, and the sleeves were a little long, but it didn’t matter. When you looked in the mirror, you saw yourself reflected back in a way that made your heart ache and soar at the same time.

The delicate ivory lace brushed against your shoulders, the flowing skirt pooled softly around your legs, and the faint blush of satin along the bodice caught the light just enough to make it feel ethereal.

Your mom’s hands lingered on your shoulders, brushing away a stray strand of hair as tears welled in her eyes. “You’re… you’re absolutely breathtaking,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. You reached out and took her hands, squeezing them gently. “I can see why I turned out alright,” you said with a small, shaky laugh. Your mom smiled through her tears, shaking her head. “No, you’re more than alright. You’re… perfect.”

Hours later, as the evening settled in and the last golden light slipped from the windows, everyone was ready. Ellie stepped into the room, her suit tailored perfectly, sleek and elegant, with a subtle silk tie that shimmered faintly in the low light. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw her. It wasn’t the suit that made her breathtaking, it was the way her eyes softened when they found yours, the little crease of a smile she always had when she was trying not to cry, the steady, unwavering presence she radiated even in the chaos of this moment.

The room was small but filled with warmth. Ellie’s dad sat quietly in the corner, his hands clasped tightly together, eyes glossy with tears. Your parents flanked the side of the bed, both dabbing at their cheeks with tissues, the pride and sorrow of the moment written in every line of their faces. And then there was the officiant, clipboard in hand, eyes shimmering like everyone else’s, clearly struggling to keep composed.

You could feel Ellie’s hand slide into yours, fingers intertwining perfectly. Neither of you needed to speak, every glance, every squeeze, every small, shaky inhale said everything that words could not.

When the officiant started, the words came out halting, half-choked with emotion. “We… are gathered here… to witness…” The sentences wavered and cracked, but you didn’t care. You didn’t need perfectly polished vows or a flowing ceremony. You only needed each other, here, now, alive in this room, legal and bound to one another.

Ellie’s voice was soft but steady when it was her turn to speak. “I promise to love you… to hold you… to be yours in all the ways I can, always.” You could hear the catch in her throat as she blinked back tears, and your heart ached with love so fierce it felt like it could crack you open.

When it was your turn, your own voice trembled, but you pressed on, “I promise to be with you… to be your home, your chaos, your soft place… forever. Even when it’s hard, even when it hurts, I choose you.”

The officiant nodded, tears rolling down their cheeks, and took a small breath. “By the power vested in me and with the love that fills this room, I now pronounce you legally married. You may… kiss the bride.”

Ellie’s hand squeezed yours so hard you could feel her pulse through your skin. She leaned down, brushing her lips to yours in a kiss that was at once tender, desperate, joyous, and full of all the love and grief and relief you’d ever felt. You clung to her, whispering, “We’re married… we’re really married.”

She laughed softly through her tears, pressing her forehead to yours. “Yes. yes, we are. Always.”

And in that room, filled with sobs, tears, and barely-formed words, none of it mattered. The flowers weren’t arranged just so, the dress didn’t trail perfectly, the officiant stumbled over syllables, none of it mattered. Because in that moment, you and Ellie were married, fully and truly, and the rest of the world, the rest of the future, could wait.

The days after your wedding blurred together in a strange haze of sweetness and pain. The ring on your finger became both a comfort and a reminder. Every time Ellie’s thumb brushed over it while she held your hand, you felt safe, anchored, but also achingly aware of the ticking clock. The sickness had been creeping forward steadily, and though you tried to hide how much worse you were getting, there was no hiding it from Ellie. She saw everything. She always had.

You refused the hospital. The sterile white walls, the mechanical beeping, the fluorescent hum overhead, it wasn’t where you wanted your story to end. You wanted home, the smell of Ellie’s shampoo in the pillows, the creak of the old floorboards, the warmth of your shared blankets. You wanted to die in the place where you had lived and loved, not as a patient hooked up to machines. Ellie didn’t argue. Not really. She pressed her lips tight, nodded with tears shining in her eyes, and promised to keep you home.

Eating became harder. Food lost its taste, lost its appeal, and no matter how many times Ellie tried to coax you with little bowls of soup or toast cut into shapes that made you laugh once, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat more than a few bites. She pretended not to notice, but you saw the way her hands shook when she cleared your untouched plate, the way she stayed awake at night just watching your chest rise and fall, terrified it might stop in the dark.

One afternoon, the sunlight was weak through the curtains, dust drifting lazily in the air. You could hear Ellie moving around the apartment, dishes clinking, her quiet humming under her breath, but the weight in your chest had grown too heavy to ignore. You swallowed hard, tears stinging your eyes, and called softly, “Ellie? Can you come here? Sit down… please.”

She appeared in the doorway almost immediately, worry already etched into her face, hair falling loose around her temples. She crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, taking your hand automatically. “What’s wrong, baby?” she whispered, her voice gentle, as if even words might shatter you.

You stared at her for a long moment, your throat tight. Her green eyes, so full of stubborn love, met yours, and it nearly broke you in two. But you knew you had to say it. You owed her that.

“Ellie,” you began, your voice trembling, “when I’m gone… I need you to promise me something.”

Her brows furrowed immediately. “Don’t—”

“No, listen,” you cut in, squeezing her hand weakly. “Please. Promise me that… you’ll move on. That you’ll marry someone else one day. That you’ll be happy again. I don’t want you to—” Your voice cracked. “—to spend the rest of your life sulking over me. You don’t deserve that. You deserve love, and laughter, and someone who adores you.”

Ellie’s lips parted, her whole body going rigid, and for a second you thought she might pull away. But she didn’t. She stayed there, clutching your hand like it was her only lifeline, tears spilling over her lashes. She shook her head violently. “Don’t you dare ask me that.”

You felt your heart twist painfully. “Ellie, please—”

“No,” she said, sharper now, but her voice still cracked under the weight of her sobs. She pressed her forehead to the back of your hand, shaking as she cried into your skin. “You don’t get it. You’re it for me. You’ve always been it. I can’t— I won’t replace you. Don’t you dare think for one second that anyone could.”

Her words were muffled against your skin, but every syllable dug deep into your chest. You reached out with your other trembling hand and stroked her hair, combing your fingers through the soft strands. “I’m not asking you to replace me,” you whispered. “I’m asking you to let yourself be loved again when I can’t be the one doing it. Please, Ellie. Promise me you won’t lock your heart away forever.”

Ellie lifted her head, her face wet, her eyes red and raw. She looked at you with a mixture of desperation and fury, as if the world itself was cruel for making you have this conversation. “You are so damn unfair,” she whispered hoarsely. “You’re asking me to let go of the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

You smiled through your tears, brushing your thumb across her wet cheek. “I’m asking you to live. For me. For you. Please, baby.”

She shook her head, but her lips pressed to your knuckles, lingering there like a prayer. “I can’t promise that,” she choked out. “Not now. Not when I can still hold you.”

And though her words broke you, you also understood. Ellie wasn’t ready to think about a world without you. She wasn’t ready to picture herself in someone else’s arms. All she could do was love you with everything she had left, in every moment she still had with you.

You didn’t push her again that day. Instead, you pulled her into bed, into the curve of your arms, and the two of you lay tangled together, tears drying slowly on your cheeks. The night stretched on endlessly, the shadows crawling up the bedroom walls, the faint hum of the city outside muffled by drawn curtains.

The pain had been unbearable that evening, a gnawing fire in your bones that no pill or warm blanket could dull. Ellie had done everything she could, held you when you trembled, pressed cold cloths to your fevered skin, whispered soft nothings into your hair, but nothing eased it. Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn’t for hours.

By the time the clock blinked 4:03 a.m., you were still wide awake, eyes stinging with exhaustion, whispering prayers you didn’t even know you believed in. To God. To the universe. To anyone who would listen. Please, just let me rest. Just let me close my eyes and drift for a while.

Ellie was lying beside you, her arm curved protectively around your frail body, her cheek buried in your shoulder. She hadn’t closed her eyes once. You could feel the way her chest hitched every few breaths, the way her fingers twitched against yours like she was grounding herself against the possibility that at any second, you might slip away.

And then her voice broke the silence. Soft at first, almost like she was scared to let it out. “Hey,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your temple. You turned your head slightly, eyes heavy, and saw her looking at you, her face blotchy from crying, green eyes glistening in the dim light. “It’s alright if you… if you need to go.”

Your breath caught, but she pressed on, her hand trembling as it cupped your jaw. “I can see how much this hurts you. Every second. And it’s killing me to watch you fight so hard when you’re so tired.” Her voice cracked, a broken sob catching in her throat, but she kept going, needing you to hear it. “You don’t have to fight for me anymore, baby. You’ve done enough. You’ve loved me more than I ever thought I deserved, and that’s… that’s more than enough.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, spilling weakly down your cheeks. You wanted to answer, to tell her you loved her one more time, but your voice wouldn’t come. Your chest was too heavy, your lips too dry.

Ellie leaned closer, forehead pressing against yours, her breath warm and ragged. And then she said the words that would stay etched into your heart, even as it slowed. “I promise you I’ll never forget you,” she whispered fiercely. “I promise I’ll open my heart again one day. Not to replace you, no one could ever replace you, but because you’d want me to. Because I can’t let it close forever. I swear it.”

Her tears fell onto your face as she kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, over and over as if trying to memorize you. The world began to blur, her voice echoing faintly in your ears. You clung to the sound of her, the warmth of her, the smell of her shampoo, and then, gently, quietly, you let go.

The last thing you carried with you into forever was Ellie’s voice, steady despite her breaking heart, promising you love even beyond the life you shared.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Time has a strange way of folding in on itself. In the first weeks without you, Ellie lived in a haze. Your clothes still hung in the closet, your perfume still lingered on the pillows, and your laugh still echoed in her dreams. The apartment was impossibly quiet, though she still caught herself talking to you, asking if you wanted tea, if you wanted her to pick up groceries, if you wanted to come with her on a walk. For a long time, she lived in those ghosts.

Your wedding ring never left her grasp. She wore it on a thin chain around her neck, tucked under her shirt, safe against her skin. Every morning she kissed it like a ritual, like a prayer, before she left for work.

Years passed, slowly softening the edges of grief without ever erasing it. Ellie kept drawing. Her comics became strangely bittersweet, filled with tender little moments; two girls laughing in bed, a kiss beneath the rain, quiet hands intertwined. People called her work honest, said it had a pulse of raw love. She never explained that every panel was a love letter to you.

But she also kept her promise. She lived. She didn’t lock herself away in sorrow, even though it would’ve been so easy. She went to gallery openings, to cafés with friends, to the kind of late-night art shows she knew you would’ve teased her for. And one day, years later, someone new came into her orbit.

Her name was Autumn, a painter. The first time they met, Ellie caught herself staring, not because Autumn reminded her of you, she didn’t, but because she had the same spark in her eyes that you always carried when you talked about something you loved. That passion. That life.

It scared Ellie at first. She felt guilty even sitting across from Autumn at a café, laughing at her dumb jokes. But one night, after walking home beneath the streetlamps, Ellie stood in the doorway of your old bedroom, the one she’d kept untouched for so long, and touched the photo of you both on the dresser.

“Don’t be mad,” she whispered into the silence, her thumb brushing your smile behind the glass. “She’s not you. No one ever could be. But… I think you’d want this for me.”

And slowly, she allowed herself to open again.

Autumn never tried to erase you. She asked about you sometimes, listened when Ellie spoke about the wedding, about the way you used to run down the street in heels just to catch her at the airport, about how you loved Jurassic Park even though you pretended not to at first. Autumn smiled softly and said, “She sounds amazing. I’m glad she loved you like that.”

Ellie loved autumn, in time. Not in the same way, never the same way, but in a way that was real, and warm, and alive. And every time she let herself laugh so hard her stomach hurt, every time she pressed a kiss into Autumn’s hair and felt her heart swell, she knew she was keeping her promise.

Because loving again didn’t mean forgetting you. It meant honoring you. It meant proving you were right: that her heart could keep beating, keep giving, even after it had been shattered.

And every night, before she fell asleep, Ellie still reached up to the chain around her neck. The wedding ring was still there, cool against her skin. She kissed it, eyes closed, and whispered, “Goodnight, baby.”

Because love like yours didn’t end. It just changed shape.

Sfw

loser!Ellie who thinks she’s way cooler than she actually is — You catch her in her usual “cool girl” pose, back against the wall, arms crossed, head tipped down like she’s too busy thinking deep thoughts to bother with the room. She’s wearing that half-smirk she always does when she thinks she’s blending mystery with charm. You’re in the middle of telling her something when her heel slides just enough to throw off her balance, her shoulder jerking back. You hear the soft thump of her hand hitting the wall to steady herself, and she pops right back into position like nothing happened. “Yeah… real smooth,” she mutters under her breath, pretending it was on purpose. When you laugh, she raises her eyebrows at you. “What? You think I didn’t mean to do that? It’s called a power move. Throws people off.”

loser!Ellie who delivers pickup lines like they’re a joke — She flops down on the couch next to you, knees spread like she owns the place, and with zero preamble says, “Hey, you a magician? ’Cause every time you’re around, everyone else disappears.” Her tone is dripping in sarcasm, mocking herself even as she says it. You roll your eyes, tossing a cushion at her. But then later, when you’re leaning over her shoulder to look at her sketchbook, she blurts without thinking, “You’re actually… like… stupid pretty.” There’s a beat where she looks like she regrets even opening her mouth. She scrunches up her face, waving a hand like she’s batting away the words. “I mean, not like— shut up. It was— forget it.” You can practically hear the gears in her head grinding as she decides whether to jump out the nearest window or make another bad joke to recover.

loser!Ellie who cannot let you win an argument, ever — “I’m telling you, it’s graphite, not lead,” you say, tapping the pencil in your hand. Ellie squints at you from across the kitchen table, as if you’ve just challenged her to a duel. “Nope. Lead. Like… actual lead.” You sigh, already knowing where this is going. Later that night, you wake up to your phone buzzing with a new message: a screenshot of some educational article titled ‘Why the Core of a Pencil is Graphite, Not Lead.’ Beneath it, she’s written, ok fine BUT you know what I meant. When you confront her in the morning, she’s leaning against the counter, smug grin on her face. “Didn’t say I was wrong. Just… slightly less right.”

loser!Ellie who maintains that quiet loner energy in public — At the party, she’s leaned against the wall, hood up, drink in hand, scanning the room like she’s on patrol. People glance her way like they’re intimidated, and she lets them. But the moment you’re back in your apartment, she’s pacing in socked feet, rambling about some Reddit thread on alien cover-ups she read that morning. She drops onto the couch beside you mid-sentence, eyes bright with that restless energy. “And I’m just saying, if the moon landing was real, why haven’t we been back? Huh?” You grin at her, and she stops, realizing how animated she’s gotten. “…Shut up. You’re staring.”

loser!Ellie who brags endlessly about her skills — “You’re looking at a pool champion,” she declares as she chalks the cue, giving you a wink. The first two rounds, she’s actually pretty good. Then you start catching her sliding balls into pockets with her fingers when she thinks you’re distracted. “Ellie!” you call her out. She just smirks, leaning on her cue stick. “What? You were taking too long.” By the end of the night, she’s fully abandoned the rules, hitting the cue ball like she’s playing hockey. “I still won, though,” she insists, even though you both know that’s a lie.

loser!Ellie who teases you about every little embarrassing thing — You trip on the sidewalk, catching yourself before you fall. Behind you, Ellie’s wheezing with laughter. “Graceful. Real ballerina moves there.” She’ll bring it up again later, imitating your flailing arms with dramatic flair. But when some stranger at the bar chuckles about it after overhearing, she spins in her seat, eyes narrowing. “You got somethin’ to say?” Her tone is low, dangerous. The stranger mumbles something and looks away, and Ellie turns back to you, as if nothing happened. “Anyway—” she says, smirking.

loser!Ellie who can genuinely play guitar beautifully — You walk into the living room to find her perched on the couch, head bowed over her guitar. The notes are soft, almost absentminded, but there’s real skill there. She pretends not to notice you, fingers moving with ease over the strings. Then, without looking up, she says, “Hey, wanna hear the Minecraft theme?” You laugh, and she gives you a sideways grin. “What? It’s a classic.” She won’t admit it, but she’s aware of every second you spend watching her.

loser!Ellie who acts like she doesn’t care about birthdays or anniversaries — “It’s just another day,” she says when you ask if she wants to celebrate. But weeks later, she shows up at your door holding something wrapped in brown paper. “Here,” she says, shoving it into your hands like she’s embarrassed. It’s a custom-painted mug with a little sketch of a space helmet and your initials on it. “Don’t… make it a big deal,” she warns, already shifting her weight like she’s ready to bolt.

loser!Ellie who will confidently give directions somewhere she’s never actually been before — She’s a step ahead of you on the cracked sidewalk, chin up, hands shoved deep in her hoodie, tossing casual “oh yeah, this way” over her shoulder like she’s some kind of local guide. You point out that she hasn’t even looked at her phone once. “Don’t need to,” she says, smug. “Got, like… an internal GPS.” Twenty minutes later you’re both staring at a chain-link fence and a dumpster, the supposed “shortcut” ending in an alley that smells like old oil and wet cardboard. You cross your arms, and her jaw tightens like she’s already preparing her defense. “Yeah, okay, technically this isn’t it, but I meant to take us this way. Y’know, scenic route.” She keeps walking, muttering something about “adjusting the plan,” and you swear she starts moving faster just so you can’t call her out again.

loser!Ellie who claims she doesn’t like pets “because they’re too much work” — She says it so firmly the first time you bring it up, like she’s rehearsed the line before. “They shed everywhere. You gotta feed ’em, clean up their puke… no thanks.” But it takes all of three seconds for her to crumble when a golden retriever trots up to you on the street. She’s crouching before she even realizes, long fingers buried in soft fur, her voice melting into that ridiculous, high-pitched baby tone. “Who’s a good boy, huh? You’re a good boy!” The dog’s tail is thumping against her knee and she’s grinning like an idiot. Then she glances up and sees you smirking. The switch is instant, she straightens, clears her throat, and shoots you the don’t say anything glare. “He started it,” she says flatly, brushing imaginary dog hair off her jeans.

loser!Ellie who tries to playfully shove you in the snow or push you into the pool — She gets that mischievous glint in her eyes before she even moves, like she’s already picturing you going in. One nudge, one perfectly timed push, that’s her plan. Except you grab her wrist mid-move, twist, and yank her forward. There’s a burst of snow in the air or a big, echoing splash, and suddenly she’s sputtering, water or powder dripping down her face. She’s laughing, but trying to cover it with a scoff. “Wow. Real mature,” she says, but there’s a little shake in her voice that tells you she’s still catching her breath. She pushes her wet hair out of her eyes and grins. “Don’t get too comfortable, I’m getting you back.”

loser!Ellie who insists on carrying heavy stuff for you — She doesn’t even let you try. One swift grab and she’s hauling two bulging grocery bags, arms flexing as she mutters, “Got it.” You point out that the veins in her hands are popping like she’s deadlifting, but she just shakes her head. “Nah, I’m fine. Easy.” By the time you get to your door, she’s breathing harder, cheeks flushed, not that she’d admit it. She sets them down with a thud, straightens, and forces a cocky grin. “See? Piece of cake.” You resist the urge to check if her hands are trembling.

loser!Ellie who will go out of her way to win you stupid carnival prizes — It’s supposed to be a quick round on the shooting game, just for fun, but she’s locked in, jaw tight, wasting way too many tokens. She mutters curses under her breath with every miss, shoving another bill into the machine like she’s in some personal vendetta with the rigged setup. Finally, the carny sighs and hands her a prize, a tiny, sad-looking stuffed duck. She turns to you with both hands out, eyes bright despite the size. “For you,” she says, smug like it’s a grand romantic gesture. She doesn’t care that it’s small, it’s the principle.

loser!Ellie who tries to impress you by “fixing” something — “Yeah, I got this,” she says when your sink starts dripping. Ten minutes later there’s a wrench on the counter, water pooling on the floor, and Ellie swearing under her breath as she twists at pipes that clearly aren’t cooperating. She leans back, wiping her hands on her jeans, leaving dark streaks of grease. “It’s fine. Just needs… adjustment.” She kisses your cheek on her way out, like that somehow seals the job, and you wait until she’s gone before quietly calling someone else. Still, you find yourself smiling at the little trail of chaos she left behind.

loser!Ellie who insists she’s unbeatable at Mario Kart — She shows up to game night already grinning, feet kicked up on the coffee table like a queen claiming her throne. “I’m just warning you,” she says while booting up the Switch, “I don’t lose.” You raise a brow, but she’s already picking Yoshi, muttering something about “loyalty” like the character choice matters. The first race is a blur of her leaning so far into turns that she’s almost falling off the couch, swearing every time you pass her, but still talking trash. By the final lap, she’s ahead, cocky. Then you hit her with a blue shell right before the finish line. She freezes. Mouth open. Slowly turns toward you like you’ve committed a war crime. “Are. You. Kidding me? That’s cheap! That’s—no, nope. Rematch. That one didn’t count.” She immediately restarts the race, muttering under her breath about “dirty tactics” like you personally betrayed her.

loser!Ellie who takes you to the museum to see the dinosaur exhibits — She walks in with her hands stuffed in her pockets, head tilted just enough to look like she’s “casually” taking everything in when you can tell she’s actually pumped. “Okay, so… this is a triceratops,” she says, stopping in front of a skull display, “horns, frill, super defensive, kinda like me.” You ask if she’s sure and she hesitates before nodding, “Yeah. Definitely.” She speeds ahead to the T-Rex skeleton, and you find her standing there, staring up like she’s in church. She doesn’t even look at you when she says it, just mutters, almost reverent, “Look at that badass.” She tries to act casual afterward, but you catch her sneaking a photo when she thinks you’re not looking.

loser!Ellie who will stop in the middle of walking somewhere if she spots a comic book shop — You’re halfway to lunch when she freezes mid-step, eyes catching on the bright red “New Arrivals” sign in a store window. “Oh… oh, we’re going in,” she says, already veering across the sidewalk without checking if you’re following. “Just to look,” she adds. Forty minutes later, she’s crouched over a long box of back issues, talking rapid-fire with the clerk about the difference between two obscure Spider-Man runs like it’s a high-stakes debate. Every time you hint that you should get going, she waves you off without even looking up. “Five more minutes,” she says, for the fourth time. She finally emerges with two comics under her arm, swearing they’re “collector’s items” but refusing to tell you how much they cost.

loser!Ellie who makes you watch space documentaries with her — She sells them to you as “super chill” and “good background noise,” but the second it starts, she’s glued to the screen like it’s a live sports match. She’s sprawled on her stomach, propped on her elbows, pointing at the graphics and nodding like she’s confirming facts she already knew. Halfway through one about black holes, she grabs the remote and pauses it. “Okay, so, fun fact, if you fell into one, time would stretch out and—” You point out that the narrator literally just said that two seconds ago. She frowns. “Yeah, but I explained it cooler,” she insists, unpausing it and pretending she hasn’t just derailed the flow of the entire documentary.

loser!Ellie who pretends not to care about collectibles — She talks big about how “stuff is just stuff” and she doesn’t like clutter. Then you catch her at a flea market staring at a glass display case, her reflection practically vibrating as she sees a rare dinosaur figurine. She does the whole pacing thing, walking away, coming back, tapping her wallet against her thigh. “It’s an investment,” she says finally, as if you’ve been arguing against it all along. Later, you find it on her shelf, perfectly centered with the lighting adjusted so it hits just right. If you point it out, she’ll shrug like it’s no big deal, but she glances at it every time she walks past.

loser!Ellie who buys matching astronomy mugs for the two of you — She doesn’t even make a thing out of it. One day, there’s just a mug with constellations on it in your cupboard, identical to the one she’s drinking out of. She doesn’t say anything, just watches when you make coffee, eyes flicking between you and the mug. After a week of you grabbing other cups, she starts ‘jokingly’ stealing your drink if you’re not using it. “Guess you don’t need this one,” she’ll say, sipping with obnoxious satisfaction. You finally use it one morning and she doesn’t mention it, but she grins into her chocolate milk.

loser!Ellie who claims she only likes movies with “good action” — “Explosions, fight scenes, y’know, stuff that doesn’t suck,” she says, scrolling through your streaming service. But she picks an animated space film “just to see if it’s any good,” and fifteen minutes later she’s cross-legged on the couch, leaning forward with wide eyes. There’s a scene where the little robot says goodbye to its friend, and you notice she’s suddenly very still. A tear slips down her cheek, and when you point it out, she wipes it away quickly. “Shut up,” she says, voice a little hoarse. “It’s just… the lighting’s really bright in here.”

loser!Ellie who brags about her zombie survival skills — She’s got it all planned, fortifications, scavenging routes, how she’d ration food. “You’d want me on your team,” she says confidently. Then one morning you hear her yelp from the bathroom. You find her standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped tight, pointing into the shower like she’s discovered a crime scene. “Uh… you’re gonna have to deal with that.” You step inside to see a spider the size of a quarter. “I could take down an entire horde,” she mutters, backing away, “but that? Nope. That’s where I draw the line.”

loser!Ellie who hoards random free stuff — She’s sitting on the couch surrounded by tiny trinkets from every coffee shop, library, and arcade you’ve been to. “I may or may not have… acquired all the pencils they were giving away,” she says, waving her hand over a chaotic pile. You pick up a keychain and she gasps, snatching it before you can inspect it. “No! That one’s vintage!” Her face is half-serious, half-proud. When you ask why she keeps all this junk, she shrugs, smiling that lopsided smirk, “In a hundred years, someone’s gonna call it… historically significant.”

loser!Ellie who invents ridiculous rules for board games — Monopoly starts normal. Five minutes later, she’s introducing “house arrest corners” where anyone who lands on a blue property has to sing a song. You argue, she counters, and soon you’re both laughing so hard you can’t even finish turns. She leans back in her chair, chest heaving, hair messy, and declares, “Victory is mine. Rules are flexible. Science agrees.” You know it’s complete nonsense, but she’s having the time of her life anyway.

Nsfw

loser!Ellie who talks big in bed — She straddles you with that cocky grin, knees pinning your hips, a finger dragging slow down the center of your chest. “Relax,” she murmurs, “I’ve got this. You won’t last two minutes.” Her hips roll lazily, denim dragging against your clit in slow, taunting passes. You can see in her eyes she’s aching to prove it, until you hook her thighs and flip her onto her back, pressing down so your thigh slots tight against her pussy. The smirk drops instantly. “W-what the fuck—hey!” she gasps, nails scraping your shoulders, tits brushing your chest as her hips twitch for more. “I—I wasn’t ready for that!” she stammers, but her clit’s already grinding on you, her pride no match for the heat flooding her.

loser!Ellie when you tease her about her noises — Later, she’s bent over you on the couch, your fingers buried in her soaked cunt while she tries to bury her face in your shoulder. “God, you’re cute when you moan,” you murmur, palming the back of her head. She stiffens. “I wasn’t moaning,” she mutters, but you curl your fingers and rub her clit and the denial falls apart with a low, needy sound. She shoves her face into the pillow. “I’m fine,” she insists, voice trembling, hips rolling against your palm as her pussy clenches tight around you, every twitch giving her away.

loser!Ellie who loves giving oral — Kneeling between your spread thighs, she mutters, “Fine, I’ll do it, but don’t get used to me being this generous.” The second her mouth touches you, she’s lost, groaning into your pussy as her tongue curls over your clit, lips sucking until your thighs tremble. Her fingers dig into your hips, holding you still while she pushes her tongue inside you, fucking you with slow, deep strokes. You try to tug her up and she pouts, mouth slick, breathing hard. “You’re such a baby,” she says, but her eyes glow with pride, drinking in the way you’re shaking from her mouth.

loser!Ellie who falls apart instantly if you praise her mid-sex — Straddling her lap, you’re grinding just enough to feel her through her jeans, her hands gripping your ass to keep you close. She’s smug, rolling her hips up in steady little thrusts, until you lean in and murmur, “God, you’re so good for me.” It’s like pulling the pin on a grenade. She freezes, hips jerking against your pussy without control, breath catching hard in her throat. That cocky rhythm stutters, her fingers flexing against you like she’s scrambling for balance. “I—stop—wait…” she gasps, voice shaking, but her clit is already pressing into you like she needs more. You kiss her temple, feeling her melt under you, ruined from one sentence.

loser!Ellie who secretly melts when you grab her hair during sex — She’s on her knees between your thighs, mouth working over your clit, tongue curling deep before sucking slow and steady. You fist your hand gently in her hair, giving the smallest tug, and her whole body shivers. Her hips falter for just a second, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath ghosting over your cunt. “Yeah… whatever,” she mutters later when you tease her about it, but her cheeks are still flushed and her hands still tremble faintly when she touches you. The way her fingers tighten on your thighs every time you touch her hair tells you exactly how much she craves it.

loser!Ellie who challenges you with “I bet you can’t make me…” — She sprawls back on the bed, legs spread wide, smirk curling. “Bet you can’t make me come,” she taunts, trying to sound cocky. Minutes later, you’ve got two fingers buried in her dripping pussy, thumb circling her clit just right, and she’s gripping the sheets with white-knuckle desperation. Her hips arch off the bed, a sharp cry ripping out of her before she can bite it back. She shoots you a weak glare, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her forehead. “You’re such an asshole,” she pants, but the tremor in her thighs and the mess between them tell the truth.

loser!Ellie who gets obsessed with your scent and taste — She’s pressed against your neck, inhaling like she can drink you in, her breath warm over your skin. A low groan slips from her throat as she nuzzles in, lips grazing your collarbone before opening just enough to taste you. Her hands slide under your shirt, palms spreading over your tits while her mouth leaves soft, wet kisses and slow licks across your skin. Every quiet whimper gives her away, she’s lost in the way you smell, the way you taste, grinding her pussy against your thigh without even realizing it.

loser!Ellie who tries dirty talk but stumbles over her words — She leans in close, wanting to whisper filth in your ear, but she’s already too turned on, breath ragged. “I wanna… fuck… I just—” she pants, her pussy grinding against your hip in messy little rolls. You grab her hair, tilting her head up to see her flushed face, lips parted, eyes glassy. She hides it against your shoulder, but every stuttered, half-formed word and the way her hips keep moving make her hotter than anything she could have said on purpose.

loser!Ellie who’s all talk when it comes to fingering — She leans in close, smug grin in place, breath brushing your lips. “Bet I can make you come in five minutes,” she murmurs, fingers hovering over your pussy. You smirk, letting her try. She dives in, two fingers sliding deep, curling just right while her thumb circles your clit. Five minutes turn into ten… then twenty, her brows knitting like she’s studying your every gasp, every twitch of your hips. Under her breath she mutters, “Yeah… fuck… look at you… so wet…” pretending it’s for herself but you know it’s for you. By the time you finally come around her fingers, she’s flushed and sweaty, grinning like she’s just scored a goal. “Okay… maybe that was longer than five minutes,” she admits, still cocky even as her hand trembles from the effort.

loser!Ellie who insists she can handle anal like a pro — “I can handle your ass,” she hisses behind you, fingers slick and sliding over your rim, muttering, “Yeah… I’ve got this… total anal pro…” Her thumb brushes over your lower back, checking you’re still ready, jaw tight with impatience. She tries to slide the strap in, hissing, groaning, muttering, “No… no, fuck, your ass isn’t having it.” She shoves it back onto the bed, chest heaving, hands fisting the sheets. “Ugh… fuck it,” she pants, cheeks red, voice rough. “Do you just want it in your pussy instead?” Pride bristling, she still watches you, a mix of frustration, disbelief, and awe etched across her face.

loser!Ellie who moans during something innocent — You’re lying side by side, kissing slow, her hand resting on your thigh. She traces light circles, inching higher until her knuckles graze your heat through your shorts. When you pull her closer, she lets out a soft moan before freezing, cheeks flushed. “No! That wasn’t—” she blurts, but her hips keep grinding against your leg. You laugh quietly. “Sure, loser.” She groans into your neck, arms cinching around you while her pride burns away under the steady pulse between her legs.

loser!Ellie who’s way too nervous about you using the strap on her — Beforehand she’s cocky as hell, smirking as she says, “I’m tough enough for this,” like she’s about to take a dare. But the second you push in, her whole body shivers, hands gripping the sheets tight, mouth falling open. Her voice loses the playfulness, turning into breathless, needy gasps—“Oh fuck… yeah… harder… fuck—” Her back arches, tits bouncing slightly with each thrust, and she keeps saying she can take more even as her thighs tremble and her clit grinds against the mattress without her meaning to.

loser!Ellie who always swears she can make you squirt with just her fingers — “Piece of cake,” she grins, cracking her knuckles like she’s prepping for a fight. An hour later she’s practically over you, hair sticking to her forehead, muttering “c’mon, baby… fuck, c’mon…” as her fingers piston in and out of your soaked pussy, curling to hit your spot over and over. Her palm slaps against your clit with each thrust, the wet sounds filling the room, her grin widening every time you gasp or moan. When it finally happens, you clench around her hand and gush, and she lets out a triumphant, breathless laugh like she’s just broken a record, still working you through it while panting, “God, you’re perfect… fuck…”

loser!Ellie who gets obsessed with fingering you from behind — She’s pressed flush against your back, her hard chest against yours, hips nudging yours just right. Her fingers slip between your wet folds, teasing your clit, curling inside your dripping pussy as she grins wide, eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re so fucking perfect,” she mutters, voice low and smug, pretending it’s just about getting you off. But every moan, every arch of your back, every shiver steals her focus; her fingers dig in harder, curling and stroking in ways that make you squirm, hips jerking, pussy clenching around nothing but air. She’s lost in you, and her smirk never fades even as her breath comes faster, her own body betraying how obsessed she is with the sounds and slick movements you’re making.

loser!Ellie who starts strapping you but gets distracted by Jurassic Park — She slides the strap-on in, hips steady, smirking like she’s in control. Then the opening scene of Jurassic Park flashes on the TV, and she freezes, eyes wide. “Oh… fuck… I forgot that’s on,” she mutters, pulling out and leaving you slick and aching. Without missing a beat, she pushes her fingers inside you instead. Her movements are firm but deliberate, guiding you as she leans closer to the television, shushing your gasps softly, totally caught between the movie and the way you’re writhing under her touch.

loser!Ellie who tries to keep up eye contact when she’s railing you with the strap — She’s pounding her strap into your dripping pussy, cheeks flushed, trying to stare like she’s still in control, but her gaze keeps darting away, flustered. Every time you clench and squeeze around her, she bites her lip, groans, “Fuck… shit…” her hips jerking harder. You grab her jaw, forcing her face up to yours. “Look at me,” you growl, and her wide, trembling eyes finally lock with yours. Her thrusts stutter, strap sliding in and out of your wet cunt as she pants, utterly undone by the mixture of pleasure and helpless loser energy she can’t hide, even as she pretends she’s the one in charge. Her nails dig into your shoulders, chest heaving, every moan a mix of frustration and raw, desperate need.

loser!Ellie who buys a glow-in-the-dark strap harness “as a joke” — She holds it up, smirking, pretending it’s silly. Later, in the dark, she’s mesmerized, tracing the glowing lines over your skin with trembling fingers. “It’s just… weirdly cool, that’s all,” she murmurs, lips twitching into a grin you can’t miss. Then she’s on you, strap sliding inside, thrusting slow and deliberate at first, watching the glow highlight your tits, your pussy, every slick curve. Her breaths come ragged, whispering, “Fuck… you look so good… like this… god…” Fingers gripping your hips hard, ass pressing back against her, every casual tone betrayed by how hot and needy she’s suddenly acting, eyes half-lidded, flushed, and desperate.

loser!Ellie who starts off fingering you gently but gets more competitive — Her fingers glide softly at first, teasing your clit and slipping inside, lips murmuring gentle encouragements. But she quickly shifts, muttering under her breath, “C’mon… c’mon… you can do better than that,” curling her fingers deeper, moving faster, as if trying to outdo herself. Every gasp, every twitch of your pussy, every shiver makes her grin, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to her forehead. Her nails graze sensitive folds, her thumb rubbing circles over your clit while she whispers frantic praises, “Fuck… holy shit… yes… you’re so good…” By the time you’re trembling, pussy slick and clenching around her fingers, she’s completely lost in the speed and sensation, muttering nonsense like a breathless idiot, utterly obsessed with every reaction she can draw from you.

loser!Ellie who’s obsessed with her ejaculating strap-on — She straps it on with a cocky grin, muttering to herself, “Bet you’ve never had one like this,” and as it leaks, she flushes, eyes wide and thrilled, whispering, “Fuck… it’s actually squirting… look at that… oh shit…” while keeping her hands on your hips, shushing you when you gasp too loud, completely enamored with the messy proof of her “power,” face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and pride, and every thrust becomes a little performance for herself as much as for you.

loser!Ellie who tries to keep a steady rhythm with the strap while watching a space documentary — She starts slow, methodical, hands gripping your hips, trying to match the narrator’s cadence. But when the orchestral swell hits, shots of planets, supernovae, and cosmic chaos sweep her away, and suddenly her thrusts are perfectly synced to the music, rocking your ass hard. She bites her lip, brushing her lips against your ear, whispering, “Fuck… I didn’t plan that…” Grip tightening, hips slamming into yours in time with crescendos, letting out soft groans as she loses all composure. When the narration pauses, she’s mid-thrust, flushed, panting, hair falling over her face, completely caught between trying to be precise and being utterly undone by the absurdity of her own desire.

loser!Ellie who is fascinated by your body like it’s a rare artifact — Every curve, every inch of your skin, is a marvel to her. Fingers trace over breasts, down your torso, over the soft inner thighs, lingering on every sensitive spot. Eyes wide, pupils blown, she murmurs little discoveries: “Holy shit… how did I not notice that before?” Tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches your pussy clench and quiver, every gasp and shiver sending her into a stupid, triumphant grin. Her fingers curl, rub, and tease with deliberate obsession, whispering breathless nonsense like, “Perfect… perfect… fuck… wow…” She’s completely absorbed, shaking slightly, breath hitching, muttering to herself as she loses all sense of time, utterly enraptured by the way your body responds to her touch.

You woke to the thud of heavy footsteps moving across the room, deliberate, no hurry but no softness either. The kind of steps you’d come to know as Abby’s: solid, weight set through her heels, like every stride was meant to carry something. You heard the scrape of fabric over wood, the dull clunk of something set down, then a low grunt as she shoved something out of the way.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, bracing one palm against the floor to orient yourself. The faint scent of leather and faint metal oil drifted from where her gear must’ve been laid out. She must’ve heard the sound of you sitting up, because her movement stopped mid-shove.

“You’re up?” she said, voice dropping as if it wasn’t a question she really needed to ask. Before you could answer, her boots crossed the floor toward you in a quick, steady rhythm. She crouched down in front of you, the warm bulk of her body folding into your space without hesitation. Heat radiated off her jacket, still holding the ghost of her own body warmth from whatever work she’d been doing. You felt the air shift with her presence, her shadow against you in the way sound seemed to dampen for a heartbeat.

“We’re heading out soon,” she said, low and practical, the kind of tone that made you think she’d already been awake for hours. “You gotta get your stuff together. We won’t be coming back here.”

“Right,” you murmured, rubbing your palms over your thighs, waking up your hands before you started moving. “Just… point me where you want it all?”

She shifted back enough for you to hear her adjust her stance, boots scraping faintly against the floor. “Your pack’s at your two o’clock. About an arm’s length.”

You reached for it, fingertips brushing the familiar worn canvas, and pulled it close. “Got it.”

“Good,” she said, softer now. There was a pause, one of those Abby-pauses you’d learned meant she was watching you, gauging if you actually needed her to step in or not. She didn’t move right away, letting you feel your way through the first few motions on your own.

You started packing by touch. You slipped each item inside, tightening the straps without looking.

A few minutes passed before her voice came again, closer this time. “Mind if I…?” Her hand brushed lightly over your forearm, her knuckles barely grazing before she took hold. The warmth of her fingers was steady, and the grip was firm enough to anchor but not control.

“Yeah,” you said, letting her guide your hand toward something.

“This one’s your extra sweater. I rolled it tight for you already,” she explained, pressing the soft, bundled shape into your palms.

You stuffed it into the top of the bag, and she stayed near, her knee brushing yours whenever she shifted to grab something else. Abby didn’t rush you; her movements matched yours, waiting until you zipped a pocket before placing the next thing into your hand.

You reached for the last strap, fingers brushing the rough fabric, but before you could pinch it too hard, Abby’s hand covered yours. Her fingertips were rough and calloused from years of work, but her palm pressed warm and steady against yours, guiding your grip with a careful gentleness.

“There,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “All set.”

You let your shoulders drop, the tension easing out of your back. “Thanks.”

She gave the bag on your shoulder one last, unnecessary tug, as if testing the buckles she’d just secured. You felt the faint scrape of her boots against the wooden floor, then her palm settled firm and steady between your shoulder blades.

“C’mon,” Abby murmured, her voice low and certain. Her hand stayed in place, a steady weight that nudged you forward more than her words did. “There’s a lot of holes out here,” she added quietly, not scolding but warning, like she’d already memorized every uneven step ahead.

You nodded once, keeping your stride measured so you could match hers. Her palm moved with you, never pushing, just maintaining that point of contact like a tether. The cold air hit you in the face the moment you stepped outside, sharp enough to make your nose sting. You reached out with your free hand, fingers brushing along the rough, flaking surface of the wall beside you.

“Straight ahead for now,” Abby’s voice came soft and steady, low against the whispering wind. Her hand rested firm and warm on your back, a quiet anchor as you moved forward. “The wall’s gonna curve left in about three steps.”

You trusted her without hesitation. You could feel her presence, the steady weight of her hand a map against the uncertainty beneath your feet. The ground was uneven, the snow muffling sound, but the rough wood of the wall beside you was constant; solid, reliable, like Abby herself.

As you took the next step, your body began to shift, instinctively leaning into the curve she’d warned you about. You sensed her attention tighten, the pressure of her palm on your back deepening just enough to catch the change. It wasn’t just guidance, it was understanding. You weren’t alone in this.

You moved slower, savoring the moment, the silent conversation between you. The wall bent gradually, a gentle arc that framed the path ahead but also felt like a boundary, something enclosing you both in this quiet space. You reached out, fingers grazing the wood, rough and cold, grounding you. Abby’s hand remained steady, a warm contrast, reassuring.

Then, somewhere just to your right, you heard her boots crunching deeper into the snow, a sudden scrape breaking the quiet. A sharp inhale followed.

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Careful, I'm starting to think you’re the blind one.”

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of the wind through bare branches, before she shot back, voice teasing, “Funny. Keep talkin’ and we’ll see who falls first.”

You chuckled, “I don’t know, sounded like it was almost you.”

“Almost,” she repeated, dry but with a breathy laugh hidden beneath the words. The next step caught you unprepared. Your boot snagged on something, a rock or a patch of ice hidden just beneath the snow’s surface, and suddenly your balance tipped, stomach flipping in a quick, startled jolt.

You heard the low, satisfied sound in her throat. “Mm. What was that?”

You bit back a grin, pressing your lips together. “That was—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “Shut up.”

Her chuckle was quiet but warm, almost lost in the wind. She steadied you with a subtle shift of her hand, fingers spreading wider over your back until you were upright again.

The air outside had grown noticeably colder, carrying that distinct, powdery scent of fresh snow, like the world was quietly tucking itself in beneath a soft white blanket. Tiny pinpricks of ice began to dance across your cheeks, sharp but almost tender, tapping lightly against the fabric of your jacket. The wind curled through your hair with a biting edge, and without thinking, you tucked your chin deeper into your collar, seeking whatever warmth you could find.

“Storm’s coming,” Abby said, her voice rising slightly, cutting through the gusts like a steady beacon. It wasn’t the edge of worry in her tone, more like an observation stored away for later, something practical and factual. “Isaac figured it’d hit by afternoon.”

You hesitated, the question hanging in the cold air. “Think he’s right?”

Her breath came out in a small puff. “Yeah.” There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to feel deliberate. “Storm’s good cover if we need it. Wind like this? You can make more noise without drawing attention.”

The weight of her words settled heavy in your chest, the idea folding into you like a secret shield. Out here, sound was a double-edged sword, noise could either be a beacon for safety or a beacon for danger. The tension twisted quietly beneath the relief, a reminder that every step carried a risk.

You felt the cold deepen, biting harder at exposed skin as the wind started to whistle through gaps between the buildings, a ghostly howl that seemed to thread its way through every crack and crevice. Without thinking, you leaned subtly into Abby’s side, an unconscious gesture for warmth and for connection.

She shifted closer, and suddenly her hip brushed yours with a natural rhythm, steady and unforced. Her hand, that constant presence, never left the small of your back. It was firm but gentle, a guiding anchor that steered you past the obstacles she’d already memorized; the uneven pavement, the hidden dips and the frozen debris lurking beneath the snow’s deceptive surface.

You tuned into the rhythm of your footsteps, the steady crunch of snow pressed under boot soles, each sound amplified in the quiet world you navigated without sight. The pressure of Abby’s palm was unshakable, a silent language between you. Sometimes gentle, sometimes firm, but always there.

When she needed you to veer left, her hand would shift, a subtle nudge guiding your balance and direction. If a patch of ice lay ahead, she’d press just a little harder, a quiet warning that you’d feel deep in your spine. When a branch hung low or debris blocked the path, her voice floated over the storm, a soft command, clear and unwavering, telling you when to slow and when to step high.

There was a comfort in the way she moved with you, not in front or behind, but beside, synchronizing her pace to yours like a dance you’d learned without words. You could feel her breath, steady and warm, brushing against your neck as the wind tugged at your layers.

The crunch of snow beneath your boots had been steady, rhythmic, until it stopped so abruptly you almost collided into Abby’s back. The heat from her palm between your shoulder blades, your compass since you’d stepped outside, lifted away, leaving the cold to rush in. The wind slid into that space like it had been waiting for the chance, slipping through the seams of your jacket and tugging at the hair along your neck. Abby didn’t move forward, and in that pause you caught the shift in her breathing, just enough to tell you she’d seen something unexpected.

Her jacket whispered against itself as the gusts pulled at it. She didn’t speak right away, but you could almost hear her looking, her attention stretching out over whatever lay ahead.

“What the…” she muttered under her breath, low and almost distracted. Not angry. Not panicked. Just… off-balance. Then her voice lifted, clear and certain in the space between you. “No. This can’t be right. The village… it should be right here. Here.” She hit that last word with a steady finality, like she knew exactly where she was standing, and the world was the one that had gotten it wrong. “This was my target. My mission. The whole reason we came out here.”

You stayed still, letting her have the silence. “Abby,” you said softly, “tell me what you see.”

There was a short, deliberate pause before she answered. “Snow. Flat ground. What’s left of a few buildings, burned, maybe. Could’ve been weeks ago, maybe longer. Nobody here. No fires. No tracks. Just… empty.”

Her voice carried the same even tone she used when talking through a plan, but there was something underneath it, something like the quiet unwinding of a tension she’d been holding for too long. You didn’t hear frustration in her words. You didn’t hear fear. You heard… recalculating.

