I'm Glad You're Here

It started with your first table, a group of rowdy college students who complained about every aspect of their meal. They had you running back and forth to the kitchen for the better part of an hour, catering to their every ridiculous demand only to be left with a total of ten cents as your tip. But to add insult to injury, one of them scrawled his phone number across the back of the receipt as if that would somehow make up for it.

Things only seemed to spiral out of control from there.

You forgot to ring in an appetizer and were subsequently berated by a soccer mom with a bad Karen cut and chunky highlights. Then the new host triple sat you while you were refilling the ice bucket in the back, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you ran out of silverware and ended up rolling majority of it on your own.

Every new table that walked through the door seemed to bring with it some kind of mistake: a late greeting, a missed refill, a forgotten ranch. You had honestly lost count of how many times Abby had to re-make something for you but she was still being so incredibly patient throughout it all, which only made you feel worse.

You'd been far too preoccupied to realize just how closely she’d been watching you all night. That she noticed how your smile faltered every time you entered the kitchen, saw the renewed tension in your shoulders whenever you rang in another order, and the way your composure seemed to crack a little more with each new setback you faced.

But the final straw came in the form of your apron.

The stupid thing had been giving you trouble all night, the strings somehow working themselves loose no matter how tightly you managed to tie them. While you’d been able to laugh it off the first few times, after everything else that had gone wrong, the feeling of the fabric slipping down your hips might be enough to break you completely.

You’d just barely rounded the corner with a tray full of dirty dishes when you felt it happen—that familiar slackening at your waist as the knot came loose.

“No, no no…” you whisper, fumbling to try and catch it before it could slide any further over your hips. But the strings slip right through your fingers and your apron lands in a small heap on the floor.

You just stand there for a moment, tears of frustration beginning to blur your vision as you glare down at the pile of fabric pooled at your feet. Your hands start to tremble as your fingers grip tighter onto the edge of the tray and your breath releases in short, quick huffs.

A pair of warm hands reaches out to steady your own as the first traitorous tear slips down your cheek, and the stack of heavy dishes suddenly disappears from your grasp as the tray is carefully lifted away. Before you can even try to argue, to assure that you’re fine—you’re being guided away from the chaos of the expo line and back toward the dish pit.

“Easy, now,” Abby murmurs and the sound of her voice has your head snapping up.

Her eyes are impossibly soft as she meets your gaze and any traces of her usual sarcasm are nowhere to be found. You’d been so frazzled and panicked the entire night that you’d barely looked at her. But now that she’s so close, it’s too hard for you to look away.

Because fuck, she’s gorgeous.

Her dark blonde locks are thrown up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose to frame her overly flushed cheeks. Sweat dampens the curve of her brow and the collar of her t-shirt from hours of working the grill. The sleeves of it pushed up well past her shoulders, exposing the tatted, freckled skin of her biceps.

On the surface, she looks every bit like the gruff, intimidating line cook that you were warned about weeks ago. But the way she’s looking at you right now speaks of something else entirely. There’s a gentleness in her expression that you’ve never seen before, laced with a kind of genuine concern that makes your throat tighten.

“You okay?” she asks, and a flash of maroon suddenly catches your eye.

It’s then that you finally notice the folded heap of fabric in her hands. Your apron. When she goes to hand it back to you, her thumb lightly brushes the inside of your wrist and somehow, that subtle touch unravels you completely.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” you choke out, attempting to wipe away the fresh onslaught of tears that spill down your cheeks. “God, I feel so fucking stupid right now.”

“Hey,” she says soft but firm, a wrinkle appearing between her brows as she frowns. “You’re overwhelmed, that’s not stupid.”

She sounds so sincere that it makes your chest ache.

“I should be able to handle it though,” you argue with a sniffle, sinking your teeth into your lower lip as your gaze drops to the floor. “But I keep fucking everything up, and this stupid apron just won’t stay tied…”

You completely lose your train of thought when Abby reaches out, placing both hands on your shoulders. The warmth of her palms seeps through the thin cotton of your shirt, her touch instantly grounding you.

“Take a breath for me, yeah?”

You nod, inhaling deeply before releasing a slow, shaky breath. But your hands feel stiff as you start to unfold your apron, your fingers fumbling with the tangled strings as you sling it around your hips.

“Here, I got it.” Abby’s voice is soft as she turns you around, her warm breath tickling the nape of your neck when she exhales.

