#hallow!mail

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, the smell of sweat and something distinctly Abby envelopes you softly. The room is dimly lit, one of the candles she said she didn’t need lit on her bedside table.

Abby’s sitting on her bed, legs sprawled with a book in her hands and when you put your bag down she lowers it - not like she’s been reading the thing anyhow.

“Hey, baby.” Your voice comes out softer, a small smile decorates your face as she opens her arms for you. “Hey, beautiful.” She murmurs back and you don’t hesitate to slip into her lap, thighs slotted on either side of hers.

But before you can even lean into kissing her, you feel something - something poking through her pants.

You cock an eyebrow at her as she shifts her hips upwards against your clothed cunt. “Is that..?” Abby just gives you a lazy grin, her hands gently run up your thighs.

“All strapped up for you.” She mumbles before she leans in, her lips brush up your neck teasingly and you swear the hot heat slowly materializes in your lower belly.

“Abby.” You whisper as your hands find her shoulders to hold on, your head tilts back and you feel her smirking against your skin. “I know, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

Without time to waste her hands sneak around your middle and you’re under her. Her hands skim over your shirt, slow and sensual and her mouth connects to your neck again.

You whimper, of course you do - Abby grinds her hips against yours and the friction makes you moan, your legs wrap around her middle just to pull her closer.

“Fuck, Abby please.” You mumble against her shoulder and she pulls back to unbutton her jeans, eyes hazy and mouth in a satisfied grin.

“Need me, baby? Need my dick?” She drawls and you try - you really try to scowl at her but the moment the pink dildo springs free from the zipper your breath hitches.

Abby’s hands glide up your thighs with a low hum as she pushes the skirt up, one hand brushes over your panty covered cunt and you moan softly, almost involuntarily. “Say it.” She whispers as her thumb draws soft torturous circles over your clothes clit. 

Your back arches slightly at the touch, mind already hazy with her. “I need you, shit - Abby please fuck me.”

Abby grins, satisfied and victorious all the same as she slowly drags down the already soiled panties. “There she is. Get on your belly, baby.” One hand of hers brushes over your stomach before she gives your thigh a soft tap. “Wanna fuck you from behind.” 

She doesn’t have to tell you twice. You move and she lets you, your legs spread and open for her, skirt pushed up when you pull your arms under your chin. “That’s it - fuck, look at you.” She mumbles before one of her hands palms your ass, slowly spreading you open for her.

The other hand palms her strap, it glides over the silicone as if it were a limb of hers and in that moment you both wish it were. “Gonna make you feel good.” Abby whispers one more time before she lines up the tip of the pink faux dick and slowly eases into your wet pussy.

Soon the room is filled with obscene sounds of skin slapping, squelching and broken moans. One of her hands fists your hair just enough to not hurt as she drives the strap into you.

“Fuck, baby - ah shit.” She mumbles between thrusts, you’re beneath her gasping and writhing as your hands fist the sheets.

Then, drowned out by the sheer mass of sounds coming from the both of you - the door creaks open. Gasps and squelching noises fill the room as Manny, Abby’s roommate (ah yes, your girlfriend doesn’t live here alone) steps into the room, eyes wide in horror as his gym bag drops to the floor

“What the fuck?!”

Abby freezes on top of you.

Your breath stutters out in a half-moan, half-choke as you whip your head toward the door—mortified—and meet Manny’s horrified stare.

He’s frozen too, like some cartoon character who’s just walked off a cliff but hasn’t realized it yet. His gym bag has already thudded against the wooden floor, and his wide, saucer-like eyes flicker between your bare skin and Abby’s very naked, very occupied position between your thighs.

There’s a long, awful pause.

“Seriously?!” Manny finally shouts, hands flailing as if he’s just caught the two of you sacrificing a goat instead of, well—“I LIVE HERE TOO, CABRONES!”

You scramble for the blanket, your back bumping into Abby’s belly as you try to cover the both of you with something, anything. But the sheet is twisted at the foot of the bed and Abby, very helpfully, is now hiding her face in your back and groaning—not with pleasure, but pure secondhand shame.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, your face burning hotter than the sun. “Manny, GET OUT!”