The faint creak of leather told you she was reaching into her pack, followed by the soft snap of a button and the small, distinct click of her comm. “Isaac. Village is gone. Looks abandoned, burned down, no sign of anyone. We’re moving on.”

Static hissed for a few beats before Isaac’s voice cut in, low and sure. “Copy. We’ll pick you up after the storm. Find shelter. If you’re not on comms by morning, we’ll assume you’re out of range.”

The channel snapped closed, leaving nothing but the wind’s restless push against your jacket and the faint sound of Abby shifting her weight. Snow shifted under her boots in small, deliberate movements. She wasn’t still in shock. She wasn’t even hesitating. It was more like she was letting her body catch up to her mind, settling into the reality that this wasn’t going to be the fight she’d been prepared for.

You reached out, hand brushing the thick sleeve of her arm before sliding down to her wrist. The warmth radiating through her glove was a small defiance against the cold pressing in everywhere else. She let you take her hand, her fingers curling around yours after a moment, her grip firm enough to be reassuring without being rushed.

“Well,” she said finally, and there was the faintest thread of humor there, “guess I don’t have to throw myself into a fight I’d probably lose.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “Could’ve told you I liked that plan better.”

Her hand gave yours a subtle squeeze. “Yeah,” she said, her voice lower now, closer to you. “Me too. Not that I wanted to come all this way for nothing, but… people matter more than some burned-out buildings.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And you’re still here. That matters.”

The wind rose again, sweeping loose snow across your boots, and you felt her shift just a little closer, her hip brushing yours as she started forward. Her palm settled back between your shoulder blades, guiding you in the way only she could, subtle pressure for a left turn, a little lift to warn of something buried you’d need to step over. Her hand was steady, anchored, carrying the unspoken weight of her decision without dragging you into it.

“You okay?” you asked after a while, letting the silence stretch far enough that you could hear the small huff of her breath before she answered.

“Yeah.” She sounded almost surprised by it. Then, after a pause, “I mean… I didn’t realize how much I was expecting this to go bad until it didn’t.”

You tilted your head toward her voice. “You were scared.”

There was no defensiveness in the little laugh she let out. “Yeah. Guess I was.” You could hear her glove shift against the strap of her pack as she adjusted it, the leather squeaking faintly. “Not scared of the fight, exactly. Just… the way it could’ve ended. I don’t think I realized I’d already decided I wasn’t coming back.”

That sat heavy between you, not because she sounded broken about it, but because she didn’t. She said it like she was telling you the weather, fact, not drama.

“And now?” you asked.

Her steps crunched a little slower for a few beats, the snow dragging under her boots before she answered. “Now it’s just us in a storm. And I’d take that over bleeding out in the snow any day.” Her hand on your back pressed a little firmer, almost protective. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy this whole thing was a bust… but I’m not gonna pretend I’m upset we get to walk away from it.”

“You didn’t even get close,” you said, smiling faintly.

She gave a short laugh, warmer this time. “Yeah, and for once, I’m not mad about it.”

The wind shifted, throwing a spray of snow across your face, and she leaned into you just enough to block it. Her voice came closer, carrying over the hum of the storm. “I don’t usually get to choose between the mission and the people. Wasn’t sure which one I’d pick if I had to. Guess… I do now.”

You let that hang there, feeling the truth of it in the way her steps matched yours and the steady weight of her hand, guiding you through a world you couldn’t see, but could feel, entirely, in her presence.

The wind had a cruel edge now, threading through every seam in your clothes until it felt like it could scrape you hollow. It wasn’t just cold, it was the kind of cold that found its way into your bones, clinging there. Beside you, Abby’s breath sounded different, the steady control she always kept slipping into something rougher, like she was having to work harder to keep the rhythm.

She shifted in closer without warning, and then you heard the rasp of a zipper coming down. The sudden bloom of heat spilling from her jacket reached you before the heavy fabric did.

“Abby,” you warned, hand already shooting out.

“Just take it—”

“No.” You caught her wrist, the leather of her glove rough under your fingers.

For a moment she didn’t move, and then she huffed out a small laugh that didn’t quite hide the strain in it. “Owen used to do this. Always tried to play hero when it got cold, hand over his jacket like I couldn’t handle it.” There was something in the way she said his name, not bitter, not warm, just… distant, like she was brushing frost off a memory. “Guess I’m turning into him.”

“Don’t,” you said quietly.

Her glove flexed in your grip, but she didn’t try to pull free. “Why? You think I’d look bad in the role?”

“I think you’d look dead in it if you keep giving away your heat,” you said.

That earned you a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled more in her chest than in her throat. She zipped her jacket back up without another word, but the space between you didn’t widen again. If anything, she walked closer, her shoulder brushing yours in brief, grounding passes. Her hand stayed steady at your back, guiding you forward, but the pressure felt less like direction now, more like she was keeping herself tethered just as much as you.

Her breathing shifted again, heavier, louder against the muffled sweep of wind. Then, without warning, her grip closed hard around your arm, pulling you sharply forward.

“Run!” she shouted, the word ripping through the storm, sharp enough to feel like it split the air in two.

Your heart jerked into your throat before your brain could even decide what to do. Your feet were already moving, pounding into the snow, chasing the sound of her boots ahead of you. You didn’t know what was behind you, but you could hear it, those jagged, wet-throated screams that didn’t belong to anything human. Heavy, erratic footfalls churned through the snow, fast, too fast. The rhythm was wrong, several sets of them, snapping branches, tearing up drifts in an uneven stampede. Clickers. Runners. Maybe both. You didn’t have time to sort the nightmare.

The wind whipped past your ears, shoving at you from the side, but the noises behind you were closer, sharper, like claws scraping across frozen ground. Abby’s boots thudded ahead, a constant, urgent metronome for you to follow. You locked onto it, each footfall hers, each one proof she was still there. You clung to that sound like a rope in the dark.

Then—

“Shit!”

Her voice snapped off, and before you could even process it, the ground was gone. One step landed on solid snow, the next into nothing. Your stomach lurched as gravity yanked you down. The wind in your ears became a scream, yours, maybe hers, maybe both. You were tumbling, spinning so fast you couldn’t tell up from down. Hard-packed snow slammed into your ribs, ice clawed at your palms through your gloves, the cold biting so deep it felt like fire. You tried to stop, tried to dig in your boots, but the slope kept throwing you forward, flipping you like a ragdoll.

When you finally skidded to a stop, you were on your side, your chest hitching against the frozen ground. The storm sounded muted here, smothered by the dip in the earth, but your lungs burned, your ribs screamed, and your heartbeat roared in your ears.

“Abby!” you yelled, twisting upright, your voice slicing through the muffled air. It bounced back at you, empty. No reply. Panic slid icy fingers up your spine. You staggered to your knees, the snow soaking through instantly, and started crawling. You swept your hands side to side in wide arcs, feeling for her, her jacket, her boots, anything. Your gloves scraped frozen clumps of grass, then sank into deep snow, then found nothing but more cold.

“Abby!” Louder this time, desperate enough that your throat ripped on the last syllable.

Nothing.

You dragged yourself forward anyway, your knees plowing shallow trenches in the snow. You crawled in uneven circles, one hand clawing forward, the other sweeping wide.

Your breath came ragged, quick bursts that fogged the air and froze against your cheeks. You called her name again and again, the word losing shape in your mouth, breaking apart under the weight of your fear. Each silence that followed felt heavier, pressing in around you until your ears rang.

Images you didn’t want slammed into your mind; her body twisted in the snow, the light gone from her voice, the warmth gone from her hands. You shook your head hard, willing them away, but your chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.

You moved faster, scraping ice off your palms, shoving through drifts that caught at your wrists. Every sound became her, every shift of snow, every creak of ice, but when you reached for it, it was nothing. Just the wind lying to you.

Your voice cracked into something small and uneven. “Please, Abby…” Not loud, not meant for the storm, just for her, if she was close enough to hear.

Nothing answered but the cold.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Even if the cold bled the strength from your arms, you kept crawling, blind in more ways than one, searching for something warm, something solid, something her.

The snow pressed into every inch of you, cold so deep it no longer stung, just settled in like it belonged there, like it had been part of you all along. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like weather and started feeling like the inside of you was the same as the outside; numb, pale and unfeeling. Time became slippery, useless. It might’ve been minutes. Hours. Days. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, because you’d stopped keeping track of breaths somewhere between the second wave of violent shivering and the long, aching stretch where even shivering seemed pointless, too much effort for a body that didn’t care anymore.

Your body lay where it had dropped you, half-swallowed by the drifts, the snow heavier now, pinning you down as if the earth itself had decided to keep you. The weight wasn’t crushing, but it was final, a quiet kind of restraint you didn’t have the strength to fight. Your limbs weren’t yours anymore. They’d gone from stiff to sluggish to something worse, separate, foreign, like they’d disconnected from you without asking. You could feel them only in flashes, a muted throb in your shoulder, the faint drag of your fingers curled somewhere uselessly against the ground.

You weren’t sure if your eyes were open. The dark felt the same either way. Solid, unbroken, the kind of black that made you question if sight had ever been a thing at all. You’d been here before, in the dark, but that darkness had always been alive with shape and sound. This one was flat, swallowing, the edges of everything smudged into nothing.

Somewhere near you, close enough that your mind kept reaching for it, far enough that your hands couldn’t, Abby might have been there. Or maybe you’d lost her. The thought floated in and out like a loose thread, brushing the edge of panic but never catching, because panic meant moving, and moving was no longer an option. You could still recall the snap in her voice when she’d yelled for you to run, the synchronized thud of bodies hitting the ground after the fall, but everything after was blurred, snow and air and nothing. The world had shrunk until it fit only cold and silence.

Every so often, if “often” even existed anymore, you caught something under the wind. A noise. Footsteps. A voice, low and broken up by distance. The wood-deep groan of something shifting, heavy, old. They slipped away before you could decide if they were real. Maybe they were just your brain coughing up memories, trying to keep you awake. You didn’t answer them, even if they were real. You weren’t sure your mouth could still shape her name.

Breathing had slowed without you noticing, falling into step with the lazy drift of snowflakes settling across your back. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Your chest rose less each time, the cold locking it tight, ribs feeling like rusted hinges. Thoughts stopped coming in full sentences, unraveling into smaller, softer pieces, Abby’s laugh breaking over her own words, the bitter tang of gun oil on her jacket when she’d leaned close, the warmth of a campfire brushing your cheeks days ago. They felt far away, not memories so much as rumors you’d once heard about warmth.

Then something shifted, not outside, but inside. The cold found the last bit of resistance you’d been holding tight in your chest and pressed down until it slipped away. It was quiet. Not a surrender, not exactly, just… the point where the fight was gone, not worth digging for.

That was when you noticed the other thing: you couldn’t feel your fingers anymore. Not just cold, gone. You tried to move them, curl them, but the signal went nowhere. Panic flared sharp, but it was dulled almost immediately by the weight settling over you. You tried your arms next, nothing but a faint drag somewhere far away, as if they belonged to someone else. You breathed faster, but the air didn’t come quick enough, the cold pressing each inhale into something shallow, brittle.

The edges of yourself began to blur. First your hands. Then your feet. Then the center of you, where your heartbeat used to pound hard enough to be the loudest thing in your head. Now it was faint, irregular, like a drum being carried farther and farther away. Your mind fought to hold onto it, onto you, but the dark pressed heavier with every passing second.

Sound dulled. The wind faded to a whisper. The faint rush of blood in your ears went quiet. The whole world was muffled, like it had been packed in snow. Your thoughts went slow, clumsy. The worry about Abby was still there, somewhere under the surface, but it was buried deep, unreachable.

You couldn’t tell when your body stopped trying. Couldn’t tell when your breathing finally fell out of rhythm. All you knew was the cold, and then even that started to fade, slipping away into something softer, heavier, final.

The dark pulled you under, and this time you didn’t fight it.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

When you woke, the first thing you noticed wasn’t light, there hadn’t been light for you in a long time, but the absence of cold. No wind gnawing at your cheeks, no frozen tightness in your joints, no thin layer of snow seeping into your clothes like ice through paper. The air here was still and warmer, smelling faintly of dry wood and something almost metallic beneath it, like old nails or rusted hinges. A weight rested over you, thick fabric, probably a blanket, heavy enough that it pressed gently against your ribs when you breathed. Underneath, the surface was soft and yielding, springs sighing faintly beneath your weight when you shifted. A mattress, a bed. It had been months since you’d lain on one.

You stayed still, your ears doing the work your eyes couldn’t. The building around you spoke in faint groans, timber settling, a roof beam answering with a soft pop, the occasional whisper of air slipping through some unseen gap. Your own breathing felt loud in the quiet. You could feel your pulse in your throat, not racing yet, but alert.

Then, footsteps.

They weren’t light. No cautious tiptoeing, no shuffle of someone avoiding notice. Heavy. Each step landed with a slow, deliberate weight that made the wood beneath complain in low creaks. You could hear the subtle scrape of tread catching on the boards, boots, big ones, worn enough that the edges no longer gripped cleanly. The sound carried through the floor into the mattress, faint vibrations brushing up into your bones. Whoever it was, they weren’t small.

Your chest tightened before you even thought about it, and the name escaped you without warning. “Abby.”

It didn’t come out clean. The word cracked halfway, catching in your throat until it sounded more like a half-sob, half-call, raw and thin, more pleading than you meant it to be. You hated how it landed in the air, hated that the desperation in it was plain enough for anyone to hear.

The footsteps paused. The air seemed to shift with the stillness, like the weight of their presence had turned directly toward you. Then they moved again, angled now in your direction, each step shortening the space between you until the air itself felt different, slightly warmer in one spot, pressing closer.

When he spoke, the voice was deep, low enough that you felt it more than heard it, a slow vibration threading faintly through your chest. Male. The sound sank into you with a heaviness that wasn’t comfort, wasn’t relief, just weight. You felt your mouth flatten before you could stop it, the brief spark of hope you’d let yourself feel when you’d called Abby’s name snuffed out in an instant.

“You awake? You alright?”

You gave the smallest nod before answering, your voice rough from sleep, or maybe from the days before, the cold that had scraped at your throat until it felt raw. “Yeah. I’m fine.” The lie came easily, like muscle memory, though every ache in your body disagreed.

There was a short pause, the sound of his boots shifting on the wood, the subtle grind of weight moving from one foot to the other. “Good. You’ll want to clean that wound twice a day. Morning and night, if you can manage.”

Your brow creased. Wound? The word felt strange in your mouth, strange in your body, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. You didn’t remember being cut, didn’t remember the sting of a blade or the crack of something striking you. Maybe you had, and the memory was just buried under the blur of cold and whatever came after the hill. You almost asked where, but the words stalled at the back of your tongue. Something in the tone of his voice told you he wasn’t making conversation. He was telling you, the way you tell someone the weather will turn.

You stayed quiet. The silence thickened between you, and your fingers tightened around the blanket, bunching the fabric as if it might keep you steady in this unfamiliar place. Somewhere deeper in the building, a door slammed, the sound sharp and hollow, followed by muffled voices calling back and forth. But here, in this smaller, stiller space, it was just you, your unspoken questions, and a man whose voice sounded like it had been dragged across too many winters.

You still didn’t know where Abby was. The thought sat at the back of your mind like a splinter you couldn’t dig out, small but constant, catching on every other breath. The room felt emptier without her voice in it, like the air wasn’t sitting right in your lungs.

You didn’t wait to soften your tone. “Where’s Abby? Did you—” the words caught for half a second before you forced them out, sharper than you meant—“did you find another woman out there?” The fear slipped through before you could cover it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was weighted. You couldn’t see if he nodded or shook his head, couldn’t gauge anything from his stillness except the steady, even pace of his breathing. Your fingers curled tighter into the blanket until the weave pressed hard into your palms.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried that slow, deliberate edge, like he’d gone back through the memory before handing it to you. “Found you both in the snow. You were closest to the fence line, face-down, like you’d been tryin’ to make it somewhere before you dropped. She was further off, couple meters, maybe, on her side, still as stone. Storm was comin’ in fast. Would’ve covered you both quick.”

You swallowed, your throat sticking. “How’d you even find us in that?”

“Almost didn’t,” he admitted. You heard the faint shift of his boots on the floor as he stepped a little closer, his voice filling more of the space between you. “Me and my brother were followin’ the fence home before the whiteout hit. Thought I heard somethin’, not a shout, just… wrong. Like the wind hit somethin’ it shouldn’t. Joel spotted your jacket first, half-buried. Then I saw her, snow already driftin’ over her legs.”

You didn’t remember any of it, the fence, the sound, the cold closing in, but you could feel it anyway, deep in the ache still lodged in your bones. “And now?”

“My brother’s with her,” he said, slower this time, like the words themselves carried weight. “Checkin’ her over, tryin’ to get warmth back in her. You’ll see her soon. But…” A short pause. “She was in a bad way when we brought her in.”

He let that settle before adding, “Name’s Tommy, by the way. Joel’s my brother. Guess you’ll meet him soon enough too.”

That last part about Abby hit like ice water in your veins, freezing everything in place before you could even start to spiral. But then his voice cut through again, steady. “You can go see her if you want.”

There was no pause in your answer, you nodded sharply, already pushing yourself upright despite the stubborn heaviness in your limbs. The blanket slipped from your shoulders, and the sudden bite of cool air brushed against your arms and neck, but you barely registered it. “Where?”

“Out the door, take a left, walk ‘til you see the big building with a red cross painted on it. Can’t miss it.”

You froze halfway to standing. See it. Right. The word landed with a dull thud, and for a second you chewed at the inside of your cheek, weighing whether to just feel your way there and hope you didn’t humiliate yourself, or admit it. In the end, need won out over pride. “…I can’t see.”

The room went quiet. Not empty quiet, just still, the faint hum of the air between you, your own uneven breathing, and him standing there. You could almost hear him thinking, weighing his response. Then his boots shifted, slow but deliberate, the sound carrying closer. “Alright,” he said simply, and there was no pity tucked into it, just finality.

A moment later, his hand closed over yours. The skin was rough, the warmth muted by calluses. It wasn’t like Abby’s touch, Abby’s hand always came with cues: a squeeze before a step, a quiet word before a turn. Tommy’s grip was all function, no warning. It was firm, impersonal, pulling you forward like he had somewhere to be and you were just along for the ride.

“Watch your step,” he said, but it came too late, the toe of your boot caught on a raised board, and his grip tightened just long enough to keep you from stumbling before he kept moving. His pace was brisk, each bootfall hitting the floor with a solid thud, each step jostling you slightly as you matched him stride for stride.

The air shifted the moment you crossed the threshold. The cold bit at your cheeks and nose, sharp but nothing like the blizzard you remembered, it was the kind that stung just enough to remind you you were alive. Snow crunched underfoot, brittle and satisfying, and the world outside felt busier. You caught voices layered over one another, too distant to follow, the hollow ring of a hammer striking metal, the soft whinny of a horse somewhere close. The air smelled of woodsmoke, snow-damp leather, and something faintly sweet, maybe hay.

Tommy didn’t fill the silence. He didn’t slow when the ground sloped or the path narrowed; you only knew when you stumbled and his grip tightened briefly to steady you before tugging you onward. It wasn’t guidance, it was transit, fast and unyielding, each step pulling you deeper into an unfamiliar place. But every crunch of snow, every tug forward, brought you closer to the only thing that mattered. Abby.

It wasn’t far, maybe just a few dozen steps, but every single one felt like walking through thick fog. Your boots sank unevenly into the snow, the cold biting through the thin fabric, then suddenly clacked against harder flooring that rang hollow beneath your feet.

The change in texture made your heart skip, a jarring reminder that you were moving through places you didn’t know, feeling your way through a world that was mostly shadows and sounds.

The air shifted as you crossed into the building. It grew warmer, but not in a comforting way, more like the sterile heat of a place meant to hold people who were broken or healing. Sharp, clean scents drifted through the air, the sting of disinfectant mixed with the earthy, woody smell of old beams and dry timber. It was a strange smell, not unpleasant, but unfamiliar enough. Your free hand swept forward instinctively, searching for walls or doorframes, rough textures grazing your fingertips as you tried to anchor yourself in the space.

Tommy’s hand on yours was steady, sure, but you could feel the difference between his grip and Abby’s. Abby was careful, always giving you those little warnings, a squeeze here, a whisper there, so you never felt rushed or pulled without warning.

Tommy’s hold was firm, even a little abrupt, like you were along for the ride whether you liked it or not. His boots thudded heavily with every step, the sound jarring against the quiet hum of voices echoing down the corridors ahead.

Your breath came unevenly, not just from the effort but from the knot of fear tightening in your chest. You couldn’t stop the questions spinning in your head; Where is Abby? Is she okay? Why am I here and not with her? Each question felt like a weight pressing down, making your limbs heavy and your heart pound faster.

Then, suddenly, the sounds changed. The distant murmur of voices faded to a hush, replaced by the faint, unmistakable creak of a door opening somewhere ahead. The air grew still, the atmosphere thick with silence, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

And then, through the quiet, her voice came.

“Right here.”

It was a shock. Not just the sound of her, but the way her voice hit you, a force that knocked something loose in your chest. A wild, raw surge of relief burst through the fog of exhaustion and fear, and your breath hitched, catching in your throat like a sob trying to break free. The tension you’d held onto since the cold, since waking up alone in the dark, cracked wide open.

Tears sprung unbidden to your eyes, blurring your senses even as you tried to steady your shaking breath. You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t go away. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, following her voice like it was a lifeline through the unknown.

“Three steps forward, yeah, that’s it, little more left, keep coming.”

Her tone was sharp and confident, the same way she’d call plays in a game or direct you down a rough trail. You obeyed instinctively, each word a tether pulling you closer, closer, until suddenly her hand was there, warm and strong, curling gently around your wrist.

The moment her fingers closed over you, the whole world fell away. The biting cold, the harsh noises, the confusion, they all disappeared. All that was left was the steady, fierce pressure of Abby’s hand holding you upright, grounding you, reminding you that you were not alone.

Her voice softened then, dropping to the tone she used when she wanted to soothe you, to make you believe in something solid and unbreakable.

“I’m fine.”

Two words. So simple. But they struck you harder than anything you’d heard all day. The raw ache behind them made your throat tighten, and the tears spilled freely now, warm and wet trails slipping down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. You couldn’t. Not yet.

You wanted to believe her. You needed to believe her. Because in that moment, her voice was the only thing keeping the cold from creeping back in. The only thing telling you it would be okay.

You leaned into her touch, needing the reassurance of flesh on skin, the certainty of her strength against your fragility. Your breath trembled, your heart pounding so loud you thought she might hear it.

Eventually the sound of heavy boots receded down the hall, the door’s soft click closing behind Joel and Tommy, leaving the room wrapped in a silence that felt both hollow and suffocating. The quiet pressed close, broken only by the faint hum of distant voices and the slow, steady rhythm of your own breath. You sat there, heart still hammering, muscles tense, every nerve alert to the smallest sound or movement.

Abby shifted beside you, her presence solid and grounding, but there was a strange weight to the pause between you. Neither of you spoke at first, like the air held its breath, waiting.

Then, almost without warning, Abby’s voice broke through, soft, careful, but edged with urgency. “I need to check something,” she said quietly, her tone hesitant but steady. “I want to check if there’s a wound. Can I touch you?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice to carry through the thick knot in your throat. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, reaching out before resting gently on your arm, warm and reassuring. You could feel the strength in her fingers, the way she adjusted her touch, firm enough to guide but soft enough not to startle. You breathed in the faint scent of her, earthy, clean, a tether in the unfamiliar dark.

“Tell me if it hurts,” she whispered. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

Your fingers trembled as she slowly trailed her hand down your arm, across your ribs, until you felt her pause, the subtle press of her palm against your side. “Here.”

You hesitated before bringing your own hand to the spot she’d indicated. The skin was raw, tender beneath your fingertips, a dull ache simmering just beneath the surface.

“You’re okay, but we’ll need to keep an eye on this.” She said, voice almost a caress.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling protectively around the spot as if your touch alone could shield it from pain or infection.

Then, almost as if sensing your hesitation, Abby shifted closer and, hesitating for only a moment, reached out her other hand toward you. “Let me show you—” she said, guiding your hand toward her own arm.

You let your fingers slide over the bruises blooming there, tender but healing. The rough edges of scrapes, the faint warmth under your touch. Abby’s skin was tougher, scarred in places, but you could feel the pulse of life beneath it.

“We’re both a mess,” she said quietly, voice thick with something fierce and raw. “But we’re gonna be okay.”

Your breath hitched, a tear slipping free as relief and fear tangled in your chest. The room felt impossibly large and small all at once, the weight of everything you’d lost and everything you still needed to fight for pressing down.

Abby’s hand closed around yours then, steady and sure. “I’m here,” she said. “You’re not alone. We’ll figure this out, step by step.”

You nodded against the lump in your throat, letting yourself lean into the warmth of her touch, holding tight to the fragile thread of hope she offered. The wound, the mission, the uncertainty, all of it still gnawed at the edges of your mind. But for now, with Abby beside you, you could just breathe.

After a few moments of quiet, Abby’s voice came again, softer now, almost hesitant. “Do you… remember their names? The two men who found us?”

You swallowed hard, trying to recall the names the man had told you. “Yeah. One was Joel, the other was Tommy. Tommy said he helped us… both of us, actually.” You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing against the thin fabric covering her. “I’m not sure which one is which, but that’s what he said.”

There was a long pause. You waited, but Abby didn’t say anything right away. The silence between you felt heavier now, weighted with something unspoken.

“Abby?” you finally whispered, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitated, then her voice returned, quiet but steady. “No, it’s nothing. Just a name. It doesn’t mean much.”

You wanted to reach out, to press for more, but her tone stopped you. There was a pause, a stillness in the air that made your heart pound louder than before. You could feel her breath, the faint heat radiating from her skin, but not the shadows in her eyes, not the flicker of something she was hiding.

“It’s fine,” she said softly, almost too quickly, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as you. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You nodded, though you didn’t fully believe it. The quiet stretched between you again, filled with the weight of things left unsaid.

Abby’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Sorry for pulling away.” She reached out, patting the mattress beside her, an invitation laced with uncertainty. You paused, the rough fabric beneath your fingertips, the quiet hum of the room pressing in around you. Slowly, carefully, you lowered yourself down, the cold sheet brushing your skin. Her hand was there almost instantly, warm and steady, guiding you gently to lie back beside her. “You really need some rest,” she whispered, voice wavering just a little, as if unsure how much to say, how much to risk.

You shifted, fingers curling into the sheets, restless. “I don’t like it,” you said quietly, voice heavy, “when you keep things from me. I hate not knowing.”

Her breath hitched. You could feel her hesitating, a pause so long it stretched between you like fragile glass. Then, finally, she spoke. “I know. I’m sorry. I just... I have to talk with Isaac first. Get everything straight. I want to tell you the truth, but not until I’m sure I can.” Her fingers traced small circles along your side, trying to soothe. “Please, just trust me a little longer.”

You wanted to argue, to demand the truth then and there, but the exhaustion in your limbs won out, and your voice softened to a whisper. “Okay,” you said, though uncertainty gnawed at you.

Her arm slid around you, pulling you closer, her body a steady anchor against the endless dark that was your world. The steady rise and fall of her breath, the soft warmth of her skin next to yours, it all settled your restless mind. You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. “I was scared,” you admitted, voice cracking, “so scared I lost you out there. That I wouldn’t hear your voice again... or feel your touch.”

Your fingers trembled as they reached out, brushing along the curve of her cheek, the warmth beneath your skin a lifeline. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her body shifted subtly toward you, as if encouraging your touch. “I want to remember you,” you breathed, “every inch, every shape. Especially your face... I want to hold it in my mind.”

Your thumb drifted to her lips, soft and gentle under your touch. You barely had time to register the way her breath hitched before she leaned in, pressing her lips to yours. The kiss was slow, tentative at first, then deeper, grounding you in a way words never could. Your heart thundered in your chest, and despite everything, the secrets, the fear, you melted into her warmth.

When you pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet room. Your voice was barely audible. “Please... promise me this isn’t just to quiet me. That it’s real. That you mean it.”

A soft sigh passed through her, a pause heavy with everything unsaid. Then, with unwavering tenderness, she whispered, “I promise. I love you. I always have. No matter what happens, if you lose your sight, your voice, your legs, anything, I’ll still love you. Always.”

Her fingers tightened around yours, a quiet vow. You let her words wash over you, letting the warmth of her touch fill the cold emptiness, holding on to her as the only light in your darkness.

The sky had finally, finally, cleared.

After seven straight days of slate gray clouds and storms that rattled the glass in their frames, of thunder rolling in slow, endless waves and rain that left the backyard slick and uninviting, the sun had returned like a blessing. A warm breeze pushed through the open window upstairs, and the light that streamed across the bedroom floor was rich and golden, catching in the folds of the curtains and turning the room soft with heat.

You stretched lazily in bed, muscles loose and half-sore from doing absolutely nothing for a week. It had been miserable in a way that wasn’t even dramatic. Just dreary and boring and wet. All that time wasted watching the pool collect leaves and runoff, turning your hard-earned little slice of paradise into a glorified puddle. But today? Today was yours.

The pool shimmered through the kitchen window like glass, clear and still. You hadn’t even had to clean it. The pool guy, some tall dude with too-white sneakers and mirrored sunglasses, had come by earlier, clipboard in hand, looking at you only once before diving into pH strips and skimmer nets. He’d left around nine, wordless and efficient. Perfect. The water was sparkling. The floatie Ellie had gifted you for your birthday was still unopened in its box by the patio doors. And you? You were already in your bikini.

The fabric clung perfectly, navy blue with a tiny tied bow at one hip, a triangle top that hugged just enough to keep it decent and just little enough to make Abby insane. Not that she’d seen it yet. She was at work, pulling the end of a long shift at the firehouse. You had no idea when she was getting off.

You were halfway down the stairs, bare feet padding softly against wood, when the front door clicked open.

Then slammed shut.

Heavy boots hit the floor in a rhythm you could’ve recognized from the dead. The sheer weight of Abby’s stride told you everything: she was tired, she was pissed, and she was home early.

You turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and there she was, your wife. Still in her uniform, shoulders squared, face flushed, braid loose at the ends and clinging to the side of her neck. Soot smudged the side of her temple. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just gotten out of a fight.

Which, with Abby, was always a distinct possibility.

She didn’t even see you at first. Just braced one hand on her hip, pulled her gloves off with her teeth, and muttered through clenched jaws, “If I ever see Ellie fucking Williams again, I swear to God I’m gonna put her through a wall.”

You blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Uh. Hi to you too.”

Abby’s head snapped up, eyes locking on yours, and then promptly dropping to your chest. And then your stomach. And then your thighs. And then she groaned.

“Oh, fuck me.” Her whole body seemed to sag as she finally dropped her gloves on the entryway bench. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You tilted your head, pretending to be oblivious. “What? This?” You gestured down your body slowly, running your palm across your exposed hip. “It’s not even that small.”

“It’s illegal,” she muttered, stepping forward, eyes still tracing you like she wasn’t even hearing herself. “What even is this? I leave you alone for one morning and you turn into a fucking bikini ad.”

You laughed as she reached you, her hands already on your waist, warm and rough and just a little desperate. She kissed you before you could answer, mouth hot and claiming, lips tugging yours open like she needed to taste you just to cool down. You kissed her back, letting her anchor herself against you, one hand cradling the back of her head where her braid started to unravel.

“You smell like smoke,” you whispered when she pulled back just an inch.

“That’s because I was in smoke. Three hours of it. And then Ellie opened her goddamn mouth and made it worse.”

You smiled, curling your fingers in the front of her uniform shirt. “Do I want to know?”

“She’s obsessed with you,” Abby muttered, then kissed you again, more like a bite this time. “I’m serious.”

“She’s just friendly.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘your wife sent me this meme last night, the one with the cat and whipped cream. I think she wants me to eat her pussy.’”

Your breath caught and you burst out laughing. “She did not.”

“She fucking did. While we were standing in front of a fucking burning garage. She says that and winks at me.”

You pulled back just enough to see the look in Abby’s eyes. It wasn’t even dramatic anymore. It was pure possessiveness, something primal, something heavy.

“I should’ve punched her,” Abby muttered again, half to herself. “Or at least hosed her down.”

You shook your head, biting your bottom lip. “Jealousy doesn’t look great on you, babe.”

Abby glared, and you grinned. “I’ve got a night shift tonight,” she said finally, voice quieter. “Come to bed. Just for a bit.”

You hesitated. Her brows lifted.

“I want to,” you said, and it wasn’t a lie. You did. Curling up against Abby under the covers, half-napping while she cooled off from a brutal shift? Perfect. Normally. But today…

“I was actually gonna go outside for a bit,” you admitted, voice lighter now. “Try out that floatie Ellie gave me.”

Abby froze. “The what?”

You smiled like it wasn’t a war crime. “The one she got me for my birthday. You remember? It’s pink. Has that little open part at the bottom for your feet?”

She blinked. Just once. “You’re going to lie half-naked in the sun,” she said slowly, “on a pink floatie that Ellie fucking Williams gave you. Today.”

You raised your hands. “It’s a floatie.”

“It’s a statement,” Abby snapped.

“She said she thought I’d like it,” you went on, cheerfully oblivious. “Said she could picture me out there soaking up sun like some lazy little lizard.”

Abby looked like she’d just been slapped. “Oh my fucking god,” she muttered, turning on her heel. “That’s it. I’m gonna kill her. I’m gonna drive back to the station and commit a goddamn felony.”

You laughed as she stomped up the stairs, unzipping her jacket with sharp, angry fingers. You caught the tail end of her rant, ‘fucking pink shit, always looking at her like that, thinks she’s slick, I swear to God if I see her near our house again—’ before the bedroom door shut.

And then her voice rang out, sharp and echoing down the hallway: “Have fun, sweetheart.”

You were still grinning when you slid open the patio door and stepped into the heat. The patio tiles were warm under your feet, the air thick with heat and chlorinated stillness. Everything looked picture-perfect: the sky was blindingly blue, the grass freshly trimmed, and the pool glistened like the cover of a vacation catalog. But when you bent to grab the floatie box from where it had been waiting all week, sealed shut with clear tape, the front of it obnoxiously neon, you frowned.

You hadn’t realized it needed to be inflated manually.

“Of course it does,” you muttered to yourself, already peeling at the flap.

Inside, the floatie was a mess of glossy pink vinyl, still folded into stiff creases, the mouthpiece coiled like a snake near the center. The stupid thing was even brighter than you remembered. Bubblegum pink with little cartoon suns printed across the surface and a strategically placed oval cut-out near the foot end, right where Ellie had said you could dangle your legs into the water like a dainty little sunbathing lizard. You could practically hear her voice again. "Bet you’ll look hot as hell in that bikini with your feet kicking in the water. Should’ve made it shaped like a tongue, huh?"

You groaned, tipping your head back toward the house. You were already sweaty just thinking about manually blowing this thing up. The nozzle was small, finicky. No pump in sight. You could maybe do it yourself, but it’d take forever and honestly? You had a better idea.

Your wife had excellent lungs.

You padded back inside, the air-conditioning brushing across your skin in a sudden cool wave. Upstairs, the bedroom door was still closed. You hesitated for a moment, foot tapping lightly against the tile. Then you sighed, grabbed the floatie under one arm, and climbed the stairs two at a time.

The room was dim and quiet, blinds drawn just enough to block the heat. Abby was sprawled face-down across the bed, braid splayed across the pillow, one arm slung under it like a dead weight. Her tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing the hard cut of her lower back and the soft dip of her spine. She looked exhausted. Peaceful, even.

You stood in the doorway for another second, biting your lip. “…Baby?”

A grunt.

“Abby?”

The grunt turned into something vaguely human, but still muffled by the pillow. You crossed the room and gently sat on the edge of the bed. She shifted under you but didn’t lift her head. You leaned closer, dragging your fingers up the length of her back.

“I need a favor.”

“I just got off shift,” she croaked into the mattress.

You held up the floatie. “Can you blow this up for me?”

Abby groaned. Loudly.

“I know,” you said, rubbing circles into her shoulder blade. “But it’s so hot out and I really wanna use it. And I suck at inflating stuff. Please?”

Her head rolled to the side, one bleary eye opening to fix on you. “…Are you serious.”

You pouted. “Deadly.”

She groaned again, but it turned into a huff of laughter halfway through. “You’re such a brat.”

“I’m yours.”

“Mhm. That’s the only reason I’m getting up right now.” Abby heaved herself upright with the weight of someone who’d survived an inferno and office gossip, then grabbed the floatie from your hands. “Come on. Let’s go inflate your girlfriend’s gift.”

“She’s not—”

“Yeah, yeah. Just keep your mouth shut or I’ll pop this thing on purpose.”

You followed her downstairs with a shit-eating grin. Out on the patio, the two of you stood near the edge of the pool, the floatie stretched out across the tiles. Abby eyed it like it might insult her.

“It’s even pinker than I thought,” she muttered, crouching and gripping the valve. She took a deep breath and started blowing. One strong exhale. Then another. Her arms flexed, veins popping slightly with the tension of steady airflow. You sat down beside her, legs crossed, chin in your palm as you watched her work.

Abby paused after a few minutes, catching her breath. “What the hell is this hole for?”

You smirked. “So your feet can go in the water. Ellie said it’s perfect for sunbathing.”

Abby’s lip curled. “Of course she did. She probably pictured you in that bikini with your toes pointed like a porn ad.”

You grinned, not denying it. “Jealous?”

Abby didn’t answer. She just blew the rest of the floatie up in a single breath like she was trying to kill it with lung power alone. When she finished, she capped it with a satisfied grunt and tossed the thing straight into the water with a loud splash. It bounced and bobbed, obnoxiously pink against the blue. “There,” she said, standing. “Now go be your hot little housewife self.”

You snorted. “That’s Mrs. Hot Little Housewife to you.”

She leaned in, kissed your forehead, and murmured, “Wake me when lunch is ready. I need to survive a night shift with those dumbasses. And since you’re living the luxurious pool life, you’re on fruit salad duty.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She swatted your ass on the way back inside. “Try not to fall asleep and bake your tits off.”

You smiled to yourself as the sliding door shut behind her and turned to face the pool. The floatie rocked lazily in the sun.

You sighed and stretched out on one of the chairs around the pool, still warm from the sunlight, letting your body sink into the heat. Your eyes drifted shut. The sun felt perfect.

You didn’t mean to doze off, but you did. Hours passed, the sun moved, and when you finally blinked awake again, it was nearly 11:30. Your stomach grumbled. You rolled over, blinking groggily at the floatie gently bobbing in the pool. Still inflated. Still waiting.

You padded quietly into the kitchen, the warm sunlight filtering through the windows casting a lazy golden glow over everything. You grabbed a handful of juicy strawberries, sliced up some ripe mango and pineapple, and tossed them together into a colorful fruit salad. A few buttery croissants and flaky pastries sat on a plate nearby, and you filled a tall glass pitcher with fresh orange juice, setting everything neatly on the table.

“Alright, breakfast or, well, late lunch is served,” you called softly toward the bedroom, wiping your hands on a kitchen towel.

A few moments later, footsteps shuffled down the stairs. You glanced over and froze for a second. Abby was standing in the doorway in swimwear. Not her usual workout gear or shorts, but actual swimwear: a simple black sports bra and matching swim shorts. You blinked, surprised.

“Since when do you do the whole ‘pool’ thing?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve literally never seen you in swimwear.”

Abby shrugged, twisting a loose strand of her braid nervously. “Yeah, well. Figured I’d give it a shot. See what this floatie fuss is about.”

You smirked, pouring a glass of juice and gesturing toward the table. “Okay, mystery woman. Help yourself. But don’t tell me you’re gonna actually float around like some kind of sun worshipper.”

She laughed softly, sitting down across from you, and took a bite of mango. “No promises,” she said, lips twitching with a grin. “But I’m not about to let you have all the fun.”

You dug into the fruit salad, the juicy sweetness cooling your mouth after the sun’s heat, and for a while, the two of you ate in companionable silence. Eventually, Abby stood, stretching her arms above her head with a slow yawn. “So, what about that floatie?”

“It’s in the pool,” you said, leaning against the sink as you rinsed a plate. “You’re welcome to it.”

Abby appeared behind you, fingers tracing a lazy path down your arm before her lips pressed softly to your neck. “Actually,” she murmured, voice low and teasing, “I want to try it with you on it.”

You froze for a beat, then turned your head to flash her a skeptical look. “With me on it? What the hell are you planning, woman?”

She just smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ll see.”

You finished the last of the dishes and followed her outside. The late afternoon sun made the water sparkle, and a light breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees. Abby stepped out of the sun and into the pool, her swim shorts clinging to her lean muscles, the braid at her back dripping wet and heavy.

You watched, a little breathless, as she moved through the water with practiced ease, the cool liquid contrasting sharply with the warmth of the day, and the heat rising in your chest. When she reached the edge of the pool, she held out a hand.

“Come on, I’ll help you get settled,” she said.

You hesitated for only a moment before letting her guide you to the floatie. Abby’s hands were sure and steady as she helped you ease down, supporting your back and shoulders like she knew exactly what you needed. You stretched out, feeling the float cradle you.

Abby swam closer, her wet hair slicked back, braid dripping into the water like a dark ribbon.

You’d just started to relax on the floatie when Abby’s voice cut through the warm air, sharp, loud, and full of mock annoyance.

“Honestly, can you believe Ellie sent you this thing?” she grumbled, shaking her head like it was the worst offense in the world. “Like, who even lets her pick gifts? She probably thought it was some cute joke or some shit.”

You raised an eyebrow, laughing softly. “You sound jealous.”

“Jealous? Hell no,” Abby shot back, crossing her arms over her broad chest, braid swinging as she huffed. “I just don’t want you to ever think about that dumb girl when you see this stupid float. No way, no how.”

You chuckled at how fiercely protective she sounded. Before you could say anything else, she gave you a sly smirk, then dove beneath the water’s surface. The cool liquid swallowed her whole, and for a moment, you lost track of where she’d gone.

You squinted, scanning the pool. The sunlight glittered on the ripples, but Abby was nowhere in sight. Then—plop.

Her head suddenly appeared, right through the hole at the end of the floatie. Her wet hair clung to her skull, dark and slick, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gripped the float’s sides tightly, her strong arms wrapping around it like she was holding on for dear life.

She looked at you with a wicked grin and the faintest teasing note in her voice. “You’re not putting your feet in here. Pretty please.”

Her grip on your legs was firm but gentle, anchoring you in place, making it clear that whatever game she was playing, she was definitely in charge.

You blinked, caught off guard and more than a little amused. “What the hell are you doing?”

Abby just shrugged, “Come lay closer,” Her voice was rough with heat, a smirk curling under every syllable, and when you looked down, her eyes were already dark with hunger.

She was beneath you, her face poking up through the floatie’s foot hole, arms still resting against the sides, braid slick and dripping from the water. She looked ridiculous, wedged in a pool toy like that. But also somehow like she was seconds away from ruining your entire afternoon.

You should’ve been suspicious. Instead, you moved, shifting your thighs until your bikini bottoms hovered just above her mouth. The second you were in range, her tongue flicked up, wet, hot, confident, and licked straight through the fabric. You gasped, thighs twitching, eyes flying open at the sheer fucking audacity of her.

“Abby! What the fuck?!?” you breathed, heart thudding.

She didn’t answer. Her hands came up and clamped around the backs of your thighs, locking you in place. She wasn’t pulling you down yet, just holding you there, tight and claiming, like you were already hers and she didn’t need to explain shit. “I said come closer,” she murmured, breath brushing your inner thighs. “Not pull away.”

“I didn’t know you were gonna—” you tried, but her mouth was already on you again, licking through the thin fabric, slow and rough. “Fuck…”

“That’s right,” she rasped, and this time she bit down, gently, just enough to make your breath catch. “Let me taste you. Let me fix this whole Ellie floatie situation.”

You stilled. “This is about Ellie?”

“She gave you this thing,” Abby growled, biting again, closer to your clit. “Like some cute little gift. Thought I wouldn’t notice? Thought I wouldn’t claim you on it?”

Her tongue pressed flat against your slit, dragging up firmly, fabric soaked now. You could feel every motion, even through the barrier, every hot stroke a reminder that you were soaked for her. She was relentless, mouthing heat into you, the floatie bobbing gently beneath the weight of your hips. Her jaw was working steady like she was trying to eat you through the damn suit.

“Take them off,” she said roughly. “Now.”

You hesitated for one heartbeat. Just one. Then your fingers found the strings at your hips, trembling as you pulled your bikini bottoms down. Abby let out a low groan the second she saw you, eyes locked on your pussy like it had offended her, like she needed to set it straight.

“Fuck, baby. Look at you,” she muttered. “Dripping already. You gonna act like that’s not for me?”

She didn’t wait. The second your bottoms were gone, her mouth was on you. Tongue dragging a hot, wet stripe through your folds, nose brushing your clit, fingers tightening around your thighs like they’d never let go.

You gasped, legs tensing. She couldn’t move much, wedged in the float like that, but her mouth was vicious. She flicked your clit hard and fast, then slowed it down, lips wrapping around it, tongue circling until your hips stuttered forward. Your hands clawed at the edges of the float, trying to stay grounded, but every movement made the floatie rock and bounce beneath you.

Abby groaned into your cunt, deep and low, mouth messy, tongue fucking into you like she had something to prove. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Let the neighbors fucking hear who you belong to.”

You moaned, loud and shameless. Your fingers flew to your tits, tugging the top aside so you could grab them. Rough, needy and desperate. You squeezed them in your palms, thumbs brushing your nipples until they hardened under your touch, until the stimulation made your clit pulse and your thighs quake against her face.

“Fuck—Abby—”

“Play with yourself,” she ordered. Her voice was dark, reverent. “Rub that little clit for me, baby. I want you grinding it into my mouth while you touch your tits like the desperate little thing you are.”

You obeyed without thinking, fingers sliding down to meet her mouth. You circled your clit while she licked into you, her tongue dragging underneath, her lips closing around the top. The contact was electric. You cried out, thighs twitching, hips rocking. You were completely exposed, straddling the damn float, dripping all over her face, your tits bare to the sun, and you didn’t care. You wanted her to ruin you. You needed it.

Abby groaned again, the sound vibrating against your pussy, and then she muttered, almost to herself. “Bet Ellie’s never seen you like this. She thinks you’re all shy and sweet. Doesn’t know you ride my face on pool floats like a fucking slut.”

You choked on a moan, pussy clenching. She flicked your clit harder, tongue working double time, and you cried out again, louder this time.

“Look at you,” she rasped. “So fucking beautiful like this. Tits in your hand and pussy dripping all over me. You don’t even know what you do to me. You think anyone else gets to see you like this? No one. You’re mine. Mine to look at, mine to taste, mine to keep.”