You’re acutely aware of where her hands rest at curve of your waist, adjusting the apron until it lays flush against your middle and a tingle races down your spine when her palms smooth over the rumbled fabric. You can practically feel the heat radiating from her chest as she takes her time to secure the knot and your breath catches when her knuckles graze the small of your back.

“There,” she says after a beat, giving the knot one final tug. “That’s not going anywhere.”

You quickly turn to thank her, the movement causing your shoulder to graze over the curve of her left breast and your entire body tenses at the contact. A strange combination of mortification and need begins to lick up the curve of your spine as your eyes meet. But Abby makes no move to pull away, in fact she leans in closer as her tongue wets her lower lip. And part of you can't help but wonder if maybe she'll close that remaining distance and kiss you. 

A loud clatter of dishes erupts behind you, immediately breaking the spell and you stumble back a step.

“Sorry,” you blurt. 

“It's okay,” she replies, her voice low but filled with mirth. 

When you dare another glance at her, a rosy flush has begun to bloom across the apples of her cheeks, but the intensity of her gaze hasn't wavered. 

“Hey, Abs?” Manny’s voice suddenly calls from across the kitchen. “If you’re done flirting with the new girl, can you get your ass back on the line? We’re getting smoked back here!”

Abby barely spares him a glance. “Sounds like more of a skill issue, cabrón,” she calls over her shoulder.

A giggle bubbles past your lips before you can stop it and the corner of her mouth curls up into a subtle smirk when Manny flips her the bird. 

“Well, I better get back,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you mumble. “Thanks for…you know…” You gesture vaguely toward your apron. 

She grins. “Anytime.”

You watch as she turns to walk away, unable to hide the soft smile from tugging at your lips when she glances back at you one last time before disappearing behind the expo line. You release a small, content sigh as you slump against the door of the walk-in, taking a moment to fully collect yourself before you to head back out on the floor.

“She’s never done something like that before you know,” a quiet voice breaks through your thoughts and your eyes flick up to find Lev, whose wearing an all too knowing look on his face.

“Done what?” you ask curiously.

“Left the line,” he continues, rather matter-of-factly. “Especially not during a dinner rush, she's practically married to that grill.”

You fall silent but Lev doesn’t give you a chance to reply before he turns, slipping his earbuds in and going back to rinsing the stack of dirty dishes. But his words settle deep in your chest, effectively warming you from the inside-out.

You find yourself glancing back toward the kitchen, to where Abby's fallen back into the chaos of the dinner rush with startling ease. Like she hadn't just dropped everything to come piece you back together again.

As if she can feel your eyes on her, Abby glances back up from the grill, raising a brow in a silent question. You good?

And for the first time all night, you think you just might be. 

The sun setting overhead created long shadows across the ruins that remained of Seattle. You and Abby had been out on patrol all day, sweeping through old buildings for Scars, setting traps and barriers and ensuring no one had infiltrated WLF territory. The strongholds you built around the city had remained unpenetrated, and much to your surprise and relief, you’d had a remarkably uninteresting day. You couldn’t actually recall the last time things had gone this well to plan. 

“That’s all that’s left, those storefronts up there, once they’re clear, we can head back.” Abby says, taking one hand off the steering wheel to point up ahead at a small row of shops. You weren’t far from base now, having left the outpost early that morning, tasked with conducting the sweep on your way back. You nod your head, humming a sound of confirmation as you look ahead briefly, not thinking much of the job, before electing to turn and look at her again. 

“I’m just excited to get into my bed again, the cots at the outpost are murder on my back after a while, plus you always push me to the edge.” You tease, she rolls her eyes, pulling up to the buildings and putting the truck in park. 

“You’re the one who insists we sleep in the same cot, we could just push them together” She suggests, her tone sounding repeated, like you’d already had this argument countless times and she knows her point is about to be shot down. 

“I know, but it leaves a-” You start, but she’s quick to interrupt 

“It leaves a gap and it’s not comfortable to cuddle, I know. I don’t disagree I’m just saying if you need the space from me that bad” She says, although her tone lacks any actual intensity required to make you believe she’s anything besides joking. 

“I never want any space from you, those cots just aren’t big enough for two,” You say, a dramatic sigh trailing off the end of your sentence. She grins, not bothering to hide her amusement at your dramatics. She unbuckles her seatbelt, leaning across the console, one hand coming up to grab your chin as she pulls you in to press a quick kiss to your lips. 