“I’m trying!” he yells, backing up and nearly tripping over his own bag. He covers his eyes with one hand like he’s been personally victimized. “But Jesus, Abby! A sock on the door, maybe? A post-it? I don’t need to see my roommate’s ass on a Tuesday!”

You bury your face in your hands. Abby finally shifts to sit up behind you, voice a low, growling grumble. “Manny. If you don’t close that damn door right now, I swear to God—”

He squeaks. Squeaks. And then slams the door behind him with a resounding BAM, followed by muffled cursing and footsteps down the hall.

Silence.

You sit there, wrapped in Abby’s arms now, her cheek resting on your shoulder, both of you breathless and sticky and flushed in a hundred different shades of mortification.

“I think I just died,” you mumble.

Abby exhales against your skin, then lets out a low, grumbly laugh.

The bar buzzes with noise — rowdy laughter, clinking bottles, the low hum of country music vibrating through the scuffed floorboards. The air is heavy with the scent of whiskey, fried food, and the kind of grease that sticks to your skin.

You’re tucked into the corner booth, warm and settled, Vi’s arm draped casually over the back of your chair. Her thumb traces slow, lazy circles into your shoulder while she sips her beer, all loose-limbed and comfortable.

Then Cole leans in. Smirking. Cocky. About three drinks past his limit and twice as bold as he ought to be. His eyes are glassy, his grin wide and sloppy.

“Bet your pretty little wife wouldn’t last five seconds on that bull.”

Your brows lift, surprise flickering across your face. Your lips part, but before you can get a single word out, Vi cuts in — sharp, clean.

“Ain’t her job to impress drunks.”

Cole chuckles, easy and loud. “I’m just sayin’ — she’s sweet, Vi. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ soft. But she wouldn’t hold on long.”

You glance between them, Vi already shaking her head, jaw set. Her easy calm is gone now, replaced by something low and bristling.

“Don’t even think about it, sugar,” she warns, voice taut with worry.

“That thing throws men twice your size clean off.”

But you’re already standing, that quiet little smile curling at the corner of your lips. Your dress swishes around your knees as you push your chair back, and Vi’s hand slips away from your shoulder like it doesn't want to let go.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise, sweet and soft and stubborn. “Just wanna try.”

Vi groans under her breath. “Lord help me.”

You cross the bar with your head high, the crowd parting around you. The mechanical bull looms in the center like a challenge, a dare with steel bones. You climb up with more grace than sense, settle into the seat like you belong there, and nod politely to the man at the controls.

Vi doesn’t sit. She stands rooted by the booth, hands braced on her hips, watching with her heart in her throat. Her eyes never leave you.

The bull lurches.

And you hold on.

One hand raised high, dress fluttering wild around your legs. The machine bucks hard beneath you, twisting, jerking — but you don’t flinch. You laugh, bright and reckless, like the whole world is yours and gravity’s just a suggestion. You grip with your legs, spine steady, smile wide.

The bar goes quiet, then erupts — whistles, cheers.

And still, you ride.

When the bull finally slows, easing into a stop, the whole place is roaring. People are on their feet, shouting, clapping, stunned.

Vi just stares. Her mouth parts, her breath catches — and then she grins, wide and smug and proud enough to knock someone over.

Cole whistles low. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Vi turns toward him slow, that grin sharpened into something dangerous.

“That’s my wife,” she says, voice cool as ice and sharp as a switchblade. “And if I were you, I’d think twice before callin’ her soft again.”

You hop down, cheeks flushed, heart still racing — and Vi’s already there, closing the space between you like she’s been holding her breath.

Her hands find your waist, fingers curling in tight, voice low in your ear.

Smoke curls from the cigarette tucked between your lips, rising into the dusky air like a signal — a quiet call for anyone still listening.

And someone does.