You were shaking now. Panting. Your fingers moved faster over your clit, wet and slick and swollen, rubbing into the rhythm of her mouth. Her arms locked tighter around your thighs, holding you in place, keeping your pussy right against her tongue. You tugged at your nipples again, harder this time, chasing that fire curling deep in your belly.

“Say it,” she growled, breath ragged. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Fuck, Abby—yours.”

“That’s right,” she snarled. “Good fucking girl.”

That brought you right to the edge. Your clit was throbbing under your fingers, heat winding so tight in your stomach it hurt, your body trembling as Abby sucked harder, tongue swirling under the swollen bundle of nerves like she knew exactly how close you were. Your hips were grinding down now, desperate, soaking her face, the floatie creaking beneath you with every movement.

And still, she wouldn’t shut up about Ellie.

“Think Ellie could do this to you?” she murmured, mouth never leaving your pussy. “Think she even knows how good you taste? Fuck, baby. She couldn’t handle you like this.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling, one hand clutching your tit, the other rubbing faster over your clit, soaking her face with every wet flick of her tongue. You were panting, vision blurring.

“So fuckin’ pretty when you’re close,” she breathed. “You gonna come for me? You gonna let your wife make you scream right here on this stupid bitch’s floatie?”

“Abby—fuck—please—”

That knot inside you snapped tight. You were right fucking there.

Then suddenly, the world tilted.

With a wicked grunt and a quick twist of her shoulder, Abby gripped the float’s edge and flipped it. The entire thing capsized in one blur of motion, dumping you straight into the water mid-orgasm. Your scream of release turned into a splutter as you plunged under, cool chlorinated water shocking every overheated nerve in your body.

You surfaced fast, gasping and blinking, hair plastered to your face, heart hammering with outrage and frustration “What the fuck!”

Abby was already laughing, swimming backward a little, grinning smug and completely unrepentant.

“You bitch,” you sputtered, water streaming down your face. “You fucking— ugh! I was about to come!”

“Exactly,” she said, breathless from laughing. “You were about to come on a floatie from Ellie. A floatie I offered to replace. But no, you just had to keep it.”

You stared at her, chest heaving, float drifting away behind you. “Are you kidding me? You did all that just to ruin my orgasm?”

She tilted her head. “Don’t fuck my coworkers, babe.”

“I didn’t fuck her!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered. “The way you were eye-fucking her when she dropped it off, you might as well have been bent over the pool railing.”

Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. The nerve. The fucking nerve.

You swam toward her fast, surging through the water and grabbing her by the straps of her top, yanking her toward you. She blinked, startled, but only for a second, before your mouth crashed into hers. Tongue, teeth, fury. You bit her lip hard, enough to make her gasp, then pulled away just as fast, chest to chest in the water.

“Now that’s eye-fucking,” you said, voice low, breath sharp.

Abby’s grin was immediate. Bloody lip, cocky glint in her eye, hands sliding underwater to grab your ass.

“Glad we’re clear,” she said. “Now. Want me to make you come in the shower, or you gonna float there in disappointment all day?”

You turned your back on her, swimming slowly toward the edge. “Shower,” you called over your shoulder. “But you’re finishing exactly what you started. Hands behind your back. No flipping anything. No Ellie talk.”

Behind you, you heard her groan. “You’re no fun.”

“You flipped a whole float to ruin my orgasm, Abby.”

“And I’d do it again,” she said smugly, catching up. “But fine. Shower it is.”

As you climbed out of the pool, dripping and still pulsing with unsatisfied heat, you threw a glance over your shoulder. Abby was watching your ass the entire time, already planning round two.

You muttered, “You owe me so hard.”

She smirked. “You’ll be screaming that in five minutes anyway.”

You rolled your eyes and sprinted for the house before she could grab you again.

The room is heavy with silence, thick enough that you can almost taste it. The only sounds are the faint creaks of the old wooden floor and the distant, muffled hum of the city outside. The dull orange glow from the streetlamp leaks through the cracked window, painting soft shadows that sway gently with the breeze. You press your cheek against Ellie’s back, feeling the steady rhythm of her breath beneath your palm, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulder as she leans into you.

She’s tense, her body rigid, as if she’s bracing against something invisible but crushing. You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You just hold her, letting your warmth seep into her like a quiet promise that you’re here and you’re not going anywhere. The air smells faintly of sweat, dust, and something softer, Ellie’s shampoo mixed with the faint musk of the old couch you’re curled up on. It smells like safety, and you cling to it.

Joel’s somewhere nearby. You know he’s in the next room, probably sitting on the edge of his bed, but the thought of leaving Ellie alone, even for a moment, feels unbearable. You shift slightly, wrapping your arms a little tighter around her. Ellie’s fingers tighten in your hair, a small grip, like she’s afraid you might slip away if she lets go.

You remember how it happened. Dina. The way she laughed one moment and then— No. You push the thought down, try not to think about the blood and the broken silence that followed. Instead you focus on Ellie’s soft breathing, uneven but alive. You try to slow your own breath to match hers, grounding yourself in the moment.

Ellie shifts under you, a small tremor running through her body. You feel it, too. The weight of loss like a stone pressing against your chest. You hate it, hate how it drags you all down, but there’s no escaping it yet. Not tonight.

“She’s gone,” Ellie murmurs, voice low, almost broken. You don’t answer. There’s nothing you can say that would make it better. You just pull her closer, burying your face in the back of her neck. You breathe in, feeling the slight pulse of her heartbeat beneath your lips.

“I don’t wanna be alone,” she whispers, voice cracking.

You shake your head against her skin. “You’re not alone.”

A long silence stretches between you, the kind that doesn’t demand words but holds all the things you’re too scared to say. Outside, a car rumbles by, tires splashing on wet pavement, but inside the room, time feels stopped, caught in a fragile web of grief and desperation.

Joel’s door creaks open, slow and hesitant. You hear his footsteps, heavy but careful, cross the wooden floor. Ellie stiffens beside you, her breath catching in her throat. You glance toward the doorway and see Joel standing there, his familiar silhouette bathed in shadow and soft lamplight.

He’s tired. You can see it in the way he leans against the doorframe, the slow blink of his eyes, the set of his jaw. But he’s okay. Not hurt like you feared. Just… worn down by everything that’s happened. You feel a small flicker of relief bloom in your chest.

Joel’s voice is rough when he speaks, barely above a whisper. “You two… wanna come lay down?”

Ellie blinks, surprised, then nods slowly, almost stiffly. You don’t hesitate.

You follow him into the room. The bed is narrow and old, creaking under the three of you as you squeeze in together. Joel settles against the headboard, legs stretched out, and Ellie slides down beside him, leaning against his side. You slip in on the other side, careful not to crowd, but close enough that your hands brush in the dim light.

Ellie lets out a shaky breath and rests her head against your shoulder. You wrap an arm around her, feeling the tense knot in her body begin to loosen just a fraction. Joel reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair from Ellie’s forehead with a rough, tender hand. His touch is steadying, like a lifeline.

“I keep thinking about Dina,” Ellie says quietly, her voice barely more than a breath. “Like… maybe if I’d done something different…”

Joel’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t say anything. You feel his hand tighten around Ellie’s arm, a silent gesture that says he understands. You squeeze Ellie’s shoulder, trying to convey the same.

You want to say something, to fix it, but all you can do is listen as Ellie’s words tumble out in whispers. You imagine the weight of those memories pressing on Ellie’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

You reach over and tuck a stray strand of hair behind Ellie’s ear, your fingers lingering at the curve of her cheek. She looks up at you, eyes wet but a tiny, shaky smile breaking through for the first time in days.

Joel shifts, clearing his throat. “We’re still here,” he says quietly, voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “All of us. That’s what matters.”

You nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat. The three of you, battered, bruised by loss but alive, tangled together in this small, fragile moment. You feel Ellie relax against you, her breath evening out as she finally lets go of some of the tension.

You pull her closer, kissing her temple gently. She closes her eyes, letting herself fall into the warmth of your arms.

Joel watches you both, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The night stretches on, slow and heavy, but for once, the silence doesn’t feel so cruel.

You drift off to sleep with Ellie’s head on your shoulder and Joel’s steady presence nearby.

The next morning, sunlight filters weakly through the curtains, casting pale stripes across Joel’s worn floorboards. You wake slowly, the weight of Ellie still curled against your side heavy but comforting. Her breath is shallow but steady, and you resist the urge to check if she’s okay, because maybe right now it’s enough to just be here, quiet, together, breathing.

Joel is already up by the time you push yourself off the bed, moving quietly to avoid waking ellie. You find joel in the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a weathered mug cradled in his hands. His eyes catch yours briefly, tired but warm.

“Mornin’,” he says gruffly.

“Morning,” you reply softly.

You linger for a moment, watching the way Joel’s fingers wrap tightly around the mug, knuckles white beneath rough skin. There’s a heaviness in his stance, a weight you can almost see pressing down on him. You wonder if he sleeps at all these days.

Ellie eventually stirs, the faint rustle of blankets pulling you back to the quiet room where she lies. She blinks slowly, pushing a tangled lock of hair from her face. Her eyes meet yours and for a heartbeat, the raw sadness flickers behind the surface, but then she forces a small, brittle smile.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” you answer, voice low.

She walks up to you, pressing her forehead to your shoulder. “I don’t wanna feel like this all the time,” she whispers.

You wrap your arms tighter, squeezing a little comfort into her. “You won’t.”

The days that follow move in slow circles, waking, eating, sitting together in silence, the occasional forced laugh or awkward conversation that feels like trying to swim through molasses. Joel’s quiet presence anchors you both. He’s steady, reliable, even if his eyes are often distant.

Ellie starts to open up more, small cracks appearing in her guarded shell. One afternoon, you find her tracing patterns on the floorboards with her finger, talking about the old market she remembers from before everything fell apart.

“I miss just… walking around, looking at stupid little things,” she says. “Collecting dumb junk, like I used to with Dina.”

You nod, pulling her hand gently. “We can do that again.”

She looks up at you, hope flickering briefly in her gaze.

Some nights are harder. You catch Ellie staring at the ceiling, fists clenched at her sides, the weight of what she’s lost pressing down like a stone. You want to reach out, to say something, anything that will cut through the darkness, but you don’t know how. Instead, you just sit with her, letting your presence say what words can’t.

Joel breaks the silence sometimes, his voice rough but caring. “We’re gonna get through this. Together.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Ellie’s breathing evens out. The tension in her shoulders loosens. You feel her lean into you more willingly, her small smiles lasting a little longer each day.

By the end of the week, the weight in the room isn’t gone, but it’s lighter, less suffocating. You catch Ellie humming softly as she packs a small bag, talking about the market trip you’ve all been promising.

Joel watches you both, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it’s time we got outta this house for a bit.”

You squeeze Ellie’s hand, the three of you bound by the quiet strength of survival. And for now, that’s enough to keep going.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The moment Ellie bursts into the kitchen, there’s no doubt she’s been up a while, probably staring out a cracked window or pacing around, full of restless energy. She’s grinning, that wild glint in her eye that means she’s cooked up some idea that won’t let her rest until it happens. You glance up from the faded, chipped table where you’ve been sitting, watching Joel shuffle in from the living room with his usual slow, steady calm, like the world hasn’t quite caught up to him yet.

“C’mon,” Ellie says, grabbing your arm and tugging you out of your chair before you even get a chance to ask what’s going on. “Let’s go. The market’s open. I’ve been thinking about it all week. They say there’s this ice cream place, like, the real deal, and some crazy old stuff for sale.”

Joel snorts softly, shaking his head but already reaching for his jacket. “Alright, kid. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Outside, the morning sunlight is sharp and golden, filtering through the cracked pavement and catching dust motes like tiny sparks floating in the air. The air smells like fresh bread and something bitter and smoky, the kind of smell that clings to the backs of your throat and makes you thirsty.

Ellie’s hand is warm and firm around yours, tugging you forward down the cracked sidewalk. The street market sprawls ahead, a chaotic tangle of stalls and carts squeezed between narrow alleys, stretching into the distance like a living, breathing maze.

There are colors everywhere. Bright scarlet scarves hanging from shaky lines, sun-faded posters plastered on peeling walls and heaps of shiny fruit stacked in pyramid shapes. The sound is a constant hum of voices, bartering, laughing, shouting, underscored by the metallic clang of cooking pots and the occasional bark of a stray dog weaving through the legs of bustling shoppers.

Ellie’s eyes are wide, scanning everything. “Look at that,” she breathes, pointing to a crooked wooden cart covered in peeling paint and knick-knacks. “Old vinyls. You think he’s got any hidden gems in there?”

Joel grunts, eyes narrowing. “Maybe. But I’m more interested in the ice cream, if you ask me.”

You can’t help but smile at the way Ellie beams, her cheeks flushed with excitement and the cold morning air. She drags you over to the ice cream cart, a rickety thing with a faded sign that reads ‘Creamy Delights’ in curling letters. The vendor, a woman with a streak of gray in her tangled hair, hands Ellie a cone piled high with strawberry swirl, the ice cream already dripping down the side.

Ellie dives in like it’s the best thing she’s tasted in months, licking carefully to avoid the sticky drips. You watch Joel lean on a nearby post, arms folded, taking it all in with that slow, protective gaze that makes you feel like you’re wrapped in something solid, something safe.

After the ice cream, Ellie leads you through the winding aisles like a kid on a treasure hunt, stopping at a stall selling weird little pins and patches, dinosaurs, rockets, skulls with bright red eyes. She grabs a tiny T-Rex patch and waves it like a prize.

“Got to get this for my jacket,” she says, paying before stuffing it into her bag with a grin.

Joel hums softly. “You’re turning into a collector, huh?”

“Hell yeah,” Ellie says. “One day I’ll have the coolest damn jacket in the whole damn city.”

The sun climbs higher, warming your shoulders as the crowd thickens and the smells intensify. Sizzling meat from a food stall, the sour tang of fresh pickles and the faintly metallic scent of rain-wet pavement.

Ellie’s chatter fills the space between vendors calling out prices and kids running by with sticky fingers. She pulls you past a stall with worn-out books, flipping through pages with reverence, fingers tracing the faded ink like she’s touching a secret.

You catch Joel watching you both, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile.

“Hey,” Ellie nudges you, “You ever think about just… staying out all day like this? No worries, no past hanging over your head?”

You don’t answer right away. You just let the noise and color wash over you, the simple feeling of being here, together, moving through the city’s pulse.

Joel clears his throat. “You know, it’s not bad. Ain’t got nothing knocking down the door.”

Ellie laughs, a bright, genuine sound that makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t explain. She grabs your hand tighter, pulling you toward a stall full of rusted toys and broken clocks.

The day stretches on like this, a series of small, vivid moments stitched together by laughter, quiet looks and the scent of coffee and fresh bread and life. And in the background, beneath it all, there’s that slow, steady beat of hope, like maybe, just maybe, things can still be good.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You barely have time to blink before the flyer smacks straight into your face, paper crunching wet against your cheek. The world sharpens, noise fading out to a dull roar as your brain locks onto the words. Three deaths at local market. Signs, food, electricity pronounced death.

The exact place you’re walking through. You tell Ellie and Joel immediately. The flyer said three people, so that means all three of you had to die here. But you all weren’t going to wait for death to catch you, you are going to catch death.

The market hummed around you, but your eyes were locked on every detail, scanning for danger. You, Ellie, and Joel moved cautiously, alert for anything linked to that cursed flyer. Joel’s gaze settled on a flickering neon sign hanging from a rusted, unstable street lamp, its harsh glow cutting through the night.

Suddenly, a crash shattered the moment.

A vendor lost control of a heavy crate, which slammed against the lamp post with a splintering crack. The post wobbled violently, rusted bolts protesting.

“Joel, watch out!” you shouted, heart hammering.

But it was too late.

The neon sign ripped free, swinging wildly like a metal guillotine. Joel stumbled backward, his foot hit a slick banana peel hidden in the grime.

He fell hard.

The sign slammed down, metal and glass colliding with a sickening impact against Joel’s neck.

A searing, jagged pain exploded through his throat, deep, raw, and unrelenting. The metal bit cruelly, tearing through skin and muscle, sending shockwaves of agony through his body. Blood welled up instantly, hot and thick, trickling down his chest in dark rivulets.

Joel gasped, clutching at the wound with trembling fingers, eyes wide with shock and pain.

“Fuck—damn it!” he hissed, struggling to breathe around the swelling lump that bloomed fast in his throat.

Ellie rushed forward, eyes fierce and desperate. She tore strips from her jacket, pressing them hard against the jagged cut.

The bleeding slowed but didn’t stop, slick warmth soaking her hands as Joel fought to stay upright.

His breaths came in harsh, ragged gasps, each inhale a razor slicing deeper into the injury.

You dropped to your knees beside him, heart pounding, fingers slick as you helped steady him.

“Hold on, Joel. Just hold on,” you whispered, voice tight.

Joel’s face twisted in pain, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. His hands clenched the cloth, nails digging into the fabric, desperate to stop the tearing ache.

He tried to speak, but only a rough, strangled sound came out.

Ellie’s eyes shone with tears, but her grip never faltered.

“We need to get you out of here,” she said, voice steady despite the fear.

Joel nodded weakly, leaning on you both as you helped him up.

The cut throbbed fiercely with every movement, a brutal reminder that death had nearly claimed him. But Joel was still fighting.

You wasted no time getting Joel to the emergency tent pitched at the edge of the market. Inside, the harsh light cast sharp shadows as medics hurried to tend his wound.

The chaos of the market had barely settled around Joel when Ellie suddenly burst out of the emergency tent, eyes wild and desperate. She was soaked in sweat and dirt, the scent of smoke already thick in the air.

“Water! Anything to cool him down!” she shouted, searching desperately.

You nodded and helped her dart through the crowd, pushing past panicked shoppers and shouting vendors. But the market was in turmoil, fires were breaking out, stalls collapsing, and a thick haze of smoke curled upward.

Ellie’s eyes caught the flaming food cart, it was spilling fire like a beast unleashed, flames licking the wooden crates stacked beneath it. Her breath hitched.

Suddenly, the crowd surged violently, someone shoved Ellie hard, sending her staggering backward.

Her foot caught on a loose propane tank lying beneath the burning cart. You saw the valve shift, a silent hiss of gas escaping into the air.

“Ellie, no—” you shouted, but your voice was swallowed by the roar.

A nearby vendor, unaware of the danger, struck a match to light a cigarette. In an instant, the gas ignited. The explosion was a savage burst of heat and noise.

Ellie was caught in the blast radius, thrown against the cobblestones. Her clothes erupted into flames, searing hot and merciless. She screamed, raw and ragged, as the fire hungrily devoured the fabric and bit into her skin.

You dove toward her without thinking. Flames roared against the wet cloth you grabbed from a nearby stall. You soaked it frantically in a bucket of water and slammed it onto her burning arm.

The water hissed sharply, sending clouds of steam into the air, but the fire clung stubbornly to the damp fabric beneath.

Ellie writhed, her face twisted in unbearable pain, tears streaking through the soot and sweat on her cheeks.

You grabbed Joel’s jacket from the tent, a thick, heavy cloth, and tore strips, smothering the flames as best you could.

Ellie’s skin beneath was raw, blistered, and smoking. Every breath she took was shallow and labored. Her body trembled violently, wracked with shock and agony.

You pressed the wet cloths onto her burns, the coolness barely touching the inferno beneath. Her hands clawed desperately at her arms, the panic overtaking her.

“Ellie, please—stay with me,” you begged, voice breaking.

She blinked through the haze of pain and smoke, the terror in her eyes raw and naked. Her fingers tightened around your wrist like a lifeline. You tried to focus, ignoring the smell of burning flesh, the taste of smoke heavy in the air. With trembling hands, you ripped more strips from the jacket, wrapping the worst burns loosely to hold in moisture and slow the damage.

Ellie gasped, a choking sound, her chest heaving as the firestorm inside her raged on. You wiped the sweat and ash from her face, desperate to keep her conscious. Her eyes fluttered, drifting close, but you squeezed her hand harder.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you whispered fiercely. “Fight it.”

Her body was burning, yet you knew panic was the real enemy. You spoke softly, telling her stories, fragments of memories, anything to anchor her mind away from the pain.

Minutes felt like hours.

You could feel her heat radiating against your skin, burning through the soaked cloths.

Her breaths were shallow gasps now, and her skin was mottled with blistered patches that wept beneath the bandages.

You poured the last bucket of water over the cloths to cool the surface, careful not to drench her and cause hypothermia.

Her lips quivered, eyes glazed.

She whimpered, a sound like a broken soul. You pressed your forehead to hers, your own breath shaky.

“Help is coming,” you promised.

Ellie was brought into the emergency tent too. Her burns, while painful, weren’t as critical as Joel’s neck injury, but the staff didn’t hesitate. They moved quickly, guiding her onto a cot and immediately getting to work with practiced hands.

The chaos was still clawing at your senses, Ellie’s screams echoing in your ears, her body trembling beside you, blistered and burning. You barely had time to breathe before the unbearable hum of electricity reached your ears. Your gaze snapped to the utility pole nearby, a tangled mess of wires hanging dangerously loose after the earlier crash.

You knew you had to call for help.

Your hands were shaking as you fumbled your phone out of your pocket, fingers slick with sweat and ash.

“Ellie, hold on,” you whispered, voice cracking.

But the crowd was still panicked and thick, making it impossible to get a clear signal. You edged toward the pole, hoping for a better connection.

Then, your foot slipped on the slick cobblestone, and your hand, reaching out to steady yourself, grabbed blindly into a frayed wire.

Electricity surged instantly.

It tore through your arm like molten fire, burning down your nerves and stealing the breath from your lungs.

Your body convulsed uncontrollably, muscles spasming, vision flashing white-hot agony.

You crashed backward, chest slamming into the metal food cart next to the pole.

Glass bottles shattered everywhere, shards slicing into your skin, pain exploding across your chest and face. You gasped for air, a strangled, desperate sound, your heart pounding like a drum in your ears.

Everything blurred.

A sharp pain exploded in your ribs where a shard had pierced deep. Your fingers trembled, and your knees buckled.

Just as darkness began to creep at the edges of your vision, two strong hands grabbed you.

Joel’s voice was ragged but steady. “Hold on, you’re not going anywhere.”

Ellie’s eyes, burning with pain, locked on you. “Don’t do this,” she rasped.

With great effort, despite their own injuries, they pulled you up, supporting your weight as your legs threatened to give out.

You collapsed onto the rough cobblestone beside them. Pain radiated from every wound. Ellie’s burns, Joel’s deep neck and throat injury and your own electric burns and glass cuts.

The world spun, blood mixing with sweat and grime. For a terrible moment, you all lay there, wounded, broken, but alive. The distant wail of sirens grew closer, a fragile promise slicing through the chaos. You clung to Joel’s and Ellie’s hands, three broken bodies, refusing to give up.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The hospital doors hissed open and swallowed you whole, all three of you, smeared in soot, blood, and silence.

Joel was barely conscious, throat wrapped in thick bandaging, oxygen hissing quietly as paramedics wheeled him away under a bright, sterile ceiling. The gurney jostled as they pushed him down the hall, and Ellie’s hand in yours tightened so hard your knuckles ached.

You hadn’t let go of her since she dragged you away from the electricity. Weeks had passed and your skin still held the memory of her trembling hand, your pulse thudding beneath the scorched wire burns that arced up your forearm like lightning scars. Her own arms were pink and peeling, raw where skin had sloughed off. But you were both breathing.

Death had come with its teeth bared. And somehow… you bit back.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Weeks later, when the taxi finally dropped you and Ellie off, the apartment was quiet, too quiet. The kind that settled heavy in your chest, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what came next.

Joel hadn’t come home. Not yet. His voice was still gone, and the doctors said it would be weeks, maybe longer, before the wound in his neck stopped threatening to kill him. He’d looked at you with dull eyes through the hospital bed curtain, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for your shoulders and pull you close. But all he could do was blink. You’d nodded. You’d understood.

So now it was just you and Ellie.

The key slid into the lock with a shaky click, and the door creaked open like it hadn’t been touched in years. The silence inside was unnerving. Every sound, the refrigerator hum, the groan of wood, felt too loud in the absence of chaos. You toed off your shoes and limped to the couch. Ellie dropped her bag at the door and followed you wordlessly.

The cushions gave under your weight and the two of you just… sank.

You could still smell hospital antiseptic in her hoodie. She still had medical tape across the worst of her burns. Your own stitches tugged when you reached for her, but you didn’t care.

Ellie collapsed into your side like a body giving up after battle. She sighed, long and quiet, her face buried in your neck. Her fingers laced through yours, clumsy at first, then tight, like she was scared to let go.

You buried your face in her hair.

The two of you sat there for a long time. Breathing. Listening to the radiator knock. Letting the weight of survival press into you like gravity reasserting itself.

Your chest trembled and suddenly tears were slipping hot down your cheek, sliding into her hair. You didn’t sob. You just cried. And Ellie tilted her head up and looked at you. Not shocked, not fragile, just watching, like it made her feel something big and terrifying too.

Her lip was trembling, but she smiled anyway. Not her usual half-cocky smirk. Not even the tired little smirks she gave nurses to make them stop worrying. This was a real smile. Wide, soft, open. Like the sun through smoke.

You leaned in and kissed her. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just real.

Her lips were soft and warm, and you stayed there, breathing against her mouth like it was oxygen.

Then your lips moved to her cheek, then her jaw, then her throat. She shivered but didn’t stop you. You pressed a gentle kiss to the patch of bandaged skin just beneath her jawline, the burns that would take months to fully heal. You kissed that place tenderly, like it was holy.

Then you rested your forehead there and let the tears come harder. “I thought I was gonna lose you,” you whispered.

“I thought I lost you,” she murmured back, voice rough from smoke and crying.

Your whole body ached with the weight of what almost was. You pulled her close and curled against her on the couch like you were both trying to fit back into each other’s skin. Like you could undo the burns, the shocks, the screaming.

You laid there in a tangle of limbs and injuries until sleep started to pull at your frayed edges.

Ellie’s fingers traced the faint lines left on your wrist from the wire.

You whispered, “We did it.”

And she smiled again, eyes half-shut. “We did.”

But nothing ever lasts forever

You’d known Abby Anderson for a while now.

Long enough that the details of how it all started had begun to blur at the edges, but one thing always stood out: her dad. He was your boss at the hospital. The kind of man who walked with a clipboard like it was a weapon, whose eyes could pin down a surgical team with a glance. He was respected. Intimidating. Clinical. But he’d always treated you with something softer, pride, even. He’d been the one who’d taken a chance on you during your internship, talked you through late-night charts with a quiet patience, told you when you screwed up and didn’t sugarcoat it, but never made you feel small. And when you actually got hired at the hospital, not just as a rotating intern but full-fledged staff, he’d thrown a little thing in the break room. Balloons from the gift shop and a cookie cake someone clearly picked up last minute with your name written in shaky icing. You’d never expected it. But he did. And that’s when Abby showed up.

You’d heard her name in passing before. “My daughter this,” “Abby used to love the ER,” but you hadn’t met her. Not until that stupid little celebration, when she walked in late, holding a black motorcycle helmet under one arm and wearing a weathered hoodie that clung to shoulders so wide you’d thought she might rip the seams just by moving.

You remember that first moment like a jolt. She’d looked straight through the crowd of scrub-green and sterile white like none of it mattered, and your gut reaction had been stupidly, wildly incorrect.

Soldier. Maybe ex-special forces. Possibly firefighter, the kind who runs into burning buildings with an axe and doesn’t come out until she’s carrying someone on her back. There was something in the way she carried herself, coiled strength under casual movements, that kind of confidence that people didn’t just learn. You remember someone asking her what she did. Maybe you. Maybe you were dumb enough to say it out loud. And she just said, so casual you thought she was joking: “I’m a vet.”

You blinked. “As in…?”

“As in animals. Emergency stuff, mostly.” She’d shrugged. “Cats, dogs, whatever rolls in bleeding.”

You hadn’t believed her. Not at first. Maybe not for days after. A woman like that, built like a tank, all cut biceps with forearms that tensed like she was used to carrying something heavier than a Labrador. You just didn’t match that with a stethoscope pressed to a trembling rabbit’s chest. It didn’t fit. You kept waiting for the joke to land. Waiting for her to say, nah, just messing with you. I actually do bomb disposal in my free time.

But it never came. And then you saw her work.

It was a weekend night. You’d stayed late, charting, maybe, or maybe you just didn’t feel like going home. There was a shared corridor between your wing and the emergency vet across the lot, and one of the janitors had left the security door propped open. You remember drifting over, half out of boredom, your hands still red-creased from gloves, and then you saw her.

The city vet hospital wasn’t like your hospital. It was smaller. Harsher in some ways. No fancy white tile, no gleaming floors, just bleached linoleum and battered IV poles. There was blood on the table, fresh, not cleaned yet, and an open carrier on the ground that reeked of wet fur and fear. And there she was, Abby, hunched over a sedated dog whose side looked like it had been torn open by a car.

She moved like she’d done it a hundred times. Gloves already on, arms steady, her big hands handling that fragile, broken body with so much gentleness you felt something click wrong in your chest. Her voice was low, talking to the tech beside her, but you could hear the calm in it. No panic. No hesitation. Just focus. Just care. She was a fucking softie, you realized, even then. A beast of a woman with eyes that went impossibly tender the second she looked down at something helpless.

You don’t even think she saw you, not that night. But you stood there longer than you should’ve, staring like an idiot. Watching the contradiction of her. The muscle and the mercy. The calm, brutal efficiency of someone who knew how to handle crisis like it was just another Tuesday, and yet cared, so deeply, it bled through her fingertips.

That was Abby Anderson.

And after that, you couldn’t stop seeing her. Since that night, Abby’s become a regular in your life. Not in the way that people gradually settle in, slow and unnoticed, but in the way storms roll in and suddenly change the shape of everything around them. One day you were just curious about the woman with arms like granite and a voice too soft for someone built like a battering ram. The next, you were texting her about your dog Bruce.

Old man Bruce. A German Shepherd who used to bark the house down at the sound of a door hinge and now barely lifts his head for the mailman. You’ve had him since college, before rent was stable, before your job meant something, before you really knew who you were. Back then he was a bolt of energy wrapped in fur, tearing through the world like it owed him something. Now, he’s slower. His hips drag on bad days. He sleeps too hard, and sometimes you catch yourself holding your breath just to hear his next one.

It was Abby’s dad who first suggested you bring him in. “She won’t charge you full price,” he’d said with a rare smirk. “She likes you. And she owes me.”

You didn’t argue.

That first check-up had been a week after you saw her with that car-hit retriever. You remember walking into the emergency vet and feeling oddly self-conscious, like this was her space and you didn’t quite belong in it. You held Bruce’s leash a little too tightly, like he might bolt, even though his joints wouldn’t let him.

Abby had come out from the back with her hair tied up, a smear of something dark along her forearm, and you’d almost said never mind right there. She looked like she’d just wrestled a bear, and you were bringing her… a creaky old dog for a routine exam?

But then she crouched low in front of Bruce, her big hand resting against the top of his head like she’d known him for years.

“Well, hey there, big guy,” she murmured, rubbing behind his ears. “You look like you’ve seen some shit.”

Bruce had leaned into her. Just like that. Like he remembered her from another life.

That was the first visit. Since then, you’ve come in every week. Technically, dogs Bruce’s age don’t need check-ups that often, especially not when the prognosis doesn’t change, but you’ve never heard Abby complain. Not once. She never rolls her eyes when she sees your name on the schedule. She just greets you with that crooked grin and sometimes says something dumb like, guess Bruce is gonna outlive us all, huh? And you pretend not to smile too much when she says it.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Today’s one of those days. The kind where everything’s a little too hot, the air thick with city humidity, and Bruce pants harder than usual by the time you walk through the doors of the emergency clinic. The place is quieter than usual. No urgent howling from the back, no techs rushing with stretchers or soaked towels. You knock twice on the open front desk window and give Bruce’s leash a gentle tug.

Abby appears within seconds, rubbing the back of her neck with one gloved hand, sweat darkening the collar of her navy scrubs. Her sleeves are rolled, as always, showing the ridged muscle of her forearms. Her eyes light up as soon as she sees Bruce.

“There’s my guy,” she says, ignoring you entirely to crouch beside him. “How we doing today, big man?”

Bruce’s tail thumps once on the linoleum floor.

You smirk. “I’m good, thanks for asking.”

Abby glances up at you, feigning surprise “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there. Thought Bruce made the appointment on his own.”

You roll your eyes and follow her back into the exam room, Bruce waddling slowly between you. The place smells like antiseptic and dog treats, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Abby moves around the space like she built it herself. Effortless and grounded. You sit on the little plastic chair in the corner while she hoists Bruce onto the padded table, murmuring encouragement the whole time.

It still stuns you sometimes, the way those heavy hands of hers can move with such care. She checks his joints, his gums, feels along his spine with practiced pressure. And all the while she talks to Bruce, low and easy, like this isn’t clinical at all. Like it’s just catching up with an old friend.

“You know,” she says after a minute, “technically, I’m not supposed to let people come in for weekly check-ups unless there’s a change in condition.”

You shift, suddenly aware of how many times you’ve asked for appointments you probably didn’t need. “I can… back off, if it’s too much.”

Abby doesn’t even look up. “Did I say that?”

“No, but—”

“I said technically,” she cuts in, smoothing a hand down Bruce’s side. “I’m making you an exception. That’s different.”

You watch her for a second, caught on the casual way she says it. Like of course you’re different. Of course she’s bending the rules for you.

And maybe it shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but it settles deep in your chest anyway. Something about being seen, being trusted, with this small, quiet corner of her world.

Bruce grumbles softly as she checks his hind legs, and Abby hushes him under her breath, fingers gentle where the pain blooms worst in his hips.

“Still managing the stairs okay?” she asks, without looking up.

“Mostly. I carry him when it’s bad.”

Abby snorts. “Jesus. That’s gotta be half your body weight.”

You shrug. “He’d do it for me.”

She smiles at that. Real and quiet and so damn soft you have to look away.

The exam ends like it always does: a handful of treats, a note in the chart, her hand on Bruce’s back like she doesn’t really want to let go yet.

You linger in the room a little too long, waiting for something you can’t name.

“Same time next week?” she asks finally, rubbing her palm on a towel.

You nod. “If you’ll have us.”

“I always do,” she says. Then adds, “You’re one of the good ones.”

And somehow, even after all this time, it still knocks the wind out of you a little.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’ve never really seen Abby in a romantic way.

Why would you?

She’s your friend. Your vet. Your boss’s daughter. A massive, muscled, slightly intimidating presence in your life who swears too much and wears the same hoodie every other day and has a habit of showing up in your thoughts when you least expect it. But that doesn’t mean anything. Not like that.

Besides, you have a boyfriend. A good one. On paper, anyway. You met him back in school, sometime between exams and long hospital nights, when everything felt like it was moving too fast and you needed someone steady to lean on. He was smart. Calm. Handsome in that slightly boring, clean-cut way that surgeons often are. He wanted the same things you did, stability, a future and a life that made sense. You moved in together a little after you both got placed in the city. It made sense. It always made sense.

And yet, somehow, it’s been months since you’ve seen each other for more than a few minutes at a time.

Opposite shifts. Always. It’s like your schedules repel one another. He comes home late after trauma cases, and you leave early for rounds. Sometimes you pass each other in the hallway like strangers in a hotel, barely touching, brushing shoulders, murmuring something about dinner in the fridge or “don’t forget to walk Bruce.”

You tell yourself that’s normal. That couples go through phases. That you’re both busy, and this is just what it’s like for people in medicine.

But sometimes, on nights when it’s quiet, when Bruce is snoring on the couch and the apartment feels just a little too big, you catch yourself thinking something you shouldn’t.

Thank God he’s not home.

It creeps in before you can stop it. That slight relief. That tiny exhale when the keys don’t turn in the lock. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain the tired written into your bones. You don’t have to smile just because he wants to talk about weekend plans when your brain still feels like it’s back in the ICU.

You don’t have to deal with a man right now.

And that thought, that one, you shake off immediately. Like it’s something rotten crawling up the back of your spine. You remind yourself that you’re just tired. Everyone gets like this. This is what relationships look like under pressure. This is adulthood. This is normal.

Isn’t it?

You tell yourself that until it starts to sound true. But lately… lately you’ve been catching yourself in the middle of the lie.

You’ll be at Abby’s clinic, leaning against the wall while she murmurs something to Bruce, her sleeve pushed up, her hands gentle on his stiff joints. And suddenly, your brain will go quiet in this strange, weightless way. You’ll be looking at her without realizing it, really looking. At the way her mouth moves around her words. At the flex of muscle under her scrubs when she moves. At the way her laugh is low and a little rough around the edges when she says something sarcastic.

And you’ll blink, snap yourself out of it, and think, What the hell was that?

It never sticks. You brush it off like static.

She’s your friend. She’s Abby. You don’t think of her like that.

But sometimes, when the apartment is too quiet and your boyfriend’s shoes stay by the door for days, you wonder if maybe that’s not entirely true.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The soft hum of the clinic’s fluorescent lights mixed with the faint scent of antiseptic and damp fur as you stepped inside, still clad in your nurse scrubs, Bruce trudging slowly beside you. His pace was slower today, and you could feel the subtle stiffness in his gait, more pronounced than last week, more than you wanted to admit. Every step reminded you of his age, and of how much longer he might have left.

Abby was already there when you arrived. She stood behind the front desk, arms crossed loosely, hair pulled back in her usual messy bun, scrubs rolled to the elbows. Her eyes lifted when she spotted you and Bruce, and for a moment, her entire face lit up with that unmistakable, easy grin. “Well, look who’s here,” she said, voice warm but teasing. “Bruce the old man still kicking?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Somehow,” you said, sliding your bag off your shoulder. “Though I swear he’s getting slower every week.”

She shook her head, the kind of smile that held both amusement and sympathy. “Yeah, these old dogs... stubborn as hell.”

She beckoned you into the exam room, and you followed, letting Bruce ease onto the cold metal table. Abby’s hands were gentle but confident as she examined his hips, running her fingers carefully along the joints, testing for pain or stiffness. You watched her, her focus, the quiet intensity she carried even in moments like this, and the easy banter you usually shared felt strangely distant.

You found yourself telling her about your night shift, the story coming out in clipped sentences. About the kid who’d come into the ER just hours before, about how hard the team had fought, about how, in the end, there was nothing to do. Your voice was steady, clinical almost, but you felt the weight behind the words settle between you. Abby didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at you, her eyes soft but fixed, almost like she was trying to understand something you hadn’t said aloud.

The silence stretched on, filling the room with a quiet tension. You swallowed, shifting your weight. To break it, you tried for something light. “So, hey. Have you found someone yet?” you asked, the words feeling a bit awkward as they left your mouth.

Abby blinked, then shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Sort of. I’m eyeing someone, but I’m not ready to say who.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Oh, come on. Don’t be shy. It’s probably one of the vets you’re working with, right? Who’s the lucky guy?”

Her smirk deepened, eyes narrowing with playful secrecy. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

The exam room was quiet as Abby finished her gentle examination of Bruce. She flexed his hips once more, her brow furrowed slightly. “He’s holding up, but I’m worried about the arthritis settling deeper. It’s going to get tougher.”

You nodded, stroking Bruce’s graying fur. “Yeah… I feel it too. He’s been slower on walks, and some mornings he almost can’t get up.”

Abby’s gaze softened. “He’s a good dog. You’re a good owner.”

That was Abby’s way, she didn’t say much more, but her tone always carried that hint of respect that made you feel like you weren’t just a number, just someone who brought an animal in for a routine check.

You leaned against the counter, shifting your weight, Bruce settling beside your legs. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet was filled with the faint sounds of the clinic. The muffled barks from other rooms, the distant ring of a phone and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

Then, Abby looked up, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes.

“You know,” she said casually, “You don’t have to keep coming here, paying for checkups every week.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

She smiled, folding her arms over her chest. “After my shift today, bring Bruce by my place. Let me check him over there. No charge, no fuss. You’re a regular. You’re a friend.” Her voice softened at the end, almost shy.

You hesitated, the offer feeling both generous and strange. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Abby waved it off. “Don’t be ridiculous. My dad’s always asking about you, and he’d love it if you came over once a week for dinner, too. It’s a win-win.”

You blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “My dad’s a fantastic cook, and he’s been bugging me to invite you over. Think about it. You, me, Bruce, and my dad. Family-style checkups.”

You laughed, the idea suddenly appealing. “Honestly… I’m usually the one stuck cooking when my boyfriend’s working late. A night off wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Abby’s smirk widened. “Thought you might like that.”

You shrugged. “Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of routine. You clocked out from your shift, still wrapped in the sterile scent of the hospital. There was something comforting about the idea of leaving the clinic behind for a few hours, stepping into a quieter space where you didn’t have to juggle masks and professionalism all day.

When you called your boyfriend later that afternoon to tell him, he was casual.. “Sounds cool. Abby’s a good friend. No worries.”

You smiled, feeling a slight relief. He had always been easy about your friendship with Abby, but sometimes you wondered if he secretly felt uneasy about how close you two were. Maybe it was nothing.

Still, as you hung up, a small knot tightened in your stomach, an unexplainable flutter of anticipation you couldn’t quite place.

Because really, he should’ve worried.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The sun was dipping low behind the city skyline when you pulled up in front of Abby’s modest house. Bruce’s tail thumped against the passenger door as you reached for the leash, his old legs moving slower but steady. You couldn’t help but smile. He looked almost youthful when he caught sight of the porch light flickering on.

Inside, the warmth hit you immediately. The faint smell of herbs, fresh bread, and something sizzling on the stove wrapped around the cozy living room where Jerry, Abby’s dad, sat reading the paper. He looked up and grinned broadly when he saw you.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter’s favorite friend!” Jerry joked, setting his paper aside. “Come in, come in.”

Abby appeared from the kitchen, a little less beastly in the home’s soft light, hair loose and eyes bright. “Hey! Glad you made it.” She ruffled Bruce’s ears, who responded with a contented groan.

Bruce’s usual stiffness seemed to melt away the moment he was surrounded by Abby and Jerry’s gentle attention. Abby settled him carefully on the plush rug, running her hands softly over his hips and back as Jerry brought out a plate of sliced roast chicken. You watched quietly, heart swelling at how spoiled he looked, like a king in his twilight years.

Abby’s hands moved expertly, checking Bruce’s joints with care, asking you about his behavior, appetite, the usual. The room was filled with a warm, easy calm that you hadn’t realized you craved so much.

Dinner was equally relaxed. Jerry’s home-cooked meal was simple but perfect. Roast chicken, fresh veggies and buttery potatoes. Abby sat across from you, her usual teasing banter softened into gentle smiles. You found yourself relaxing more than you had in weeks.

But as the evening stretched on and the dishes cleared, a quiet voice whispered in your mind: your boyfriend was waiting at home, finally free for the night after what felt like forever. You should leave. You should go home.

Yet, sitting there with Abby, warm, familiar, and so unexpectedly comforting, you felt something else rising inside you. A strange, restless pull that made your fingers twitch.

You cursed yourself silently. Why are you even thinking like this? You stood, murmuring your thanks and goodbyes, promising to come by again soon. Abby smiled, but you caught that subtle look again, like she knew something you didn’t.

Back in your car, the city lights blurred past, but your mind was elsewhere. You tried to shake the feeling, telling yourself you’d been alone too long, stressed too much. When you finally pulled up at your apartment, the door hadn’t even fully clicked shut before you were pulling your boyfriend into a fierce, desperate kiss. Your hands ripped at his shirt, exposing his broad chest and the hard muscles underneath. You pressed your body flush against his, feeling his thick cock harden against your hip.

You slipped your hands under his belt, fingers fumbling as you freed his cock, swollen and desperate. His breath hitched as you palmed him slowly, teasing the length with slick fingers. Your own pussy throbbed, aching to feel him inside.

He groaned low, his hands roaming your back, pushing your shirt up to bare your skin. You shivered as his fingers traced the sensitive curve of your waist, dipping lower to slide beneath your panties, fingers teasing your wet folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured against your throat.

You spread your legs wider, pressing your pussy right against his cock, grinding slowly to feel the thick heat. “Please,” you gasped, needing more.

He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, then lined himself up and pushed inside you, filling you completely. The stretch was delicious, every inch driving you wild as you clung to his shoulders.

You moved together, hard and fast, his dick pounding into your pussy with desperate rhythm. Your nails dug into his back as waves of pleasure crashed through you. “Fuck, yes,” you moaned, hips bucking against his.

He whispered your name like a prayer, burying his face in your neck, lost in the heat and sweat and need. You could feel yourself unraveling, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

With one last, deep stroke, you came undone, pussy clenching tight around his cock as your body shuddered. He followed, groaning deep as he spilled inside you, holding you close as you both rode out the intense aftermath.

Breathless, you rested your forehead against his, the city lights flickering softly through the window as your hearts slowed back to a steady beat. Get your head out of the fucking gutter, you told yourself, but the flicker of something more, something unspoken, still lingered in the back of your mind as you moved closer to him.

The sex had gone on for at least two months after that first night. Always urgent. Always rough. Always on the edge of something you couldn’t name. It became your way of staying grounded, of reminding yourself who you were with and why. When things started to drift, when your thoughts wandered toward a certain tall, muscled vet with those too-soft hands and that unreadable stare, you threw yourself harder into your fiancé. You kissed him like you were trying to brand him into your mouth, let him fuck you fast on the couch or pressed against the bathroom mirror, hoping maybe you'd feel normal again if you came hard enough.

And when he proposed, you said yes.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ring was tasteful. He said your name like it was the answer to a question he’d never dared ask. And for a moment, as he slid the diamond onto your shaking hand, you really thought you could make it work.

But sometimes, late at night, when he was asleep beside you and Bruce was wheezing softly on the rug, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, asking the same quiet question over and over:

Why did I say yes?

You never had an answer that didn’t feel like a lie.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

And then Bruce started getting worse again.

It wasn’t sudden. Just… slow. Subtle. He took longer to stand. His appetite dipped. The old light in his eyes dimmed at the edges. You noticed every little shift like they were earthquakes. You started carrying him up stairs again, even though it hurt your back. You stopped going out after shifts. You laid on the floor beside him some nights, just to listen to him breathe.

You brought him to Abby’s almost every other day now. She never complained. Never charged. She just looked at you with that familiar quiet and said things like he’s still fighting or you’ll know when he’s ready. And her hands were always gentle. Always respectful. She never talked about euthanasia unless you brought it up first.

Your fiancé, on the other hand, had a different opinion.

He said it casually at first. One evening while reheating leftovers. “We’re spending a lot on Bruce, you know. More than makes sense.”

You froze in the kitchen, your hand still on the drawer. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, not even looking at you. “I just think he’s old. He’s in pain. And honestly, it’s not worth the money anymore. Not when we could let him go peacefully.”

Not worth the money.

The words echoed in your skull like a punch. You turned to him slowly, heart pounding in your chest. “What the fuck did you just say?”

He blinked, confused at your tone. “I’m just being realistic. You know I love him, but he’s not going to get better. We’ve done enough.”