It had become a bit of a routine between the two of you: every time you left somewhere safe, whether it be the car, an outpost, or the base, you demanded a kiss for good luck. Abby was used to it by now, finding comfort in the ritual herself, she no longer needed reminding and tended to initiate more often than not. Still, it never failed to bring a smile to your face. Something as simple as a kiss still ignited a spark of adoration within you, and from the look she gave you in the moments before pulling away, you could tell she felt the same.

You unbuckled yourself, watching Abby slip out of the truck and come around to the passenger side, where you patiently waited, opening your door for you. Another routine you shared at Abby’s insistence, you weren’t sure the last time you’d opened your own car door, even before you two had started dating, she had always done it. Refusing to allow you to do it yourself and going so far as to be offended if you didn’t let her. She reached her hand out for you to take as you stepped down from the lifted vehicle, boots steadily hitting the asphalt beneath you. You’d long since given up on acknowledging the absurdity of your shared romantic affinities contrasted to the realities of your situation. Maybe you were simply infatuated with each other, but the gentle moments of affection you shared grounded you in ways you could never have expected. 

Abby hadn’t always been this openly affectionate, and the behaviour was still mostly reserved for moments when it was just the two of you. Over time, though, as your connection grew into something intimate and familiar, you watched her slowly surrender more and more of herself to you. Trusting you to hold those pieces safe, something you didn’t take lightly. You knew it didn’t come naturally to her, the sort of easy gentleness you showed her, but witnessing her learn how to trust and show her love to you had created one of the most meaningful connections you’d ever experienced with anyone before. Even now, walking towards the fallen remains of what you think might’ve been a clothing shop, guns in hand, it was hard to see her as the battle-hardened soldier the rest of the world saw her as. She was, of course, very much a soldier, skilled and loyal, physically intimidating and capable of violence that would turn the stomach of someone less hardened. To you, however, she was so much more. She was the safe place for you to set down the horrors of the day, for you to allow yourself to put away the pretenses this world demanded of you; she was simply home. 

You trailed shortly behind her, letting her take the lead as you began your sweep of the first shop. She gestured for you to head down the right side as she turned left, you kept your weapon at the ready. Your footsteps were steady and calculated, eyes scanning every facet of the aisles as you walked down them. This shop had been well picked over, evidently looted long ago, by whom it was hard to say. However, as you met again, coming full circle at the back of the store, you were satisfied to find at least this much empty. There was a door at the back, surely some sort of storage room. Abby again headed in first. Wasting no time in kicking in the door as she found it locked, the sound was loud. Reverberating throughout the otherwise quiet place, you both held your breath, awaiting any sort of monstrous retaliation. 

You heard them almost instantly, the snarls and grunts you had become so familiar with over the years, the sound coming from inside the room. Abby reacted without a moment's hesitation, gun level as she stepped into the doorway, pulling the trigger as the infected ran at her. It fell, convulsing at her feet, forcing her to step back, blood now splattered across both of you at the close proximity. You felt your stomach turn at the feeling of it against your skin, your face crinkling in disgust. You didn’t have time to linger in the feeling, however, hearing further noise coming, it was your turn to aim your weapon - trigger pulled before the creature could get beyond the barrier of the door. In moments like this, you were grateful for the silencer equipped to the end of your gun. You didn’t need to attract any additional attention while trying to defend yourselves. 

Thankfully, as the second body fell lifeless to the floor, there wasn’t another sound to be heard, and you and Abby were able to step over the corpses that lay at your feet and into the room. There wasn’t much to be found beyond a small valuables safe hidden in the back. 

“I wonder if there’s anything good in here” You mused, looking at the locking mechanism to see if you could crack it. 

“It’s probably already been looted, we’ve been to this spot a hundred times” She argued. Her point, while not incorrect, was still slightly discouraging. 

“I don’t think so, it’s still locked. If you looted it, why bother to lock it again?” She shrugged at this.  

“We can try and find the code if you want” 

“I do” 

With her approval, the two of you began to dig around to see if you could find a code. Sure enough, a small notebook in a drawer contained the digits needed to unlock the safe, letting you pop it open. A small handgun and some cash lay inside; the cash had long ago lost its value, but the revolver was exciting. 