Your gaze snags on her — your little brother’s best friend. Natalie Scatorccio. Though she’d probably claw your eyes out if you called her that. Just “Nat.” Always Nat.

She’s sharp edges and loud silence, bleach-blonde hair mussed into a careless halo, dark eyeliner smudged like war paint. She looks like she stepped out of a Guns N’ Roses poster and landed straight into varsity drama.

You tilt your head, exhaling smoke as you watch her cut through the chaos, trailing behind her team.

“Nat.”

It isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Your voice threads through the noise, aimed just for her.

Her eyes — green, unreadable — flick to yours. You’re not sure if it’s surprise you catch there, or irritation. Probably both.

She makes her way over, slow, deliberate. You stay right where you are, perched on the hood of your car, fingers curled loosely around your cigarette like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, her tone prickly and closed-off, like she’s already preparing for a fight.

But it doesn’t rattle you. Nat’s always been a little firecracker.

“Kevyn sent me.” Your voice is low, just for her. You take another drag before adding, “Asked me to drive you home.”

It takes her a second to respond. Nat crosses her arms over her chest like a defiant child, chin tilted upward in that stubborn way of hers — but all it does is tug a quiet smirk onto your lips.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she mutters, scowling. The frown creases her features, but instead of making her look intimidating, it only softens her into something almost... endearing.

“Shut up and get in the car.”

There’s amusement in your voice, laced with something gentler — something like fondness.

You’ve always had a platonic thing going with Nat, this banter, this push-and-pull. But lately — especially after that night, the one where her father had your brother pinned against the wall, fingers tight around his neck — something inside you shifted.

Protective instincts you didn’t even know you had rose like a tide, and now, Nat’s become one of those people you keep an eye on. Whether she likes it or not.

She scoffs, rolls her eyes like she’s got a whole monologue prepared in her head, but instead of delivering it, she yanks open the passenger side door and climbs in with a huff.

Your smirk lingers as you flick the cigarette to the ground, grind it beneath your boot, and slide into the driver’s seat.

The engine hums to life, smooth and familiar, and you ease the car out of the parking lot.

“How was the—”

“He didn’t send you,” Nat cuts in, her voice flat. A statement, not a question.

You don’t answer right away. There’s no point in pretending.

“No, he didn’t.”

Your voice drops, quieter now, the kind of quiet meant only for her.

Nat shifts beside you, just enough for you to catch the way her brow pulls tight, like she’s trying to understand something that doesn’t make sense — like the idea that someone might go out of their way for her just... because.

“You don’t have to do this.”

You glance at her, one hand still steady on the wheel, and she looks almost small in the passenger seat. Angry, confused, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.

“I want to.”

That shuts her up.

You don’t even have to look at her to know she’s frozen — caught off guard in the thick silence that settles between you.

You swear you hear the slightest hitch in her breath, so soft it nearly gets lost beneath the low hum of the tires on pavement.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely above a whisper — softer than you’ve ever heard her, like the words cost her something just to say. But they’re there, trembling at the edges, threaded with vulnerability she doesn’t often let anyone see.

You don’t look at her. Don’t need to.

Instead, you lift your hand from the gear shift, steady and casual, and hold it out — palm up, fingers slightly curled, your eyes fixed on the road ahead like this is the most natural thing in the world.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then, slowly, her hand finds yours.

Her fingers slip between yours, a little tentative at first, but they stay.

“Always,” you say, quiet but sure.

The sun hangs low over the field, casting everything in syrupy gold. Sweat clings to your back, your cleats are caked in dirt, and your legs ache in that satisfying, almost-earned way.

Practice is done, the girls are scattering, and the world feels lazy and loud — laughter bouncing off chain-link fences, water bottles being chugged like holy grails.

You tug your hair loose from its ponytail as you make your way across the grass, jersey sticking to your skin. You're already rolling your eyes before she even spots you — because there Laura Lee is, standing by the bleachers, all bright-eyed and glowing like someone cracked a stained-glass window and poured it into her.

She clutches her little Bible like it’s a limited-edition accessory and not the reason you haven’t made a single morally sound decision in years.