You stepped forward without meaning to. Something white-hot surged under your skin. Your hand actually twitched at your side, like it wanted to rise, like it wanted to crack across his face. You didn’t. Barely.

Instead, you swallowed hard and said through clenched teeth, “He’s not a fucking car part, he’s my dog. My best friend. You don’t get to decide when he’s ‘not worth it.’”

He raised his hands, palms out. “Jesus, okay. I’m not trying to start something. I’m just saying, don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. This isn’t sustainable.”

You stared at him.

This man. This man who held you at night, who kissed your neck and fucked you against kitchen counters. This man who’d put a ring on your finger. This man who’d just weighed your oldest friend against a dollar sign and come up short.

You said nothing.

Not for a long, long moment.

And later, when he tried to kiss you before bed, you let him. But you didn’t kiss back. You just stood there, skin buzzing, something in you turning over in the dark.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’d felt the weird knob a week ago. Maybe longer. A swollen spot behind Bruce’s ribcage, buried deep under the fur and muscle that had thinned over the years. You told yourself it was just a knot, just old age. Dogs got bumps, right? That’s what the vet blogs said. That’s what the hopeful part of your brain whispered while the anxious part screamed under it. You waited. Told yourself to just breathe. To not overreact. Told yourself you were tired. Busy. Distracted. That you’d look into it soon. And then you were too late.

When you finally brought him in, even Abby had gone quiet. She didn’t say anything at first, just ran her fingers over the lump, her brows pinched together in that way you knew too well. And when she did speak, her voice was softer than usual, like the words themselves hurt to say. Surgery. Fast-growing. No time to waste.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you drove home with Bruce curled up in the passenger seat, his breathing shallow, the light in his eyes a little dimmer than it had been yesterday.

Your fiancé was on the couch when you walked in, scrolling through his phone with one leg propped over the other like he had all the time in the world. You said his name. Just once. He looked up, blinked like he hadn’t realized you were even out. “How’d it go?”

You opened your mouth, told him about the mass, about the scans, about the surgery Abby scheduled for tomorrow morning. You said the words like they belonged to someone else. Like maybe they were fiction. He stared at you for a second, then scoffed. “You’re seriously doing surgery on him?”

Your hands clenched. “Yes.”

“Why?” he said, tossing his phone onto the coffee table like it personally offended him. “He’s ancient. He can barely walk. You’re going to put him through all that? What, for a few extra weeks? Months? He’s already done. Don’t be stupid. Just put him down.”

You blinked at him.

Put. Him. Down.

The room blurred, your vision narrowing to a tunnel. You couldn’t feel your hands anymore. “What did you just say to me?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m being realistic. This isn’t worth it. You’re going to spend thousands—”

You were already moving. Grabbing your bag. Leashing Bruce with trembling fingers. He made a soft sound of protest when you tugged, but he got up, slowly, faithfully.

“You’re not fucking human,” you whispered. He said something else, but you didn’t hear it. The door slammed so hard behind you that the sound echoed through your spine.

You didn’t even think. You drove. Straight to Abby’s. You were still shaking when you knocked, and the moment she opened the door and saw your face, she stepped aside without asking a single question.

Bruce limped in first. Abby knelt immediately, fingers brushing his fur, her gaze sharp as ever but laced with something gentler. She didn’t say what happened. She just let you talk.

You told her about everything. About your guilt. About how you’d waited too long. About how you should’ve done more.

You told her about the proposal, about the yes that had felt like a reflex. About the way he’d talked about Bruce like he was trash waiting for the curb. You didn’t sugarcoat it. You didn’t soften the edges. You said it all, and she let you.

Abby didn’t interrupt. Didn’t give her opinion. She just listened, still crouched beside Bruce, one hand on his back while her other rested on her knee, her thumb tapping a soft, slow rhythm against her jeans. When you were done, when your voice cracked into silence, she looked up at you. Not with pity, not with judgment. Just that quiet understanding that lived in her eyes like a second language.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice low. “But we’re gonna try.” She scratched gently behind Bruce’s ear. “He’s not done yet. Not if he’s still looking at me like that.”

You nodded. Your throat hurt.

Abby helped you settle Bruce in the guest room, laid out a big folded quilt for him to sleep on, brought him water and a soft chew toy she’d saved from the clinic’s extras.

You stepped out to call your boss. Your hands were still shaking as you explained what was going on, bracing for the denial. Instead, you were met with a clipped, professional sigh. “Take the day. I’ll mark it down. Jerry already called.”

Your breath caught. “He did?”

“Didn’t ask. Just said you needed it.”

You hung up slowly, staring down at your phone. Abby’s dad. Of course.

You wandered back into the guest room and found Abby sitting on the floor next to Bruce, her long legs crossed, one hand absently stroking his back as he dozed, his breathing shallow but steady. She looked up at you, that same unreadable expression on her face.

You wanted to say something. Thank her, maybe. Apologize for the late hour. For the storm you’d dragged in with you.

But all that came out was a hoarse, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Abby nodded once. “Of course.”

No hesitation. No conditions.

You sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. The room was dim and quiet, and Bruce let out a soft huff as he stretched his back leg in sleep. Abby didn’t say anything else. Neither did you. You just sat there, your thigh brushing hers, her body warm next to yours, the weight of the day crashing over you like a wave you didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

Tomorrow would come. And it might break you. But tonight, you weren’t alone.

You barely slept that night. Curled up on the bed in Abby’s guest room, fully clothed, your shoes still on. Bruce slept a few feet away from you, and you could hear his breathing from where you were. Slow, uneven, but steady. You kept your eyes on the ceiling and your hand near him the whole night, fingers occasionally brushing his fur just to make sure. Just to feel him.

You didn’t eat breakfast. Couldn’t. Abby handed you a mug of coffee as she got dressed in her usual black scrubs, and you sipped it in silence while Bruce was carefully loaded into the backseat of her truck. She offered to let you sit up front, but you chose the back, squeezing in beside your dog like a child refusing to leave their parent’s hospital bed. You whispered to him during the drive. Told him he was brave. That he was going to be okay. That you’d see him in a few hours. That Abby was going to take care of him.

The moment the doors to the clinic opened, you already hated the smell. That sharp sting of disinfectant and dog dander and sterile fear. You sat in the waiting room for the first hour, your eyes fixed on a spot in the linoleum. The second hour passed slower. Then the third. No news. Abby was back and forth, suited up, focused, a mask over her face, her expression unreadable behind the glass windows of the surgical room. You watched the clock tick with the weight of a thousand regrets on your chest.

It happened in the fourth hour.

You saw her coming down the hallway before she reached you, and your heart already knew. You could read it on her face, no matter how steady she tried to keep it. That flicker in her eyes, the slow pace of her steps. The blood already drained from your hands.

You stood up before she even said it.

“No.”

Abby stopped in front of you, pulled her gloves off, didn’t try to speak yet.

“No,” you said again, shaking your head like maybe that would change the air in the room. “No, no, no—”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and that was it. That was the moment you collapsed.

You didn’t fall, not completely. Your knees buckled and Abby caught you with one arm around your shoulders and the other steady at your waist. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The sounds you made weren’t words, just sharp, broken noises that scraped your throat raw as they came out. Abby led you through the back hallway, past the operating room and past the breakroom, into a quiet storage space that smelled like paper and rubbing alcohol.

And there he was.

Bruce.

Wrapped in the same soft blue blanket you’d brought from home. His eyes were closed. His paws curled inward. He looked like he was sleeping. But he wasn’t.

You dropped to your knees beside the table and pressed your face to his fur and screamed.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there. Minutes. Maybe an hour. Abby sat down behind you eventually, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up and her hands braced loosely between them. She didn’t try to talk. She let you grieve, let it all come up and pour out. You weren’t quiet about it. You didn’t hold back. You sobbed so hard your ribs hurt. You cried until your chest stopped working properly and you had to breathe in gasping hiccups like a child.

“I should’ve brought him in earlier.” You didn’t recognize your own voice. “He had a lump for days, Abby. I felt it. I knew something was wrong. And I waited. Because I was tired. Because he said it was fine. Because I trusted him—”

Abby looked at you. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was low. Steady. “You were scared. You were trying to believe it wasn’t serious. You were doing what anyone would’ve done.”

You turned your face toward Bruce again, unable to meet her eyes. “He said he wasn’t worth the money.”

She said nothing.

“I almost hit him,” you whispered. “I almost—”

“You should’ve,” she said, too calmly.

A weak laugh stuttered out of you, half-sob, half-exhale. “He wanted me to put him down. Like he was trash. Like he wasn’t—“ Your voice cracked again, and you buried your head in your hands. “I don’t want to go home. I can’t go home.”

Abby didn’t ask what you meant.

She just stood and offered you a hand. “Then come with me.”

You let her pull you up, and it felt like your legs didn’t belong to you anymore. She brought you into her office while the clinic closed down, letting you sit in her chair while she cleaned up in silence. When the last light was off and the doors locked behind you, she didn’t say anything about where you were going. Just opened the truck door and helped you in.

Back at her house, it was quiet. Her dad was out. You could smell the faint remnants of whatever he’d cooked earlier in the kitchen, garlic and onions and something warm, but your stomach didn’t flinch. You didn’t want food. You didn’t want anything except for Bruce, and he was gone.

Abby set a glass of water down in front of you and sat on the couch across from where you stood, arms folded loosely over her knees. She watched you. Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but in a way that made you feel seen. Like she could hear all the things you weren’t saying.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You rubbed your face, fingers trembling. “I feel like someone ripped my chest open.”

Abby nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s the worst kind of pain.”

You let out a long breath, leaning against the counter with your whole weight. “He was with me through everything. Every fucking day I came home from the hospital wanting to scream or fall apart or quit, he was just… there. Like clockwork. Like he never doubted me. Not once.”

“I know,” she said again.

You looked at her for a long time. At her arms, still faintly smudged with antiseptic from surgery. Her jaw. Her eyes. Her shoulders. So strong. So calm. And yet her hands had been the last to hold Bruce. She had carried him out of anesthesia. She had tried.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I know you did everything.”

She didn’t nod. She didn’t need to. She just looked at you, something unreadable tightening in her face. “You can stay here,” she said. “As long as you need.”

You nodded.

It didn’t fix anything. Bruce was still gone. And somewhere, your fiancé was probably checking his watch, wondering why you hadn’t texted. But in that moment, none of it mattered. Not the guilt. Not the ring. Not the house you couldn’t stomach walking into.

You weren’t ready to go home.

And Abby, without asking anything of you, was giving you something that felt like home, in the hollow, blood-raw way you needed it most.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You buried Bruce just after sunset, in the far back corner of Abby’s yard near the edge of the tree line. There wasn’t a plan, not really, just quiet movement and the kind of silence that didn’t ask questions. Abby had found a shovel without a word, and you’d followed her outside, Bruce still swaddled in that same blanket, the one he always nosed into when he was too tired to move. You could barely look at him as you carried him together. Abby’s hands firm but gentle under his weight, yours trembling like a small storm lived in your bones.

The earth was stubborn, summer-hardened, but neither of you complained. She dug most of it herself. You tried to help, your palms blistering fast, fingers raw, but it didn’t matter. You needed the ache. Needed something to hurt more than your chest did. Sweat streaked Abby’s neck, glinting in the fading light, hair tied back but messy, strands clinging to her jaw. Her tank top was soaked through the back. You didn’t say anything, but you watched her the whole time, like maybe if you focused on her arms lifting and lowering, if you tracked every breath, every step, you wouldn’t fall apart again.

You cried when you placed Bruce in the ground. Not loud. Just the kind of crying that hollowed out your ribs and made it hard to stand. Abby crouched next to you, her big hand pressed to your back, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles between your shoulders. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t fill the silence. When the dirt started going back over him, you almost broke again, but she was still there, solid and unshakable.

Later, when it was done and the sun was nothing but a low pink smear behind the trees, you both sat on the porch in silence, your hands filthy, forearms streaked with dirt, sweat drying on your skin. It should’ve felt unbearable. It didn’t.

Eventually she made soup. Opened a can of something from the pantry and didn’t even try to pretend it was homemade, just dumped it in a pot and stood over the stove while you sat at the kitchen counter with your head in your hands, elbows on the wood. She handed you a bowl without a word and sat beside you. The soup was too hot, too salty, but you ate it anyway.

Later, the two of you migrated to the couch with an old blanket, a rerun playing low on the TV, some ridiculous sitcom you’d both seen a hundred times. You didn’t remember leaning into her. Didn’t remember when your thigh pressed against hers, or when her arm moved behind you. You were just there, against her side, your body soaking in the heat from hers like it meant something. You laughed once, at a joke you didn’t even really hear, and she looked down at you like she’d never heard anything more important in her life.

You met her eyes. Felt that look, that quiet, open look, burrow its way through your chest like it belonged there.

Something broke. Something clicked. Maybe it had been cracking for years.

Abby leaned in first. Her hand came to your cheek, rough from calluses, warm, steady. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t think. You just let her kiss you.

It was soft at first. Slow. Like she was testing the weight of it, waiting for you to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. The heat that flared behind your ribs wasn’t new, just unspoken. You kissed her back, cautiously at first, then with more force, more ache, like you were trying to fill a space inside you that had been hollow for years.

The blanket slipped from your shoulders. Your hands moved without thought, one gripping her arm, the other tangled in her hair. Abby shifted, her thigh slotting between yours, her mouth opening against yours, tongue brushing yours in a way that made your breath hitch. Her kiss deepened, turned urgent, desperate, like she’d been holding this in for too long.

You gasped into her mouth when her hand cupped your waist, fingers digging into your shirt like she needed to anchor herself there. Her body pressed into yours, firm and steady, the heat of her wrapping around you like a second skin. You weren’t thinking about your fiancé. You weren’t thinking about grief, or guilt, or the fact that you were on her couch and Jerry could walk in at any second. All you were thinking about was her. The way she kissed you like you mattered. Like you weren’t broken. Like you were something she’d wanted all along.

Your hands slid under her shirt, fingertips brushing hard muscle and soft skin. She exhaled shakily against your mouth. You didn’t say anything. Neither did she. Words would’ve ruined it. This wasn’t about explaining. This was about feeling something again. Alive, raw, wanted.

At some point she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. Her breath was shallow. Her eyes searched yours. You could feel her heart pounding through the thin fabric between you.

“You sure?” she asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ve never been more sure.”

And then she kissed you again, longer this time, deeper. Her mouth on yours turned hungry, urgent, all that quiet restraint crumbling under the weight of need. Abby’s hands slid down your back, rough palms dragging over your spine, calluses catching on your shirt as she clutched at you like she couldn’t bear the distance. You pressed closer, hips tilting into hers, your thigh slotting over her lap as the blanket fell forgotten to the floor. The couch creaked under you both, soft fabric shifting as your bodies found their rhythm. Her hands gripped your waist, firm fingers curling under the hem of your shirt, and you arched when she pushed it up, baring your stomach to the warm air between you. She looked down for just a second, breathing heavy, eyes dark with something reverent, like she couldn’t believe this was real.

You tugged her shirt over her head in one smooth motion. It caught briefly on her jaw, mussing her hair. Her chest was bare beneath it, broad, solid, muscles sculpted from years of hard work. You didn’t hesitate. Your hands moved on instinct, palms sliding over the heat of her skin, fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts, thumbs grazing over nipples that hardened at your touch. Abby exhaled sharply, her hand flying to your waist again, yanking you closer so you straddled her fully now, knees bracketing her hips.

Your lips found the curve of her neck, kissing down toward her collarbone, and she tipped her head back, letting you. Her skin was salty, warm, pulsing with the beat of her blood, and you licked a slow line beneath her jaw just to feel the way she shivered. Her hands were on your ass now, strong fingers flexing, grinding you down against her lap with deliberate pressure.

You moaned into her throat, the friction sparking straight between your legs.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice low, wrecked. Her hands slid up your back again, then down, thumbs slipping under your waistband. “Can I—”

You kissed her hard to answer. Tugged your own shirt off, then reached behind to undo your bra, tossing it to the floor. Abby stilled, just for a second. Her gaze dropped, and her mouth parted like she was seeing sunlight for the first time. She cupped your breasts with both hands, reverent, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peaked, then leaned in and sucked one into her mouth. You gasped, back arching, fingers digging into her hair as her tongue circled, teasing, relentless.

Your pussy throbbed, slick and aching, pressing down against the hard line of her thigh. You couldn’t stay still. You rocked your hips forward once, then again, grinding against her, desperate for more. Abby growled low in her throat, hands gripping your waist to still you. “Need to feel you,” she muttered against your skin. “Need you naked.”

She laid you back across the couch cushions, tugging your shorts down, underwear with them, slow and deliberate. You were bare beneath her now, legs falling open without shame, pussy flushed and dripping, lips swollen and slick in the low light. Abby’s breath caught. She looked at you like she’d die if she couldn’t touch you. Then she dropped to her knees between your thighs.

Her mouth was on you in seconds, tongue flicking up your slit, slow and careful at first, then firmer, wetter, her nose brushing your mound as she buried herself in the heat of you. Your hips bucked. One hand flew to her hair, the other clutched at the couch. She licked up to your clit, circled it, sucked hard, and your whole body jerked. You moaned, loud and guttural, thighs tightening around her head.

She didn’t stop. She licked you like she knew you. Like she’d thought about this a thousand times. Her fingers slid between your lips, two of them pressing in without warning, and you cried out as she filled you. Stretching, curling, fucking you slow and deep while her tongue never left your clit.

“Abby—fuck—don’t stop—please—” You were gasping, writhing under her mouth, the couch damp beneath you. Her fingers pumped harder, knuckles pressing deep, and she sucked your clit into her mouth again, humming like she loved the way you tasted. Your nails raked down her back, hard enough to leave marks, and she groaned at the pain, fingers fucking you faster now, deeper, until your thighs started to shake.

“I’m—” The orgasm hit before you could finish the sentence. Your back arched, muscles locking, mouth falling open around a broken cry as your pussy clenched around her fingers. You came hard, soaking her hand, grinding against her face as she held you through it, licking every twitch, every shiver, like she couldn’t get enough of you.

She pulled back only when you sagged limp against the cushions. Her face was flushed, wet with you, mouth glistening. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then kissed the inside of your thigh, the softness after the storm. You were still breathing hard, chest heaving, body humming.

“Holy fuck,” you said hoarsely.

Abby smirked, crawling up over you again, her arms caging you in. “You’re not done.”

She kissed you before you could answer, kissed you deep, messy and hungry. You tasted yourself on her tongue and moaned again. Her hand slid between your bodies, down to guide your own fingers between her legs this time. She was soaked. Hot. Bare under her sweatpants. You pushed them down and felt how wet her pussy was, slick coating her folds. She rutted against your hand like she couldn’t help it, like she was aching for it. So you slid your fingers inside her, two at once, slow at first. She dropped her head to your shoulder, panting against your throat.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Fuck me—please.”

You did. You gave her everything. Fingering her deep, curling your fingers to hit that spot that made her whole body jerk. You scratched your nails down her back, dragged them along her spine as she rode your hand, as her pussy clenched and dripped and spasmed around your fingers. She was moaning openly now, desperate, raw.

She came with her whole body, shaking, crying out, her hips grinding down so hard it left bruises. You held her through it. Kissed her throat. Let her fall against you, trembling, slick and panting.

Neither of you said anything for a long time. Just the sound of breathing, the soft noise of skin on skin. You pulled her in close, wrapped your arms around her back, and she stayed there, face buried in your neck, body heavy over yours, like she never wanted to move again.

She whispered finally, hoarse and ragged, “You don’t have to leave. Not ever.”

And you believed her. Even through the guilt. Even through everything that would come tomorrow. For now, this was real. This was yours.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Even with Abby wrapped around you, her body shielding yours from the chill, even with her hand rubbing slow circles on your back like she could still feel the tremors there, your eyes never really stayed shut. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your mind was racing and your chest was burning and Bruce’s collar was still in your bag by the door, and the last thing you said to your fiancé was “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He didn’t call. Didn’t text. Probably assumed you were grieving somewhere. Probably imagined you’d come home and let him hold you like a good, understanding man would.

And maybe he would’ve.

But you couldn’t lie to him. Not after this. Not when your body still hummed from someone else’s hands.

You left Abby’s house early the next morning. She tried to stop you, half-dressed, groggy, her eyes still soft from sleep and something more, but you told her you had to do this. Alone. You kissed her once at the door. Slow. Quiet. Like a confession.

The apartment felt stale when you got there. Too clean. Too cold. Your fiancé was at the kitchen table, eating cereal and scrolling on his tablet like the world hadn’t just spun off its axis. He looked up when you came in. Frowned at your wrinkled clothes and swollen eyes.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I know,” you said. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, bracing. “I stayed at Abby’s.”

He nodded once, like that made sense.

“I buried him,” you said. “In Abby’s yard. She helped.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You didn’t want to bring him back here?”

You looked up. “I didn’t want to bring him anywhere near you.”

His jaw twitched, just slightly. “Okay,” he said, voice flat.

You stepped into the room, heart slamming against your ribs, a lump rising hard in your throat. “I need to tell you something.”

He looked up at you then. Actually looked. His eyes darkened. “What?”

You sat down across from him, and for a second you just stared at your hands. Your nails still had dirt beneath them. “I slept with Abby.”

Silence. Complete and consuming.

You looked up in time to see his mouth fall open. No words. Just stunned, silent disbelief. Then his eyes dropped, like maybe he was trying to convince himself he misheard you. “You what?”

“I slept with her,” you said again, softer this time. “Last night.”

He leaned back like you’d slapped him. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t like that.”

“You didn’t plan it?” His voice rose, not quite yelling, but not far off. “You didn’t plan it? So what. Was it just some spontaneous grief-fueled hookup? Is that supposed to make it better?”

“No—” you started, but he cut you off.

“Do you even know what this means? We’re engaged. I—fuck—I asked you to marry me. You said yes.”

“I know what I said.” You tried to keep your voice even, but your hands were trembling in your lap. “And I meant it. I did. I just… I don’t know anymore.”

He stood up, backing away from the table like it was on fire. “Unbelievable.”

You didn’t chase him. Didn’t beg. You just sat there and let it hang between you. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“Well you did.” He was pacing now, hands on his hips. “You think this is just about sex? It’s not. It’s betrayal. You cheated. You could’ve talked to me. You could’ve told me you were fucked up or confused or whatever. But you didn’t.”

You looked up at him. “Would you have listened?”

He stared at you. “I don’t know. But I would’ve tried.”

You stood. “And what about Bruce? You didn’t even want to try to save him. You told me to let him die. That it wasn’t worth it.”

His mouth opened, then closed. “That’s not the same.”

“It is to me,” you said. “I was grieving. I still am. And she, Abby, she was there. She didn’t push me. She just let me fall.”

He looked away. Ran a hand through his hair. “So what now?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He let out a sharp breath. Turned back to you. “Did it mean anything? With her?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yes. I think it did.”

His eyes dropped. “That makes it worse.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched again. Thick and sickening. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice brittle. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I wish that made this easier.”

You nodded.

He turned away. Leaned against the counter. His back rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something impossible. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You stepped closer. “Then don’t.”

He turned. Met your eyes. “But you’re not mine anymore, are you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Eventually, he nodded slowly. “I need time. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. But I won’t kick you out. I won’t throw everything away right now.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“But if you see her again, if you so much as think about touching her again, you tell me.”

You nodded. “I will.”

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t move toward you. Just turned away and walked down the hall.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind him. And you were left standing in the kitchen, alone, but not free. Loved, but not whole. Forgiven, but not absolved. Not yet.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You hadn’t spoken to Abby since that night.

Not the next day, when you left her house before sunrise with your hair still damp from her shower and your throat tight from unsaid things. Not when she messaged you the day after, just a soft, cautious “Let me know if you’re okay.” Not when she followed up again, three days later, after silence had already thickened like a wall between you: “I miss you.”

And you did miss her. So much it made you physically sick sometimes. But you didn’t respond.

You told yourself it wasn’t about shame. You weren’t homophobic. You never were. You had queer friends. You went to Pride once. You signed petitions. You donated.

You just... weren’t that.

You weren’t the girl who gave up her future over a kiss on a couch. You weren’t the kind of woman who broke an engagement, disappointed her parents, rewrote her entire life because one person made her feel something she was too afraid to name.

You had a man. A good one. Stable. Smart. Your mother adored him. Your father cried when he gave the toast at your rehearsal dinner.

And so, a week later, you found yourself standing in the bridal suite of a sprawling countryside venue, surrounded by white roses and soft music and the weight of a dress that didn’t quite feel like yours.

It was beautiful, of course. Ivory satin, a fitted bodice with off-the-shoulder sleeves, a full skirt that swayed when you turned. Your makeup was flawless. Your hair was pinned and curled in perfect symmetry. The girls from work cried when they saw you. Your mother clasped her hands like she was praying. Everyone said you looked like a dream.

But your stomach was a fist. Tight. Silent. Unmoving.

You kept waiting for it to pass. For the butterflies to turn into something light and sparkling, something romantic, something real. Instead, they stayed heavy. Dense. Like guilt. Like dread.

The ceremony was held outside, under a giant oak tree wrapped in white drapery and strings of glass bulbs. The air smelled like cut grass and warm wine. Guests murmured and smiled in neat little rows of wooden chairs.

And there, two rows from the back, on the far left side, was Abby.

You hadn’t expected her to come.

Her face was pale. She hadn’t done much with her hair; it was just tied back, haphazard and a little frizzy at the ends. She wasn’t in a dress. Of course she wasn’t. She wore a navy-blue button-down and black slacks and scuffed brown shoes, and she sat with her knees apart, hands clasped between them like she couldn’t get comfortable. There was no one beside her. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t clap when the music started.

You saw the tears in her eyes the second they lifted to meet yours.

You didn’t look back after that.

The ceremony blurred. Words were said. Vows repeated. The officiant asked the question and you said “I do.” The ring slid on your finger like a shackle.

People clapped. Your husband kissed you, and you let him.

Later, during the reception, you didn’t see Abby again. She didn’t stay for dinner. Didn’t sign the guestbook. Didn’t come say hello. You thought you imagined her entirely until someone mentioned seeing “that vet friend of yours from the hospital crowd” leaving during the toast.

You slipped outside sometime after the cake was cut, out through the side doors and past the patio into the shadows near the trees. Your heels dug into the dirt. Your veil dragged in the leaves. You leaned against the bark of that same oak tree and let yourself cry, quietly, chest barely moving. You didn’t want anyone to hear. Especially not your husband.

Because that kiss, that kiss, the one you had on Abby’s couch, the one that started in grief and turned into something unspeakably alive, had been real. It had changed something in you. Opened a door you never wanted to look behind.

And now the door was shut again. Locked. Sealed behind marble centerpieces and monogrammed vows and a man who would never understand why sometimes, in the quiet, you looked like you were listening for footsteps that never came.

Abby didn’t text again.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t post anything online about you, didn’t mention what happened to anyone. You still saw her dad at work, sometimes, and he never brought her up. Never asked why she suddenly stopped inviting you to dinner. You figured he knew. Or maybe he just respected your silence the way Abby did.

It was the last time you saw her.

You’d tried to convince yourself it was just one of those things. A brief crack in a long, solid path. Something unplanned. A detour. Something that didn’t count.

But it did count.

And sometimes, on nights when your husband was late getting home, or when you passed by the emergency vet and saw the lights still glowing inside, or when you found a dog hair on your coat and didn’t have the heart to brush it off, you wondered what would’ve happened if you’d turned around at the altar.

If you’d said no.

If you’d run back to her and said I’m scared, but I’m yours.

But you didn’t. And you hadn’t. And Abby, with all her quiet patience and aching tenderness, had finally let you go.

Even if you never would. Not really.

The car rumbled underneath you, its engine a low, steady growl that vibrated through the worn leather seats. The road hummed faintly beneath the tires, a rhythm that matched the silence inside the vehicle. The seat creaked every now and then with the slight shifts Abby made as she drove. Now, maybe fifteen minutes into the trip, she still hadn’t spoken. That didn’t surprise you. Abby wasn’t one to fill silence for no reason. With most people, that kind of quiet would feel uncomfortable, awkward even, but with her, it was steadying. Reassuring. The silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy with thought. Weighty with feeling. There was always something behind it with Abby. Sometimes anger. Sometimes pain. Sometimes the kind of patience that felt like it had teeth.

You sat beside her, feeling the sun on your face through the cracked window. Warm, but not suffocating. A little breeze made it in from time to time, fluttering the strands of your hair that had slipped free from your tie. You could smell pine in the air, and dirt, and the faint chemical sting of gasoline from something in the backseat. Outside, birds occasionally chirped. Your hand sat on the armrest, fingers drumming faintly. The ride rocked a bit when Abby hit a dip in the road. She never warned you when that kind of thing was coming. Not out of carelessness, just because she knew you didn’t need the warning. You could handle it. Still, her hand brushed your shoulder for half a second after the jolt. A wordless check-in. Just a touch. You didn’t react. Didn’t say anything. Just let the quiet stretch.

And then, without warning, Abby’s voice cut through the quiet. Low, a little rough at the edges like it hadn’t been used in a while. “Feels like summer’s finally showing off.”

You turned your head in her direction. No words, just a small tilt, the kind that meant go on.

She cleared her throat softly. “It’s that kind of day people used to make up songs about. Hot pavement. Air so still it feels like the whole world’s holding its breath. Big clouds overhead, not stormy though, just the soft kind. Like... whipped cream maybe. Floating real slow.”

You let out a dry, skeptical sound. “Whipped cream?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but it wasn’t sharp. You could hear the smile under it.

She kept talking. Her voice had shifted, eased into something softer, less guarded. “Everything’s got this glow to it. That kind of light where colors go all honey-warm. Trees look gold at the edges. Shadows are soft. And the sky’s that impossible kind of blue, the deep kind that feels fake if you stare too long.”

You let your head lean against the window’s frame. The warmth soaked into your skin, slow and steady. Wind brushed along your forearm where it rested, catching in the hairs, curling into your sleeve. The air was thick but lazy, carrying the smell of dry grass and dust and maybe water in the distance, something green and damp and real.

Abby shifted beside you. You heard the faint creak of her jacket, the leather flexing when she moved. “Sun’s bouncing off the road ahead,” she murmured. “You can’t look straight at it, it hurts. Like everything’s too bright. You’d hate it.”

You hummed. “Probably.”

“It’s one of those days where it feels like... nothing bad could happen. Even if you know better.”

The truck rolled along, tires humming against worn asphalt. You could feel the subtle pitch changes when the terrain shifted, slight inclines, dips, the crunch of gravel every now and then. Abby’s hand rested near the gearshift, fingers tapping lightly, like her thoughts were still wandering.

You broke the quiet. “What do you look like in that kind of light?”

That made her scoff. “Tired. Sweaty. My braid’s stuck to the back of my neck. Probably got dust all over my face.”

You smiled faintly. Waited.

Her breath hitched slightly. “But... I guess I don’t look bad. Arms catch the sun real nice. Muscle definition shows more. My scars look softer. And the sweat sort of... makes everything shine. My skin looks gold. Not that I’d stare at myself or anything, just—” She paused. “Sometimes I catch my reflection in a window and don’t completely hate it.”

That landed quiet and heavy between you, not uncomfortable, just... real.

Abby kept talking. “There’s this big sign up ahead,” she said, voice low now, slower. “Gas station one. Rusted halfway to hell. The letters are all cracked and flaking, but the red paint still catches the sun. Looks almost fresh. The road bends a little there, and the light’s catching in the cracked glass of an old truck in the ditch. Looks like a spotlight. Everything’s glowing, even the broken stuff.”

You breathed in deep. That scent again, warm, alive, maybe a little sweet now that she’d said honey. Maybe that was just suggestion. “You like days like this,” you said.

Abby didn’t answer right away. Then: “I like that the sun makes everything look better. Like it’s hiding the worst parts.”

Her voice went quiet. Not sad, exactly. Just... bare. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence that followed felt full, like something shared, understood without being named. You both knew what the world really sounded like when things went wrong: the kind of silence that pressed in tight, where every snapped twig or distant cry turned your stomach cold. But this, this wasn’t that. Abby’s voice still lingered in the air like warmth off a campfire, steady and close, and the hum of the road beneath you was soft, almost rhythmic. The breeze lifted strands of your hair, touched your skin without urgency. You reached one hand toward the open window, fingers spread, catching the wind.

Abby glanced at you, and though you couldn’t see it, you knew. She was watching. Not just to make sure you were safe, not just because she always did, but because for some reason, she liked watching you interact with the world in your own way.

She let the silence return, but this time, it wasn’t silence at all. It was full of sunlight and wind and warmth. And her.

Suddenly, the car jolted, hard.

One second the road hummed beneath you, dry and steady, and the next, everything seized. A violent lurch threw you forward against the seatbelt. A sound like metal being strangled screamed from under the hood, high and ugly. Then silence. Not the good kind.

Abby swore. Loud and abrupt. “Shit!”

Your hands clenched the edge of the seat instinctively, bracing as the engine gave one last sputtering cough before dying completely. The sudden stillness that followed hit like a punch. No engine noise, no movement, just the brittle hush of wind through dead grass and the faint clicking sound of something cooling under the hood.

Your heart jumped, reacting to the sudden shift, adrenaline blooming sharp in your chest. “What—” you started, but Abby was already throwing off her seatbelt.

The mechanical click was fast, followed by her boot hitting the ground hard as she shoved her door open. You heard the scrape of her jacket, the grunt she gave when she swung herself out of the car. Then her voice, low and pissed.

“Motherfucker,” she muttered. The hood latch gave a groan. Something clanked. Another curse.

You stayed where you were, hands loose but ready on your thighs, listening.

A metallic thud rang out as she popped the hood open. The smell came first, burnt rubber, hot oil, something else chemical and thick in your nose.

“Abby?” you called out.

“Yeah,” she snapped. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Hang on.”

You heard her moving again, kicking open the back hatch to grab something, tools maybe, by the jangle of metal on metal. Her breath came out in short, sharp exhales. You imagined her crouched in front of the car, jaw locked, brow furrowed in that way she always got when something didn’t bend to her will.

She muttered something low under her breath that you couldn’t catch. Metal rang again, a frustrated grunt cut the air. Then, finally, a slam. The hood came down hard. Her boots crunched against the dirt as she came back to your side. The door creaked open. “It’s fucked,” she said flatly.

You lifted your chin toward her voice. “Fucked as in...?”

“As in, we’re walking. Belt’s gone, radiator’s hissing like it’s about to melt through the goddamn engine block. I can patch it, but it won’t hold.”

The sun was beating hotter now. You felt it on the side of your face, heavy and mean. Wind stirred the dry grass, brushing across your arms like something restless. You heard Abby shift her weight and caught the brief hitch in her breath. Her fingers brushed your shoulder lightly. Not pressure, just a pass, like she was checking to see if you were still okay. “I can call it in,” she offered. “Request a pickup. Could take a few hours, but—”

“No,” you said quickly, sitting forward. “Let’s just go.”

She didn’t move right away. Her fingers hovered, then dropped. You could feel her staring at you, probably scanning your expression, which you knew was unreadable to most people. Not to Abby though. She’d learned the cues: how your chin angled, the way your jaw tensed when you were firm on something.

Finally, she let out a quiet grunt. “Alright.”

You heard her move toward the back, digging into the gear bags. The thud of her vest shifting, the metallic jingle of ammo being re-secured. She moved with that same focused precision, everything deliberate, silent but somehow loud in presence. Abby was like that. Her strength wasn’t just in her muscles, it was in how thoroughly she existed. Then her voice, low, near the open door again. “You good to get out?”

You reached forward, palm skimming the doorframe until it met the inside handle. “Yeah.”

As you moved to stand, her hand slid lightly under your arm, not grabbing, just there in case. The heat of her skin bled through the sleeve of your shirt. You didn’t need the help, but you didn’t shake her off either.

Your boots hit the dirt with a dull crunch. The air outside was drier than it had felt in the car.

“Road’s flat for a bit,” Abby said. “Hard-packed. Then there’s a split where we’ll have to cut through some wooded stuff. I’ll tell you when.”

“Got it.”

She didn’t take your hand again, but you could hear her footsteps start ahead of you, solid, just a few paces forward. You knew that rhythm well enough by now. If she got too far ahead, she’d fall silent. You’d speak, and she’d pause until you caught up. Like clockwork.

“Call if you want to stop,” she added. “Or if you need anything.”

You smirked faintly. “You offering a piggyback ride, Anderson?”

She scoffed. “You wish.”

Still, her voice held a softness, faint, but there. She never said it outright, but you knew what it meant: I’ll carry you if it comes to that. I’ll fucking drag you, if I have to.

You walked, the space between you measured and familiar. The crunch of dirt. The sound of birds overhead. The faint creak of her gear shifting with every step.

It was around 10-15 minutes later when you felt the forest had changed. You could feel it in the shift of the air. The path under your boots was uneven, overgrown, soft with the give of old moss and damp loam. Abby walked slightly ahead, each of her steps deliberate, the weight of her presence somehow always reassuring. You followed her without hesitation.

“Stop,” Abby murmured suddenly.

The word dropped like a rock into your chest. You froze mid-step, your pulse beginning to rush in your ears. “What is it?” you whispered.

She moved close, so close you could feel the brush of her arm against yours, the heat radiating from her skin despite the wind cooling the sweat off your face. Her breath tickled your cheek when she leaned in. “Clickers. At least three. Runners too. We stumbled into a nest.”

You nodded once. Her voice was quiet but calm, that particular kind of calm she always had right before something bloody. Your own breath caught in your throat, and you fought the instinct to hold it there.

“Here,” she said. Her hand was on your arm now, firm and warm. She guided you with that familiar care, pressure just enough to steer, never to push, until your knee knocked gently against a jagged stone. A boulder. She pressed your shoulder down and you crouched, placing one hand on the rock's cool surface to orient yourself. It was slick with lichen, smelled faintly of iron and earth.

“You’ll be okay here,” Abby murmured near your ear. “I’m gonna handle it.”

You nodded. “Be careful.”

Her hand lingered for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing your sleeve, then she was gone. Her footsteps were light, barely registering except for the occasional crunch of debris beneath her boots. Abby crouched low, her muscles tensed and coiled under her jacket like a drawn bowstring. The unmistakable gurgling chatter of a nearby clicker crackled in her ears, wet, erratic clicks like a busted metronome swinging too fast.

She counted four of them on sight.

Two clickers. Two runners. Close, maybe twenty meters off, shuffling behind some car carcasses and broken trees. From the soft pattern of their staggered steps and the slow scrape of bone-dry limbs brushing bark, she knew they hadn’t sensed you yet. But that could change in an instant.

She reached behind her and unsheathed her machete, its edge still sharp, still stained from the last raid. Her grip tightened around the handle, leather gloves creaking as she ghosted forward through the brush. She moved with silent precision, boots brushing damp leaves, shoulders hunched, breath low.

The first runner appeared just ahead, lurching into view between the rusted husk of an SUV and a tree thick with moss. Male. Fast. And twitchy. Abby ducked under a low branch, came up behind him, and—

Crack.

She wrapped one arm tight around his neck, yanking him off-balance. The moment he struggled, his feet kicking at the dirt, she drove the machete up under his ribcage. He let out a soft, wet grunt. She twisted. His body sagged. Abby eased him down as quietly as a corpse could go, boot braced under his weight to lower him slowly.

Then came the clickers.

She heard them before she saw them. Two sets of shrill, screeching echolocations bouncing off every tree, every stone. The air grew thicker around them, the pressure of imminent danger tightening across her chest like a cord. She stayed low, crept closer.

The nearest clicker jerked its head toward the noise of its fallen comrade. Its movements were erratic, broken-neck sharp, and each step it took landed with a wet slop on the mud. Abby circled to its side, heart thudding but rhythm steady. She waited, crouched behind a blown-out tire, until its clawed hand swiped through the air just a foot too far to the left. Then she surged forward.

Her boot hit the earth hard, charging. The machete rose and came down in a two-handed arc, cleaving through the skull just above its jawline with a grotesque crunch. Foul blood sprayed hot across her face and chest, and the thing collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

The second clicker turned instantly at the sound, screeching, limbs flailing. Its throat grated with a sound like dry leaves being crushed in a fist. Abby didn’t wait, she knew better. Let one of them scream too long and more would come. She pivoted and drew her sidearm.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Three clean rounds. One hit shoulder. Second, gut. The third tore through its fungal-plated skull. It dropped mid-screech, body thudding to the earth just ten feet from the rock you were crouched behind. That left one more, or so she thought.

She didn’t hear it until it was too close. A runner, young and fast. Maybe a teenager once. It came from her blind side, screaming, flinging itself toward her with arms outstretched and fingernails like daggers. It crashed into her, and they both went down hard. Abby grunted, rolled, managed to get her elbow under its chin as its face snapped toward hers, teeth yellow, breath rank with decay and rot.

It clawed at her chest, scratched her jacket.

She roared, twisted her body, and slammed her knee into its side. Once. Twice. The third time cracked ribs. It gurgled. Abby drove her forearm into its neck and, with the other hand, yanked her knife from her belt.

Shlick.

She stabbed it in the side of the neck, once, then again, quick, vicious motions, until it stopped moving beneath her. Her hands were shaking now. Chest heaving. Every breath pulled in blood-soaked air, iron and rot and sweat. She spat once to clear the taste of it off her tongue, then stood slowly. Her legs ached from crouching, her chest burned from the weight of that last fight.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Meanwhile, somewhere beyond the trees, you could hear her, Abby, fighting. The muted thud of bodies hitting the ground, the sharp crack of bone, the wet sound of a blade driving into flesh. Her grunts, short, fierce bursts of breath, punctuated the chaos. She was handling it. You could tell. Every movement of hers was deliberate, rhythmic, almost… calculated.

But then something shifted.

A scream cracked the air, sharp, guttural, close enough to split the wind right beside you. Your entire body jolted with it, blood icing as your muscles locked. That wasn’t Abby.

You turned your head instinctively, zeroing in on the direction of the sound. Footsteps pounded the earth, wild, unsteady. Too light to be her boots. Too fast. Each slap of feet against the dirt came closer, louder. The breathing, wet, labored, wrong, rushed in ragged bursts, closer by the second. Your heart slammed against your ribs, but your hands moved with that half-buried instinct. Trained. Practiced. Terrified.

You drew your sidearm, breath sharp in your throat. It was coming straight at you. You couldn’t see the thing, but you could feel it in the air, how it displaced the wind, how the low rustle of grass bent toward your hiding place. Every fiber in you screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. So you stood your ground. Adjusted your grip. Turned slightly, listening. Waiting.

The first shot cracked off your fingertips and went wild, whistling past the trunk of a tree. Too far left. The second, closer. You corrected your angle with clenched teeth, squaring your shoulders, focusing everything into your hearing.

Then… there. The shriek sharpened in pitch, right in front of you now, maybe three steps away. You fired. The recoil jarred up your arms. The screech choked out mid-lunge.

Then, thud.

Something heavy hit the ground, scattering dirt and old leaves. The silence that followed was total, no more clicking, no breath, no feet clawing through the brush. Just wind curling through the trees again. Your pulse pounding in your ears. And the gun, still trembling in your hands, barrel warm from the shot. You stayed still. Listening.

You didn’t move, couldn’t, not until you were sure. Not until Abby would come back and told you it was over.

Somewhere out there, you could still hear her fighting. One more set of thuds. One final wet crunch. Then, Abby’s boots hit the dirt hard, heavy and fast, thudding closer until she was crouched down in front of you, breath sharp in the cool air. Her hands came up, rough and efficient, sliding over your arms and torso without hesitation. “Are you hurt?” she barked, voice clipped and tense. “Did it bite you anywhere? Let me see.”

You shook your head, but before you could say anything, she was already tugging your sleeves up, fingers digging under the fabric to check your skin. “No bites. No cuts. You bleed anywhere?” Her voice was short, businesslike, but there was an edge of worry beneath it.

You shook your head again. “I’m fine.”

You heard the shift in her weight before she spoke again. Boots scuffing against the ground, the faint creak of leather as she leaned in, tension thick in her voice. “You sure? This kind of thing… you don’t want to fuck around with it.”

Her hands moved quickly, checking your ribs, patting your sides, pressing against your legs through the jeans. The motion was firm, no softness, like she was making sure you weren’t hiding something. “I heard it get way too close,” she said, voice low and rough.

“I shot it,” you told her, still catching your breath. “I think I hit it.”

Abby let out a dry laugh, the tension easing just a little. “Hell yeah. You did good. Nailed it right in the head.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief curling inside you.

The silence stretched, thick with things neither of you said out loud. Finally, Abby pushed herself up, brushing dust off her knees. “Come on,” she said, voice low. “We’re not done here. Let’s get moving before anything else shows up.”

You grabbed your gear and stood, knees aching but steady. As you started walking, you noticed Abby kept close, staying just behind and to the side, like a shield rather than a friend.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The slow ache in your feet was becoming impossible to ignore. You shuffled along beside Abby, the uneven dirt trail biting at your soles and knees. Abby didn’t say anything at first, just matched your pace, her presence solid and steady beside you. After a few minutes, she glanced over, catching the slight hitch in your step. “Hey,” she said, her voice low and rough with concern. “We should take a break. There’s an old shack up ahead. I’m gonna check it out, just give me a minute.”

You nodded, thankful for the pause.

When she came back and told you it was clear, she helped you inside. The cool shade of the shack was a welcome relief from the lingering heat of the day. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of earth and rusted metal, the quiet settling around you both like a soft blanket. You leaned back against the jagged stone wall, your boots pressing into the uneven floor.

Abby dropped down beside you, fishing out some rations and a canteen from her pack. She tossed you a water canteen and a strip of jerky, the rustle of plastic and metal oddly comforting in the silence. You bit into the food slowly, tasting the salt and leather in the dry meat. After a few bites, your fingers traced the worn edges of the canteen as you turned your head to Abby, who you could hear cleaning her knife with meticulous care.

“Hey,” you began, voice hesitant, “do you remember when we talked before? About… seeing.”

Her head lifted, eyes narrowing a bit in thought. “Yeah. You said you didn’t want to.”

You exhaled slowly, the breath catching. “I said that, but I’ve been thinking about it. I want to come back to that. I want to say more.”

Abby set the knife down with a soft thud and shifted her weight, turning so you could feel her presence squarely in front of you.

“When I was younger,” you said, voice barely above the whisper of the shack’s shadows, “I did want to see. Back then, my dad got hurt. I remember the panic, but I couldn’t help. I just felt like I was in the way, a burden. Even though he told me I wasn’t, I couldn’t shake it.” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat. The quiet was thick between you, Abby’s breath even and slow.

“That’s the part I wish I could see,” you said finally, “not the world or the sky, but just… if someone’s hurt, to know for sure. To be able to do something, to help. Instead of feeling useless.”

Abby’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might say something harsh. But then she exhaled, voice softer than you expected. “You’re not useless,” she said bluntly. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. Don’t ever forget that.”

Her words landed heavy and real, like the weight of a promise. You shifted, feeling the rough stone beneath your back, letting the silence stretch.