You held it up to show Abby, a look of pride on your face at your find, and also partially because you were excited that opening the safe hadn’t been a waste of time. She smiled back at you, her hand coming to find your waist as she pulled you in for a moment, she wiped the splattered crimson from your cheek. 

“Good find, you were right about the safe” She praises, and it only serves to make your smile grow. 

“I’m always right, you should know this by now” You say, she snorts, nodding her head sarcastically. 

“Whatever you say, Angel. Come on, let's get the rest of the shops over with.” The pet name never fails to make you blush, something she takes advantage of as she kisses you quickly before letting you go and heading back out the way you had come. 

You followed right behind her while she headed into the second storefront. It used to be shocking at first how easily she could go from those softer moments with you and slip right back into that militant behaviour. This far in, however, it was simply a part of her and being with her, even if you sometimes wished you could hold onto those instances for just a second longer, no matter how impractical it may be. You fell back into the familiar routine, steeling yourself and letting her guide the way as you each took one side of the store. This one was also seemingly empty, and thankfully the back rooms were unlocked and clear of any infected, making the second sweep much simpler. 

You waste no time before heading into the third and final store, the sun sinking even further into the sky, encouraging you both to hurry and get this over with. Admittedly, you both had probably spent too much of the day flirting, teasing, enjoying the other's company instead of concentrating. You were due back a while ago, but the two of you always seemed incapable of leaving the other alone, occasionally making low-stakes tasks like this take a bit longer than they should. You knew the lateness made Abby a bit anxious, and as you separated through the last building, you elected to focus, not wanting to prolong your return any longer. You’d save your bantering for when you were home and settled back into your shared bed.

The third storefront, having been surveyed and also thankfully turning up empty, you met up once more at the back, just in front of a small checkout counter. A third and final door led to the third and final backroom you had to clear out. You both listened for a moment, not hearing anything. Abby tested the handle, and thankfully the door swung open. 

Unlike the other two storage rooms, this one was split, the main floor diverting off into two smaller rooms and a rather ragged-looking stairway to your right heading down into a basement. You looked at Abby for guidance, she paused for a second, clearly thinking it over, before gesturing for you to clear the upstairs rooms and stepping slowly down the steps to go and clear the basement. You watched her get down safely, as she looked around the space, giving you a quick thumbs up before she went to investigate further. Taking this as a sign she was all clear, at least for now, you began your own investigation. 

You opened the first door, leading into a small and empty office, not finding much beyond a desk and matching chair. Opening the second room, this one was a bit larger, seeming to be an employee break area, with a meeting table turned over on its side. This room was darker, lacking in windows, the space only illuminated from the dying light trailing in behind you. You took a cautious step forward, goosebumps trailing over your skin, you couldn’t see anything, but something still felt wrong. 

You approach the edge of the table, despite the silence in the room and the knowledge that it’s likely empty, it didn’t stop the hammering in your chest. Finally rounding the corner of it and being able to see relatively clearly, two small faces came into perfect view. Children, a boy and a girl, neither could be older than ten, sat huddled in the dark, holding each other and trembling heavily. You open your mouth to call for Abby, but before a sound can pass your lips, an arm wraps around you from behind, and you can feel the cold steel of a blade as it digs into your throat. 

“Whoa, whoa, hey, calm down. I’m not going to hurt them” You say, hands coming up in a sign of surrender, voice steady, every utterance you can feel the blade digging further into your flesh. 

“You’re a wolf, all you do is hurt.” The voice hisses, distinctly feminine, you can only assume it to be the children's mother. “I understand you don’t have any reason to trust me, but please, I don’t want to hurt anybody. Let me go, and we can figure this out, I can help you.” Your voice is losing its confidence, coming out slightly pleading. You mean it though, truly, you could never bring yourself to hurt a child. The tension is interrupted, if only briefly, by Abby calling your name, announcing that the basement is clear. When you don’t answer right away, you start to hear footsteps as she comes up to look for you. 

The woman holding you jerks you around, pulling your eyes away from the horrified children hiding together on the filthy floor and toward the door. 

You can only watch, trying to keep your hands from shaking, as Abby’s large figure fills out the space in the door frame. Her weapon trained ahead, if the sight of you held, knife poised at your throat, shakes her at all, she doesn’t show it. Instead, you watch the line of her jaw clench, brows pinching together as rage overshadows her features. 

“Fucking Scar, let her go, now.” It’s not a suggestion, simply an order as she steps forward, gun aimed just behind you. 