She waves. “Hey! That was such a good practice. Did you feel that energy at the end? That was totally God moving through us.”

You snort as you keep walking. “More like Coach nearly bursting a blood vessel.”

“But seriously,” she insists, jogging to catch up. “You can pretend all you want, but I know He’s got a plan for you. I can feel it.”

You hum, noncommittal, already locking eyes with Nat across the parking lot. She’s leaning against the fence like a teenage cliché — cigarette dangling from her lips, black eyeliner smudged in a way that makes you want to ruin her even more.

One boot on the bottom rail, hoodie zipped halfway, cocky smirk ready and waiting.

Your mouth curls as you toss a look back at Laura.

“Yeah, well… don’t wait up,” you say, loud enough for her and the departing team to hear. “I’m about to go commit six of the seven deadly sins in Nat’s backseat.”

Laura Lee audibly gasps like you just backhanded a priest.

“Y/N!” she squeaks, scandalized. “You can’t just—! That’s so—”

“What, biblically incorrect?” you grin, breezing past her.

Nat’s laughing by the time you reach her, shaking her head like she can’t believe you exist but she’s real glad you do.

She stubs out the cigarette and yanks you in by your collar, eyes glittering.

“You’re seriously gonna send your sister into cardiac arrest one day.”

“I consider it character building,” you murmur, sliding your fingers under the hem of her hoodie.

She leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You’re such a bad influence.”

“God’s favorite, baby,” you whisper, smiling as Laura’s horrified voice calls out behind you.

The room is quiet—comfortably so, in that particular way only Abby can manage. Manny's out with one of his friends, probably drowning themselves in cheap tequila and calling it strategic numbing, which leaves the dorm peacefully still, just the two of you wrapped up in each other.

Abby’s arm is draped protectively around your waist, her hand resting over your breast like it belongs there—like it’s the only place it ever wants to be.

You wouldn’t dream of complaining. Her breath grazes the back of your neck, slow and steady, and the press of her knee between your thighs does nothing to soothe the growing heat pooling low in your belly.

What finally pulls Abby from her doze is the quiet sound that escapes you—a soft, needy little whimper, laced with desperation. She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know what’s happening.

She feels the way your heartbeat stutters against her arm, pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

Then, her hand begins to move.

Fingers slide from your chest to your stomach, teasing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath it. They trace warm patterns over your skin, deliberate and slow, before gliding lower, until she’s pressing her palm against the heat of your clothed core.

A soft, shaky moan slips past your lips.

Abby breathes a quiet laugh against your skin, her lips brushing your shoulder.

“There she is,” she murmurs, voice husky with affection and mischief. Her fingers start to move, slow and certain, caressing over your clothed pussy like she has all the time in the world.

“Abby…” you whisper, voice shaky as her fingers trace slow, deliberate circles over your clothed core. The pressure is maddening—precise, patient, and pulsing with promise.

She presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck, her breath damp and warm against your skin.

“I got you, baby,” she murmurs, her voice low and raspy, like gravel smoothed by silk. “Just let it happen.”

The way she says it, all hushed and certain, sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through you.

“Please,” you breathe, barely audible, but Abby hears it like a call to arms. She doesn’t hesitate.

With a slow, fluid motion, she shifts behind you, sliding out of her cocoon of warmth. Her thighs slot on either side of yours, bracketing you, and in the dim light you can just make out the soft definition of her face as she leans over you. Her arms brace on either side of your head, her presence overwhelming in the best way.

And then, without another word, she lowers herself and kisses you.

It’s deep—wet, consuming. Tongues tangle, teeth graze, and you lose yourself in the heat of her mouth.

One of your hands flies up to grip her waist, grounding yourself in the solid curve of her body. A low, raw sound leaves her throat when your hips buck up, brushing against hers in a burst of friction that makes your breath catch.

“Fuck… baby, hold up.” She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. Her hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs gentle on your cheeks. Her breath is shallow, just like yours, and you search her eyes through the haze.