The shack’s coolness wrapped around you like a damp blanket, sharp contrast to the sweat and heat still clinging to your skin from the trek. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, demanding you listen carefully, to the slow pulse of your own heart, the soft scrape of Abby shifting beside you, and the faint rustle of her gear as she settled close.

You didn’t look toward her, couldn’t, really, but you could feel the change in her breath, how her chest rose and fell steadily next to you, the faint scratch of her jacket brushing your arm. It was enough, the presence of her there. Solid, rough, somehow familiar.

Then, without a word, she shifted again, closer this time, and her voice broke the silence, low and rough but quieter than before. “Hey... can I touch your hand?”

Your fingers tensed for a moment, a flutter of nerves rushing through you. But then you opened your palm, extending your hand slowly into the dark space between you, and felt her callused fingertips settle gently over your skin.

The roughness of her hands was immediate, a sharp contrast to your softer, more sensitive touch, but there was a patience there, a carefulness in the way she pressed just enough to be certain, but not so much as to startle you. Her fingers traced the outline of your palm, winding slowly over your knuckles and down each finger, like a map she was learning to read without sight.

“Feel this,” Abby said, voice rougher now, carrying a hint of something deeper, a hint of vulnerability beneath the usual steel edge, guiding your hand toward her own scars. Your fingers brushed over raised, jagged lines running across the rough skin of her forearm, some faded and pale, others still raw and tender.

“This one here,” she said quietly, “is from a runner. Got too close, had to put it down with a bat.” She let your fingers linger there, tracing the uneven texture. “And this...” Her voice lowered, thick with memory, “...from a clicker near the hospital. Felt like hell when it happened.”

You could almost hear the weight behind her words, the echo of pain that lingered years after the wounds had closed. Your fingertips followed every ridge and groove, feeling the different layers of healed skin, the scar tissue that puckered and stretched unevenly. There was something intimate about it, this tactile connection to the history she carried with her, the battles fought, the narrow escapes.

“What do you feel?” Abby’s voice softened but stayed steady. “Does it feel weird? Like it needs bandages or... something?”

You hesitated, then guided your fingers to a fresh scrape near her elbow. It was still warm under your touch, the skin broken and raw beneath the thin layer of dirt and grime. “This one... it’s sore. Feels deeper than a scratch.”

She didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, she shifted just slightly, letting you trace the edges like a silent trust being built, piece by piece. Abby pulled a small, battered first aid kit from her pack, its fabric rough, the zipper stiff and reluctant. A faint, sharp scent of antiseptic rose as she peeled it open, the sterile smell a strange comfort against the earthy dampness around you. She laid it between you, her movements sure but careful, like she was mindful of how much space she was taking up.

“Here,” Abby said, voice steady but quieter now, like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile balance had settled between you. “Take the alcohol. We should clean it first.”

You reached toward the sound of her voice, fingers brushing against the cold metal edge of the small kit she’d opened beside you. The air in the shack had cooled since you sat down, but her presence kept the space feeling warm, like a fire banked nearby but not yet lit.

She pressed a small bottle into your hand. “Twist the cap off. Careful. Don’t spill.” You nodded, thumb finding the little plastic ridges and twisting slowly. The chemical sting of alcohol hit your nose the moment the seal broke. Abby reached again, guiding your other hand to a small packet of gauze.

“That’s sterile,” she said. “Use it to dab. Not rub—just press it in.”

You could hear the grit in her voice, the tightness that meant she was trying not to show pain. It made something knot in your chest. You fumbled slightly with the gauze, but she didn’t comment, didn’t sigh or try to take it from you. She just waited. “Okay,” she murmured, shifting closer. Her knee brushed yours. “It’s right here, just above my elbow. Start slow.”

You reached out, hands tentative in the dark, until your fingers found the edge of her sleeve. She had rolled it up earlier, and your knuckles grazed warm skin, slick with sweat, tense beneath the surface. You traced upward gently until you found the torn spot, your fingertips brushing the jagged skin around the wound.

“Here?” you asked.

“Yeah,” she said softly, her breath catching just slightly. “That’s it.”

You folded the gauze into a small pad, soaked it carefully with the alcohol. The moment you pressed it in, Abby hissed through her teeth, a short, controlled sound. Her arm jerked once, then stilled under your touch. “Shit,” you breathed, pulling back instinctively. “Sorry—”

“No,” she cut in, voice rough. “You’re doing fine. It just… stings. Keep going.”

You hesitated, then tried again, pressing the gauze gently into the wound. The scent of blood mingled with the alcohol, sharp and metallic and all too familiar. Her muscles twitched under your hand, but she didn’t move away. You felt every tremor, every shallow breath she took. “Just a little more,” Abby said, almost a whisper now.

You kept working, letting your hands move slow and deliberate, dabbing the area clean. When you finished, she reached behind you and pressed a roll of gauze into your palm. “Wrap it,” she said. “Start low, angle it up. Like a spiral.”

You tried. The bandage slipped once, then again, and your fingers fumbled with the edge. Abby didn’t comment. She just leaned in, reached out, and covered your hand with hers. “Like this,” she said. Her hand was warm and solid over yours, her fingers guiding yours in the motion, firm but not forceful. The texture of her calluses met the pads of your fingers like an echo, two different kinds of roughness learning to align.

You followed her lead, circling the gauze slowly up her arm, folding the edges down where she pointed, smoothing them with care. The closeness was unbearable in its quiet intimacy. You couldn’t see her expression, but you felt it, every breath, every slight shift in how her body leaned toward yours but never quite touched.

“Not too tight,” Abby murmured. “You want it snug. Secure. But not cutting off anything.”

You adjusted carefully, pulling back just enough, checking with your fingers that the bandage didn’t bite into her skin. You didn’t say anything, but she let out a quiet breath like she felt it, the shift, the instinct in your hands despite what you lacked.

Then the silence returned, filled only by the distant plip of water against stone and the low rhythm of your breathing.

Your fingers lingered a moment longer on the edge of the bandage, not wanting to break the quiet. Then you cleared your throat, voice soft. “Thanks… for letting me do it. For trusting me with it.”

Abby didn’t say anything right away. You could hear her shift slightly, the whisper of fabric as she leaned back against the stone wall beside you. Her shoulder brushed yours, not by accident, not quite on purpose either. Just there.

She let out a slow breath, then gave a little scoff, light, dismissive in that gruff Abby way, but not unkind. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” she muttered, tone dry but warm underneath. “It’s a bandage. It’s basic shit. Doesn’t matter if you’re blind or not. You’ve got hands. You can learn just like anyone else.”

You blinked, her words hitting something deeper than they had any right to. Simple. Straightforward. No pity, no pedestal. Just… fact. Still, something in you curled around the need to say it again. “I mean it, though.”

“Yeah. I know.” You could hear the edge of a smile in her voice as she spoke, barely there, but real.

She didn’t press further, didn’t make it sentimental. But she didn’t pull away either. Just sat there beside you, solid and close, like she was content to stay in that quiet for a while longer. Letting the moment stretch, not into something dramatic, but something steady.

Then Abby shifted again, her shoulder brushing lightly, barely touching you, in a way that grounded both of you in the dim space. No words followed, but the moment stretched, charged and tender, careful and uncertain. You didn’t move away. You didn’t pull back.

Your breath came out a little uneven, throat tight with a jumble of feelings you couldn’t quite name. Relief, frustration, something heavy and unfamiliar.

Her presence was a constant, a rough anchor, steady but restless, like the quiet before a storm. You could sense her watching you, the way her breathing had slowed but not stopped, the way her body tensed every so often, as if bracing for something unseen.

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck like dry leaves caught in the wind. Instead, your fingers rested lightly on the patchwork bandage you’d just finished, tracing the soft cotton edges again, as if by feeling it you could ground yourself.

“I never asked...” Your voice was low, almost swallowed by the stillness around you. “When you get hurt... does it ever scare you? Like, really scare you?”

Abby was silent for a long beat, then a rough laugh escaped her throat, dry and bitter. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “Every time. Doesn’t get easier. You just... learn how to hide it better.”

You nodded, fingers curling slightly around the fabric on her arm. “I think that’s the hardest part. Not knowing how to hide how scared you really are.”

Her voice softened, an edge of something close to warmth slipping in. “You’re good at this,” she said, almost like a surprise to herself. “Helping. Being careful.”

There was a pause, thick and full, the kind that hums with unspoken promises. Abby shifted once more, and this time you could feel the brush of her jacket sleeve against your arm, a deliberate, slow movement that sent a ripple of awareness through your skin. Her hand was close now, hovering just a breath away, as if waiting for permission.

The space between you shrank until you could feel the faint heat radiating from her, mingling with the cool damp air of the shack. Your fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to close the gap, but you held still, caught in the delicious tension of waiting.

“I’m not good with soft,” she muttered, voice low and rough. “But I’m learning.”

You swallowed, heart thudding loud enough you thought she might hear it. “Me too.”

Slowly, deliberately, your hand moved, fingertips brushing the coarse fabric of her sleeve before sliding beneath it to rest on the warm skin of her forearm. You traced the faded lines of her scars again, your touch lingering on the rough ridges, the memory of pain etched there like a silent history.

Her breath hitched, just barely, and her body tensed for a moment before relaxing under your fingers. You smiled against the quiet, feeling a rush of something tender and fierce all at once.

Her hand moved then, rough and sure, covering yours like a shield. The calluses were thick, worn from years of survival, but the pressure was gentle, protective. For a long time, you just sat like that, hands tangled and breathing slow, sharing a silence deeper than words.

Eventually, her hand slipped away from yours. Not abruptly, nothing with Abby ever was, not when she was being careful. Just a slow withdrawal, like she was reluctant to let the warmth go but knew it was time to move. Her fingers lingered a second longer at your knuckles before she finally stood, her knees creaking faintly as she rose.

You heard the scrape of her boot shifting over loose stone and dirt, then the soft thud of her dropping her pack onto the floor nearby. The heavy clink of gear followed, buckles, straps, a dull jangle of metal against canvas, as she dug through her supplies with efficient, quiet hands. You could picture it perfectly even without sight: the way she always knew exactly where everything was, how her movements never wasted time. Every sound told a story if you listened hard enough.

You leaned back slightly, resting your palms against the floor behind you as you tilted your face toward her presence. “Whatcha doin’?” you asked, voice low.

“Making your bed,” she muttered, a little too casual. “This floor sucks. And your back already sounds like it’s ninety years old.”

You let out a quiet huff through your nose. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s worse,” she said under her breath, clearly trying not to smirk.

There was the soft rustle of fabric unfolding, probably an old tarp or a weathered poncho, something thin but water-resistant. Then, beneath that, a thicker layer shifted, a compact sleeping mat, the kind that folds up tight and fits into a worn canvas backpack. You could hear her fingers tracing the edges, smoothing out creases, tapping gently to knock off dirt and grit.

“Need a hand?” you asked, voice tentative.

She hesitated for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough for you to wonder if she’d say no. Then she exhaled sharply through her nose. “Nah, I got it.”

You frowned, shifting a little. “Seriously, I can help. Feel it out, fold stuff, whatever you want. Just say the word.”

Her hands stilled for a heartbeat, then resumed, slower now, deliberate. You heard her breath deepen, like she was thinking it over.

Finally, softer: “Okay. Reach out, maybe a foot or two in front of you.”

Your hands moved forward, fingertips brushing against the cool, crinkly surface of the tarp first, thin, plastic-coated fabric, stiff but flexible. Below that, the foam mat felt dense and slightly springy, with a textured grid pattern pressing lightly into your skin. You let your fingers follow the lines, folding one corner back carefully, mindful not to crease it too sharply.

Abby stepped close, her boot brushing gently against your shin. “Fold that edge back over, but not too tight. Yeah, just like that.”

You worked slowly, feeling the slight give in the mat, the rough stitching along the seams, and a small frayed spot where the fabric had worn thin.

“Good,” she muttered quietly, the tone almost a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the fragile calm between you. You heard the soft scrape of her boot sliding something closer to you. “Got a rolled-up fleece blanket here.” The blanket was thick but well-worn, the fabric soft but carrying the faint roughness of countless days outside, maybe a little dusty. Her boot nudged it gently near your shoulder. “Use it as a pillow.”

You reached out, fingers curling around the blanket’s edge, feeling the slight fuzziness of the fleece against your skin. It was warm to the touch, a comforting contrast to the cooler ground beneath you.

“And here—” she said, shifting again. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as she slid her jacket beneath your neck. Thick, padded, with the crinkling sound of nylon and the faint scent of sweat and earth clinging to it. “Better support.”

Your hands still rested lightly on the layered groundcover, tracing the folds of the tarp and the contours of the foam mat beneath. You hesitated, then blinked slowly, feeling the cool evening air brushing against your face. “You sure you don’t need it?”

Her voice was steady, a quiet reassurance. “I’ll be fine.”

A faint smile lifted your lips as you settled down more fully, molding your body carefully against the layered bedding. The thin foam mat pressed softly under your weight, its subtle springiness cushioning the ache in your muscles. The blanket against your shoulder was a steady warmth, and the jacket at your neck shaped a gentle cradle.

After everything, the exhaustion, the cold, the dust clinging to your skin, this simple arrangement felt like a small mercy. A fragile promise of rest.

You heard her settle down again, boots scraping lightly as she lowered herself onto the patch of floor just beside your bed. The sound of her adjusting her gear followed, clipping her knife back onto her belt, tugging her collar tighter around her neck. You could feel her presence through the thin air between you. Solid. Unmoving.

A quiet beat passed.

“I’ll keep watch,” she said. Her voice was different now, lower. Steady again. Back to business. “You should sleep.”

You turned your face toward her shadow, even if you couldn’t see it. “You need sleep too.”

There was a pause. “I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that.”

Another pause. Longer. Then a rustle of fabric as she shifted, maybe looking at you, maybe looking away. You couldn’t tell. But the next thing she said landed soft in your chest. “I’ll sleep when you’re safe.”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t answer that. Couldn’t, really. Instead, you let your fingers curl loosely over the jacket, feeling the weight of your body settle deeper into the ground. You listened to the silence for a long time, the creak of wind brushing across the roof, the occasional tick of cooling metal, the subtle rhythm of Abby’s breathing not far from your side.

You closed your eyes. Even in the dark, the shape of her hand still lingered across yours. The memory of warmth. The quiet steadiness. You drifted off before the silence broke.

You’ve always been someone people called holy. Not in passing, never in jest, but in the hushed, reverent way someone might speak of relics or miracles. “She’s one of God’s favorites,” they’d murmur. “A real angel.” You heard it often growing up, usually with a smile behind it, but always with weight. Sometimes it came from mothers at the church picnic, their eyes trailing your ironed blouse and the cross nestled neat against your collarbone. Other times it came from the girls at school, half in awe, half in warning, like if they stepped too close, they’d burst into flames.

Your father is a priest. Not the kind with a mild homily and a handshake at the end of service, no. He booms. When he speaks, the walls of the chapel breathe in and hold. When he raises his voice, it’s scripture and consequence. And your mother matches him in faith. She keeps her hair braided back and never wears jewelry save for her wedding band and a rosary knotted into her apron string. She prays in whispers, hands always damp from cleaning or clasped together. You remember walking in on her once, kneeling in the corner of the kitchen with tears dripping silently off her chin and onto the linoleum, whispering: “Break me, God, if I need breaking.”

You were raised in the image of all that. You learned to kneel before you could run. Learned how to pray with your spine straight and your mouth closed between verses. Your knees are calloused, the skin pale and thin, so much so that sometimes the bone outlines itself faintly beneath the white. You kneel every morning. Every night. Before meals. During storms. When your father comes home with something new to reflect on, you kneel then, too. The floor knows your weight like a second skin.

Your clothes have rules. Button-ups with collars that kiss your throat. Skirts that pass the knees and make sitting something deliberate. Stockings if you must wear them. No jeans. No bare shoulders. You’ve never owned a tank top. Your mother says the flesh tempts, even when you mean nothing by it. She says your body is the cup, but God is what fills it. Never let someone else drink from it before He does.

Your friend group is small. Tidy. You’re allowed to go to youth group, and sometimes, when your father permits, you’ll attend school events. But only with the approved ones. Mostly girls, a few boys. The boys are like softened bread: polite, sweet-eyed, always saying things like “Ma’am” to your mother and opening doors. The girls sometimes ask questions in hushed voices, behind the locked doors of sleepovers hosted at safe homes.

“Do you ever… think about kissing someone?” Maria once asked, her voice thin, more breath than sound. Her fingernail traced the hem of her pajama sleeve. “Like, not in a sinful way. Just. Wondering.”

You didn’t look at her. You were braiding your hair by the mirror, your fingers steady, your posture so upright it could’ve snapped in half. “Only my future husband,” you said.

She smiled nervously. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

And then she rolled onto her side, away from you, and didn’t speak again until morning.

None of them are exactly like you. They wear bracelets sometimes, or show up to chapel with eyeliner on their bottom lids, or hum Taylor Swift songs during quiet hours. They laugh too loud. They whisper about boys. Sometimes they ask what your family is really like, but they never ask twice. They know. Or at least they sense enough not to dig.

Once, one of the boys, Aaron, offered to walk you home after choir. It was snowing, and he gave you his coat without asking. You said “thank you” and handed it back when you reached your door. The porch light was on. You could see your father’s shadow through the curtain, standing.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked automatically, because hospitality is holy.

Aaron blinked. His cheeks were red. “Uh. No, I’m okay. Thanks. Your dad kinda…” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “Never mind.”

He left you there with the coat folded neatly over your arm.

You opened the door.

Your father was waiting. “You let him touch you?”

“No, Father.”

“He gave you his coat.”

“I was cold.”

He stared. The room behind him smelled like incense and candle smoke. Your mother was washing dishes in the background, humming a hymn so quietly it was barely more than a breath.

You placed the coat on the table like it might burn you.

He nodded. “Good girl.”

And that was it. But the next day you knelt longer than usual. Your knees went numb. When you stood, you wobbled. Your mother touched your arm, gently. “Pain is purification, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”

You never have.

And then there was Ellie Williams.

Ellie, with her scribbled-on Converse and pants that never quite looked clean, always with a scuff or some oil-smudge like she’d knelt in a parking lot for fun. Ellie, with her sleeves pushed up to the elbows and pen marks on her wrists. Her hair was a mess. Always. Not messy like effortless movie-girl messy, but frizzy and dry at the ends like she didn’t know what conditioner was for. She had freckles like God had peppered her face out of boredom, and she didn’t cover them up with makeup or even seem to notice them. She’d pull a pencil from behind her ear and use it to scratch her cheek without thinking, then immediately forget where she put it.

And she never shut up. Ever.

“Did you know that when dinosaurs got sick, like really sick, some of them just sat down and waited to die? Like, like they knew. Isn’t that wild?” she’d say, grinning, flipping her pen between her fingers like a drummer. “I mean, imagine just sitting down one day and being like, Yep. That’s it. Lights out. I respect that.”

You’d blink at her. Bite your cheek. Say nothing.

And she’d laugh, not because you were funny, because you never tried to be, but because something about your silence made her flustered. She’d rub the back of her neck, smile all crooked and too wide. “Sorry, I do that thing where I talk and don’t… think. I should probably stop. You’re, like, super quiet. That’s cool. Mysterious. I like that.”

And you’d want to scream.

Because Ellie Williams is everything you are not.

She has one friend. Two, technically, but Jesse doesn’t count. He’s just attached to Dina, who really is her only friend. Dina with the biting sarcasm and the cool-girl earrings and the way she always rolls her eyes when Ellie launches into another paleontology rant. Sometimes you’d see them in the hall, Ellie bouncing beside her like an excited labrador, talking about “this fossil documentary I swear will change your life,” and Dina just going, “Ellie, no one wants to watch that but you.”

And Ellie would grin, shove her hands in her pockets, and say, “That’s fine. I’ll watch it twice and pretend it’s someone else’s first time.”

And your stomach would twist.

Because that girl, that girl, is the one you’re dating. Secretly. Sinfully. Quietly, like it’s a sickness you’re hiding from the Lord Himself. You haven’t told anyone. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t. You still flinch when your phone buzzes with her name. You still delete her texts after reading them. You still go to church the morning after she kisses you and sit there with your mouth shut and your heart knotted and your thighs pressed together, trying not to remember the way she touched your hand under the blanket while you watched a dinosaur movie in her attic.

You still beg for forgiveness when she leaves. Kneeling in your room, face to the floor, whispering “Please cleanse me, God. Please wash this from me.” Like it’s dirt. Like she’s dirt. She isn’t.

But she wears the same hoodie three times a week and makes bad puns about T-rexes and once told you you looked “like a Victorian ghost, but in a cute way,” and you wanted to die and kiss her at the same time.

You don’t even know how it started.

Maybe it was that one time she sat next to you during study hall because every other seat was full, and she dropped her textbook on your foot and said, “Crap! I mean… um.. dang, sorry! Shoot, you probably don’t swear, huh?” And then looked so genuinely panicked about offending you that you almost laughed.

Or maybe it was when you stayed behind in the science lab and she did too, hovering awkwardly at your elbow like she wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. “So, uh… what do you do? Like, for fun?” she asked, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve.

You blinked. “I read. I study.”

She’d nodded slowly. “Right. That tracks. You’ve got, like, book heroine energy. Mysterious and repressed. In a good way.”

You frowned. “Repressed?”

She bit her lip. “Not like, bad. Just. You know. Like a girl who’s secretly into something crazy but never tells anyone. Vampire novels or sword fighting or, I dunno, wrestling.”

You stared. “I’m not into wrestling.”

She smiled. “Yeah. No. I figured.”

And then she’d left, humming something off-key, and you stood there too long staring at the door after it shut.

The first kiss was an accident. At least, you told yourself that.

It was in the park. You were on the swings even though you hated swings, she’d dared you to, and you lost your balance getting off, stumbled forward, and she caught you. And she was laughing, right up until she looked at you, and the laughter sort of dropped into her throat like a swallowed marble.

“You okay?” she’d asked.

And you nodded, but your breath stuttered, and her lips were right there, and her eyes were so green and so confused and then—

You kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed you. You still can’t decide. You pulled away too fast. Your face was burning. She looked stunned. And then she said, quietly: “…That was really nice.”

You left. Just walked away. Didn’t say a word. You threw up in the bathroom when you got home and didn’t eat for two days.

But you saw her again. Of course you did.

She forgave you for running. She always forgives you. She doesn’t ask questions she knows you won’t answer. She just keeps showing up. Sitting beside you in libraries. Brushing her hand against yours. Laughing at her own jokes and smiling at you like she thinks she’s lucky to be near you.

And you hate it. You hate her. You hate yourself. You love her.

You pray harder now. Kneel longer. Recite verses like mantras. You count her freckles in your head when you’re trying to forget her, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds when she leans in too close.

She doesn’t even know she’s flirting. That’s the worst part. When she calls you “angel” in that teasing way, when she taps your foot under the table like she wants you to look at her instead of your notebook, when she says things like, “You make me nervous, you know that?” and then immediately blurts something about pterodactyls to cover it up.

You wish she’d stop. You wish she’d never started. You wish you never had to stop thinking about her.

But you will. You have to. Because girls like you don’t get to want girls like her. Girls like you get married in churches and wear white and smile and keep their sins buried deep and dry.

Girls like you don’t get to dream.

And still—

You do.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’ve been dating for five months now. Not that anyone would know. It doesn’t feel like dating most of the time. It feels like holding your breath underwater, counting seconds, testing how long before your chest caves in. You meet in the woods behind her place, or the storage hallway by the music room where no one ever goes, or the backseat of Jesse’s car when he’s not using it and she’s stolen the keys. You don’t do much. You kiss. Sometimes you talk. Mostly you don’t. She’ll hold your hand and crack some dumb joke and you’ll pretend it didn’t make your stomach lurch.

She touched your breasts once.

It was under your shirt, under your bra, and it lasted maybe two seconds. Her hands were so warm. They trembled like she didn’t know what she was doing, which she probably didn’t. And for one horrifying heartbeat, you liked it. Actually liked it.

You slapped her hand away like it burned. Didn’t say a word. Just pulled your shirt back down, picked up your bag, and left. She texted once. Then twice. Then gave up. You ignored her for a week.

The silence was heavy and deliberate. You fasted. You knelt until your legs shook. You cried into your pillow and asked God to cleanse you of whatever that was, of whatever you are, of whatever she made you feel. You waited for fire to rain down. It didn’t.

She didn’t bring it up again.

You still kiss her though. Softly, sometimes, like prayer. Sometimes more than that. Sometimes it gets too close to something bigger, something deeper, and your whole body goes rigid and she knows to stop. She’s learned your boundaries even if she doesn’t understand them. She never pushes.

But you still beg for mercy every night. Not in church. Never there. You can’t. You’ve thought about it, really, truly thought about kneeling in that wooden booth with the musty velvet curtain and telling the priest everything. But you imagine his silence. Imagine his breath slowing. Imagine him not saying you’re forgiven.

So instead you confess at home.

You wait until midnight, like God might be gentler when the world is quiet. You kneel by your bed, fingers clenched together so hard they go white, and whisper it like it’s a secret even He might flinch at.

“Forgive me. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to enjoy it. I didn’t mean to let her. I didn’t mean to love her.”

Sometimes you cry. Not sobbing. Just little gasps that get stuck in your throat. Like you’re drowning in something that’s not even wet.

You told her once, just once, that you think you’re going to hell. She was sitting beside you, chewing on a Twizzler, feet up on the dashboard of Jesse’s car.

She blinked. “You think you’re going to hell… because of me?”

You stared ahead. “Because of me. For letting it happen.”

She was quiet. Then: “Okay, but like, if we’re both going, can we at least sit next to each other?”

You looked at her. She grinned, stupid and crooked and sweet. And you hated how much that made your chest ache.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

She went to church with you once. That was your idea. You still don’t know why you invited her. Some kind of test, maybe. Some awful, subconscious attempt to prove something. That you could bring her into your world and it would all be okay. That maybe she’d hear the Word and run screaming. That maybe you would, too.

She didn’t have clothes. Not those clothes. So you picked them out yourself. One of your white blouses, buttoned to the throat. A long navy skirt, ironed flat. Tights with no holes. You brushed her hair yourself because you couldn’t stand how it looked when she did it, like she’d used a fork or maybe just her fingers.

She fidgeted while you buttoned her cuffs. “I feel like I’m about to take my fifth grade school picture,” she muttered.

“You look fine,” you said.

She looked at you in the mirror. “I look like I’m about to burst into flames.”

You forced a smile. “Just… sit still.”

And you lied to your father.

You told him she was from church summer camp. Visiting for the week. Her parents were missionaries. You watched his eyes narrow as he shook her hand. She didn’t know how to fake it. Called him sir instead of Father, said yeah instead of yes and smiled too wide.

“Do they do this every week?” she muttered after the second hymn. “My knees are gonna dislocate.”

You elbowed her. She grinned.

She sat through the whole service. Even the sermon, which was about purity. About sin and temptation and “unnatural urges.” You didn’t look at her once. Not when your palms started sweating. Not when your stomach rolled. Not when the priest said the flesh deceives and the Lord knows what lives in the dark corners of the heart.

She was silent beside you.

Afterwards, in the parking lot, she made it to the curb before vomiting behind a bush.

You rushed over. “Ellie—?”

She wiped her mouth, leaned against the tree, and said, “I think the sins just got baptized out of me.”

You stared.

She blinked up at you, then grinned. “Too soon?”

You didn’t want to laugh. But you did. Just a little. Your hand flew to your mouth, but the sound had already escaped. It felt wrong, too bright, like laughing in a funeral home, but she looked so pleased with herself. So you let it happen. Let the laugh stay. Let her think it was okay. Even if you knew it wasn’t. Even if you’d kneel longer than ever that night. Even if you’d stare at your hands and wonder if they’d ever feel clean again.

Because sometimes, when she makes you smile, that feels like the biggest sin of all.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’re back in Ellie’s room again. It’s a small, cluttered space. Posters peeling at the corners, clothes tossed over the chair and a faint smell of old sweat and something floral you can’t place. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the TV, fingers twitching over the controller as some dumb violent game blares out explosions and angry shouts.

You’re on the bed, knees tucked under a thin blanket, absorbed in one of your little books. The ones you hide away because they’re safer than a journal, but more private than any prayer. The words feel heavy tonight, like they’re sinking into your skin and sticking there, making you smaller. The pages smell like old paper and guilt.

Ellie keeps glancing over, biting her lip as if she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. After what feels like forever, the sound of her controller tapping stops. The game goes silent.

You look up just in time to see her crawling onto the bed, knees pressing into the mattress, hands brushing your book aside with a gentle thump. Your book lands open on the floor, pages fluttering.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, eyes wide and sheepish. “Didn’t mean to toss your book like that.”

You say nothing, heart already hammering. She scoots closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “Wanna kiss?”

Her voice is soft, hesitant, but she looks up at you with those earnest eyes, the kind that don’t lie. It’s almost like she’s asking permission but already knows the answer. Like she’s bracing herself, waiting for you to push her away, and daring you not to.

You nod.

She smiles, a little crooked and shy, then leans down. Her lips brush yours. Soft, tentative and unsure at first. But then she presses closer, like she’s pouring all her nervous energy and excitement into that kiss. Her hands find your waist, fingers curling gently.

Ellie straddles you on the bed, her knees pressing against your sides. You feel the weight of her. Solid, warm and real. And for a moment it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. There’s only this small room, this shaky breath between you, this impossible thing that feels both wrong and so achingly right.

When you finally pull back, heart racing, you say, voice barely above a whisper, “My dad… he talked about them again.”

Ellie blinks, frowning. “Who?”

You swallow hard, words tasting like ash. “The monsters. Queers. Gays. Whatever they called it.”

She waits, silent.

“He said… they have to be exorcised. On the spot. If that doesn’t work… they get hanged.”

Your hands clutch the blanket, knuckles white. “Because that’s what they did back in the day. He said it like it was a story, but it’s not. It’s real. It’s his truth.”

Ellie’s fingers trace tiny circles on your arm, slow and steady. “That’s… fucked up.”

You bite your lip, ashamed. “I’m supposed to be holy. To be better. To never want this. But I do. I want you.”

She looks at you, eyes soft but firm. “Then you’re already braver than anyone who talks like that.”

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. The shame, the fear, the love, twisting into one unbearable knot.

Ellie’s voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. “I’m not some monster. And neither are you.”

Her hands squeeze yours. You want to believe her. You want to be free of the chains that bind you in darkness.

But tonight, the weight of his words still hangs heavy, like a noose tightening around your chest. And yet, here you are. With Ellie. Straddling your doubts and fears and sins. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.

Ellie’s lips pressed harder against yours, like she was trying to swallow every sound you could make, every breath you tried to catch. Your heart hammered, too fast and too loud as her fingers tangled clumsily in the hem of your skirt, tugging it up like she was afraid someone might walk in and ruin the moment. You wanted to pull back, to tell her to slow down, but the words tangled in your throat and she had that wild, desperate look in her eyes. Like she was trying to convince herself this was okay, too.

When her fingers brushed the delicate white lace of your panties, you froze. The soft gasp she made against your mouth was almost embarrassing in how raw it was.

“I thought you only wore those big granny panties,” she joked breathlessly, voice low and rough, but the teasing was laced with something softer, something that felt like awe. You wanted to slap her for it. The insult stung, but so did the heat pooling deep inside you. Instead, she laughed quietly, a little breathless, and her mouth found yours again, softer this time, but just as urgent.

Ellie didn’t wait for permission, not in the way most people did. She hovered, breath warm and uneven, eyes searching yours like she was waiting for you to flinch, to pull away, to say no. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. You only gripped the edge of the blanket tighter, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out. And that was enough for her.

She exhaled shakily, then leaned down and let a slow string of spit fall onto the damp lace stretched between your legs. The heat of it landed like a brand. You twitched, half reflex, half instinct, but you didn’t move away. Couldn’t move at all. Not when her lips pressed right against the soaked fabric, kissing through it like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. Her breath was hot, humid, and every slow stroke of her tongue made your thighs clench involuntarily.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed between kisses, her voice cracking like she was trying to hold something in. “I shouldn’t. I mean... I didn’t even ask—” Her lips trailed lower again, mouthing along the seam of your panties, nosing in gently where you were soaked. “Please don’t hate me. I just—God, you’re so beautiful.”

You opened your mouth to speak but all you could do was pant, shaky and too aware of the wetness she was licking through. Her tongue flattened against you, pressing the lace tight to your swollen clit. The friction made you jolt, one hand flying up to your chest where you gripped the small silver cross hanging there, knuckles white.

You didn’t know if you were grounding yourself or begging for forgiveness. Maybe both.

Ellie’s voice broke again, muffled against the fabric. “Tell me to stop if this feels wrong.” She looked up, lips slick, eyes wide and afraid, but never greedy. Never cruel. “I swear, I’ll stop.”

Your answer came out hoarse, nearly inaudible. “Don’t stop.”

She blinked, stunned for a second, like she hadn’t expected you to say it. Then her mouth returned with purpose, licking a long, slow stripe up your center, the lace warm and clinging now from your slick and her spit. She moaned quietly into it, a helpless sound, grinding her own hips softly into the mattress as if the taste of you through the fabric was too much to bear.

“Fuck,” she whispered, exhaling hard against you. “You smell so good. You’re so wet, I can feel it through everything.”

Her hands slipped under your thighs, lifting and pushing them apart a little further. Then her tongue pressed hard against your clit again, this time slow and dragging. You gasped, back arching slightly. The lace only made it worse, better, trapping the slickness against you, making every lick feel twice as intense.

Her hand slid up your side, cautious and reverent, until her palm cupped your breast through your top. She hesitated, then gave a soft squeeze, her thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. The dual sensation, her mouth below and her hand above, made your breath catch in your throat.

“I want to take these off,” she murmured, voice low, face still pressed to the heat between your thighs. “Only if you say yes.”

You nodded too quickly, breathless, voice cracked. “Yes. Please.”

Her fingers hooked into the waistband, dragging the lace down slowly, watching every inch of you like it was sacred. Once they were off, she settled back between your thighs with a look that was almost reverent. Then she licked you for real, no barrier, no hesitation, just slow, firm strokes from base to clit that made your legs shake.

Her arms wrapped around your thighs as if anchoring herself there, her mouth working you open with a kind of trembling hunger that didn’t feel greedy, just desperate. Needy. She moaned into you, lips wet, tongue flicking and curling until your fingers threaded into her hair, holding her there, not guiding, just needing.

“Ellie—” you gasped, hips twitching as she sucked your clit into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it gently before letting go. She looked up, lips shiny, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, voice thick. “Please. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest rose and fell with shallow, shaking breaths. “Just don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

She smiled then, shy, a little broken, but beautiful, and kissed the inside of your thigh. “Not a chance.”

And then she went back to licking you like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

You weren’t sure when you started whispering it. Maybe when her tongue circled your clit just right, when your hips lifted off the bed in slow, involuntary jerks. Maybe it was when your vision started to blur, when the pleasure hit too deep, too holy. But the words came anyway, half-breathed, half-prayed.

“Forgive me… oh God, forgive me…”

Your fingers gripped the cross around your neck like a lifeline, like if you held it tight enough, it would tether you to something pure. But Ellie’s tongue was still moving in slow, deliberate strokes, dragging from your entrance up to your clit and back again, licking like she was savoring every drop.

Ellie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through her mouth. Her grip around your thighs tightened like she needed to hold you there, to keep you from slipping out of her grasp. She pulled back only far enough to murmur, breathless and raw, “Can I use my fingers? Please. I want to feel you.”

You nodded hard, chest heaving. “Yes. Please.”

Your panties were already on the floor, forgotten. Ellie sat up just enough to watch your face as her hand slid between your legs. Her fingers found you easily. Everything slick, everything aching. She teased at your entrance first, rubbing slow circles, then slipping one finger inside with careful pressure.

The stretch made your jaw fall open. You gasped, thighs twitching around her wrist.

“Jesus,” she whispered, eyes locked on the place where her finger disappeared into you. “You’re so tight… fuck, you’re clenching so hard already.”

You whimpered, trying to breathe through it, your hand still fisted around the cross like it might save you. “I-I shouldn’t want this,” you choked. “I’m not—I can’t—”

But she kissed your inner thigh again, lips hot and soft and full of something too tender to be wrong. “You do,” she whispered. “You do want it. It’s okay.”

Then she pushed in deeper, curling her finger slow and sure, her thumb brushing against your clit like a benediction. You cried out, a soft, strangled sound, legs kicking weakly. The shame twisted deeper, but so did the need. You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even slow it down.

Another breathless prayer left your lips. “God, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Ellie pressed a second finger to your entrance, testing. “Can I?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes—yes, please, I want it.”

She slid it in beside the first, your body stretching around her, slick and desperate. The fullness made your eyes roll back. She fucked you slow at first, curling her fingers inside with gentle, precise pressure. Her thumb never left your clit, rubbing slow circles, syncing with every thrust until you were trembling apart under her.

You couldn’t stop the way your hips moved, chasing it. Couldn’t stop the way your voice broke again and again. “Forgive me,” you whispered. “God, forgive me, I can’t stop—”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Ellie said, voice wrecked and sweet. “I want you like this.”

And you let her want you. Your legs shaking, your mouth open on gasped prayers and curses and her name. Her name. You said it like you needed it to survive.

“Ellie, please—”

“I’ve got you,” she breathed, kissing your thigh, your hip, your stomach. “You’re doing so good. Let go for me. Just let go.”

Her fingers fucked you faster, deeper, the rhythm sweet and devastating, wet sounds filling the room as you clenched down hard around her. Her mouth returned to your clit. Licking, sucking and her tongue flicking with just enough pressure to tip you right over.

You came with a sob, body arching, hand fisted tight in her hair, the other still clutching your cross. It was too much, too good, too close to something divine. Your whole body pulsed around her fingers as she fucked you through it, never letting up, her tongue dragging you deeper into it.

When it finally slowed, when your legs fell open and your breath came in broken gasps, Ellie didn’t move right away. She rested her cheek against your thigh, lips brushing your skin like a thank-you. Her fingers slid out slow, your slick coating them, her hand trembling just like yours.

You looked down at her, skin flushed, pupils blown wide, and she looked up like she wasn’t sure if she’d done something wrong or holy.

You didn’t know either. But you reached for her with shaky arms, dragging her up into a kiss. She tasted like you, sweet and raw, and you kissed her like you were still falling, still asking to be saved. “Don’t leave,” you whispered.

Her hand found yours and squeezed “Never.” And for the first time, you stopped apologizing for how much you wanted her.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next morning, the car hummed steadily down the quiet road, the windows rolled up tight against the fading chill of evening. Ellie sat beside you in the backseat, tapping her fingers anxiously against her knee while Joel drove ahead with calm focus. You kept your hands folded tightly in your lap, your thoughts swirling like a storm behind your eyes.

Then, without warning, Ellie’s voice broke the silence. “Hey, Dad,” she said, a hint of pride threading her words, “I ate her out for the first time last night.”

The sentence landed between you like a slap. Your breath caught. Your heart felt like it had suddenly tripled its beat rate, pounding so hard you were certain Joel could hear it, even from the front seat.

Joel’s hand gripped the steering wheel a moment longer, and then, to your utter disbelief, he let out a low, amused chuckle and said without missing a beat, “Good for you, kid.”

You blinked. You were caught somewhere between shock and bafflement. You’d expected anger. Disappointment. A sermon. But Joel just hummed softly to himself and kept driving like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Ellie gave you a sly grin, eyes shining with mischief. She didn’t look at you directly, but the subtle wink she shot your way said everything, this was exactly the kind of rebellion she loved.

You wanted to say something, maybe protest or explain, but the words jammed in your throat. You clenched your fists tight in your lap, the silence stretching out and filling every inch of the car.

When the car pulled up in front of your house, you were shaking. Not from cold, but from the weight of everything, the secrecy, the thrill, the guilt.

You stepped inside and made a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a soft click.

The harsh bathroom light flickered on, unforgiving and clinical. You stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. Your face was pale, eyes wide and haunted.

Slowly, trembling, you peeled off your clothes. Each piece that dropped to the floor felt like shedding another layer of sin.

You turned on the cold water, splashing your face again and again, scrubbing your arms and shoulders with rough soap until your skin burned red, raw from the friction.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling, “forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that slid down your cheeks, mixing with the cold water.

Later that night, you knelt on the hardwood floor of your room, hands folded tightly in prayer. “God,” you begged into the silence, “please have mercy on me. I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared I’m going to lose everything.”

The moonlight filtered softly through your curtains, casting gentle shadows that flickered like spirits dancing on the walls.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you slipped out of your room and quietly made your way to the church. The stone walls towered above you, ancient and sacred. You breathed in the scent of incense and old wood, a bittersweet comfort. Inside the dim confession room, you knelt alone, clutching your rosary, the cold kneeler pressing into your knees.

The door creaked softly, and a voice, calm and steady, greeted you.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a day since my last confession.” You hesitated, then began to pour out everything; the secret relationship, the stolen kisses, the sinful touches.

You confessed the shame that wrapped around your heart like chains, the fear of your father’s judgment, the nights you spent scrubbing yourself raw, begging for mercy.

The priest listened silently, his presence steady and kind. After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and gentle. “You carry a heavy burden, child. But there is no sin too great to be forgiven. But you must learn to forgive yourself as well.”

Tears stung your eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” you whispered.

“Grace is not about never falling,” he said gently. “It is about rising again, each time you stumble.”

You stayed quiet, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a fragile shield.

“Go in peace,” he said finally, “and remember God’s love is wider than any fear or shame.”

You left the confession booth trembling, stepping back into the vast, silent church. Outside, the world felt both impossibly large and suffocatingly small, caught between the person you were and the person you wanted to be.

But somewhere deep inside, a small flicker of hope stirred. Fragile, uncertain, but alive.

When you came back home around 2 hours after your confession, you didn’t even make it past the threshold. The moment the front door creaked open, your father stood in the entryway, his silhouette stark against the hall light behind him. Your mother, pale and silent, stood just a few steps back, clutching her rosary like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.

You’d barely muttered a soft “Hi” when your father’s hand slammed against the doorframe.

“Whore,” he said. Not a whisper. Not a yell. Just a cold, measured word spat like poison from between clenched teeth.

Your heart stopped. “What?” you asked, your voice suddenly small, the syllable catching in your throat.

“You think you can go crawling into bed with a girl—” he hissed the word like it burned his tongue, “—a dyke, and walk back into this house like nothing happened? Like we’re fools?”

Your mother looked away. She didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. She just gripped her rosary tighter until her knuckles turned white.

You tried to speak, tried to form the word no, or maybe I’m sorry, or maybe just please, but you didn’t get the chance. Your father’s hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you hard enough to make your knees buckle. Your shoes scuffed against the tile floor as he dragged you forward.

“Please,” you said breathlessly, stumbling after him, “I—Dad, please—”

“Don’t call me that,” he barked, spinning on you so fast you nearly crashed into him.

They didn’t let you go upstairs. Didn’t let you sit down. Didn’t let you breathe. You were shoved into the car. Not a word spoken on the drive. Your father’s hands white-knuckled around the wheel. Your mother quietly reciting a prayer under her breath. The same prayer she used when someone died.

The church was open when you arrived. Of course it was. The sanctuary glowed dimly with candlelight, the pews empty, cold, waiting. You knew then that this had been planned.

Your footsteps echoed loudly as they pulled you down the aisle, past the altar, past the statue of the Virgin Mary whose eyes seemed to follow you like she knew what you had done. You were taken into the back, the air thick with incense and something else. Oil, you realized. You could smell it. Holy water. Salt. Burnt herbs. A room with a wooden table and a white cloth spread out like something from a hospital. But it wasn’t mercy they had in store for you.

“Get on your knees,” your father ordered.

You obeyed.

He began the prayers. The priest stepped forward a few minutes later, his voice smooth and familiar. You looked up, only once, and felt your stomach drop. It was him. The one you had confessed to just this morning. The one whose voice had seemed kind behind that curtain.

“Do not look at me,” he said.

You stared back down at the floor.

The prayers began slowly. Latin. Holy water flicked over your face. Salt rubbed along your skin. Your mother clutching a crucifix and whispering tearfully, “She doesn’t mean it, Lord, she doesn’t mean it.”

And then the real part began. The shame. The pain.

The priest’s voice hardened. Words like demon, perversion, unclean, unnatural spat out between sacred verses. At one point they forced your mouth open to drip oil on your tongue, said it would cleanse the filth, make you pure again. You gagged. Coughed. Your chest heaving, eyes tearing.

The oil burned your throat.

Your wrists were held down when you tried to get up. Your father’s hands tight around your arms. Not bruising. But close.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please stop—please, I’ll change, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

“You lied in the house of the Lord,” the priest snarled. “You let that girl touch you, defile you. You brought evil into your soul willingly.”

He knew everything. Every detail. Every touch. Every word you had whispered through tears in the confessional, believing you were safe. You had trusted him.

And he’d gone straight to your father.

You cried until your body shook. You whispered sorry a hundred times. You clawed at your own skin, your arms, your thighs, like you could dig the sin out with your nails. You wanted it gone. You wanted to be clean.

Your father finally let go. You collapsed onto the church floor, chest heaving, salt stinging your eyes.

“Don’t let her back into the house,” the priest said coldly. “Not until she’s ready to truly repent.”

And your father, your father, nodded.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You hadn’t answered a single one of ellie’s messages. Not the “hey,” not the “are you mad at me,” not even the dumb meme she sent around midnight of some T-rex in sunglasses holding a Bible.

You sat in homeroom with your hands folded neatly on your desk, spine rigid, jaw clenched so tightly you were starting to taste blood. You didn’t look at her. Not once. Not when she passed you in the hall. Not when she slowed beside your locker like she wanted to say something but didn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t know what would happen if you did. Maybe you'd cry. Maybe you'd scream. Maybe you’d beg her to erase the memory of her mouth on your body, of your own voice moaning in a stranger’s house, in sin.

Ellie didn’t push. Not right away. She gave you the space you clearly wanted. She didn’t even try to sit next to you at lunch.

But you caught her looking.

Every time you dropped your gaze. You couldn’t hold her eyes without feeling the sting of oil burning your tongue again.

By last period, she snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just, Ellie. Quiet, clumsy, sincere. The way she always was.

She caught you by the side entrance, between the gym building and the old boiler room no one ever used. A blind spot. No one ever came back here. You froze when you heard her footsteps, but didn’t run.

“Hey,” she said, hands stuffed into her hoodie, thumb nervously flicking at a frayed seam near the cuff. “You’re, uh, ignoring me?”

You said nothing.

“I figured you’d be pissed,” she said, trying for lightness. “’Cause of the, you know… sex thing. I know I was kinda forward. I was kinda expecting the silent treatment, but—”

You choked. Literally choked on your own breath. She stopped talking.

You covered your face with your hands, but the sob came out anyway. Wretched and wet and humiliating. You turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m—I didn’t mean to ignore you, I just—”

“Woah, woah,” she stepped closer, alarm spreading over her face, “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, look at me. Hey, what happened?”