“How do I know you won’t just shoot me?” The woman asks, her tone showing no fear, no sign of backing down, her grip on you firm. 

“I won’t shoot you, I’d rather drag you back to camp and feed you to the dogs for ever thinking you could threaten her like that.” The threat is charged, snipped out, building to a heavy stand-off. 

“Please stop, Abby. There are kids, she’s just protecting them.” You interrupt, breaking through the bitter moment. 

“You wolves have killed enough of our children, why do you care now?” The woman tightens her hold on you as the question comes out, you try to hide the wince as the pain of her grip sparks through you. If only for Abby’s sake, you’re certain if she knew you were being hurt at all, she would take the shot. 

“I care, so much blood has been shed on both sides. There doesn’t have to be anymore here.” There’s a beat of silence, and you resist the urge to squirm out of the bruising grip. 

“Lower your weapon, and I’ll let her go, then you’ll let me and my children pass through here safely.” She speaks to Abby. 

Abby looks at you, desperation apparent on your face, your eyes pleading with her to see reason and comply. You can see it in her eyes: the resistance, the knowledge that if she lowers her firearm and you’re hurt, she’ll never forgive herself. 

“Please,” You beg, meeting the storm in her gaze, willing her to listen. 

Slowly but surely, she complies, her gun tentatively lowering until it’s no longer aimed at the person holding you but rather the floor. 

“Now let her go,” She orders. 

The arms holding you loosen as the blade pulls away from your neck, a hand from behind you pushes you forward, and you stumble, falling into Abby, but she’s quick to catch you. Holding you steady, she takes no time in pulling you behind her, giving you distance from your would-be assailant. 

You’re able to see clearly now: the woman who had a grip on you, she wasn’t much larger than you were. Her dark hair hangs around her familiarly scarred face; however, you can see it more and more you look at her, the black eye and the bruises trailing themself across her visible skin. Something had happened to her, you wonder if this is what had brought her here, cutting through WLF territory. 

You step back out of the room, Abby following, she never, for even a moment, pulls her eyes away from the woman. Her head turns back constantly to check behind her, hand on the small of your back as she guides you safely into the car. She pulls open your door, and you scramble inside. Abby joins you, turning the key in the ignition and bringing the car to life. When you had first entered the room, you had felt something was wrong. With the knife to your throat, you had only assumed the attacker hiding in the shadows was the reason, but even now, firmly out of danger, you still couldn’t shake the feeling. 

As Abby reached her hand out to shift the car into gear, you shot your hand out faster, stopping her. 

“Wait,” You state. You need a moment to think.

“What? Is everything okay?” She asks, voice riddled with concern; you don’t speak. 

“We can send out a team when we get back. I’m sure they won’t let them outside of the city, I just want to get you looked at first. Make sure you’re okay,” She insists, desperate for you to talk to her. “I think, I think we need to help her,” You finally say, looking at Abby. She looks back at you, completely bewildered. 

“What the fuck do you mean, help her? She just tried to fucking kill you. I should’ve shot her the second I saw her,” She snaps out, her tone harsh, but you don’t shy away from it. You’re filled with determination. 

“Did you look at her? She’s covered in bruises and wearing civilian clothes. I don’t think she wanted to hurt me; I came in there with a gun. She was protecting her kids. I think, I think she’s run away from the Scars. Why else would she be out here this late, unprotected, with two small children? She didn’t even have a bow, just a knife.” You ramble out, desperate to make your point, for Abby to understand. 

You can see the thoughts clicking into place behind Abby’s eyes; you can also see the disdain it carries. “Even if she’s run away, they’re still Scars,” She says, but her voice doesn’t carry its usual authority 

“If they’ve left, they’re not Scars, just civilians. They won't survive the night out here, not if they run into another patrol and not if they run into infected. If we can get them to the base, explain it to Isaac, I’m sure he’d understand. We could help them.” You push further. 

Abby, first and foremost, loved your soft heart, the kindness and compassion you carried in you for all living things. Life in the WLF wasn’t easy, she saw the heartache you held for every life lost, on either side. Even when you refused to put it into words, afraid that no one else would understand the lofty grief that filled you any time you bore witness to the murder that had become so mundane a part of your lives. Most had numbed themselves to it; lord knows you tried, but it never fully took. She knew that you were more humane than most. She also knew from the very beginning that one day your soft heart was going to get you into trouble. Now, while you sat here pleading with her to rescue Scars, even defected Scars, she felt certain this was the moment she had always dreaded would one day occur. When your soft heart would put you at odds with the very mission of the WLF you both called home. Still looking at you now, hope filling your eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to tell you no. 