“What?” you whisper, lips still brushing hers.

She swallows, steadying herself.

“We’ll go slow,” she promises, voice softer now. “I want to make this good for you. Really good.”

You nod—dazed, breathless, overwhelmed—and she exhales like that tiny confirmation settled something inside her.

Then her voice drops again, a little more hesitant this time.

“Are you sure you want this… with me?” Her thumb brushes lightly over your cheek, featherlight and reverent.

Your answer is immediate, unwavering. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to have my first time.”

Whatever tension lingered in her shoulders melts in that instant. And before she can say anything else, you lift your head and kiss her like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

She moans softly against your mouth, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head.

You curl your fingers into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer, as her hips press down and your bodies align in a way that makes your toes curl.

Then, as tongue brushes tongue and low soft whimpers leave you, Abby slides her hand down your belly and past the waistband of your sweatpants - her hand cups your cunt and a soft breath leaves you.

Abby breaks the kiss to watch you, her eyes stay focused on your face, tracing every twitch and gasp.

“You say stop and I'll stop.” She whispers it like a vow and all you manage is a nod.

Abby doesn’t look away as her middle finger slowly brushes over you folds, a low groan leaves her. “Jesus, you’re dripping. All for me, huh?” Your voice fails you as her finger slowly but surely intrudes your already aching cunt. A gasp rips from your throat as she pushes it in all the way, knuckle deep.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re doing so good, baby.” Abby whispers gently and cups one of your breasts with the other hand. Then, she starts moving - her finger glides in and out of your glistening cunt and the other toys ever so gently with your tit - her thumb brushes over your nipple.

You’re reduced to jerking hips, desperate moans and fingers clawing at Abby’s arms. She watches you like she’s seeing something holy. “God, you’re so beautiful.” She mumbles as she keeps her pace. Then, she brushes her thumb over your clit with every thrust and your toes curl with the inevitable heat curling tight in your lower belly.

“Abby, Abby…I’m gonna.” You manage to croak through gasps and moans and Abby hums softly, picking up her pace.

“Poor baby…s’ too much?” She pinches your nipple gently and draws yet another whimper from you.

“Please..fuck..I’m gonna..” You croak as your hips jerk with the sheer overwhelming pleasure.

“Then come for me, sweet girl.” She mumbles as presses a wet hot kiss to your jaw, her finger moves a tad faster and you could swear that you’re seeing stars. It doesn’t take long for your body to jerk, your voice to break off when a throaty moan leaves you - Abby doesn’t lose up though. She keeps going, relentlessly.

“Atta girl…that’s it.” She whispers into your ear as you ride your high out.

You’re all crammed into Dina’s apartment—some shitty couch, a couple floor cushions, an overturned laundry basket being used as a table.

Music low, drinks half-finished, someone’s passed out in the corner with a blanket that definitely smells like weed and regret.

And Ellie? Ellie’s on the floor, back against your knees, launching into the most insane rant you’ve ever heard.

“…I’m just saying,” she says, hand flailing with a cheeto between her fingers, “If birds wanted to be evil, they totally could. Like, they’ve got flight and hollow bones and talons. You ever seen a goose, man? Those things are demonic.”

The room is silent for half a beat.

“Anyway,” she adds, like she’s just delivered a TED Talk, “that’s why I never trust anything with wings and an attitude.”

Jesse blinks slowly. “Dude, what the fuck?”

But you?

You’re grinning. Fingers carding through Ellie’s hair absently, like you love hearing her unhinged theories about avian world domination. You lean down a little and whisper near her ear, “so… if I wore wings, would you be scared of me?”

Ellie’s neck goes red in an instant. “What—no—wait—maybe? I mean, not in a bad way! Like, in a cool, terrifying, kinda hot way—”

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse mutters. “She’s in love.”

“She’s doomed,” Dina adds, sipping from her beer.

But Ellie’s barely listening—because she’s twisted halfway around to look up at you, and you’re still smiling at her, still stroking her hair, still looking at her like she’s the smartest, funniest person alive.