You turned to her. Your voice cracked around the words. “My father knows.”

Her expression shifted in a second, something like fear, or guilt, or realization flickered in her eyes. She stepped even closer, instinctively reaching out but stopping short of touching you. “How?”

You shook your head, tears spilling now, hot and angry. “The priest. The one I—I confessed to. He recognized my voice. He told my dad everything.”

Ellie blinked. Her mouth fell open like she wanted to speak, but nothing came.

“They did—” You looked away, voice strangled. “They did something to me last night. Said it was an exorcism. Said I had to get the demon out.”

Ellie’s face went slack.

“They held me down, Ellie,” you whispered. “They poured oil in my mouth, they shoved salt in my skin. My own father told me I was possessed. He said I’m not welcome back in my own house until I stop loving you.”

Ellie’s breath caught. Her mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again. “Jesus.”

She reached for you again and this time you let her. Her hands cupped your face, thumbs wiping at the salt-streaks across your cheeks. Her voice trembled. “You should’ve called me.”

“I couldn’t.”

She pulled you forward and you collapsed into her like a dying thing. Your head against her shoulder, her hoodie damp from your tears, her hand stroking the back of your neck without thinking. You could feel her trembling too.

“I thought I could make it right,” you whispered. “I prayed so hard. I said sorry so many times. But nothing, nothing, fixed it.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, softly: “Come home with me.”

You pulled back. “I can’t skip school, I—”

“Fuck school.”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even loud. It was just… final. “Come home with me.”

So you did.

You didn’t even hesitate. You let her take your hand and lead you around the back of the school building, through the side lot where no one would see, all the way down the street to where Joel’s truck was parked out front of their small house with the dented mailbox and the dog who barked at every goddamn thing that moved.

Joel wasn’t home for at least another three hours.

Ellie shut the door behind you gently, like she knew you were still too fragile to hear anything loud. Then she tugged off her hoodie and tossed it on the couch, motioning for you to sit.

You stood. “Do you think I’m sick?” you asked, voice barely audible. “Do you think they’re right about me?”

Ellie walked toward you, slow and careful, and looked you right in the eye. “No,” she said. “I think they’re sick. And I think if God’s real, he’s crying seeing what they did to you.”

You couldn’t help it. Your knees gave out.

She caught you before you hit the floor, arms around your waist, forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t care if we never have sex again,” she whispered. “I don’t care if you never wanna kiss me again. I just wanna be next to you. I wanna make you feel safe. You deserve that.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just leaned into her, skin still raw, heart still burning, but held. Finally held.

“C’mon,” she whispered, touching your wrist so lightly it felt more like a suggestion than a grip. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You followed.

The hallway light flickered behind you as she led the way, steps creaking up the old wooden stairs, her hand trailing back once in a while to touch yours, to make sure you were still there. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was heavy, but not suffocating. Not like home.

Her room smelled like clean sheets and faint weed smoke and something warm and sharp that was just… her. The fan in the corner ticked quietly, pushing humid air in lazy circles, and a pile of laundry sat forgotten in a chair, half-folded. She hadn’t expected company, clearly. But it didn’t matter. It was safe. It was hers.

You stood there, stiff, arms folded around yourself like armor, and she reached for you slowly. Palms open. No pressure. Just an invitation.

You stepped into her.

And she wrapped her arms around you like she’d been waiting to. Not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you. I’m here.

You melted into her without a word. Let her guide you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and she pulled you down with her, curling around you in that soft, yellow-lit cocoon of her room. The ceiling fan clicked above you, the curtains drawn tight against the world. And her arms came around your waist like a blanket, like a prayer.

You buried your face into her neck, your skin still humming from earlier, your chest still tight from home.

She hadn’t said anything in ten, maybe twenty minutes now. Just kept kissing your hair, one hand stroking the back of your head and the other wrapped protectively around your waist, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt in slow, quiet rhythms.

You couldn’t stop whispering. Couldn’t stop the soft, wet prayers that trembled out of you like blood. You didn’t even know who you were praying to anymore. Not really. Not after the way the cross around your neck had felt like it was burning. But you whispered anyway. Mouth trembling. Eyes shut. Repeating all the words you’d been taught to say since you were small, even if they didn’t hold meaning anymore. Even if they’d never held mercy.

“Forgive me,” you murmured again. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to be—”

Ellie didn’t interrupt. She didn’t shush you. Just held you tighter and pressed her mouth to your hair again and again, as if kissing could stitch something broken back together.

Her voice was so soft when she finally spoke. “You don’t have to say sorry for existing.”

That made you cry harder. Silently. Bitterly. The kind of cry that left your lungs shaking and your mouth clamped shut so tightly your jaw throbbed.

It was maybe ten minutes later when your fingers gripped the hem of her shirt.

You didn’t think about it. You weren’t even sure why you said it, just that it burst out of you with desperate heat, your voice hoarse and cracked and pleading: “Ellie. Please. Please fuck me.”

Her body stilled instantly. You felt it, how her breath hitched, how her hands froze against your back.

You lifted your head to look at her. Eyes swollen. Mouth raw. “I want to,” you whispered. “I want you to do it.”

Ellie stared at you like she didn’t know who you were for a second. Not because she was disgusted. Not because she didn’t want it. But because you’d never, ever, spoken to her like that. Your words were too deliberate, too raw, too broken. Your voice shook too much to sound flirtatious, and your eyes were too wet to mean it the way she knew you thought you did.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then finally said: “No.”

You blinked, dazed.

“No?” you echoed. “Why?”

“Because you’re not okay,” she said gently. “You think you want it, but this—” she motioned vaguely between you both, to your tear-drenched cheeks and trembling fingers “—this isn’t the part of you that wants me. It’s the part of you that’s hurting.”

You looked down. Embarrassed. Angry, maybe. But more than that, ashamed.

Ellie reached for your face and cupped it again with both hands, forcing you to look at her. “I want you,” she said, voice low and shaking. “You have no idea how much I want you. But not like this. Not when you’re gonna hate yourself for it after. Not when you’re still whispering prayers into my fucking shirt.”

A hiccuping sound escaped you. Something between a laugh and a sob. “Why are you always right?” you whispered.

Her forehead bumped yours. “Because you’re not.”

You both smiled, just for a second. Just barely. A thin little thread of something warm, even in the ache.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I know.”

“I think I ruined my whole life.”

“You didn’t.”

You looked away, tears brimming again. “You don’t know that.”

“I know I’m still here,” she said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried yourself in her arms again, dizzy and ashamed and safe.

And Ellie held you, quiet and close and warm, until your whispering stopped. Until your heartbeat slowed. Until you could breathe again.

The next morning you didn’t say much during the car ride back to your house. Ellie was curled beside you in the backseat, her arm lazily draped across your shoulders, her hoodie swallowing most of her body, the smell of her shampoo comforting in a way that made your eyes sting. Joel didn’t ask anything, didn’t make any comments. Just hummed quietly along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel. He gave you a small nod as you got out, his gaze warm but unreadable, like he knew more than he was letting on.

Inside, your house was too quiet. You could feel it before you even stepped through the front door.

Not the kind of quiet that meant peace, but a silence that crouched in every corner, tense and waiting.

Your mother sat at the kitchen table, thumbing a rosary bead by bead. She didn’t look up. Your father was already in the living room, Bible open in his lap, murmuring something about “the demons not releasing fully” and “evil lingering in the air.”

They didn’t ask where you’d been. Didn’t raise their voices or press you with questions. That made it worse. The stillness. The calm that wasn’t calm at all.

You smiled when they spoke to you, bowed your head when you passed them. You cleaned the plates after dinner even though no one asked. Said “yes, sir” and “thank you, ma’am” and didn’t let your hands shake too much when your father rested his palm on your shoulder and said, “I scheduled you to meet with Pastor Elijah again this week. He’s found a young man who’s just returned from mission work. A real good influence, I think.”

You nodded. You even smiled. It hurt like something ripping.

Upstairs, your room was too tidy. You made your bed twice. Rearranged your bookshelf alphabetically. Scrubbed under your fingernails and checked the crucifix over your door to make sure it hadn’t tilted.

You were shaking. But not from fear. From how calm you felt.

The night folded in on itself. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak.

You knelt one final time, right beside the bed. Your knees found the spot they always did, soft in the carpet from years of prayer, and your hands folded automatically, trembling as you whispered your apology to God. Again. And again. And again.

When you rose, you sat at your desk. Opened your drawer and pulled out the nicest paper you owned. You didn’t rush. You took your time. Chose a pen that wouldn’t bleed through. Drew the little margins just like you’d been taught in school, and began to write.

Not fast. Not panicked. Just steady. Just quiet. Just careful. The room was too silent for anything else. And you kept writing.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You didn’t show up to school the next day.

You didn’t wait for Ellie like you always did, leaning against your locker with that quiet, half-sleepy smile and your hair still a little damp from your rushed morning shower. You didn’t wave when you saw her coming down the hall. You weren’t there at all.

And for once, the silence hit harder than anything else.

Ellie sat alone at her locker, her foot tapping restlessly against the tile, twisting her phone in her hands. She kept looking up, every few seconds, hoping to see you turn the corner, late but grinning, maybe mouthing “don’t ask” about some dumb excuse. But the hallway kept emptying out. First period was about to start. The bell rang. Still no sign of you.

She swallowed the rising tightness in her chest. Her thumb hovered over her screen again, nerves buzzing like static under her skin. She still hadn’t gotten a reply. And she kept rereading the last thing she’d sent. It was from early that morning.

“Good morning. i had a dream about you and now i’m mad you’re not here to finish it >:( please wear that dumb shirt i like. i’ll make fun of it but also stare at your tits the whole time. also ur coming over after, no excuses x”

It had been flirty, soft. Normal. She’d woken up smiling when she wrote it. But now? Now she just stared at that message, the little “delivered” tag mocking her. No response. No “typing…” bubble. Just silence.

Something wasn’t right. Ellie bit the inside of her cheek. Her knee bounced. She tried to brush it off, tried to tell herself maybe you were sick, maybe your phone died, but deep down, her gut twisted hard. This didn’t feel like nothing.

Finally, after hesitating too long, she typed another message.

“Hey… where are you? Didn’t see you this morning.”

No reply.

First period ended, and Ellie’s nerves spiked. Her stomach churned as she lingered by the lockers, phone clutched in her hand like it might suddenly light up with everything she needed to hear. She glanced down again, thumb hovering, then finally typed another message, her fingers trembling as she hit send.

“Okay, you’re not here. This isn’t like you. Are you okay?”

Still nothing.

Second period started, and Ellie’s heart felt heavier with every passing minute. She glanced at the classroom doorway, half expecting you to walk through. But you didn’t. The hallway was full of other students, but none of them were you. None of them were the person she cared about most.

Her texts began to pour out, a flood of worry and confusion.

“Please reply. I’m really worried.”

“Did something happen? Did I do something wrong?”

“If you’re upset or angry, please just tell me. I can handle it. Just don’t leave me in the dark.”

“I’m at school. Waiting for you. Please say something.”

Her voice, usually light and teasing, was gone, replaced by something raw and fragile.

She swallowed hard, blinking away tears that threatened to fall, then sent another desperate message.

“If you’re ignoring me, I’ll understand… but please don’t make me worry like this.”

The bell for third period rang, but Ellie barely noticed. The cafeteria, the noise, the people, it all blurred around her. She was consumed by the gnawing ache of your absence.

Her phone buzzed once more, this time, a message from a friend asking if she was okay. She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, waiting for a sign from you.

Finally, with trembling fingers, she typed again.

“Please. I just want to know you’re safe.”

The day stretched on, each moment heavier than the last. Homeroom started like any other day, but the atmosphere quickly shifted. The classroom door swung open, and the teacher stepped in, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his usual composed demeanor shattered. His eyes darted around, avoiding contact. He cleared his throat, voice trembling as he spoke.

“Class… I have some very difficult news,” he said, struggling to keep steady. “Last night… one of your classmates… she hung herself.”

The words hit the room like a storm. A suffocating silence fell over the students. A few gasps, whispered prayers, and then it clicked. It was you. You.

Ellie’s world tilted and then crumbled. Her breath caught in her throat, chest tightening unbearably. She barely registered the chaos around her, only the raw, unbearable truth that you were gone. She felt her knees weaken, eyes blurring with tears. Dina was immediately by her side, wrapping strong arms around Ellie, shielding her from the shock that threatened to consume her completely.

“Ellie, breathe. I’m here,” Dina whispered, holding her close as her whole body shook.

The teacher’s voice cut through the haze. “Ellie, the principal needs to see you. It’s about… about a letter she left.”

With trembling hands, Ellie followed, every step feeling heavier, like walking underwater. At the principal’s office, the stern-faced principal handed her a thick envelope sealed with your neat handwriting.

“The police found these,” the principal said quietly, “Three letters in total. One addressed to her mother, one to her father, and… one for you.”

Ellie’s fingers trembled as she broke the seal. She pulled out the letter, hands shaking so badly she almost dropped it.

Her eyes scanned the words, and the tears fell uncontrollably as she read:

My dearest Ellie,

If you're holding this letter in your hands, then I’ve already gone where I hope there is no more fire. No more trembling. No more nights where I lie awake begging the heavens to make me whole. I’m sorry. I don’t even know where to begin, how to explain what this weight has done to me. All I know is that I tried, Ellie. I really tried. I prayed until my knees went numb, until my voice cracked and the salt from my tears soaked through my pillow and burned my skin.

But nothing came. No answer. No mercy. Just silence. And shame.

I want you to know, with every ounce of love that’s ever lived in me, that this was never your fault. You weren’t the reason I broke. You were the only reason I ever felt unbroken at all. You were my safe place, my breath of air after hours underwater. I think maybe you were the only truly holy thing I ever touched in this life.

But the world around us… it wasn’t kind. My parents looked at me like I was already halfway to Hell, and I started to believe them. I started to believe I was something that needed to be cleansed, fixed, sacrificed. They wrapped their love in fear and called it God. And I followed them, hoping that if I tried hard enough, if I just hurt enough, He’d see I was serious about being saved.

But I was so tired, Ellie. So unbelievably tired. Of the guilt. The fear. Of waking up every morning knowing that to survive meant lying to everyone, even to myself. I was tired of looking at the girl I loved and feeling like the whole sky would fall down on me if anyone knew. Tired of praying to be made different, to be washed clean, when the love I felt with you was the only thing in my life that ever felt clean.

I didn't want to be forced into that life they kept carving out for me. A life with a boy I didn’t love, a wedding dress I’d feel like a ghost inside, a family built on a foundation I couldn’t survive. I didn’t want to lie anymore. Not to God, not to them, not to you.

And I especially didn’t want to live in a world without you in it.

Ellie, I hope you remember how your laugh used to bounce off the walls when we watched those dumb cartoons. I hope you remember how you’d tap your fingers when you were nervous, and how I used to cover your hand with mine to steady you. I hope you remember the first time we kissed, how afraid I was, and how you just looked at me like I was the whole sky. Like I was something to be loved. I never felt closer to heaven than I did in that moment.

But heaven still felt locked to me. Closed. Like no matter how hard I knocked, I was too dirty to be let in.

Do you think He’ll let me in now? I don’t know. I hope He’s more merciful than His followers. I hope He sees that I only wanted to be good. That I only wanted to be loved without having to bleed for it.

They always said God is love, didn’t they? Then why did love feel like a curse in me? Why did it hurt so much to hold your hand, to dream of a life with you, to imagine growing old beside you in a world where we didn’t have to hide? I loved you with a heart that never stopped begging to be accepted, Ellie. And when it wasn’t, I just couldn’t keep walking around in a body that felt more like punishment than promise.

I hope someday you’ll forgive me. I hope you’ll laugh again. I hope you’ll fall in love again, and I hope that love is loud and shameless and full of sunlight. I hope no one ever makes you feel like you have to earn your place on this earth. I hope you tell stories about us when you're ready. I hope you feel me with you when the stars come out and you find yourself still looking for me in the quiet.

Please live, Ellie. Live fiercely. Live with both hands open and your heart unhidden. I wasn’t strong enough. But you are. You always were.

And if there's a heaven, I’ll be waiting. Watching over you. Praying that somehow, somewhere, God lets me hold your hand again.

I love you. In this life, and whatever comes after.

Forever,

Me

Ellie’s sobs exploded, raw and desperate. The walls of the principal’s office seemed to close in, the weight of your pain crushing her spirit. She collapsed into a heap on the floor, clutching the letter like it was the last piece of you left in the world.

Joel, was quickly called to come pick his daughter up. He arrived quickly, worry etched into every line on his face. Without a word, he wrapped Ellie in a firm embrace, letting her cry into his chest as the world around them shattered.

Ellie didn’t set foot in school for weeks after. Joel had been surprisingly understanding. He knew how raw everything was for her, how impossible it felt to face those halls without you there. She barely left her room, hardly answered her phone, and the world felt like a dull, hollow place without you in it.

When the funeral was announced, Ellie had been ready. She had saved every penny she had, bought a suit that wasn’t perfect, but was decent enough. A black jacket, a crisp white shirt, the kind of thing she never imagined needing. She wanted to be there for you, to say goodbye one last time.

But your parents forbade it. “It’s not appropriate,” they said coldly, their eyes hard as stone. “She’s not family. This isn’t her place.” Ellie had begged, pleaded, even sent a note she never got a chance to read aloud. They shut the door on her, and the weight of that rejection shattered something inside her. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to your funeral, not knowing you were lying there, gone forever, while she was kept outside.

For months, Ellie avoided your cemetery like it was poison. Every time she thought of going, panic would coil in her stomach. She imagined your parents seeing her, judging her again, pushing her away. So she stayed away, the silence growing louder in her chest.

Then, one gray, chilly morning a couple months later, Ellie finally showed up.

She didn’t bring flowers. She didn’t have anything shiny or perfect. Instead, in her hands was a worn copy of that stupid PG-13 movie you’d been too scared to watch, the one you’d finally braved with her, half laughing, half hiding behind your hands as the cheesy love scenes played out.

She stood by your grave, eyes scanning the simple stone etched with your name. The wind tangled her hair, and for a long moment, she just stood there, the DVD case pressed tight against her chest.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice shaky, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I wanted to come earlier but... I was scared, okay? Your parents didn’t want me there. I guess I get it, but it still fucking hurts.” She took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that slipped down her cheek.

“I miss you so much. I’ve been trying to keep going, but it feels like a part of me went with you. I wish… I wish you could’ve run away with me. Just left it all behind, you and me, somewhere far from all this. But you’re not here, and I’m stuck with all this.” She crouched down, her fingers brushing the cool stone. “I’ve been talking to you every day. Like you can hear me.”

Her voice broke as she started telling you about everything she’d been through since you left. The nights she cried herself to sleep, the little victories she held onto, the way people didn’t laugh at her anymore. Hours passed unnoticed, the sun dipping low, the sky bleeding orange and purple. She didn’t want to leave, but the cold was creeping in, and the cemetery was quiet except for her soft voice.

When she came back the next time, the DVD was gone, probably taken by your parents, who maybe didn’t want you remembered like that. Ellie fell to her knees in front of your grave, the emptiness heavier now without that small piece of you. For almost an hour, she sobbed, letting the grief pour out until she had no tears left.

Then, wiping her face on her sleeve, she whispered again, “I’m still here, you know? I’m still trying to be brave. For you. For us.”

Her voice cracked but carried the fierce determination you’d always seen in her, the kind of stubborn love that refuses to fade.

“I love you, always.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Slowly, like the first fragile shoots of spring breaking through frozen earth, Ellie began to find her footing again. The world, once a dark and endless void without you, started to hold moments of light. Small and hesitant, but real. She kept talking to you, always, but the sharp edges of pain softened into a quiet tenderness, a bittersweet memory she could carry without being crushed by it.

One afternoon, months after her long visits to your grave had become less frequent but no less sacred, Ellie sat beside your grave and whispered, “Guess what? I got accepted into the college I wanted.”

Her voice trembled with the kind of hope that had once felt impossible to feel. She laughed softly, “You’d be proud. I’m going to do this. Live, learn, maybe even be happy.”

Then came another surprise. Ellie found love again. Not the reckless, desperate kind she’d clung to before, but something steady and kind. Her girlfriend understood the piece of you that Ellie carried deep inside her heart, the part that never faded or fully healed. Instead of jealousy, there was respect, an unspoken promise that you would always be a part of their lives.

When her girlfriend found out she was pregnant, the joy in Ellie’s eyes was like sunlight piercing through clouds. They decided to name their child after you. A way to keep your memory alive, to weave your name and spirit into the future. It wasn’t about obsession anymore; it was about honoring a love that shaped them, that refused to be erased.

Years passed. When the child was old enough to understand, Ellie took her hand and led her to your grave. She knelt down, brushing dirt from the stone as she spoke softly, telling stories of you. Your laughter, your kindness, your quiet strength. She made sure your story lived on, in gentle words and loving memories, a legacy of grace and heartbreak and unbreakable love.

“Here’s someone who loves you too,” Ellie would say, her voice thick with emotion. “She carries your name, your light. We won’t let her story end, not really.”

And in that sacred space, beneath open skies and whispered prayers, the past and present mingled, a bittersweet harmony of loss and hope, pain and healing, a love that transcended even the deepest darkness.

Dina paced back and forth across the cramped living room, the worn wooden floor creaking softly beneath her boots. Her fingers twitched, clutching her phone with a desperate grip that made the screen almost crack. “I shouldn’t have—” she started again, voice shaking, eyes darting around like she was searching for answers in the peeling wallpaper. “I shouldn’t have broken up with him. Jesse would’ve been here. He would’ve been here with us, with you. With everyone.”

Her voice cracked, raw with regret and a strange kind of longing that made your chest tighten painfully. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and let out a bitter laugh, bitter enough to sting.

Ellie sat cross-legged on the threadbare couch, her eyes soft but tired. She had been trying to comfort Joel, who sat opposite her, his jaw clenched tight, hands folded on his lap as if willing himself into silence.

Joel grunted low in the back of his throat, not really joining the conversation but clearly present. “Tommy… he’d have handled this better,” he muttered, voice rough and fatherly. “We all got our ways, but that guy... he didn’t shy away.”

Ellie nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes flicking between Joel and Dina. “Yeah, I get that. But right now, we gotta focus on getting through this. Together.”

Joel just grumbled in response, shaking his head like some invisible weight was pinning him down. He wasn’t the type to say much, especially about feelings, but Ellie knew him well enough to see the pain in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Dina’s pacing grew frantic. She was circling the room again, phone now clutched in both hands like a lifeline. “I’m gonna call him again.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but urgent.

You watched as she fumbled with the phone, fingers dialing Jesse’s number again and again. No answer.

“Maybe he’s busy,” you offered softly, trying to keep the tension out of your voice.

Dina stopped pacing for a moment, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. “Busy? He’s always busy when it matters. But if he cared...” Her voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished but heavy with accusation.

Ellie stood and moved over to Dina, laying a steady hand on her shoulder. “Hey, hey. We’re all trying here.”

Joel shifted in his chair and grunted, “Let him be. People gotta figure their shit out on their own.”

Dina’s eyes flashed, frustration bubbling over. “Yeah, well, maybe if he answered, he could help figure some of this shit out.”

Ellie swallowed, glancing at you. The silence stretched until the old, battered mailbox outside creaked open with a loud clank. A newspaper thudded against the floorboards near the door.

You moved over and picked it up, squinting at the headlines. The letters were huge and bold: PARTYGOERS, IT’S THE PERFECT WEATHER FOR A PARTY!

“What the hell...” you muttered, flipping it over slowly, before turning it back once again. The headline changed abruptly to a chaotic police chase with blurry images of speeding cars.

“Party,” Dina whispered, voice breaking. “That bastard. Jesse’s at a fucking party.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. “Figures. Like he’s got nothing to worry about.”

Joel snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “Never cared much for parties anyway.”

Dina called Jesse again, but only got to his voicemail. God why is this man so stupid?!

Ellie pulled out her phone too, fingers flying as she sent messages. “I’m texting him again. Maybe if enough of us reach out...”

Joel grunted. “I already tried. No use.”

You pulled out your phone, calling Jesse one last time, heart pounding in your chest. No answer. No voicemail. It was like he’d disappeared.

Dina’s frustration turned darker. “I even sent him a—” she swallowed, cheeks flushing, “a sext. Just... something to get his attention. To make him come back.”

Ellie’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t say anything. She knew desperation when she saw it.

Joel gave a low, humorless chuckle. “You kids are something else.”

You looked at all of them, the tension thick in the air, the quiet desperation hanging like smoke. Jesse was out there, unreachable, and the whole house felt like it was waiting on a ticking clock that no one dared to look at.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The room was hazy, thick with smoke and laughter, the bass thumping low through the floorboards. Jesse slumped against the doorway of the crowded bedroom, sweat slick on his skin, his breath uneven. He had just finished fucking some girl, he didn’t even remember her name, and his limbs felt heavy, drained from the rush and the afterglow.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again. He pulled it out reluctantly. Dina. Ellie. Joel. Each name burned a little in his chest. The texts from Dina caught his eye first, the way she was practically begging. The ones from Ellie and Joel, all attempts to reach him, to pull him back.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button, but didn’t type. Not yet. Not now.

Maybe later.

With a slow, lazy breath, he pushed himself off the doorframe and shuffled downstairs, searching for his next escape. Maybe another girl. Maybe just the quiet hum of the kitchen and a smoke. As he passed the kitchen counter, something caught his bleary gaze, the blender. It was already leaking, a slow drip of some dark liquid pooling around its cracked base. The whole place was a mess, like a hurricane had passed through. Empty bottles, sticky spills, and half-eaten food littered the counters.

Jesse’s half-drunk, stoned brain latched onto the leaking blender. “Gotta clean that up...” he muttered to himself, the words slurring slightly. He reached out, elbowing the knife block without looking. A sharp clang echoed through the kitchen as a knife dropped blade-first into the sink.

Shit.

He glanced down quickly, panic flickering for a second. The sink was clogged, water pooled dangerously close to the edge.

Jesse stretched for a dish towel on the counter, fumbling as his wrist caught in the blender’s power cord. It wound tight around his wrist like a snake, but he was too distracted to notice. Behind him, the party’s chaos continued, a blur of bodies and voices. Someone bumped into the switch on the blender.

With a sudden, violent roar, the blender kicked on. The cord yanked tight, dragging Jesse forward. His arms flailed uselessly as he stumbled face-first into the sharp corner of the counter.

Pain exploded in his skull, sharp, blinding, then dull and spreading. His body went limp for a heartbeat before slumping forward, his face landing directly inside the sink just as the disposal was switched on with a mechanical grind.

The knife clattered against the spinning blades, jamming momentarily. Then with a violent snap, it flung upward, its point piercing the base of Jesse’s skull.

The party stopped instantly. Screams pierced the chaos as people rushed forward, someone yelling for an ambulance. The police arrived within minutes, sirens screaming down the street. The house was evacuated, the buzzing music replaced by flashing lights and harsh voices.

Within the hour, videos from guests’ phones spread like wildfire. Clips of the blender chaos, the panicked faces, the paramedics rushing Jesse into the ambulance.

The headlines screamed in the early morning light, the internet buzzing with the grim details: “Party Ends in Tragedy: Fatal Kitchen Accident Claims Life”.

Everyone knew what had happened. Everyone would be talking about it for weeks.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The house was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, not the soft kind that made you feel safe. This was silence hollowed out by grief, filled with the static hum of dread. The only sound was Dina, sobbing on the living room couch, knees tucked to her chest like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

The video had been circulating for hours before someone sent it to her.

You hadn’t seen it yet. You didn’t want to. The screams were still playing on loop from the other room, muted behind Dina’s phone. The flashes of red and blue police lights, the glitching image of Jesse’s body slumped over the sink, blood soaking the counters like someone had spilled wine all over the tiles. That horrible metal grinding sound. And then, just pieces. Pieces of Jesse.

You didn’t need to see it to know what it was.

Dina shattered.

Tears streamed down her face in frantic, uneven bursts as if her body couldn’t keep up with the pain. Her shoulders shook. She kept whispering his name over and over again, like maybe saying it would undo it, like maybe there was still time.

“Jesse…” she choked, wiping her face with trembling hands. “Why didn’t he answer? I texted him—he saw them. I know he saw them. I knew something was wrong and he just… he didn’t listen—”

Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands again, full sobs shaking through her chest.

Ellie was at her side in seconds, crouching in front of her, voice soft but firm. “Hey. Hey, c’mere.”
She reached out, rubbing her palms along Dina’s shins, grounding her. “It’s not your fault. Okay? I know it feels like it is, but it’s not. It’s not on you.”

Dina didn’t respond, just leaned forward until her forehead touched Ellie’s shoulder and clung to her like a lifeline.

You stood awkwardly by the hallway, arms crossed, fingers digging into your own sleeves. You wanted to help. You just didn’t know how. You didn’t even know where to begin. Jesse was dead.

Everything was unraveling.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Joel had left a couple minutes after the video got out. After Dina broke down and Ellie didn’t know if she should comfort her dad, Dina or you.

After everything with Jesse, the videos, the screaming, Dina falling apart in the living room like she’d been split down the middle, it was like something inside Joel finally cracked.

He’d stood stiffly in the hallway, watching Dina sob with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping in his cheeks. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. The weight in his silence was heavier than any words could’ve been.

Then he left.

At first, Ellie tried to stop him.

“Dad, please,” she’d said, stepping in front of the door as he reached for his jacket. “Can you just—just wait a little longer? You can’t go right now. Not with everything—”

“I ain’t abandonin’ anyone, El,” he interrupted gently, his voice low, weathered. “Just need to see Maria. That’s all.”

Ellie’s arms folded across her chest, defensive. “And what am I supposed to tell Dina when she wakes up and sees you’re gone?”

Joel hesitated. His eyes softened in that way only she could bring out in him. “Tell her I’ll be back by morning. I just…” he glanced toward the window, where rain streaked in pale trails against the glass, “…need to breathe somewhere that ain’t filled with ghosts.”

That was the most he’d said all day. Maybe all week.

Ellie looked down, fists clenched tight at her sides, lips pressed in a hard line. You could tell she wanted to argue, to scream, maybe, but she didn’t. She just nodded once, sharply.

Joel rested a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but warm. “You and I, we’re gonna be alright. I promise.”

Then he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving the house feeling colder than it had before.

You figured it wasn’t just Jesse’s death weighing on him. Not really. It was Tommy. Maybe Jesse’s death, in all its shock and gore, had cracked something open that Joel had been keeping buried for too long.

Whatever it was, he needed space. And Maria was the only person he trusted enough to ask for it.

So now it was just the three of you left in the house, well, two, if you counted how empty Dina had become since the news.

And the clock was ticking.

You turned and walked out of the room without a word. You made it halfway up the stairs before you pulled out your phone again, opened up your notes app, and started typing keywords you’d searched before.

“Premonitions and death.”
“Cheating fate.”
“Can you predict death?”
“Changing death’s plan.”
You typed them all, one by one, like a mad person.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Hours passed.

The rain outside turned heavier, thunder crackling in the distance, echoing through the old wooden frame of Joel’s house.

The cold blue light of your laptop screen lit your face in the otherwise dark study. You hadn’t turned on a lamp. You hadn’t eaten since that sandwich Ellie left near your elbow. You barely touched it. It sat now, soggy, forgotten, next to your barely-sipped water.

Ellie came in once or twice.

The first time, she just leaned in the doorway with two mugs of tea. “Got chamomile,” she said, holding one out. “Supposed to help with stress or whatever.”

You took it with a distracted nod, barely looking at her.

“You… uh. You sleeping at all tonight?”

You shook your head. “I can’t. Not yet.”

She didn’t press. She just gave a small nod, placed her hand briefly on your back, then left.

The second time, she came in with a bowl of pasta and a little bag of cookies folded closed with a pink twist-tie. “I made this earlier. Thought you might…” She trailed off when she saw your face, the exhaustion, the intensity in your eyes.

“Ellie,” you muttered, not looking up, “I’m close to figuring it out.”

“Figuring what out?” she asked gently, stepping closer.

You didn’t answer. You were clicking through another article, this one from some conspiracy site that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the early 2000s. But the keywords matched. You kept reading.

Ellie placed the food down, kissed the top of your head softly, and murmured, “I’ll be upstairs, okay?”

You hummed in acknowledgment. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you dove back in.

And finally, around 3 a.m., you found something.

It wasn’t a blog. Not quite an article. More like a frantic digital diary. Someone claiming they’d escaped death once, describing it like a design, like a loop. A list of people who died in a very specific order. But when they’d intervened, when they’d changed just one person’s fate, the order shifted. It skipped them.

It was riddled with typos, insane logic, half-written lines that made your head hurt. But one phrase stuck out, repeated three times in bold red font:

See it coming. Intervene. Break the chain.

You stared at the line so long your vision blurred.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You didn’t even change out of your pajamas. You just grabbed your laptop and padded barefoot down the hallway, tiptoeing past Joel’s old room, the guest room, and finally stopping outside her door.

You knocked once, softly. No answer. You knocked again, a little harder. Inside, you heard shuffling, a rustle of blankets.

The door creaked open. Ellie stood there, sleepy-eyed and hoodie-clad, hair messy and sticking to her cheek. Behind her, you could see Dina curled up in bed, still, her arm clutched around a pillow like it was Jesse himself.

“Hey…” Ellie whispered. “Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, motioning her out. “Can we talk? Not here. I don’t wanna wake her.”

She rubbed at her face and followed you out into the hallway, then into the dim kitchen where the only light came from the stove’s glowing clock. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your laptop, flipped it around, and started explaining. You told her about the headlines, the changing newspaper, the gut instincts you were getting every time someone died. About the article. About the idea that death wasn’t just random, that it followed a pattern. A design.

Ellie stared, eyes narrowing. “So, wait... you’re saying Jesse died because it was his turn?”

“Yes. And we missed the signs. We saw them, but we didn’t act in time.”

Ellie let out a slow breath, rubbing her hands over her face. “Jesus Christ.”

You looked at her seriously. “Ellie. Dina’s next.”

She froze. Her expression hardened in the way only Ellie’s could, a mix of anger, fear, and sheer defiance.

“I’m not letting that happen,” she said immediately.

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you.”

“So how do we stop it?”

“We intervene. We have to be there. All the time. If she’s about to do something dangerous, even stupidly small, we pull her back. It throws death off. Skips her. Maybe it’ll go to the next person, or maybe the whole thing falls apart. I don’t know yet.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched. “This is fucking insane.”

You nodded. “Yeah. But it’s working. Look around. You’ve felt it too, right? How the signs keep showing up. The flyers. The newspaper. Everything’s trying to tell us.”

She fell quiet for a moment, staring at nothing. “…Okay. Okay. If it’s her, we’re not letting her go anywhere alone. Not for a second. Not until we’re sure.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

Ellie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you tightly. “We’re gonna stop this. I swear to God, we’re gonna stop it.”

You nodded into her shoulder, your arms around her waist, anchoring yourself to the one person in the house still holding it together.

Outside, the wind picked up again. Somewhere, another branch cracked off a tree. You didn’t sleep that night.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next evening passed with a strange kind of silence hanging in the air. For once, no newspapers had been shoved through the door with cryptic, shape-shifting headlines. No new names to worry about. No fresh deaths. Just quiet. Uneasy, unfamiliar quiet.

Outside, rain slammed against the windows like it was trying to get in. The thunder was constant, low, rolling, angry. The kind of storm that made the walls feel thin and the house feel small. It made the silence inside seem heavier somehow.

Dina had banished herself to the guest room earlier that evening. Said she’d be fine. You could tell it was a lie, but none of you had the energy to push back anymore. She just needed to be alone, wrapped up in whatever grief was still clawing at her ribs. Ellie tried to go in there earlier, to sit with her, talk, something, but she came back out ten minutes later with her jaw tight and her eyes a little red. She didn’t say what was said, and you didn’t ask.

Now it was just you and Ellie, curled up in Joel’s old room, your room now. The storm rattled the windows, wind howling past the house like it was trying to peel the roof off. But inside the room, things felt strangely still. Still and warm. The kind of warmth that settles into your skin when someone you love is close.

You were lying on your back, Ellie on her side, facing you. Her hand had been playing lightly with the hem of your shirt for a while now, like she didn’t realize she was doing it. There was a lull in the conversation, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. Just quiet. Her eyes kept tracing the lines of your face in the dim light from the bedside lamp, like she was searching for something.

“Hey,” she murmured suddenly, her voice just above the whisper of the rain. “You think… maybe it’s over?”

You turned your head to look at her fully. “I don’t know. Maybe. No headlines today. No signs.”

Ellie nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced. Her fingers kept brushing against your stomach, slow and absentminded.

“I hate that that makes me feel relieved,” she said, voice smaller now. “Like, that nothing happened today. No one died. I hate that that’s our baseline now.”

You reached out and took her hand, threading your fingers together. “I know.”

There was a pause, and then she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Just gentle. Careful. Testing.

Your breath caught, not because it was surprising, but because it wasn’t. It felt… natural. Like something you’d both been tiptoeing around for too long. Ever since Kat died, things between you had been close, but not like this. Sleeping in the same bed had become habit, comfort, survival. But touch… desire… had been buried beneath grief and guilt.

Ellie pulled back slightly, her lips still close to yours. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nodded before the words could leave your mouth.

She kissed you more fully this time, soft at first, then deeper. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking lightly across your skin as her body slowly shifted, inching closer. The kiss turned heavier. Not frantic, not rushed, just needed. Like both of you were trying to remember what it felt like to be alive.

When you pulled apart to breathe, Ellie pressed her forehead to yours, her voice thick.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I know you’ve been here but… I just… I missed this. Missed us.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

She leaned in again, trailing slow kisses along your jaw, down your neck. Her body slid over yours, settling carefully on top of you like she didn’t want to break anything. Like you were both something fragile. When she got to your collarbone, she paused, exhaling shakily.

“I love you,” she said quietly, and it wasn’t rushed or dramatic. Just honest. “I don’t say it enough.”

Your chest tightened. “Ellie…”

“I mean it,” she said. “I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been so… distant. I just… after Kat, and now Jesse, and Tommy… I haven’t known what the fuck to do with any of it.”

“I get it,” you said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You don’t owe me anything, El. You never did.”

She gave a small, almost broken laugh at that. “Yeah I do. I owe you everything.”

Her hands slid beneath your shirt, not in a lustful way, but gently, reverently. She pulled it up just enough to expose your chest, then leaned down to press soft kisses there, slow and warm, one over each nipple, her breath shaky against your skin. She sighed as she pulled back, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“I thought I wanted this,” she admitted. “Thought it might help. But I just… I can’t. Not all the way. Not tonight.”

You reached up and touched her cheek. “That’s okay.”

Ellie nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s not you. I want to. I just— my head’s fucked. And if we’re gonna do that, I want to be there, you know? Not thinking about blood and knives and headlines while I’m touching you.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” you whispered.

Outside, another rumble of thunder shook the windows, loud enough to make both of you flinch. Without a word, Ellie slid off you and curled into your side, burying her face into the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, fingers tracing slow patterns across her back.

She let out a soft breath. “Thanks for being here.”

“Always.”

And just like that, the storm became background noise. The thunder faded into distance, the lightning casting soft flashes across the ceiling. Ellie’s breathing evened out against your skin. And for the first time in what felt like forever, the night passed without anyone dying.

Just the two of you, breathing. Holding on. Still here. Still surviving.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next morning broke quiet but gray, the kind of pale, overcast light that felt like a sigh after the storm. The house still smelled faintly of damp wood and fried circuits. Rain had soaked into the earth overnight, leaving the sidewalks slick and the air heavy with the scent of wet leaves and ozone. It was too early for anything to feel normal, but somehow, the day had to begin.

Joel returned just as the three of you, Ellie, Dina, and you, were slipping on your jackets by the front door. He stepped in with a grunt, his boots thudding softly against the entryway tile, the door groaning shut behind him. His coat was still damp from the morning mist, shoulders hunched like he hadn’t slept. You could see it in his eyes, the way they were rimmed with exhaustion, grief weathered into the lines of his face deeper than before.

He offered a soft nod of greeting as he pulled off his gloves, then looked over at the three of you, his brow knitting. “You girls headin’ out?” he asked, his voice rough from the cold or maybe the night.

“Yeah,” Ellie said, tugging on her hoodie. “Gonna help clean up the neighborhood. Lotta branches came down. Kinda looks like a tornado came through.”

You nodded. “It’s honestly a miracle no one got impaled by a flying tree limb.”

Joel gave a quiet huff, the closest thing he had to a laugh lately. “Mm. Could use the help. Streets are a damn mess.”

He looked at Ellie then, and his face softened for a moment, just enough that you saw it. A flicker of the man who’d used to scold her for not wearing enough layers, or getting back too late from a party. That man hadn’t been gone, but he’d been buried lately, under grief, under fear. Now, he surfaced for a brief second.

“Maria’s fine,” Joel said, his eyes dropping as he took a breath. “She just… needs a little time. Her family’s with her. Said y’all can visit later. When she’s up to it.”

Ellie nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a tight line. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, burying her face against his shoulder. Joel went stiff for half a second, but then, his arms came around her. He held her tightly, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit.

You saw it: the way Ellie’s face twisted as she clung to him. Silent tears streaked her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away. Joel didn’t cry, but his jaw clenched, and he stared just past you with a glassy look in his eye that made it very clear he was holding back something sharp and raw.

You nudged Ellie gently once she stepped back, and she gave a small nod in return, exhaling like it took effort just to let go.

Joel cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Be careful out there, alright? If things get bad, you come back. I mean it. Don’t mess around.”

“We won’t,” you said, zipping your coat up all the way.

“Promise,” Ellie added, voice hoarse.

He glanced at all three of you before opening the door again and letting the cold morning air back in. “Go on. Daylight’s burnin’.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The neighborhood looked like a battlefield. Branches were strewn everywhere, some massive and twisted, others splintered into toothpicks. Roof tiles littered the sidewalks, and puddles reflected the skeletal silhouettes of bare trees. Neighbors were already out in full force, bundled in heavy jackets and gloves, working with a quiet, shared urgency. The kind that only came after tragedy, or the near-miss of one.

There was a wood chipper running steadily near the corner, its roar loud and ominous even from a distance. A couple chainsaws whined in the background, cutting through thick limbs with brutal efficiency. Everyone seemed to be avoiding both, eyes flicking toward them every now and then like they were live wires.

You and Ellie were assigned to help collect the larger fallen branches, tossing them into organized piles along the edge of the road. Dina, meanwhile, was called over to help pass limbs to a few of the older guys who were loading them into a trailer. It felt harmless enough. Simple work. Nothing sharp or loud or dangerous. Not yet.

“Just don’t let me lose a hand,” Ellie joked, slapping her gloves together. “We’ve already got death breathing down our necks.”

You cracked a half-smile, nudging her with your shoulder. “That’s the plan. Keep all limbs attached.”

She reached down to grab a branch, tossing it with a grunt. “Also, if I do die,” she added, “you’re not allowed to say ‘I told you so.’ Just put that on record now.”

“Deal,” you muttered, bending to grab another. “But only if you promise not to haunt me.”

“Oh, I’d haunt the shit out of you.”

You snorted, but the laughter died out quickly. You both fell into rhythm after that, working in silence, occasionally sharing glances or little shoulder bumps. It almost felt normal. Almost.

At some point, Dina had disappeared from your sight, but you weren’t worried. Not really. There were at least thirty people scattered across the neighborhood, all helping in different ways. She had a few older folks with her. It was fine.

Unbeknownst to you and Ellie, the guys Dina had been assisting had taken a quick break, heading off for coffee or cigarettes or just a moment away from the buzzing noise. Dina had settled by the edge of the worksite, sitting on a low stone ledge near a hedge, a shawl pulled tight around her neck against the biting wind. Someone had handed her a cup of lemonade from a nearby porch. Her gloved hands wrapped around it, warming more from the hold than the drink itself.

She was only about ten feet from the wood chipper, its mouth wide and open like something waiting to feed. Still rumbling. Still running. No one around to man it. Just… humming. Like it had a mind of its own.

Dina didn’t even look at it. Not once.

She sipped her drink slowly, staring off toward the clouds, her breath puffing visibly in the cold air. The wind picked up a little, tugging at the corner of her shawl, making it flutter lightly against her chest.

She didn’t know she was alone. And neither did you.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You were just stacking the last few branches onto the growing pile near the curb, your gloves damp with sap and the wet grit of bark, when something fluttered across your boots, a piece of paper, bright and almost too clean in all the muddy debris. You stepped on it to stop it from flying further, then bent to pick it up.

“CHIPS CONTAIN A DEATHLY VIRUS!” the headline screamed in large, frantic font, the kind that looked pulled from a conspiracy zine. Your brows furrowed. It was the same thing as before. You blinked and looked again, and just like the last time, the letters morphed in front of you. Not melted, not faded. Just shifted. Instantly. Now it read: “Bulgur Wheat: Is It the Secret to a Longer Life?” Some generic health puff piece that made your stomach twist.

“Ellie,” you said tightly, walking over to where she was stretching her back after the haul.

“Hm?” she asked, pushing her sleeve up with a grunt.

You held out the flyer. “This just flew by. It said something about chips having a virus. Like, fries.”

She looked at you, then at the page. “It says something about bulgur—”

“It changed. Like the magazines. I saw it change.”

That got her full attention. “Wait—chips like… like fries?”

You nodded. “The volunteers. They’ve been talking about bringing in lunch for everyone from that local diner, the one that does those huge trays of seasoned fries.”

“Oh fuck.” Ellie scrubbed her face with her sleeve. “Okay. Okay, that’s easy. We just make sure Dina doesn’t eat any.”

You both glanced around, scanning for her familiar frame.

“She was over by the front porch of that green house last I saw,” Ellie murmured. “She’ll probably grab a tray with everyone else.”

You nodded. “We go to her now. Just tell her not to touch the food.”

Ellie nodded tightly. “Yeah. Should be simple.” But was it ever?

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Meanwhile, just across the street, Death had already begun threading its way through the mundane.

The landscaping crew had left their wood chipper running. Its engine thrummed angrily, like a mechanical beast hungry for movement, its wheels vibrating on the sloped curb. It wasn’t angled properly. One corner was jacked higher than the other, its feed chute tilted awkwardly toward a scatter of tools and supplies.

A chainsaw, left idle but not quite stable, vibrated with every pulse of the nearby machine. Slowly, it rolled, metal scraping faintly on the workbench, until it dropped with a clatter. Its heavy edge struck the handle of a rake, which jerked upward violently, flipping a small rack. A bucket of bolts tipped over. Hundreds of tiny metal beads scattered in all directions, pinging off cement and clattering down the hill.

One bolt, just one, rolled perfectly into the narrow groove near the chipper’s rear wheel.

Click. Thunk.

The machine jolted. Just slightly. Just enough.

The feed chute shuddered back, bumping into the low stack of bundled branches behind it. They weren’t secured. They hadn’t needed to be. Until now.