“I can’t promise Isaac is going to listen, even if they are defected, he might just kill them himself,” She says, her voice gentle as she spoke to you. 

“We have to at least try,” You argue. She sighs heavily, dragging a hand down her face. 

The sun had set now, you were beyond late, but perhaps the cover of darkness would help. 

“Fine. We can go talk to her. I doubt she even wants our help, but you’re right; it might be better than trying to survive the night.” She relents, you beam at her, all but leaping across the console to wrap your arms around her. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice quiet in her ear, she holds you tightly to her. Feeling for all the world, if she lets you go, you might not find the way back to her. 

When you finally pull away, Abby hops out of the car while you dig through the center console. By the time she comes to pull open your door, you’ve got your flashlight in hand. She takes your free hand in hers, her other still securely held on her firearm, just in case. 

You enter the storefront, hearing bustling and chatter as you get closer and closer to the back door. 

“We’ve just come to talk, please we don’t mean you any harm, we want to offer help,” You say, not a shout but your voice still loud enough to be heard from the first door frame. You don’t want to startle her by bursting back into the room again. You hear some more chattering, followed by a harsh order to stay put, and the woman again appears. 

“We don’t need your help,” She snips, but even in the dim glow of your flashlight, you can see the fear in her eyes. 

“I think you do actually,” You start, keeping your voice calm and soft. “Somebody hurt you, didn’t they? I’m guessing maybe that’s the reason you’re testing your luck out here, instead of on the island right now. ” 

She clenches her jaw, but you can see the resolve slipping, you can’t imagine the nightmare that would cause her to flee behind enemy lines, to be willing to battle the horrors of the night with only a blade to protect not just herself but also her kids. 

“If you’ve defected, you can’t go back, and if you’ve defected, you’re not Sca-Seraphites anymore." You correct yourself. "You’re civilians now. We can help Civilians.” You push further, willing her to accept your help. “My husband, he-” She cuts herself off, taking in a deep breath and steadying herself. “He wasn’t a good man, he wanted to marry off our daughter. The elders told him to, but I refuse, I won’t let her go through what I have. We had to escape; I had to keep her safe.” She explains, your heartaches at her story, the pain she has gone through, that they all had. “Let us help you, please, we can give you that safety.” You plead with her. 

“How do I know you won’t just kill us all the second my guard is down?” She asks, the steel in her voice further loosening, fear coming to take its place. 

“I could’ve killed you before; I didn’t, why would I now?” Abby takes the opportunity to speak, and she and the woman share a long look. Silence creeps up between the lot of you. 

“Okay, if you’re sure we’ll be safe. We’ll come with you.” She finally agrees, and you can’t help but feel relieved. You didn’t think you could live with yourself if you had to have left them out in the dark. She turns her attention into the room, waving her hand, and you watch as her two children come out to her side. Both are skinny, with dirty, terrified faces. Their wide eyes look back at you. You smile softly, dropping to a crouch to speak to them, hoping to make yourself less intimidating. 

“What’re your names?” You ask gingerly, watching as they both look up to their mom for guidance. She nods her head, the young boy speaks first. 

“My name is Eli,” He says, his little voice nervous. 

“Grace,” His sister says. You smile at them warmly, introducing yourself to them in turn. 

“And this is Abby,” you add, looking back at her for a moment. She waves, forcing a smile onto her face. You know she’s nervous, uncomfortable with the situation, but her willingness to try only serves to make you love her more. 

“Cora.” The woman introduces herself last, and you push yourself up from your crouched position, holding your hand out to her. She pauses for a beat before taking it, and the two of you shake. She holds her hand out to Abby next, you watch her response. You can see the uncertainty in her eyes, but she shakes Cora’s hand anyway. 

“We should, uh, head out. We’re already late, and God, this is gonna be one hell of a thing to explain to Isaac.” She says as she pulls her hand away. 

The five of you head out to the car, you help Cora and the children get comfortable along the benches in the bed of the trunk, offering them the blankets you can find, before joining Abby in the cab. 