And she’s melting.

“You’re, like…” she breathes, squinting. “Really pretty.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second.

“…Thanks, babe.”

“No, like. Really. It’s a problem. You’re smiling at me and I forget how words work. And my brain just goes: pretty. smile. girlfriend. And then there’s just static up here.”

She taps her forehead with two fingers, completely serious.

And you just laugh—soft and sweet—and lean down to press a kiss to her temple.

The room erupts.

“OH MY GOD,” Jesse groans, falling back on the couch like he’s been shot. “How the hell did Ellie pull her?”

“I feel like I’m watching a golden retriever date a goddess,” Dina mutters. “It’s disturbing.”

Ellie turns scarlet, burying her face in your thigh. “Don’t listen to them,” she mumbles. “They’re just jealous.”

You smile down at her, hand curling under her chin to tilt her up again.

“I think you’re perfect.”

Ellie malfunctions. Fully. Stares at you with big, round eyes like you just offered to marry her on the spot.

She mouths perfect? like she’s never heard the word before.

And all you do is nod.

Because you mean it.

Ellie’s still staring up at you, stunned, her face half-buried in your thigh. Everyone else has moved on to another round of some dumb card game Jesse’s pitching, but she’s still stock-still.

You called her perfect.

Her. Ellie “accidentally-walked-into-the-wrong-classroom-and-sat-there-for-40-minutes” Williams. Ellie who once used a sock to hold her blunt ‘cause she lost her lighter and burned her thumb last time. Perfect.

“You good, babe?” you murmur, hand gently brushing her cheek.

She blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m chill. Totally chill. Just, y’know, experiencing a full emotional reboot. It’s fine.”

You giggle and press another kiss to the top of her head, and she whines softly into your leg like she can’t handle the affection.

Eventually, someone mentions it’s past one, and the room starts to empty out. You tug Ellie up by her hoodie strings, and she stands like she’s been resurrected, slinging her bag over her shoulder and mumbling something about “walking you back.”

Outside, it’s cool and quiet. The kind of early campus stillness where every window glows soft yellow and the street lamps flicker like they’re just as tired as the students.

You lace your fingers through hers, and she tenses for half a second before relaxing—then squeezing back.

She glances sideways at you. “So. Uh. I meant to ask. That thing you said back there—was that, like, real? Or were you just saying it ‘cause I said your smile makes my brain explode?”

You stop walking and tug her back a little, fingers still locked. “You mean the perfect thing?”

Her whole face goes red again. “That’s the one.”

You shrug, playful. “Guess you’ll have to get used to hearing it.”

She stares. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re actually gonna kill me. Death by girlfriend compliment. Local lesbian found deceased on sorority row sidewalk.”

You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” she says immediately, too fast, too much. And then realizes, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, ignore that, that was—that slipped out, I didn’t mean to—well I did, but I didn’t mean to say it, not like that, I was gonna wait ‘til, like, Valentine’s Day or a meteor shower or something cool—”

You stop her with a kiss. Gentle. Quick. Just enough to make her forget what planet she’s on.

When you pull back, she’s blinking, dazed. “…was that a good kiss or a ‘shut up, loser’ kiss?”

You smile. “Both.”

She huffs. “Rude.”

But you’re smiling at her with that look again—the one that says she’s yours, chaos and all—and she leans in close, bumping her forehead to yours.

“I meant it,” she mumbles. “Even if it was an accidental I-love-you. I do.”

You tilt your head, whisper back, “Me too.”

Ellie practically floats the rest of the way to your dorm. You part with another kiss, and she’s halfway down the hall before she turns around, walking backward and beaming.

“You still think I’m perfect?”

You laugh. “I think you’re mine.”

And that’s all it takes. Ellie bolts out of sight before you see the way she pumps her fist in the air, quietly muttering, “holy shit, holy shit, I have the best girlfriend on earth.”

She’s standing in the middle of her room. Hoodie still half-on, phone gripped like it’s both her lifeline and her greatest threat.