The stack shifted forward like a slow exhale, sliding down the damp slope.

One of those branches had a long shawl tangled around it. A wool one, thick and warm. Soft gray-blue. The same one Dina had wrapped around her neck before settling down with a cup of lemonade. She’d said it was cold. She hadn’t taken it off.

Now that scarf’s other end was still tied, snug beneath the collar of her jacket.

The branch caught the edge of the chipper chute. It scraped, snagged, then was pulled in.

So was the scarf.

Dina barely had a second. One moment she was sitting, sipping from the cup, breath fogging the air. The next, her head jerked back sharply, the fabric biting into her throat. She gasped, instinctively clawing at her neck, but the force yanked her to her feet. Her cup dropped, rolling on its side, spilling lemonade across the muddy ground.

She stumbled forward, both hands now at her scarf, eyes wide in disbelief.

The ground betrayed her.

Her heel caught a thick rubber hose lying half-buried in wet leaves. She pitched forward with a grunt, face-first toward the rumbling mouth of the machine. One gloved hand slapped the edge, trying to stop herself. It didn’t matter. The scarf was already spooling inward.

The feed rollers seized the branch. Then the scarf. Then the edge of her jacket. Fabric caught. Her hood. Her collar. Flesh.

There was a horrible crunch. Her scream was half-muffled, garbled by choking and shock as the rollers dragged her upper body in. Her boots kicked violently. Then less. Blood sprayed in harsh arcs over the mound of wood chips at the side like red paint through a fan.

She was gone in seconds.

And the machine kept humming.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You and Ellie had just started making your way down the block, both calling out for Dina, when it happened.

The scream tore through the air first, choked and unnatural, like something being ripped from a throat too tight to carry sound. You both stopped in your tracks, frozen. Then you ran.

By the time you rounded the hedge, a couple neighbors were screaming. One woman dropped a tray of paper plates, food spilling across the sidewalk. A man was already backing away from the wood chipper, stumbling and shaking his head, hand over his mouth.

Ellie grabbed your arm and pushed past him.

“No—no no no—” she was whispering, her voice catching on the edge of panic. Her boots skidded across the wet grass as you both turned the corner and saw it.

The boots. The gray-blue scarf, Dina’s, snagged and hanging like it’d been hung to dry and forgotten. A glove. Blood. The mulch pile behind the machine was steaming, and the entire chute was slicked red.

Ellie froze.

Your stomach flipped.

“No,” Ellie breathed.

Her face was blank at first. Then it cracked. Her jaw clenched, hard, eyes glassing over fast as her body locked in place, shoulders trembling like she was physically holding something back. Rage. Grief. Whatever it was, it was bursting through the cracks whether she let it or not.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your brain was fogged, swimming too fast, too loud. And under all of it, under the sick, clenching knot in your gut, was a single thought.

It wasn’t the fucking chips.

It hit like ice water poured down your spine. Cold and instant and paralyzing.

You stared at the blood. The chunks of torn fabric. The smell of burnt sap and diesel and—

It was never going to be the chips. Of course it wasn’t. That stupid flyer—

You shook your head, vision swimming. It was the chipper. God, it was so obvious. The chainsaws, the old machines, the way everyone kept giving that thing a wide berth. Ellie had joked earlier, “God, imagine if that thing turned on you.” And you’d laughed. You laughed.

You felt your knees lock.

“Ellie—” you started.

“No,” she snapped, spinning toward you with something wild and wounded in her eyes. “No, don’t. Don’t talk. Don’t try to fix this. Don’t you fucking dare.”

You froze, your mouth open, but nothing came out.

Ellie took a step closer. Her fists were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. Her voice cracked but stayed loud enough for half the street to hear. “You think this is some puzzle to solve? Some test you can outsmart if you just pay attention to enough signs?”

You flinched, your throat closing.

“I trusted you,” she hissed. “She trusted you.”

She didn’t say Dina’s name. Couldn’t.

And you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Ellie’s eyes were wet, lashes clumped, red-rimmed and furious. “God, I knew it. I knew it wouldn’t be that fucking easy. Chips? Really? A fucking flyer?”

Her voice cracked again. “You’re not a hero. You’re not saving anyone.”

That one landed like a punch. You swallowed hard, something sharp catching behind your ribs.

Ellie had bolted from the scene in a straight line, barely seeing the world around her, blood rushing in her ears so loud it drowned out the sound of her own breath. She didn’t care who saw her crying, she barely even realized she was. She pushed open Joel’s front door so hard it slammed against the wall, and then she collapsed into the couch before he could even say a word.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Joel was in the kitchen, setting down a mug of coffee when he heard the slam. His face fell. He didn’t even ask. He just walked over, knelt beside her, and pulled her in without needing permission.

She let him.

Buried her face into his chest like she used to when she was a kid and the world was even crueler, and he held her just as tight now as he did then. Her shoulders were shaking. Wetness soaked into his flannel. And he didn’t say anything for a while, just let her fall apart.

Finally, she whispered, "She’s gone, Joel. Dina’s gone."

Joel swallowed thickly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know, baby girl. I heard.”

“I told her she’d be fine,” Ellie said, voice cracking as she wiped at her face angrily. “She said she’d be fine and I believed her. I—I left her for one second and now there’s just—just pieces of her.”

Joel exhaled slowly, letting that pain settle before he spoke.

“You couldn’t’ve known, El. None of you could’ve. That wasn’t your fault.”

Ellie shook her head hard, pulling away. “You don’t get it. We—we’ve been tracking these signs. Death keeps coming after us and she thought she figured it out and I—I let myself believe it too. I let myself hope.”

Joel gave a quiet hum. “She tried, didn’t she?”

Ellie looked up, eyes rimmed red.

Joel continued. “That girl… she’s fightin’ for you harder than anyone I’ve seen in a long time. Hell, even back when Tommy and me used to run errands for… you know who, people didn’t hold together like she’s holding you. She didn’t want this. She’s just tryin’ to stop it. Like you. Like all of us.”

“She thought it was the chips,” Ellie said bitterly. “Some dumb flyer that said there was a virus. So she ran all the way across the neighborhood to try and stop Dina from eating fries. Fries, Joel.”

Joel didn’t smile. He didn’t scold. He just rested a hand on her shoulder.

“She thought she was saving her. That matters. I know it’s easier to blame someone when things go wrong, but don’t go pushing away the only one who’s fighting this thing beside you. Especially not someone who’d chase a box of fries across the damn county if she thought it’d keep you safe.”

Ellie looked down. Her fingers trembled in her lap. “I was awful to her. I said shit I didn’t mean,” she whispered hoarsely. “I said she wasn’t saving anyone. That she thought this was just a fucking puzzle. I made her feel like it was her fault.”

Joel exhaled, low and steady. “You didn’t mean it.”

“She didn’t deserve it,” Ellie shot back, voice cracking again. “She’s been trying so fucking hard. Ever since the premonitions started. She didn’t ask for this, none of us did. And she’s been losing people too. And I just—god, I told her not to talk to me. I told her to stay away. I saw her face when I walked off and I still left.”

Joel was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes grief don’t care what you mean. It just wants to wreck whatever’s closest.”

Ellie leaned into his side, sniffled hard. Joel handed her a tissue from the box beside the couch, like he’d had it ready. “I think she blames herself,” Ellie whispered, twisting the tissue in her fingers. “I think she really believed it was gonna work this time.”

Joel gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. “And I think you two are stronger than one bad moment.”

She looked up at him, lashes wet and stuck together. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said, gentle but firm. “She’s good for you. And you’re good for her. And don’t you let some twisted, evil bullshit take that away from either of you.”

Ellie nodded, swallowing back the last of the tears. “I should go back.”

“Take something warm with you,” Joel said, standing. “That girl probably hasn’t had a sip of water or food since it happened.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You were still sitting on the curb, hunched forward with your arms looped around your knees. The police had already finished taping off the area. Neighbors had retreated into their homes, the street quiet in that eerie way it always was after sirens. Your eyes were raw from crying. Your knuckles scraped from when you’d punched the pavement. And the moment your eyes processed what was left of Dina, her scarf shredded, her gloves still lying nearby like they’d simply fallen off, you’d thrown up right there on the street. You hadn’t even made it to a bush or trash can. The bile burned up your throat, hot and sour, and your whole body shook afterward like you were in shock. Maybe you were.

You kept whispering it to yourself under your breath. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry."

How the hell had you gotten it so wrong?

You were so sure. You told Ellie with confidence. You even felt proud of yourself for a second, for figuring it out in time. You watched her nod, saw her tension ease. You believed it.

But it was never about chips. It was never going to be that easy. It was sitting there the whole time, the chipper, literally spewing danger, making everyone nervous, but no, you got distracted by a stupid flyer like some moron trying to read symbols in clouds. You thought it was a metaphor. You thought you were clever.

You weren’t. You were wrong. And Dina paid for it.

The guilt pressed into your chest so hard it made it difficult to breathe. You curled further in, letting the cold of the concrete soak into your pants, uncaring that your thighs were soaked from the earlier rain.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It wasn’t until almost an hour later that you heard the soft crunch of boots on gravel.

You didn’t even look up. You didn’t have the strength to. You thought it was a cop coming to move you again. But a pair of hands settled gently on your shoulders. Warm. Familiar. You blinked up, slow and hesitant.

Ellie.

Her hair was wet at the ends from the misty air, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes swollen but steady now. She didn’t say anything at first, just held out a steaming cup of tea and a small napkin-wrapped plate with two slightly crushed cookies on it.

You stared.

"I thought you might need something warm," she said, voice quiet, scratchy. “And I didn’t wanna go to bed without saying I’m sorry.”

Your throat closed up.

“Ellie…”

“I didn’t mean to push you away like that,” she said, crouching down in front of you now, hands resting lightly on your knees. “I just—I freaked. And I didn’t wanna scream at you when it wasn’t fair.”

“No,” you muttered, shaking your head. “It was fair.”

She frowned. “It wasn’t.”

You looked down at the cup. Steam curled against your chin. “I deserved it,” you mumbled. “You were right. It was stupid. I was so sure, and I—God, I got her killed.”

“Stop,” Ellie said, firmer now. “You didn’t. This isn’t your fault.”

You looked away, jaw clenched.

“I said horrible shit,” Ellie added. “And I meant none of it. I was hurting and scared and I lashed out at the one person who’s been trying harder than anyone to keep us safe.”

Your throat clenched. Your voice came out hoarse: “I really thought it was the chips.”

“You’re not wrong for trying,” she said. “You’re not wrong for hoping.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, curled into each other, tea going cold between your fingers as the cleanup crews continued on, the sun slowly vanishing behind a gray, heavy sky.

“Come inside?” she asked, voice tentative. “Please?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded. Ellie stood and held out a hand, and when you took it, she led you gently up the steps, back into the house that felt a little emptier than it had this morning.

But you were together. And somehow, that still counted for something.

New Year’s Eve was supposed to be the best night of the year. For most people, it was the highlight of the entire holiday season. The air buzzing with excitement, a rare night when the world seemed to pause just long enough for every heartbeat to sync with the crackling fireworks overhead. Staying up all night wasn’t just tolerated, it was expected. The city streets transformed into a chaotic playground where the usual rules didn’t apply. Fireworks that sounded like thunderclaps and tiny bombs exploded in bursts of red, blue, green, lighting up the cold sky like stolen stars. Teenagers, who’d spent the last few weeks trapped inside over Christmas, lived for this night. The rush of hurling something dangerous into the sky, the electric thrill of explosions that rattled the bones. It was supposed to be fun, wild, a celebration of being alive. For everyone.

But for Abby Anderson, it wasn’t fun at all.

She sat slumped on the faded couch in the dimly lit living room, the threadbare fabric rough beneath her fingertips. Her extra hoodie was still on, zipped up tight against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Outside, the night was alive with bursts of noise, distant pops, sharp cracks, the echo of fireworks raining down from above. Each one stabbed at the silence in the room, tearing through it with a force Abby could almost feel deep in her chest. The television flickered in front of her, a sitcom playing on low volume, the canned laughter faint and hollow, an attempt to mask the heavy quiet. She hadn’t moved for nearly an hour.

Four months had passed since she’d returned home. Four months since the plane touched down and she stepped off the tarmac, finally done with the war zone that had swallowed the last four years of her life. Four years spent in Iran. Hot, brutal, unforgiving years, living and dying alongside people she thought she could trust. Four years filled with a kind of violence no one should have to endure. The kind that left scars deeper than flesh, scars she carried inside, invisible but never gone.

She remembered the sounds: the screams that shattered the night like broken glass, the thunderous booms that tore through the air and her mind, the shrieks of friends caught in the blast, torn apart, gutted like fish. The blood, the smoke, the dust coating everything like a thick fog. The faces of the ones who didn’t make it, burned into her memory, haunting the edges of every quiet moment.

Her family had left almost an hour ago. They’d asked if she wanted to come watch the fireworks with them, their voices warm but cautious, filled with that gentle hope that maybe she’d say yes.

“Come on, Abby,” her mother had said softly, nudging the door open. “It’ll be fun. You can stay close to me.”

Her dad’s voice was quieter but steady. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. We’ll be right outside.”

But Abby had shaken her head. She had to. She couldn’t. Not tonight. She told them she’d be fine on her own. That she just wanted some quiet.

And so they left.

The door clicking shut behind them sounded like a lock being fastened around her chest. The laughter from the street outside filtered in through the windows. Bright, carefree, full of promise and noise and life, and it felt like it belonged to a different world. A world she wasn’t sure she could ever step back into.

Beside her, Alice lay curled up on the floor, her head resting gently on her paws. Abby’s dog, the one piece of home she managed to bring back. Alice’s hind legs were still weak from an injury sustained during one of their final missions. An accident Abby replayed in her mind like a bad film reel, a moment frozen in time. But here she was, alive and breathing and real, a steady heartbeat in the room with her.

The clock on the wall ticked slowly. An unopened bottle of champagne sat on the coffee table, its silver foil catching the dull light. It was meant for midnight. A ritual, a promise of renewal and hope. But the cork remained stubbornly in place, mocking Abby with the things she was supposed to feel; joy, excitement, relief.

An hour left.

Abby told herself she’d be fine. She could handle this. It was just noise. Just harmless explosions outside. She turned the volume on the television up a notch, hoping the sitcom’s fake laughter would drown out the memories pounding in her skull. But the louder the TV got, the quieter her mind became, and the louder the memories grew.

She thought of the last day in the field, the way the sun had scorched the horizon as a bomb tore through the compound. The screams that followed, the way her heart had hammered so fast she thought it might burst. The blood that coated her hands, the way she’d fought to keep herself from breaking, from falling apart.

She thought of the friends who never made it back. People who had laughed with her, fought beside her, dreamed with her, gone in an instant. She thought of the quiet nights since coming home, the sleepless hours haunted by nightmares that felt too real. And still, here she was. Alone. Surrounded by sounds meant to celebrate life, but to her, they only echoed the violence she’d left behind.

Her hands clenched into fists. Her jaw tightened. She wanted to scream, to run, to disappear, but she didn’t. She stayed. Because this was home now.

When the clock finally chimed midnight, Abby didn’t count down. She couldn’t. The moment the first firework exploded outside, it felt like everything collapsed inward, her carefully constructed walls crumbling in an instant. The night sky wasn’t bright and festive like it was for everyone else; instead, it was a brutal cacophony of sound and light that ripped through her chest like a grenade blast.

The booms didn’t just echo, they thundered, sharp and violent, drowning out the quiet she’d desperately clung to all evening. The relentless popping and cracking reminded her of mortar fire, the kind that tore through dusty streets and left her world a ruined landscape. Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and quick, her heart slamming hard enough to shake her ribs. Her fingers trembled against the rough fabric of the couch, the feeling of helplessness settling over her like a suffocating blanket.

She knew they were fireworks. She knew. Rationally, she understood that no one was trying to kill her here. But her body was still locked in that primal fight-or-flight mode from years spent dodging real bombs, real death. The line between celebration and combat blurred, and she was trapped in the middle.

Alice stirred beside her, low whine trembling through the dog’s throat. The dog’s ears flattened back, eyes wide and anxious. Abby’s hand moved automatically, finding the coarse fur and stroking slow and steady, a tether to something solid. But the panic didn’t fade; if anything, it grew heavier, pressing down on her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift.

Her eyes darted to the window, watching the sudden bursts of light scatter like shrapnel across the dark sky. She swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear bitter on her tongue. Every flash made her flinch, every distant boom sent a spike of adrenaline tearing through her veins.

Her legs gave out beneath her, and she slid off the couch, the cold floor hitting her skin through the thin fabric of her jeans. She moved silently through the house, each step hesitant, until she reached the kitchen. Without thinking, she sank down against the base of the cabinets, the cool tile a shock against her burning skin. She curled her arms around her knees, trying to make herself smaller, less visible. It was like hiding, but from what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe from herself.

Alice dropped down beside her, pressing her head to Abby’s side, offering silent comfort. The house around her was quiet now, but the night outside was anything but. The fireworks continued in a relentless barrage, each boom a punch to her nerves, a reminder of places she never wanted to revisit. Her chest tightened. Her breathing grew ragged.

Abby’s hand hovered over the phone for what felt like an eternity. The noise outside was a relentless assault, each crack and boom smashing against her nerves, hammering at the fragile shell she’d built to hold herself together. Her fingers trembled, hovering, trembling. This wasn’t something she wanted to do. She wasn’t one to ask for help, not like this, not over fireworks. But the panic was suffocating. It clawed at her throat, tightened around her lungs. She felt like she was drowning in a storm of memories she never invited back.

Her thumb pressed the call button with a hesitant, shaky motion. The ringing tone sounded too loud in the silent kitchen, each beep a countdown to whatever would come next.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The voice on the other end was calm, young, neutral, like a lifeline thrown across a churning sea.

Abby’s throat felt raw, words thick and stuck. “I… I don’t know if this is an emergency,” she finally whispered, voice tight and broken. “It’s… fireworks. I know it’s nothing. But… it sounds like bombs.”

The operator’s voice softened, waiting patiently, giving her the space to keep going. “Take your time. What’s going on?”

The dam cracked. Memories flashed , the charred ruins of a building, a friend’s scream swallowed by the blast, the endless roar of gunfire, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “I was deployed overseas. Four years. Iran. I… I just got back a few months ago. Tonight… it’s just… too much. The fireworks—they sound like the explosions from there. I can’t… my chest feels tight, my head’s spinning. I’m panicking and I don’t know what to do.”

There was silence for a moment. No rush. No judgment.

“I’m sorry,” she added, voice smaller. “I feel like I’m overreacting. It’s just—everyone’s celebrating and I’m sitting here feeling like I’m back in the middle of a warzone.”

The operator’s tone was warm, gentle, understanding. “You’re not overreacting. What you’re feeling is real, and it’s okay to feel scared. You’ve been through a lot, and this kind of noise can trigger memories and feelings that are hard to manage.”

Abby’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. “I don’t want to call anyone over. I don’t want to talk. I just want it to stop.”

“That’s completely understandable,” the voice reassured her. “But you don’t have to face this alone. We have trained responders who specialize in helping people dealing with situations like this, especially veterans and soldiers. They can come to your home, just to sit with you. No pressure, no talking if you don’t want to. Just company.”

Her breath caught. The thought of company was terrifying. She was so used to being alone, to shutting everything out. But the idea of a quiet presence, someone who could sit with her without forcing words, offered a fragile kind of hope. “I… I’m scared,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “I don’t want to lose control.”

“You won’t. We’ll send someone out who understands. They’ll be there for you, just to help you through the night.”

Her chest tightened, but this time it was mixed with something else, relief, maybe. Or the first spark of hope in a long time. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

The line went quiet for a moment before the operator added softly, “You’re doing the right thing. Help is on the way. Hang in there.”

Abby’s fingers trembled as she pressed the phone down, the weight of the night suddenly a little less unbearable.

The knock came soon, soft but deliberate, echoing through the quiet apartment like a lifeline tossed across a chasm. Abby’s heart lurched, a sharp spike of panic tightening her chest. Her breath hitched, shallow and ragged.

She rose slowly, each movement heavy and deliberate, like wading through thick water. Her legs trembled, and the ache in her knees reminded her she hadn’t moved much in hours. With trembling fingers, she reached the front door. A sharp crack of fireworks erupted outside, a sudden boom that made her freeze, eyes wide and unblinking, body rigid as a taut wire. Alice whimpered softly at her feet.

For a long moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe past the ringing in her ears. The world felt sharp, loud, overwhelming, like she was back in the dusty, sun-blasted field where every noise meant danger, every boom a threat.

Finally, her hand forced itself forward, twisting the lock with a shaky breath. The door creaked open just enough to peek out. There stood a woman, calm, kind-eyed, older than Abby by at least a decade. Her presence was steady, grounding. Abby barely managed a nod.

“Hi,” the woman said gently, voice soft, steady. “I’m Margaret. I’m here to sit with you tonight.”

Abby stepped back, letting Margaret in without another word, her limbs still trembling slightly. The woman moved slowly, carefully, like she understood without needing to be told. She set down a tote bag on the kitchen counter and pulled out snacks; crackers, a small wedge of cheese, and a bottle of water.

“Just some things, in case you get hungry or thirsty,” Margaret said quietly.

Abby sank onto the couch, her muscles tight, eyes darting toward the window where flashes of light still burst and boomed. Another sharp crack outside made her jump, a harsh gasp escaping her lips. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms as her breath hitched again.

Margaret didn’t flinch or say anything. She simply pulled out a chair and sat down a few feet away, calm and patient.

Alice, sensing the tension, shifted closer to Abby, laying her head gently on Abby’s foot. The dog’s soft warmth was a small comfort amid the storm of panic.

Minutes passed. Abby’s body was still tense, every noise outside threatening to tear her apart. Her eyes flicked wildly, ears straining for the next boom. When the television buzzed to life again, she slammed the volume up, desperate to drown out the terrifying noise outside.

Margaret reached over and picked up a cracker, breaking it gently. She offered it without pressure, without a word. Abby’s fingers twitched but didn’t reach out.

Another sudden burst of fireworks made her flinch violently, curling inward like she wanted to disappear. The room felt small and suffocating. Margaret stayed silent, steady as a rock. She took a slow sip of water, eyes soft but unwavering.

Slowly, Abby’s hands trembled and closed around a cracker. She nibbled at it, the dry crunch grounding her just enough to breathe.

Another crack, louder this time, and she froze again, heart hammering so loud she thought Margaret might hear it. But the woman said nothing, just kept sitting there. Present. Patient. Not rushing. Not judging. And for a flickering moment, Abby let herself lean into that quiet company, even as the war inside her head raged on.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It took a long time for Abby to speak.

The two of them sat in the soft hush of the apartment, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chaos outside, fireworks bursting like artillery fire, flaring against the windows. The lights of the room were low, casting shadows in the corners. Abby hadn’t moved much from the couch. She kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white, as though trying to hold herself together physically.

Margaret stayed in her chair across from her, relaxed but attentive. She didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She didn’t ask questions. She just sipped her water, sometimes offered a snack, and sat with the kind of patience that didn’t require answers.

Abby stared down at her hands. Her arms were tense, still twitching with leftover adrenaline. Another firework snapped sharply in the distance, too close, and her body flinched before she could stop it. Her breath caught, her jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Alice shifted closer, nudging her knee with a soft whine. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Abby said, “I was twenty-one when I got deployed.”

Margaret didn’t respond, didn’t even nod. She just looked at her, open and waiting.

“I didn’t know what I was walking into,” Abby continued, eyes fixed on her hands. “They tell you, of course. In training. What to expect. What it’s gonna be like. But they don’t tell you how fast everything stops feeling real. How fast your body just… adapts to horror.”

A pause. Another firework cracked outside. Abby flinched again, more subtle this time, then kept going. “I was stationed on the outskirts of Shiraz. First year was bad, but manageable. Heat, long hours, tension in the air. You could feel it, even when nothing was happening. We’d patrol, dig in, rotate through checkpoints. Nights were quiet sometimes. Other times…”

She swallowed hard, eyes beginning to glaze as her stare drifted to the floor. “There was this one night,” she said slowly, voice rough. “We were sleeping in shifts, me and my squad. I remember I’d just taken my boots off, just fucking taken them off, and then it hit. A car bomb. Somewhere nearby. Close enough to knock me off the cot.”

Her hands were shaking now, so subtly she didn’t even notice.

“I ran barefoot over gravel. I don’t even remember the pain. All I remember is the sound. Metal and screaming. Like a movie, but it wasn’t. I remember crawling under a flipped Humvee, dragging someone out by the collar of his vest. I remember his eyes. They were open but he was already dead.”

Margaret was still silent, not looking away. No pity. Just presence.

Abby laughed bitterly under her breath, voice hoarse. “And now I’m sitting here like this. Like some pathetic wreck who can’t handle a fucking holiday.”

She clenched her jaw, trying to blink away the heat behind her eyes. “Fireworks. Kids throwing firecrackers in the street. Everyone having fun. And I’m sitting here waiting for something to explode for real.”

Another pop outside. She flinched again, smaller this time, but her shoulders stayed high and tight like she couldn’t fully come down. “I feel like I should be tougher than this. Look at me,” she muttered, gesturing vaguely at herself; her broad shoulders, her muscular arms, the sheer physical presence she carried like armor. “People see me and assume I’m unbreakable. Hell, I used to think that. But I came home and realized I never turned it off. I never left the field. I’m still in it.”

Her voice caught, throat constricting. “I don’t sleep. Not really. Sometimes I do, but it’s always shallow. I hear things. I keep seeing… faces. People I couldn’t save. Friends I buried.”

Margaret finally spoke, quiet and even. “What were their names?”

Abby blinked, the question throwing her off. “…Luis,” she said after a moment. “Dawn. Mitchell. Hastings. We had nicknames. We joked all the time. Thought it made it easier. It didn’t.” Her voice broke on that last sentence.

And still, Margaret didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t offer hollow reassurances. She just nodded softly, grounding her presence like a stone in a river, letting the emotion flow around her without being swept away.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Abby didn’t feel like she had to hold her breath. The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating. It was… quiet. Safe.

By now, it was past 1AM. The distant fireworks hadn’t completely stopped, but they were dying down, shifting from rapid barrages to scattered bursts, sporadic, sharp reminders that the night wasn’t over yet. Abby had barely moved from her spot on the couch. Her posture had loosened only slightly, but her eyes stayed locked to the same dull spot on the floor, her mind miles away even while her body remained here, in the dim glow of her apartment’s living room.

Margaret shifted in her chair, a slow, deliberate movement that didn’t startle Abby this time, but did bring her back to the present. The older woman hesitated a moment, then gently spoke. “Abby,” she said softly, “I hate to bring this up, but protocol says I can’t stay the whole night. I’m a volunteer, and we’re only allowed to stay for a limited time unless there’s someone else you can call. A friend. A family member nearby. Anyone who could just... be here for a bit?”

Abby didn’t respond right away. Her jaw flexed. She blinked hard. “I don’t want to bother them,” she mumbled.

“I get that,” Margaret replied. “But just think about it. It doesn’t have to be forever. Just someone who’d sit with you for a while, so you’re not alone.”

Abby exhaled through her nose, rubbing her hands down her thighs as if to wipe off a tension that had soaked in too deep to ever leave. She stayed quiet for a moment too long, until finally she said, voice flat and almost embarrassed: “I have a girlfriend.”

Margaret tilted her head a little, just listening.

“Or—I don’t know if I do anymore,” Abby corrected. “We haven’t talked since I got back. I never... I never answered.”

A long, thick silence. Abby hated the sound of her own voice right then, hated the rawness of it, like confession dragged out of her chest. “She called,” Abby said, more to the floor than to Margaret. “She sent letters while I was overseas. Even visited my dad’s place three times since I got back. She tried. She really tried. But every time, I told him to say I was busy.”

Margaret’s face softened, but she didn’t offer sympathy. She just waited.

“I couldn’t let her see me like this.” Abby’s voice cracked just slightly. “Not when I could barely fucking walk for three months. Not when I couldn’t sleep. Not when I was waking up on the floor because I thought my ceiling fan was a fucking drone.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “She doesn’t know any of that. She probably thinks I just... moved on. Or stopped caring. But the truth is, I thought I’d ruin her if I let her close again. I didn’t want her to see what was left of me.”

Margaret stayed quiet, but something in her expression said she understood. Not the specifics, maybe, but the kind of grief that came from trying to protect someone by shutting them out.

Abby leaned back into the couch cushion, her eyes wet but no tears falling yet. “I still have her number,” she admitted after a moment. “Haven’t deleted it. Haven’t even changed her contact name. She’s just... still there. Like she’s waiting. Or maybe I’m the one waiting.”

Margaret gave a slow nod. “Sometimes people surprise us. Especially the ones who care.”

Abby looked at her, and for a moment, the deflection almost came, some bitter joke about how dumb that sounded, about how it was too late, about how she didn’t deserve that kind of grace. But it didn’t come. Because deep down, some quiet, trembling part of her wished it was true.

Margaret stood slowly, stretching her legs a little. “Do you want to call her?” she asked, gentle but direct. “Even just to say hi. Even if you hang up right after.”

Abby stared at the phone like it was made of something toxic. Her thumb hovered just above the screen, muscles tight, knuckles pale with tension. “I can’t,” she muttered, voice low. “She probably hates me.”

Margaret didn’t push, just folded her hands in her lap. “You said she came to your father’s house. Three times. She didn’t have to do that.”

Abby swallowed hard, jaw twitching. “That was a month or two ago.”

“Still.” Margaret leaned forward slightly, her tone quiet but firm. “You said she didn’t stop trying until you made it impossible. Maybe she doesn’t hate you. Maybe she’s waiting for a reason to try again.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by a soft crack of another firework in the distance. Abby flinched. It wasn’t as bad as before, but her entire frame tensed, her breath catching as her body instinctively curled inward before she forced herself to breathe.

Her eyes dropped back to the phone. The contact was still there, your name, unchanged, sitting at the top of her favorites like it never left. As if she still needed to know you were only one call away.

She hit the call button before she could talk herself out of it. The phone rang once. Then twice. She almost hung up on the third. But then… click.

“Hello?” Your voice. Confused, but unmistakably you.

Abby froze. Her throat felt dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her fingers clenched tighter around the phone, and for a second, she forgot how to speak.

“Abby?” you asked, a little sharper now. “Is that— oh my god. Abby?”

“…Yeah.” Her voice cracked. Just one syllable, and it came out like broken glass.

You went silent for a beat. “I—Jesus. I didn’t think you’d ever call. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?”

Abby closed her eyes. “No, I mean… not physically. I just—” She exhaled sharply, trembling again. “It’s New Year’s. And the fireworks, they—fuck, I thought I could handle it. I thought it would be fine.”

Her voice started to unravel, each word slipping faster, looser. “But I can’t. I can’t fucking breathe. It sounds like Iran out there and I know it’s not, I know it’s fireworks, I’m not stupid, but my brain doesn’t give a shit what I know.”

Your breathing on the other end turned shakier, hitching slightly. “Abby…” you said, barely above a whisper.

She rubbed at her face with her free hand, ashamed of how hot her eyes felt. “I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want to bother my family, and I didn’t think, fuck, I didn’t even think I’d call you until this woman here talked me into it. I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want to be this. For you.” There was a quiet sniff on the other end. Abby could hear it. Your voice broke slightly when you spoke.

“You could’ve come back with no legs and no teeth and I still would’ve loved you, Abby.”

That silence that followed hit harder than any of the fireworks outside. Abby gritted her jaw to keep the sound from slipping out of her throat.

“Can I…” She faltered, then forced it out. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Can you come over?” Her voice was paper-thin now. “I know it’s late and I know it’s selfish but I—I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to sit here and pretend I’m okay. Because I’m not. And you’re the only person I want right now.”

There wasn’t a pause. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Click.

Abby lowered the phone, holding it against her knee as her whole body sagged forward like the strings had finally been cut. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow bursts. Margaret said nothing, just offered her a soft, knowing look.

“Thank you,” Abby said quietly.

Margaret stood, beginning to gather her things. “I’ll stay until she gets here.”

Abby nodded. And for the first time all night, her hands finally stopped shaking. Just a little.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

By the time you pulled up outside Abby’s place, the air was sharp with smoke and cold, the remnants of fireworks still drifting in hazy trails over the street. You could hear the distant echo of people laughing, shouting, still lighting off the occasional leftover mortar, but it all felt muffled somehow. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, drowning most of it out.

The second you saw her building, everything else dropped away. You barely remembered shutting off your car or grabbing the overstuffed duffel bag you'd haphazardly packed. Blankets, food, a Bluetooth speaker, a stack of old DVDs you two used to watch over and over again before deployment changed everything. Anything you could think of that might make the night even a fraction easier for her.

You didn’t knock. The older woman, Margaret, opened the door before you had the chance, her expression tired but kind. “She’s in the living room,” she said softly, stepping aside. “She’s okay now. Quieter. But still...” Her voice trailed off, like she didn’t want to name it out loud.

You nodded wordlessly, swallowing back the lump that had formed the moment Abby’s broken voice came through the phone.

Margaret gave your arm a gentle squeeze as she slipped past you into the night. “She’s lucky you answered.”

You didn’t have time to reply, your feet were already moving.

The living room was dim. The overhead light was off, but a soft amber glow came from the kitchen, where the microwave clock glowed green and a table lamp bathed the space in faint warmth. The television was playing, some nature documentary turned up a little too loud, clearly meant to drown out the chaos still bleeding in from outside.

And there she was. Sitting hunched on the floor by the couch, back braced against the coffee table, knees bent, her dog, Alice, curled tightly into her side. Abby’s eyes were glassy and distant, her shoulders visibly rigid, fingers clenched in the dog’s scruff. She hadn’t even noticed you at first. Until she did.

You saw it, the flicker of recognition, the way her lips parted slightly like she wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating. Her whole body twitched, then stilled. Then she slowly pushed herself upright, one palm dragging along the wall for balance.

You crossed the room in two quick strides, dropping the duffel near the couch before you reached her.

Abby stared at you for a long moment. Her eyes scanned you, your flushed face from the cold, your slightly messy hair, your bare arms goosebumped in the sleeveless black dress you hadn’t even bothered changing out of. The glitter along your collarbones was half-smudged now. You’d obviously left somewhere fast.

“Were you at a party?” she asked, voice quiet, uncertain.

You nodded. “At my place. Just a couple friends. I left the second you called.”

Something in her face flickered. Guilt, gratitude, grief, it was hard to tell. She looked like she wanted to cry and apologize and fall apart all at once.

You just smiled, gentle and small. “You’re more important.”

After you pulled away, you crouched down in front of your duffel. Then you pulled out a soft, worn gray hoodie. Familiar. Faded. Her hoodie.

You held it out to her. “I brought this. Thought it might help.”

Abby stared at it like it was a live wire. Her hands didn’t move. “That’s yours now,” she mumbled. “I gave it to you. You sleep in it.”

You stepped forward, slowly, and instead of insisting again, you held it up to her shoulders like you were going to help her into it.

But Abby’s hand moved first. She reached up and gently tugged the hoodie away from your fingers. Then, to your surprise, she didn’t pull it over herself, she stepped closer and helped you into it instead, draping it around your arms, carefully sliding it up over your shoulders, tugging it down until it swallowed you completely. She fussed with the sleeves like she used to, rolled them up just enough so your hands weren’t lost in the cuffs.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured. “You always get cold when you wear dresses.”

You looked at her, stunned. “Abby, I—”

“You always say you don’t,” she interrupted softly, lips tugging upward in the faintest, exhausted echo of a smile. “But you do. Your fingers get all stiff and your nose turns pink. I used to bring a hoodie in the car just for you.”

You swallowed. Something thick pressed at the base of your throat.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak,” she added quietly, gaze falling away from yours again. “You were always the soft one. You cried at commercials. You made everyone coffee even if they were assholes. I didn’t want to show up like this. Like I can’t even survive fucking fireworks without falling apart.”

“You don’t have to survive anything right now,” you whispered. “You just have to be here. And I’ll do the rest.”

A soft exhale ghosted against your cheek. Abby’s body gave the slightest tremble, like some part of her had been waiting for that, permission not to be strong.

Outside, another firework popped. She jumped again. Not a huge one, but a visible twitch in her shoulders, a breath that skipped. And without thinking, you grabbed the blanket and pulled it tightly around the two of you, right there on the couch.

Once the blanket was pulled up around both your shoulders, and the bags of snacks had been raided for whatever didn’t require effort, you sat beside her on the couch, close but not touching. Abby's breathing had started to even out, but her eyes stayed trained on nothing in particular, staring ahead like she was watching ghosts flicker across the wall. You waited. Gave her space.

It was almost thirty minutes of silence, soft music from your speaker filling the background, before either of you said anything.

She spoke first, her voice quiet and rough. "Do you still love me?"

The words felt like they cracked something in the center of your chest. You looked over, and Abby still wasn't meeting your eyes. She was staring at her own hands, thumbs fidgeting nervously, her broad shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller.

"Of course I do," you said instantly, so fast, so certain, it startled even her. "Jesus, Abby. I never stopped."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Even after I didn’t call? Even after I ignored you when I got back? You came to my dad’s house three times and I—I couldn’t even face you. I couldn’t let you see me like this."

You shifted, bringing your legs up onto the couch, twisting to fully face her. "I came by because I didn’t want you to go through this alone. I knew something was wrong, I just—I didn’t know how to help when you kept shutting me out. But I never stopped loving you, Abs. Not for a second."

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but instead she just let out this choked laugh and shook her head. "You’re insane. You’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me and I treated you like you didn’t matter."

You reached out, taking her hand in both of yours. "You weren’t treating me like I didn’t matter. You were scared. And ashamed. And hurting. I get that. You weren’t trying to hurt me, you were just trying not to fall apart."

Her fingers curled around yours, trembling slightly. "You still want to be with me? Even like this?"

You moved closer. “You’re still you. That’s who I love. All of it. Even the parts you think are too broken.”

She exhaled sharply, and then, like something snapped. she practically lunged forward and pulled you into her arms. You barely had time to yelp before she tugged you directly into her lap, her hands gripping your waist as her face buried into the side of your neck. You straddled her instinctively, your knees bracketing her hips, arms looping around her shoulders without hesitation.

Her entire body was shaking. Not from nerves, not just that, but from the sharp crackle of a firework somewhere nearby, close enough that the windows buzzed faintly. She flinched hard, like the sound ricocheted off her ribs. Her arms tightened around you. You felt her breath stutter, chest jerking against yours like she couldn’t pull it in evenly.

But you didn’t move. You didn’t let go. You just pressed your forehead to hers, closing your eyes as your thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the back of her neck.

"I hate this," she mumbled, voice shaking. "I fucking hate that I can’t even handle—"

"Shhh," you soothed, brushing a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "You don’t have to explain. You’re allowed to feel it. Just let me hold you through it."

She clung tighter, breathing uneven but steadying slowly, like each second she spent in your arms gave her a little more oxygen.

You pulled back just far enough to look at her. And then you kissed her. Soft. Careful. Like pressing your lips to a wound. She kissed back almost immediately, with a quiet sound like relief breaking loose in her chest. Your hands slid to cup her jaw, her breath catching, and her fingers dug into your hips like she was afraid you’d vanish.

"I missed you so much," she whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to say it into your mouth. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You shook your head, smiling even through the tears prickling your lashes. "You don’t have to apologize. Just stay. Just let me be here with you.”

She nodded against your skin, arms wrapped fully around you now, her big hands trembling slightly but no longer hiding.

The explosions outside didn’t stop. But she didn’t flinch quite as hard with each one. Because she had you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Abby let herself breathe in the middle of the noise.

It was quiet for a long time after that. You stayed in her lap, your forehead resting gently against hers, her fingers twitching slightly where they held your waist, gripping a little tighter every time another crack of fireworks burst outside. Her jaw clenched at one especially loud boom, her shoulders flinching like her body thought it had to run. You didn’t move. You didn’t press. You just breathed with her. Matched your inhale to hers.

After a while, her muscles started to loosen, not relaxed, not totally, but not bracing like they had been. You ran your hand through her hair slowly, threading your fingers through the short strands at the back of her head, just staying there, keeping her tethered.

“Abby,” you said softly, when you felt like she could hear you again. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded against your shoulder, then lifted her head to look at you.

You hesitated, not because you were unsure of your desire, but because you were unsure of hers, and the way her body had been trembling under your hands. Her mind was still somewhere far away, still laced with sand and sirens and blood in the dirt.

“I’m not asking because I expect anything,” you said slowly. “But I just… I remember you used to find peace in knowing something. In… knowing my body. In the way it didn’t surprise you. You said once it made you feel calm. Like it was the one thing that didn’t shift under your feet.”

Her eyes softened. A flash of memory, probably the one you were talking about, passed behind them.

You swallowed. “Do you want to have sex?”

You watched her carefully. Not just for the answer, but for any sign that it would be too much. That her skin wasn’t ready for that kind of touch. That the fireworks still rumbling in the distance made it impossible to be in her body right now, let alone share it.

Abby’s gaze dropped to your hands where they still rested lightly on her chest. Her brows pinched for a moment, then her fingers slid up and rested against the backs of your hands, grounding herself there.

“I don’t know if I can be normal about it,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to… I want to feel you. I miss you. But my brain keeps… twitching. Like I’m bracing for something to go off.”

You nodded. “Then we do it on your terms. Or not at all. I just wanted you to know it’s there if you want it. Not for me. For you.”

She was quiet for a long time, her thumbs stroking the inside of your wrists. Her breath came a little slower now, more steady, and her eyes flicked up to yours. “I don’t want it to feel like I’m using you,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” you said immediately. “You’re not. I’m here because I love you. Because I missed you too. And if this helps you feel… like you’re back in your body, even a little, I want that for you.”

Abby’s throat worked as she swallowed. Another firework thudded distantly. She closed her eyes, but she didn’t flinch this time. Not as much. “Okay,” she said. “But I want to go slow. And if I need to stop…”

“Then we stop,” you finished for her. “We’ll stop anytime. You say the word and I’ll hold you until morning.”

Her eyes welled up, but she didn’t cry. She just leaned forward again and pressed her forehead to yours. And this time when she kissed you, it wasn’t a distraction or a way to run from herself. It was steady. Quiet. Her hands were sure on your sides, not pulling, just holding. Like she needed to make sure you were real. Like she was still real, and not still stuck somewhere overseas.

It wasn’t sex as escape. It was sex as reconnection.

Abby stood with effort, her arms slipping under your thighs and back to lift you. It wasn’t the casual strength you remembered from before. This was heavier, like her body remembered too much, like every step had to be thought through. She carried you in silence through the hallway, her breath caught tight in her chest, eyes scanning the darkness of her own house like it might betray her.

You felt her tense before you heard the next firework. It cracked loud and sharp through the night, the kind that rattled windows and made your bones ring. Abby’s arms spasmed. She nearly dropped you.

You felt her gasp more than heard it, her whole body jerked like she’d been shot, and you instinctively tightened your grip on her, one hand at the back of her neck, the other pressing into her spine. “You’re okay,” you whispered, breath brushing her ear. “It’s not real. You’re okay.”

Her steps faltered once, then again. Then she made it to her room. Her hands trembled as she set you down at the edge of the bed. You didn’t reach for her right away. You just looked at her, gave her space to decide.

Abby stood in front of you, breathing hard. Her eyes had gone glassy again. Not gone, not fully, but like she was holding herself together by instinct alone.

You reached up and tugged the hem of your hoodie, pulling it slowly over your head. Nothing hurried, nothing coy, just quiet, deliberate motion. Like saying: I’m still here. You’re still here. This is safe.

Abby watched you undress like she couldn’t believe she was allowed to look at you again. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, unsure what to do, where to go. You reached for her wrist and guided her fingers to your waist.

You stood up slowly from the edge of the bed, your heels sinking softly into the carpet. Abby looked up at you, eyes wide, unreadable. You didn’t say anything at first, just turned around, letting your hair fall down your back, the zipper of your dress catching the light in the quiet room.

“Can you help me with the rest?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause. You heard the small shift of weight as Abby stood behind you. Her breath was slow, shaky, like she was trying to steel herself. You felt her hands hover just inches from your back before they finally made contact. fingertips brushing your hair aside gently, gathering it in one hand and draping it over your shoulder with careful reverence, as if touching something fragile.

Her other hand lifted, trembling slightly, to the zipper. You felt the pause in her movements, her breath held in her throat.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, eyes closing as you stood still for her. “I want you to.”

That seemed to ground her. Her fingers found the tiny metal tab and began to draw it down, slow and cautious. The soft whisper of the zipper filled the space between you, delicate and patient. Her knuckles brushed your spine as the dress loosened, the fabric parting inch by inch like it mattered, like she wanted to remember how you came undone.

At the small of your back, her hands stilled. Her palms found your waist, thumbs grazing skin with quiet intent. Then, slowly, she pushed the dress lower. Over your hips. Down your thighs. It slipped from your body and pooled at your feet, the softest hush as it met the floor.

You stepped out of it and turned, the room dim and warm behind you, the air still. Lingerie delicate against your skin, heels still strapped around your ankles. You meant to reach down and unbuckle them, but Abby’s hands came to your hips first, wordless.

“Sit,” she murmured, so quiet it barely touched the air.

You backed up onto the bed, easing down onto the edge. Her gaze followed every movement like it was sacred. She crouched in front of you without fanfare, kneeling like it was instinct. Her hands curled around your ankle and gently lifted your foot into her lap. She undid the first buckle, then the second, slipping the shoe free with the kind of care you never associated with anything so small. The heel clinked softly as she set it aside.

She took the other next. Slower. Holding your foot in her hand like it belonged there.Then, instead of standing, she leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the top of your foot. Warm. Grounded. Nothing performative, just a quiet act of reverence. She moved higher. The inside of your ankle. The tender slope above the bone. Her mouth didn’t rush. Every press of her lips was deliberate. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Up your calf, her hands following, steady and warm. To the back of your knee, the inside of your thigh, her lips never straying too far from the center line of your body, but never asking for anything either.

You let your legs part just a little. Not an invitation. Just… soft permission.

By the time she reached the top of your thigh, just below the lace edge of your lingerie, her breath hitched. Her lips grazed the skin, then stilled. She looked up, eyes catching yours like she needed tethering.

You nodded.

And it was only then that she exhaled. Her forehead dipped to rest against your thigh, the weight of it like an answer you didn’t even know you’d asked for. When she finally rose, it wasn’t quick. It was like peeling herself out of something heavy. Like lifting a body that had forgotten it could stand on its own.

You stayed seated on the bed, still in your lingerie, legs slightly parted, watching her as she came back into herself. Her gaze drifted upward, slow, like she was rediscovering your body all over again, not with hunger, but with awe. And maybe a little disbelief.

Before she could retreat into her head, you reached for her, your fingers slipping under the hem of her hoodie, gently tugging. “Let me,” you said, quiet but certain, already easing it upward. She didn’t resist. She leaned into it. Let you strip it off her, the hoodie crumpling to the floor.