Her cat’s staring up at her from the bed, judgmental as hell.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters, flopping onto the mattress. “You didn’t see her. She said I’m hers. I had no choice but to fall apart.”

The cat blinks.

Ellie’s phone buzzes.

[You]: made it back okay? [You]: you looked like you were floating

She groans, punches her pillow a little, and then types back:

[Ellie]: i was not floating [Ellie]: i am very grounded. like a normal person. a grounded, non-floating person who is extremely chill and not thinking about your lips at all.

Immediate regret.

She throws the phone face down on the bed.

The cat meows. “I panicked, okay?”

Buzz.

[You]: you’re so dumb. i’m smiling so hard it hurts [You]: love you, loser. goodnight.

Ellie clutches her phone to her chest and lets out a long, dreamy “fuck.”

The warehouse is chaos—raw, unrelenting chaos. Shouts echo like thunder, bullets tear through the air with vicious precision, and the acrid scent of gunpowder clings to your lungs.

You dive behind a rusted cart just in time, the metal shrieking as a bullet ricochets off its edge. Gritting your teeth, you cock your weapon with a sharp snap, a curse slipping through your lips. Your knee screams in protest, but you barely feel it. Not now.

And then you see her.

Sevika charges forward like a lioness unleashed, metal arm gleaming under flickering lights, raised high with fury and purpose. She’s a storm in motion—deadly, beautiful, unstoppable.

Your breath catches. Even in the thick of battle, when death feels like a coin toss, she’s here. She’s with you. And for a second, just a second, your heart forgets how to be afraid.

You pull in a shaky breath and rise, gun steady, eyes locked on your next target. He lunges, wild-eyed, swinging a pipe, but you duck low and fire—once, clean through the chest. He drops, and you’re moving again, adrenaline pumping, instinct guiding your every step.

A blur rushes past—one of your own, machete raised high—and you seize the opening to fire three quick shots into the enemy's flank. Screams mix with gunfire, but your eyes—your heart—search for her again.

And there she is.

Sevika, blood splattered across her face like war paint, her chest heaving, eyes alight with a fire you’ve only ever seen in your dreams. She’s chaos incarnate, and yet, somehow, the only thing that feels real.

But then— A shadow. A shape. Movement near the crates.

A massive figure rises from the smoke, his gun aimed straight at you. You freeze for half a heartbeat—but Sevika doesn’t.

Your eyes lock for a single breath. A lifetime lives in that glance. Words you’ve never spoken. Things you’ve never dared to feel.

And then she moves.

Faster than your mind can process, she throws herself forward—between you and the bullet. Her body slams into yours, knocking you back just as the shot rings out. The sound is deafening.

You see it before you feel it—the way her body jerks, the way she crumples to the floor, lifeless and heavy.

Your lungs forget how to work.

“No... no, no no—”

You don’t remember moving. One second she’s falling, the next you’re beside her, dragging her limp form behind cover with trembling hands. She’s dead weight—unconscious, maybe worse—and your vision blurs with panic.

“You idiot,” you breathe, voice cracking as your fingers search desperately for the wound, hot blood soaking your palms. “You stupid idiot—why would you take a bullet for me?”

Her blood coats your hands, thick and warm, and you press hard against the gash along her ribs.

“You’re not supposed to—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” you whisper, voice barely holding itself together. “Not you.”

The warehouse noise dims, the fight waning in the distance, but all you can hear is the wild, uneven beat of your own heart.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” you plead, eyes blurring. “I love you, Sevika. Do you hear me? I—God, I love you. So stay with me. Please.”

You don’t expect an answer. You’re rambling to the void, to the blood-slick shadow of the woman who’s haunted your every thought.

But then— A breath. A voice. Fragile, like glass cracking.

“Love me?”

It’s barely audible, but it hits you like another bullet. Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and your chest caves with relief.

“I do,” you whisper, raw and real. “Yes.”

And when her fingers—slick with her blood—find yours in a weak, trembling grasp, you know.