Her braid lost a couple strands as they came tumbling down, slightly disheveled from the drag of fabric, and you brushed it back without thinking, tucking it behind her ear like you’d done it a hundred times before. Then your hands found her waist, sliding up under her shirt. Her breath hitched, but she stayed still, watching you, trusting you.

You peeled the shirt up slowly. Reverent. Your fingers brushed her sides as you lifted it, knuckles gliding over the tense muscles of her stomach, the shape of her ribs, the slow rise of her chest. You let her feel every moment. Every brush of skin. Every inch of fabric slipping away like it meant something. Because it did.

And she didn’t look down.

She kept her eyes locked on yours, like if she looked away for even a second, she might vanish again. Like if she didn’t watch your face, she’d get pulled back under by the dark sea that had already swallowed her too many times.

The shirt joined the rest of the clothes on the floor, and she stood bare before you, save for her boxer briefs. The lamplight hit the scars across her torso, old, faded, mapped like memory. You didn’t trace them. Didn’t flinch. You just looked. And then, when she didn’t move, you rose from the bed to meet her.

Chest to chest. Nothing rushed. No heat behind it. Just the quiet pressure of two bodies standing still together.

You brought your forehead to hers, gently, grounding the contact. Her breath stuttered. Yours caught. And for a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just breathed. Letting her feel closeness without fear. Without urgency. Without the static of survival. Just being. Being wanted. Being safe. Being held.

Your hand slid up her bare arm, slow, as your voice broke the quiet. “Still okay?”

Abby let out a quiet, trembling laugh. It caught in her throat, closer to a sob than anything else. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice thick. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever get this again. You again.”

You kissed her, soft, certain, no weight behind it but truth. “I never left.”

And just as her body softened into yours, just as her breathing steadied and her shoulders lowered from where they’d been tensed for years, something cracked through the night air outside.

Pop!

A burst. Then another. Distant, bright, unmistakable.

Abby jolted like she’d been struck, a full-body flinch as the noise thundered again. Her hands grabbed your waist instinctively, hard. Her breath vanished, her jaw clenched, eyes going wide as every muscle in her body locked up.

“Hey,” you whispered, hands rising to her face, to her shoulders, steady and grounding. “It’s okay. Just fireworks. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t speak, just nodded against your touch, breathing hard through her nose like she was fighting off the instinct to run, to retreat, to shut down.

You pulled her closer, arms around her, holding her like a fortress. “You’re here,” you murmured. “You’re safe. With me.”

And slowly, slowly, her grip loosened. Her head bowed to your shoulder. She pressed her face into your neck and held on, not because she was scared now, but because you’d just reminded her she didn’t have to be. Not anymore.

Not with you.

Abby eventually pulled back, not all the way, just enough to draw in a breath and glance toward the bed like she needed something solid behind her again. Something to lean into that wasn’t just adrenaline or memory. The shadows shifted across her face as another firework bloomed behind the curtains, briefly lighting the room in a pulse of red and gold. She winced at the noise, shoulders tensing, but this time she shook it off faster, grounding herself with a quiet breath.

Then, slowly, she stepped backward toward the bed, the thick blanket rumpled at the foot. She sat down with a soft thud against the headboard, legs parted just slightly, knees loose, her hands resting uselessly on her thighs. She looked up at you, eyes glassy, tired, but clear. Wanting, but scared of wanting too much.

“Will you come here?” she asked, voice rough. Barely above a whisper. “I… want to feel you. All of you.”

You moved without hesitation, climbing onto the mattress with careful, deliberate steps, like stepping into water you didn’t want to disturb. She watched you with her jaw clenched slightly, like letting herself have this was somehow more terrifying than anything before.

You straddled her lap, knees tucked tight against her hips, arms bracing on her shoulders. Her hands rose slowly, hesitant, asking without words, and you let her pull you close, pressing your chest flush to hers. Her breath caught as your skin met, warm and soft and real. Her forehead dropped to your collarbone, and she exhaled into your skin like it was the only place left in the world she trusted.

“This,” she murmured, voice muffled, “this is the only thing that doesn’t feel wrong right now.”

You nodded, fingers threading gently through her hair. “That’s all that matters right now. Isn’t it?”

She nodded as her hands smoothed down your back, slow and sure, until they settled at your hips. Her thumbs circled just above the band of your panties, brushing the bare skin there like it grounded her. And maybe it did, because her breathing steadied, just slightly. Her head lifted, eyes drinking you in.

Then, with a careful, almost reverent slowness, she leaned in.

She kissed your neck first, just below your jaw. A soft press of her lips, then another, slower, lower. She took her time, kissing across the hollow of your throat, then sucking lightly just beneath your ear. Each touch was measured, deliberate, like she was relearning what it meant to move through desire instead of fear. Her hands cupped your back, drawing you closer as her mouth dragged lower.

When she reached your chest, she paused, just enough to look at you, to ask with her eyes.

You gave her everything she needed in a single nod.

Abby kissed the swell of your breast first, then dragged her mouth slowly across your skin, tongue flicking, lips closing around your nipple. Her mouth was gentle, then firm, then gentle again. She sucked slow, wet, rhythmic, her breath hitching every time your body arched into hers. She didn’t rush. Didn’t try to dominate the moment. She just stayed there, lips sealed around you, grounding herself in the softness of your skin, the way you gasped quietly into her hair.

“Abby…” you breathed, voice barely there, your hand sliding through her hair, fingers trembling just slightly.

She hummed low in her throat, mouth still latched to your nipple, the sound vibrating right through you.

Your hips shifted beneath her, your other hand curling into the sheets. “Feels so good,” you whispered, like it was something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

Abby made a soft sound back, something between a breath and a kiss, her lips sealing tighter around your nipple for a moment like she was answering without words. Like she needed to taste that comfort on her tongue. Her hand slid lower. Down your stomach. Past the edge of your panties. Fingers slipping beneath the fabric like she’d been waiting all night just to know you this way again.

She touched you softly at first, just circling your clit with the pads of two fingers, no pressure, just presence. Your breath caught. Hips twitched. And Abby let out a low, involuntary sound, almost a sigh against your chest.

“God, baby,” she murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing against the skin above your nipple. “You’re so soft here.”

Her fingers pressed deeper, slow, gentle, sliding through your slick folds, and her mouth never left your chest. She planted slow kisses against your nipple and took it into her mouth with the same care. Wet and warm and utterly devoted.

You moaned softly, hips rolling helplessly against her hand. “Abby—” you gasped again, this time quieter, your thighs tightening around her wrist as two fingers slid inside you, slow and steady, curling deep with intent.

And then—

The sound.

The obscene, wet sound of her fingers sinking into your heat. Slow and rhythmic and unmistakably messy. Abby froze, not in fear, but because her breath stuttered, like she hadn’t expected it to sound that wet, that real.

Her hand stilled for just a second inside you, like she was catching her balance. Then resumed, deeper now, her fingers curling just right, her palm brushing your clit with every thrust. And that sound kept going, sticky, raw, rhythmic. It filled the room like it belonged there.

Another firework exploded outside. Louder this time.

But Abby didn’t flinch. She didn’t even seem to hear it.

Because her forehead was pressed to your chest again, her mouth open against your skin, her hand buried in your heat, and every part of her was drowning in the slick, wet music of you.

You whimpered again, fingers fisting tighter in her hair. “Please don’t stop,” you whispered.

Abby’s breath caught. “I won’t,” she said low, her voice barely a breath.

You gasped into the side of her head as your hips rocked again, her fingers stroking through you with patient, perfect rhythm.

Her mouth moved like a soft prayer across your skin; warm, wet, and reverent. She kissed the swell of your breast, slow and worshipful, lips barely parting as she dragged her mouth upwards, tracing the curve of your collarbone before sliding to the hollow at the base of your neck. Her breath mingled with yours, shallow and rhythmic, lips pressing beneath your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart tremble.

You felt the pulse of her breath against your skin, steady and grounding, syncing with the slow, deliberate rhythm of her fingers curling inside you. Your body shifted instinctively, responding with quiet gasps that slipped past your lips, soft moans that filled the warm air between you.

Your arms curled tighter around her shoulders, chest pressed flush against hers, so close that your nipples brushed her skin with each shallow breath. You could feel her steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, like a quiet drum anchoring you both to the moment.

“Shh,” Abby murmured against your neck, her voice low and rough, a fragile thread pulling you deeper into the silence you shared.

She held you like the world had fallen away, like you were the only thing tethering her to this breath, this heartbeat, this fragile present. Her forehead nudged beneath your chin as her fingers moved with reverence and patience, curling slow and deep inside your slick heat. Each stroke was an unspoken promise, a careful memorization of every tremble and pulse of your body.

You gasped softly, your voice barely a breath, “Abby…”

Her other arm wound firmly around your waist, anchoring you against her, steady and unyielding. You felt the heat of her skin through her shirt, the weight of her body holding you safe as your hips rolled unconsciously against her hand.

The room pulsed with warmth, thick with the soft, wet sounds of her fingers sliding through you; rhythmic, messy, intimate. Abby shifted slightly, easing back against the headboard so you could settle deeper into her lap. Your breath came in tight shudders, your body trembling with need and trust, your muscles tense and ready to unravel.

Her lips left your neck for a moment, brushing softly along your jaw, then pressing to your cheek with a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of quiet devotion.

You whispered, voice shaking, “You’re so pretty.”

She responded with a soft hum, the barest vibration against your skin.

Her thumb found your clit again, circling lightly at first, gentle, as if testing the delicate balance between pleasure and pain.

You whimpered, hips twitching, your pussy clenching harder around her fingers. Abby’s breath hitched against your neck, her mouth opening slightly as she pressed down firmer, thumb moving in slow, steady circles that matched the rhythm of her fingers buried deep inside you.

“Mmm…” you moaned softly, barely a sound but full of everything you felt; need, release, love.

She exhaled quietly, holding you steady as your body responded, each slick stroke sending sparks through your nerves, each gentle touch unraveling the tension you’d held inside for too long.

You whimpered again, voice barely above a whisper, “Abby…”

Her lips brushed your jawline, warm and steady, before she kissed your neck softly, tongue flicking once with sweet insistence. You arched into her hand, fingers threading into the hairs at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as your hips rolled in desperate rhythm.

Your orgasm built like a slow fire under your skin. Your clit throbbed under her touch, your pussy fluttered around her fingers, muscles clenching and releasing with increasing urgency.

You gasped, head tilting back, breath catching as your body began to tremble uncontrollably in her arms.

“Abby…” you whispered again, voice raw with need.

She didn’t change her pace. Just held you, fingers curling deep, thumb circling slow, mouth hovering near your lips, body pressed flush against yours like she could absorb every wave of your pleasure and keep it safe.

And then it broke.

Your orgasm crashed over you in a slow, devastating wave, curling your body forward into her chest, your muscles trembling, breath caught in your throat.

You moaned into her skin, fingers clutching fistfuls of her skin, teeth grazing the soft curve of her shoulder as your body shook with the intensity of it.

Abby held you tight, one hand between your legs, the other at your back, her breath ragged but steady as she whispered, “I’m here.”

You clung to her, anchored in that fragile, quiet space where everything else fell away, and only the two of you remained.

“You okay?” Abby asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as her knuckles brushed the side of your thigh.

You nodded into the warm skin of her neck, still catching your breath. “Yeah. God. I’m… yeah.”

She let out a slow exhale like she’d been holding her breath through your entire release. Then, gently, so gently, it made your chest ache, Abby lifted you off her lap. Her arms cradled you like you were something fragile, something breakable in the wrong hands, and laid you down beside her on the bed with all the care in the world.

She didn’t say anything as she stood. Just pressed her palm lightly to your knee once, as if to say stay, before turning toward the bathroom. You watched her move, slow, limping slightly, her body still marked by old strain. She disappeared for only a moment before returning, a warm, damp cloth in her hand.

She knelt beside you without ceremony, without embarrassment. Just quiet, grounded intention. And then she wiped between your thighs with the same care she had touched you with all night; tender, focused, gentle.

The room was still, save for the soft drag of fabric across your oversensitive skin, your breathing slowly evening out, and the distant crackle of fireworks still blooming outside the windows.

Abby didn’t speak. Her jaw was tight, her eyes lowered, focused on the task like it was keeping her tethered. Like if she looked up too soon, she might drift out of the moment completely.

Your hand found her wrist.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice soft, full.

She didn’t look at you right away. Just nodded once, folding the cloth neatly before placing it on the nightstand. Her hands stayed at your ankles, fingers curled loosely around the bone like she didn’t want to stop touching you. Like she needed the contact, but didn’t trust herself with more.

You watched her in the silence. The way her chest moved like every breath cost something. The way her fingers clenched slightly when they stilled.

After a moment, you reached toward her, your voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

She looked up, guarded but present.

Your fingers slid along her thigh, soft. “Would you let me go down on you?”

The change in her was instant. Not violent, not rejection, just stillness. Her whole body froze. Her hand stilled on your leg. Her throat worked through a tight swallow. She didn’t answer at first.

Then she shook her head, once. Measured. Her eyes finally met yours. “No.”

You sat up slowly, your voice gentle. “Okay. I didn’t mean to push—”

“No,” she cut in again, this time softer. “It’s not that I don’t want you to.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she wet her lips. “I do. I really do.” Her jaw clenched. “But I can’t. Not right now.”

You said nothing. Just listened.

Abby’s eyes dropped, her thumb tracing along your shin like she couldn’t help it. “If you touched me like that, if I let go that far, I think I’d lose it. I think I’d fall apart.”

There was no shame in it. Just honesty. Just the trembling edge of someone trying hard not to fall too fast.

You crawled toward her on the bed, closing the small space between you. Your hands came up to cradle her face, your thumbs stroking gently along the sharp lines of her jaw.

“You’re allowed to need what you need,” you whispered. “I only asked because I wanted to offer.”

Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when she opened them again, they were shining. “I know.” She leaned into your touch, pressing her cheek into your palm. “And I love you for it.”

Your fingers curled gently into her hair, drawing her close.

She breathed you in. “Just… let me keep you close tonight. That’s all I want. That’s all I can hold.”

You kissed her forehead, slow and certain. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

And so she pulled you back into her arms, lying down with you beneath the blankets, your head tucked just under her chin, her palm warm across your spine, holding you like you were the only thing left tethering her to the earth. The fireworks outside still cracked and flared in bursts behind the curtains, but she didn’t flinch anymore. Not with your breath against her collarbone, not with the steady weight of you curled into her chest like safety.

She didn’t need to be touched.

She just needed to feel safe, and with you, she was starting to remember how that felt. One slow breath at a time.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It was the silence that woke her.

No more distant crackles. No more phantom flashes lighting up the ceiling. Just stillness, thick and full. The world had quieted. And in that absence, Abby could finally hear the gentle, unremarkable sounds of a night that hadn’t ended in ruin. The soft creak of the headboard when she shifted. The faint whisper of wind against the windowpanes. A far-off car, muted in the early gray hush of morning.

And your breathing. Steady, soft, right beside her. You were still here.

Her arm was draped securely around your waist, both of you tangled up beneath the comforter like you belonged there, like you’d always been there. One of her legs, her bad one, was bent a little out to the side, the muscle stiff and sore beneath the quilt, and your thigh was warm where it pressed into hers, bare skin touching bare skin. Your back rose and fell with each breath, your shoulders moving with the rhythm of dreaming, and when you murmured something wordless, slurred by sleep, Abby instinctively drew you in closer.

She shifted slowly, carefully, easing herself up onto one elbow to look at you.

The light was gray, dim, filtering thinly through the blinds. That time of morning that felt like the world hadn’t started yet. No pressure. No noise. Just the quiet in-between. Her eyes traced your sleeping form, the soft curve of your shoulder, the gentle crease at your brow even in sleep. And then, below that, your lingerie. Still clinging to your body in delicate lines, straps slipped askew from where her hands had tugged and touched and clutched at you last night like she was afraid you’d disappear.

And all around the floor, there it was. The trail of how it had happened. Your dress was draped half over the foot of the bed, one strap hanging limply to the floor. Your boots had been kicked off beside her nightstand, one sock still stuffed inside. Your earrings were in a little ceramic dish she didn’t even remember handing you. Her hoodie, your shirt— they were scattered in soft chaos at the edge of the bed.

Not thrown. Not careless.

Just… surrendered. Given freely, in the blur of trying to get closer.

Abby exhaled softly, her breath mingling with the quiet stillness of the room. Her hand moved instinctively, fingertips tracing the gentle curve of your waist beneath the blanket. You shifted slightly in your sleep at the touch, pressing back into her warmth without waking, the motion unconscious and tender.

Now you were here, in her bed, wrapped up like something sacred. Your hair was tousled from sleep, cheeks flushed with a soft, warm glow, lashes casting delicate shadows over your skin. The blanket lay half-draped across your hips, slipped down just enough to reveal the smooth line of your body nestled perfectly in the space she’d unknowingly made for you. Close, safe, and utterly belonging.

Abby swallowed.

You looked too soft like this, too good, too open, and something in her chest pulled tight with it. Because she didn’t feel like she’d earned it. Didn’t feel worthy of how peaceful you looked in the aftermath of her unraveling.

Abby laid down again slowly, inching closer until she was curled around you once more, her arm slipping beneath your ribs and pulling you into her chest. You were smaller than she remembered, not in size, but in how perfectly you fit now, like you’d melted into the space beside her in your sleep, becoming something inevitable. Her lips found the slope of your shoulder, warm skin against cracked lips.

“Still here,” she whispered into your skin, voice raw, like she was saying it for herself more than you.

You blinked awake at the sound, slow and bleary, your breath hitching as you shifted to face her. “Hey,” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep, barely a breath between your lips. “You okay?”

Abby nodded, brushing her thumb along the soft edge of your waist. “Yeah. I think… I think I will be.”

You lifted your hand and touched her jaw. Tender, reassuring, so gentle it made her pulse slow. “The fireworks finally stopped.”

“Yeah.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I didn’t think I’d get through it.”

You leaned your forehead to hers, breath warm in the inch of space between you. “You didn’t have to get through it alone.”

That stilled her.

Her hand slid up, finding the edge of the blanket and tucking it tighter around your back like it would shield you from the chill still hanging in the corners of her thoughts. Her knuckles brushed a thin strap still clinging to your shoulder.

“You’re still wearing this,” she murmured, low and a little amused.

You smiled, eyes still half-lidded. “Didn’t exactly show up planning to sleep.”

Abby huffed a soft breath through her nose. “I noticed.”

Her eyes flicked past you, to the mess on the floor. Your dress in a puddle, your heels toppled next to her bed, your hoodie somewhere scattered in a corner.

“Your clothes are all over the goddamn floor,” she muttered.

“Mmm. Pretty sure my earrings are having a nap somewhere in your dog’s bed,” you murmured, cheek resting softly against hers

That made her laugh. Quiet, surprised. The sound felt foreign in her chest, like a song she hadn’t heard in weeks. “You want to get dressed?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“You don’t.”

And she didn’t push. Didn’t press her luck. She just let her hand drift slowly down your back, curling around your side, holding you like a secret. Her face buried into the warm crook of your neck, her breath slowing as the weight of the night gave way to something else, something quieter, gentler.

Her head still buzzed faintly with leftover adrenaline, echoes of sirens that never came. But your body was soft and real in her arms. You smelled like skin and sleep and the tiniest trace of the perfume you’d worn earlier, and she clung to that like oxygen.

The world hadn’t ended. Not really. It had cracked open, and somehow, you had stepped into the wreckage and made a home there, one soft touch at a time.

And now, in the quiet pulse of dawn, she let herself believe that some things, after all of it, were still hers to hold.

You

Always, impossibly, still you.


You were born into the dark. Not metaphorically, though the world was already ash and bone by the time your lungs drew their first ragged breath, but literally. No blinding hospital lights, no sterile nursery cribs. No handhelds flashing from proud fathers. You were born in the backroom of a storage facility just outside your hometown, your mother gritting her teeth through labor while three people she barely trusted whispered panicked instructions beside her.

The only light came from a cracked skylight above, stained with moss and the shadow of rot. And when you opened your eyes, they stayed closed.

You never saw her face. She died minutes later. And you don’t remember her voice, either, though your father used to say it sounded like the wind through chainlink. Soft but cutting. He doesn’t say that anymore. Not because he forgot. But because some memories hurt less in silence.

There were a few truths you learned young. First: the world doesn’t slow down for you. Second: silence doesn’t mean safety. Third: people are kind, sometimes, but only until the kindness costs them something.

But your dad? He was different. The kind of different that lasts even in a world like this. He didn’t look at you like a burden. Didn’t speak about your blindness with that hushed tone people reserve for death or weakness. He never flinched when you stumbled, and he never overreached to help you unless you asked.

“You’re not broken,” he’d say, tying your boots the first time you tried them on. “Just tuned to a different station.”

He called it that often, your head. Your world. A different station. And maybe he was right. You never missed the sight of things. Never grieved the loss. You couldn’t lose what you never had. While other kids were learning colors and shapes, you were learning textures and distances, cataloguing spaces by sound and vibration. You could tell a person's weight by the way the floor groaned under them. You could tell their mood by the pattern of their breath. You never needed eyes to see when someone was lying.

But still, the world was cruel. And crueler to those who asked for space or help. So your father kept you close, moving often, bartering his skills, first as a runner, then as a mechanic, then as something between soldier and scavenger, just to keep your heads above water. But it was never quite enough.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The moment it all changed was the day your father got wind that Isaac Dixon was alive. Not just alive, but building something real. Not a settlement of wishful thinkers with garden beds and hand-sewn blankets. Not a group of half-starved zealots clinging to some repurposed scripture. A force. An army. One with rules. One that could protect its own.

Your father knew Isaac from before. Before the fall. They weren’t best friends or anything like that, not then, but they were close enough to recognize each other without weapons raised. Isaac had respected him back then. Trusted him. And that trust? It carried over.

It took a month to track the WLF down. Another week to convince the guards at the outer wall not to shoot. But the moment your father said his name, everything shifted. Someone fetched Isaac. There were muffled words, soft but urgent. And then Isaac stepped out, and you felt your father relax beside you. Shoulders dropping. Breath even.

“Holy shit,” Isaac had murmured. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again.”

And your dad, with that dry edge to his voice, answered, “Wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate. He looked at you next. Not with pity. Not even confusion. Just... calculation. A soft exhale. Then a nod. “She yours?”

Your dad rested a hand on your shoulder. “She’s mine.”

“Then you’re in.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

They gave you a room the same night. Not far from your father’s, though you insisted on having your own. You liked your space. Liked knowing where things were. And though the beds were hard and the lights always buzzing overhead, it was the safest you’d felt in years.

You didn’t go on patrols, not at first. You weren’t assigned to a station, weren’t handed a rifle and told to “stand watch.” But you weren’t dismissed either. People stared, sure. Whispered. But nobody said anything out loud. That was the thing about the WLF, respect was earned, not handed down. And over time, you found your rhythm.

You helped organize supplies. Catalogued ammo and gear by weight and count. You carved identifiers into storage racks. People caught on quick, your hands could find things faster than their eyes could. And after a while, they stopped treating you like dead weight. Some even came to you for help.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

One of the first to actually talk to you was Manny.

Loud, cocky, full of shit in a way that made you grin even when you didn’t want to. He was always trying to flirt, but never in a way that felt mean. He liked making people laugh. And you? You were a great excuse for him to practice charm without consequences.

But the one who mattered most, the one you hadn’t expected, was Abby Anderson.

She never said much at first. You could tell she didn’t quite know what to do with you. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t gentle either. You liked that. The first time you heard her speak, her voice came from across the mess hall, low, even, clipped. “Pass the salt.”

The sound of her was sharp. Controlled. You pictured her then: tall, probably. Strong. Someone who could silence a room without raising her voice. And you were right. Not long after, Manny introduced you two. She didn’t shake your hand, didn’t lean close or adjust her tone. She just said your name. Once. And then hers.

“Abby.”

Simple. Like she didn’t think you needed more. Like she trusted you’d figure it out.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The shift between you wasn’t fast. It came in layers.

First, it was food. Someone would hand you a tray, and by the time you sat, a spoon or fork would already be pressed into your palm. No word. Just a warm hand nudging it there.

Then it was doorways. Abby would clear her throat softly right before you passed through, just enough to signal she was holding it open. You never tripped. You never needed guiding. But she was there, anyway, hovering without suffocating. Present without pity.

Your father noticed. Of course he did.

“She watches out for you,” he muttered once while sharpening a blade. “More than most.”

You shrugged. “She’s like that with her friends.”

But you weren’t really her friend. Not yet. Just someone she didn’t ignore.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It changed the night the thunder rolled in.

Salt Lake didn’t get many storms, not the loud kind. But that night was different. Dry heat all day, then pressure dropped. Air thickened. Then the crack of it, sudden, sharp, right above the compound. You sat bolt upright in your bunk before the echo finished bouncing off the walls.

You weren’t ashamed. Not really. You’d hated thunder since you were a kid. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it did to everyone else. The panic. The shouting. The fear of a breach. You couldn’t see their faces, but you could feel chaos rising in their bones like steam.

You curled up. Breathed deep. Tried to bury yourself in the smell of canvas and dust.

Then the door opened.

You recognized her footsteps immediately. Boots off, bare socks. The way she stood in the frame like she was giving you a second to say no. You didn’t.

She crossed the room without speaking. Sat on the edge of the bed. You didn’t touch. Didn’t even face her. Just sat there, both of you, with the thunder rolling outside and the whole world tensed like a fist.

She didn’t say you were brave. Didn’t say you were safe. She just stayed. And when the second wave cracked, louder than before, her hand drifted, barely brushing your shoulder. You didn’t flinch.

That was the night you knew she cared. Not because of what she said. But because she didn’t leave.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

A couple months later

You knew she was coming before she knocked.

Not because of some dramatic intuition, or any of the things people romanticize about blind senses, but because Abby had a specific way of arriving. A rhythm. Her boots landed harder than most, but not heavy. Steady. A controlled sort of weight. Like she measured every footfall, like even the ground needed her permission.

There was a pause outside your door. You were still sitting on your cot, hands running slowly over the edge of your thigh holster, checking that your knife was seated correctly. Not fidgeting, just grounding. You had a ritual for mornings when the base felt loud before it was. There’d been a shift in the air since sunrise. A tension in the voices passing the hall. Even the pipes seemed restless, hissing more than usual.

She knocked. Just once.

The knock was soft but deliberate. Not like the clattering urgency of a guard with bad news, not like the nervous tapping of a kid wanting to borrow a weapon. It’s steady, familiar.

Abby.

“Hey,” her voice cuts through the stale air, low and steady, carrying the weight of quiet authority mixed with something softer, something careful.

You stood before answering. Didn’t speak, just opened it. Her scent hit you first. Clean sweat. Leather. Something cold underneath, like morning air clinging to skin.

“Put your boots on,” she said simply. You heard the gear on her, rifle over shoulder, straps creaking with movement, the dull clack of buckles catching against her chestplate. But her voice didn’t carry urgency. Just that quiet kind of decisiveness she wore like second skin.

“Why?”

She shifted. You could hear the rub of her gloves as she flexed her fingers.

“Fresh air.”

That was code, now. She never said walk, patrol, or escape. Just fresh air. Like it was a shared thing. Yours and hers.

You bent to pull your boots from under the bed. Fingers curling around the rough leather and pulling them on with practiced ease. Your fingertips find the laces, working them tight before sliding your feet in, molding yourself into the familiar weight and feel. The boots ground you, their rigid sole against your skin, the way the leather creaks just slightly as you flex your ankles.

When you stood again, she was still in the doorway. Not in it, exactly, just beside it, the way she always stood when she wasn’t sure if you wanted her in. She never crossed thresholds without being told to. You liked that about her. Liked that she didn’t fill a room until invited. You nodded once. “Ready.”

Her presence fills the narrow hallway. The scrape of her boots on concrete is a steady rhythm, a heartbeat alongside your own.

You reach out, and her hand closes around your wrist, not squeezing, just steadying. You let her guide you to the door. She doesn’t walk fast. She adjusts without asking. The first time she did it, weeks ago, you’d almost snapped at her. You hated being coddled. But she wasn’t slowing for you. She was slowing with you. Matching pace like it was instinct.

You can tell when she is armed differently. Today isn’t standard. You counted at least two guns, one on her hip, one across her back, and probably a combat knife at her thigh. She was always geared up around you. Never said why. Probably thought you didn’t notice.

Isaac must’ve signed off. She wouldn’t be taking you out otherwise.

You tilted your head toward her. “Did you ask permission?”

“Course I did,” she muttered. “You think I’d take you out there without a green light?”

You could hear the grin in her voice. That smug little edge she got when she knew she was playing by the book but still felt like she was getting away with something.

“He give you the usual speech?”

“Something about responsibility and discretion,” she said. “I stopped listening after that.”

You snorted once, quiet. She liked that sound, though she never acknowledged it out loud.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Outside, the air hits your face. Dry, sharp, salted with the faintest trace of something green, maybe pine or sagebrush carried in on a dry wind. The sky is a dull grey, heavy with clouds, but there’s no rain yet. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the wild openness you rarely feel.

Abby’s voice is close. “We’ll stick to the road for a while. Not far. Just enough to get some fresh air.”

You nod, as you’re already moving forward, your feet finding the cracked pavement, the broken glass crunching beneath your boots.

Abby walks beside you, her steps strong but measured, never too fast, always attentive. She’s silent at first, letting the sounds of the world fill the space between you. Distant birds calling, the occasional hum of a passing vehicle far off. The faint buzz of electricity from a downed powerline.

You lean slightly into her side when you sense rougher terrain ahead, a patch of gravel, maybe broken asphalt. She adjusts, stepping just ahead, holding out a steadying hand. Her fingers brush yours briefly. Not enough to startle, but enough to remind you she’s there. The heat of her skin transfers through the thin fabric of your sleeve. You hold onto it, steady and reassuring.

The jeep was already running when you two arrived. She helped you into the passenger side without touching you. Just opened the door, waited. You counted the seconds by her breathing. Not impatient. Not expectant. Just there.

The seat was cracked leather. Familiar. You ran your hand over the dash as she climbed in, noting the old radio toggle still half-broken, the duct tape on the gearshift.

She drove without music. Always did.

The ride out was quiet, save for the engine hum and the occasional crunch of gravel. You didn’t ask where she was taking you. You never did. It didn’t matter. The landscape changed every time, but the ritual was the same. She’d find a place she thought was safe enough. You’d walk. She’d track surroundings while you read them, by sound, by scent, by air.

Sometimes she talked. Most times she didn’t.

You liked the silence with her.

When the engine finally cut, you sat still for a moment. Let the absence of vibration settle in your bones. Then came the world, wind through tall trees, distant crows, the creak of old branches above. Pine needles, damp earth, the cold bite of elevation in your lungs.

You turned your head slightly. “Forest?”

“More or less,” Abby said. She was already at your side, metal clinking faintly as she stretched. “We’re west of base. Still inside safe perimeter.”

You nodded, opening your door before she could do it. The ground was uneven, but familiar. You stepped out, feeling the crunch of leaves and grit beneath your soles. You liked this texture better than concrete. It had life in it.

“Walk slow,” she murmured. “We’ll go maybe half a mile in.”

You heard the quiet click of her safety. Off, not on. Something about that both comforted and annoyed you. “Expecting trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Habit.”

You didn’t push further. You never did with her. She spoke when she needed to. The rest came through presence.

She walked a half-step ahead, but not blocking. You tracked her by sound, the swish of her pants, the occasional branch shifting against her shoulder. She didn’t talk much during these walks, and you didn’t need her to. You could feel her. That was enough.

The forest opened slowly. Wider space. Less clutter underfoot. You tapped your fingers against your thigh once, three beats. A habit you’d picked up years ago. Calibration. Sound bouncing back from trees. You counted the seconds until the echo softened.

“Field?” you asked.

“Yeah. Cleared land. Probably old farmland before the fall.”

There was a breeze here. Colder, sharper. It moved your hair, slid between layers of your jacket. You adjusted your footing.

Abby stopped. You felt the absence of her motion before you heard it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. Then, “You okay?”

You tilted your head toward her. “You always ask that.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

She exhaled slowly. Not annoyed. More like she was working something out in her head.

“’Cause sometimes you lie,” she said finally.

You huffed. “Sometimes you do too.”

She let that hang for a second. Then chuckled once. A low sound, private. “Fair.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You ended up sitting on a fallen tree, damp bark rough against your palms. Abby stood nearby, shifting occasionally. You could hear her cleaning something, probably her rifle. The cloth against metal was slow, even. Not really about maintenance. Just busy hands.

“You ever wish you could see?” she suddenly asked, voice quiet.

You turned your head toward her. Not startled, just surprised she’d asked. “No,” you said truthfully. “I think it’d make things harder.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “I’d have to unlearn too much.”

Abby was quiet again. But her voice, when it came, was softer than usual.

“Most people want more.”

“I’ve had enough.”

That silenced held for a long time. You didn’t fill it. She didn’t either. The wind moved. A crow cried somewhere overhead. You could feel her shift closer, not touching, not even brushing, but nearer than before.

When she finally spoke again, it was without preamble. “I didn’t just bring you out here for the air.”

You nodded. “Figured.”

“I just... I needed out of there.”

You didn’t say anything. You just sat there with her, two women in a dead world, breathing the same bitter wind, pretending for one quiet moment that everything outside the trees didn’t exist.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The ride back was quieter than the way out.

You stayed still in the passenger seat, hands resting in your lap, the leather cold beneath your fingers. The world outside the windshield blurred into the low hum of the jeep’s engine and the muted whisper of tires on gravel. Abby’s presence filled the small space beside you like a solid shape, grounding.

When the jeep finally eased into the base, the scent of dust and wood smoke tangled with something faintly metallic and antiseptic. You heard the engine slow, then cut off.

“Here we are,” Abby said softly. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a muted snap.

You nodded, steadying yourself with a hand on the door handle. The seatbelt tugged slightly as you shifted. The cold metal of the door frame greeted your palm when you stepped out.

The ground beneath your boots crunched with grit and small stones. You took a slow breath, savoring the shift from open air back into the enclosed safety of the base. Abby followed close, close enough that the scrape of her boots against gravel was a heartbeat behind yours.

You sat down on the edge of your cot inside your room, the rough wood cold against your bare calves. Slowly, methodically, you began unlacing your boots, fingers working the knots loose with practiced care. The leather was stiff from the day’s walk, slightly damp with sweat, and it made the familiar creak as you pulled your feet free.

Abby stayed standing nearby, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her breath steady and quiet. She was watching, not with eyes, but with presence. You felt it as strongly as if she had a hand on your shoulder.

“Mind if I check you for wounds?” Her voice was low, careful, almost hesitant.

You hesitated. You were used to managing on your own, accustomed to dismissing small aches and bruises like they were nothing. But something in the way she asked made it feel less like an obligation and more like a favor.

“Okay,” you said after a pause.

She stepped closer. You felt her breath on the back of your neck, the heat of her body a tangible comfort. Abby’s hands were rough, calloused but gentle as she reached toward your calves, sliding fingertips along your skin.

She paused where the fabric of your pants was damp. Her fingers pressed lightly, searching. “Nothing here,” she said, voice steady.

You shifted your foot, flexing your toes. She moved to your ankles, tracing the edges of your boots’ sole marks left faintly on your skin. “Any pain?” she asked.

You shook your head.

Her fingers moved up your calves slowly, carefully, her touch never rushing or sharp. When she reached your knees, you felt her fingers press with gentle pressure against the scrapes and bruises there, small, faded, mostly superficial.

“Looks like you took a few hits,” she murmured, her voice low.

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Still,” she said, “doesn’t mean I’m not going to look.” She lifted your pant leg a little, feeling for anything missed. The fabric shifted against your skin, cool and soft.

Her hands brushed a faint scar you hadn’t noticed in weeks, old and barely raised. “Here,” she said quietly, thumb stroking the edge. “This one’s healing. Did you get it on patrol?”

“No, before,” you said. “Doesn’t matter.”

Abby didn’t press. Just nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment.

When she moved to check your arms, you felt the air shift as her body circled, careful not to startle. She paused, fingertips tracing a faint bruise near your wrist.

“Here,” she said softly, “this one’s fresh. You sure you didn’t feel it before?”

You hesitated, then shook your head again. “No. Maybe just didn’t notice.”

She pressed the bruise lightly, gauging your reaction. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath. Her hands retreated. “Good,” she said finally. “Because if you’d been hurt and didn’t say something...” Her voice trailed off.

You didn’t ask her to finish.

Instead you rubbed your feet slowly, feeling the tired ache behind your arches. You shifted your weight on the cot, the wood groaning softly under you. The quiet was thick between you two, but it didn’t feel empty. Abby was still there, close enough that you could hear the soft scrape of her boots against the floor.

“Want me to get you some water?” she asked after a moment, voice low and steady.

You nodded, grateful for the simple offer. The air inside the base was dry, and after the walk, your throat felt tight.

She moved quietly toward the corner where a battered metal jug sat beside a cracked basin. You heard the click of the lid opening and the soft swish of liquid inside.

When she came back, she held the jug just out of your reach, letting you guide your hand until your fingers curled around the cool metal.

The water was colder than you expected, sliding down your throat in sharp, refreshing gulps.

You heard her shift again, closer now. “Feeling sore anywhere else?” Abby asked softly.

You paused, letting your fingers brush absently over your calf, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin. “Just tired,” you said finally. “And maybe... stiff.”

Abby hummed. You could hear the breath in her voice, steady and careful, like she was measuring every word. “I can help with that,” she said. “I know some stretches. Nothing fancy, but it might loosen you up.”

You hesitated, not sure if you wanted to bother her. But there was something in her tone, no pressure, no demand, just quiet willingness.

“Okay,” you said.

She moved around you slowly, the scrape of her boots barely audible now. Then her hands settled on your shoulders, strong and warm, grounding.

The first touch startled you slightly, but she stayed gentle, firm without pressure. Her fingers kneaded the tension out carefully, feeling the muscles beneath. You breathed out slowly, letting yourself relax into the touch. Her hands shifted to your neck, tracing the tense lines there. You felt the weight of her presence, steady and calm, like a shield against the quiet ache in your body.

“Good,” she murmured. “Just slow, steady. Let me know if it hurts.”

You shook your head, words unnecessary.

Her fingers pressed into your trapezius muscles again, moving with purpose but never harsh. She knew you well enough to sense your limits, adjusting instinctively.

After a few minutes, she eased back, her hands sliding down your arms to your wrists, stretching gently.

“Better?” she asked softly.

You nodded, the tightness in your shoulders easing just a little.

“Thanks, Abby,” you said quietly.

She shifted again, this time closer, her breath brushing against your ear. “You’re welcome.”

For a long moment, the two of you just sat there, the small room filled with the quiet sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the base settling down for the night.

Then, Abby spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “You know... I don’t mind this.”

The words hung in the air, soft and heavy. You didn’t answer right away, just felt the steady warmth of her hands resting lightly on your arms.

“I mean... being here with you. Helping. Watching out.” Her fingers twitched slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she’d said too much. But you reached up, placing your hand over hers, the skin rough beneath your palm.

“Me too,” you said.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The briefing had been brutal. Isaac’s voice was sharp, clipped, laced with the weight of something too dangerous to sugarcoat. The map spread out on the rough wooden table showed a no-man’s land, an area deep into Seattle’s outskirts, crawling with hostile factions and infected alike. The mission was clear: scout, retrieve critical supplies, maybe gather intel, but above all, survive.

No one called it what it was, no one said “suicide mission” out loud. But the word hung in the air between the lines, heavy and undeniable.

When Abby heard the orders, the hard set of her jaw tightened.

“You’re going,” Isaac said, meeting her eyes with an icy calm.

Abby didn’t argue.

But later, when she came to you, you felt it. her usual steady, unflappable armor cracked just enough for you to glimpse the worry beneath.

“You’re not coming,” she said before you could say anything. Her voice was low, almost fierce. “This isn’t safe. It’s—” She swallowed the words, but the meaning was clear.

Suicide mission.

She didn’t want you there. Not just because it was dangerous, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of watching you die on her watch. You stayed silent, the weight of her words settling between you like thick fog.

“I’m not going to leave you alone, Abby,” you said finally, voice steady. “Not on something like this.”

She looked at you, eyes dark and heavy. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about keeping you safe.”

You let the silence stretch. You knew she was right, this was dangerous. But the thought of sitting back while Abby risked everything? It was unbearable.

Abby moved around the small room methodically, gearing up for the mission.

You stayed quiet, your breathing steady, muscles coiled with determination. You knew she didn’t want you there. Hell, she’d said as much. But there was no way you were letting her go alone. Not on this.

You waited until you heard the faint clink of metal, her weapons being checked, secured. The subtle rustle of her jacket sliding over her shoulders. The sharp click as she tightened her boots. Abby’s movements were efficient, practiced, almost ritualistic, the kind of focus that made you hesitate for a heartbeat, but then you moved.

You slipped silently through the narrow hallway, toes skimming over the rough concrete floor. The scent of old leather, metal, and the faint musk of dirt hung in the air. Your fingers trailed along the wall as you navigated, every texture a guide. You passed the common room where the others were nowhere in sight, then the faint echo of voices drifting from somewhere distant.

You reached the garage door. Your fingers found the cold metal handle; the lock was simple, Isaac’s crew kept it functional, not fancy. You lifted it carefully, the slow creak muted in the thick evening stillness. Outside, the air was cooler, carrying the scent of dry dust and pine.

Your fingers brushed along the dusty frame of the car, a tough old thing with battle scars, dents, and a battered paint job peeling in places. You slid around the back, feeling the shape of the trunk, and then moved to the side door.

The car was unlocked. You smiled a little, thankful for the small mercy. You opened the door quietly, the soft thud almost swallowed by the night. You slid inside the backseat, the worn leather creaking softly beneath you.

Your heart hammered, not from fear, but from fierce resolve. You settled in low, trying to find a comfortable spot. The faint scent of Abby’s sweat and earth mingled with the oil and old fabric. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill inside the car reminding you that you’d chosen this willingly.

You heard the front door slam behind you, Abby was coming. You held your breath as the driver’s side door swung open and shut, the sound sharp in the quiet. The engine rumbled to life, a low, vibrating growl beneath your back.

You stayed perfectly still, listening. The seatbelt clicked in, then the soft scrape of Abby’s boots on the pedals. Then the car rolled forward, tires crunching over gravel.

For nearly ten minutes you remained silent, every sound magnified in the cramped space. You felt every vibration through the seat, the subtle changes as Abby shifted gears, the steady rhythm of the engine.

Then, suddenly, a sharp intake of breath came from the front. “Wait...” Abby’s voice was tense, uncertain.

You shifted slightly, the worn leather creaking beneath you, and you heard her stiffen.

“Shit.”

Her hands gripped the wheel tighter. “What the fuck are you doing back there?”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the seat fabric. “I’m not letting you go alone,” you said quietly.

There was a long pause, then a soft exhale. “Goddamn it,” Abby muttered. You heard her lean back slightly, the leather seat creaking under her weight. “Get up here.”

Your hands moved quickly, feeling your way to the front seat as Abby reached over and unlatched the back door. The cold night air brushed against your face as you climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Abby caught your arm as you settled in beside her, her grip firm but not harsh. “You’re impossible,” she said softly.

You smiled. “Yeah, well. So are you.”

The car slid back onto the road, the headlights piercing the gathering dark.

You had tried calling Tommy at least a thousand times. It wasn’t just the ringing in your ears or the cracked screen of your phone lighting up endlessly, it was the growing pit in your stomach that tightened with every unanswered call. Your call log was a sea of red. Missed. Missed. Missed. Each one a sharp pinprick of panic, the kind that burrows deep and never quite leaves.

Each ring lasted forever, stretching out, mocking you. Every voicemail you left was a coffin lid being slammed shut, the cold finality of silence on the other end twisting your gut. You didn’t even want to listen to them anymore. your own voice, trembling, pleading, desperate. You wanted to believe Tommy had a simple excuse, some bullshit reason for not picking up, but your mind refused to let you.

You paced the living room for the fifth time in the last hour, the dull scrape of your shoes against the floorboards the only sound besides your ragged breaths. Your brain was running laps, chasing its own tail to keep from breaking, and failing miserably. You couldn’t stop thinking about all the signs, all the pieces falling into place like a twisted puzzle no one wanted to solve.

Because something was wrong. Not just with Tommy. With everything.

A soft thud against the door startled you. Another flyer. You barely glanced at it at first, irritated that someone was still delivering junk mail this late at night. GAS PRICES ARE INFLATING! the headline screamed in bold, angry red letters. You stared at the paper like it was some kind of cruel joke. Too normal. Too goddamn normal.

Who the hell handed out flyers at nine at night? You looked away for a sec, before looking back, half-expecting the back to be the same, but what you saw made your blood run cold.

Instead of the same headline, a completely different article stared back at you, the print slightly blurry as if it had been printed in a rush, or worse, altered. The title read: “Comfort Pets for the Elderly: A New Outreach Program.”

What the fuck?

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. That wasn’t the same headline. You were sure of it. You remembered seeing the gas prices one just a second ago. And the paper, it felt different too. The edges were damp, curling slightly, like it had been sitting in someone’s mouth, waiting before being shoved through your mail slot like a message meant only for you.

You flung the paper across the couch with a curse, the dull thud echoing in the too-quiet room. Your fingers itched to call Tommy again, to break the silence, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat.

Ellie, curled up on the armrest beside you, reached out and caught your wrist before you could pace past again. Her hand was warm. Steady. Gentle. Her touch was the only anchor keeping you from spiraling entirely.

“Hey… hey. He’s fine,” she said softly, her voice low and calm in the chaos of your unraveling mind. “He probably just has his phone off. You know how Tommy is.”

You turned toward her, eyes wild, desperate. Her brows were furrowed with worry, but her voice stayed even, gentle, an island in the storm you felt was about to drown you.

“I know you believe me,” you said, voice cracking like dry twigs underfoot. “But I need to do something. This isn’t just grief. It’s not just trauma. This is happening. And it’s gonna keep happening unless—”

Ellie nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her hand still resting lightly on your wrist.

“I’m not saying you're wrong,” she said quietly, her eyes searching yours, trying to find a way to steady the tremor she saw inside. “I saw the way Kat went. You told me about the dream, and… it all fits. But maybe Tommy's just off-grid for a bit, you know? He probably just needs space.”

You swallowed hard, but the words wouldn’t settle. Space. Time. They sounded like lies you were telling yourself to stay sane. Because if you really faced the truth, if you really believed Tommy was gone, you didn’t know if you could breathe through the panic that would swallow you whole.

Ellie squeezed your wrist, a quiet plea not to fall apart in front of her. And somehow, you wanted to believe her. You needed to. But the silence between the missed calls screamed louder than her soft reassurances.

You sat down hard on the couch, the springs protesting beneath you. Your head dropped into your hands, fingers tangling in your hair as your mind raced. The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, curling like fingers reaching in for you.

Ellie shifted closer, her body warm against yours, grounding you. The quiet between you stretched long and tense.