“I really, I can’t thank you enough for doing this. I know, I know where they came from, but that’s not who they are, you know? We’ve known for a long time that the Scars are victims of the cult. I’m glad we can help them,” You say, looking at Abby so devastatingly fondly, your naive optimism so clear across your face. She doesn’t bother to argue, doesn’t insist this is a bad idea, doesn’t tell you they’re not safe yet. She knows this is true, of course, just because you agreed to help them doesn’t mean Isaac will be merciful. Yet looking at you, the love and kindness so clearly written across every inch of you, she prays he will be, just this once.

You're kicking lazy circles in the air—bare feet, she notices, and something in her chest goes tight. You must've kicked 'em off in the grass, left 'em by the barn door like you've done it a hundred times, like you live here, like your dusty soles belong on her porch steps come morning. 

You're close enough that if Abby shifts just an inch—just one—the rowels of her spurs would catch on your ankle. Close enough that the heat of you bleeds across the small space between, warm as the fading sun on her shoulders.

Close enough that she can smell you.

God damn.

It hits her low and hard, right in the gut—something sweet and thick, like wild honey cut with something deeper, something warmer. Saddle leather and sunshine and you, that particular scent that's been haunting her dreams for weeks now.

Abby's jaw clenches so hard her teeth ache with it, molars grinding as she watches you tip your head back to laugh at something Ellie hollers from the porch. The column of your throat goes long and golden in the afternoon light, that delicate pulse fluttering right at the hollow where your neck meets your shoulder, and she wants—

She wants to press her face there. Right there, in that damp, warm curve where your skin would taste like salt and that honey sweetness, where she could breathe you in until her head spins, until she forgets her own goddamn name. Wants to drag her mouth up the side of your neck, feel the way you'd shiver, the way you'd maybe tip your head to give her more, yes right there, and—

She's pathetic.

That's the thought that circles through her brain like a buzzard over dying cattle as she watches you. A grown woman—a goddamn ranch foreman who's busted broncs twice her size and stitched up her own barbed wire gashes with whiskey and fishing line without so much as a flinch—reduced to this. Sneaking glances like some starstruck kid at her first rodeo, heart hammering in her ribs like a spooked colt every time you shift in the hay-scented heat.

Jesus Christ, Anderson. Get a grip.

Then the wind kicks up.

It sweeps through the yard cool and sudden, rustling the cottonwood leaves, riffling through the horses' manes out in the pasture—and catching you right in the middle of some easy stretch, arms over your head, back bowed, completely defenceless against it.

And fuck.

Your nipples pebble against the thin cotton of that blouse—the pale one, the one that buttons down the front, the one she's imagined unbuttoning with her teeth approximately four hundred times. The outline of them is sharp enough to make her teeth ache, tight little peaks pressing against the fabric like they're reaching for something.

Like they're reaching for her.

Abby's hand finds the fence, grips the weathered wood hard enough splinters bite into her palm. The pain grounds her, keeps her from reaching out and doing something stupid. Something glorious. Something she's been dreaming about for weeks now.

She can imagine it so clear it hurts. The weight of you in her rough palms—soft and warm and real, not just some fantasy she's been running on repeat in the dark of her room. The way you'd gasp if she dragged her teeth over one, slow and teasing, drawing it out until you're squirming under her. The way your back would arch like a bowstring pulled taut, pressing yourself closer, begging without words for more more please Abby—

"You okay over there?"

Your voice cuts through the haze, soft and teasing, and Abby realises she's been staring. 

Abby's throat works. Swallows nothing. "Fine," she gets out, rough as gravel. "Just—fine."

You hum, low and knowing, and those bare feet keep swinging—closer now, or maybe that's just her imagination, maybe that's just hope.

"Abby."

Her name in your mouth sounds different than it's ever sounded. Softer. Like you're tasting it, like you're asking something she don't quite know how to answer.

She blinks—once, twice—and feels it: heat crawling up her neck like a brushfire she can't contain, can't outrun, can't do a damn thing but let it burn. Caught. Red-handed. Red-faced. Red as the sin she's been committing in her head while you sat there looking like something painted by God just to test her.

Worse—she's been quiet about it, which ain't like her at all.

Normally, she'd have some smartass remark loaded and ready, something sharp and teasing to twist the tension into a game she can pretend to win. Normally, she'd lean down with that lazy grin, cross her arms, toss out some line.

Her tongue's glued to the roof of her mouth. Thick and useless, weighted down with words she can't say, won't say, words that'd crack her wide open if they ever saw light:

I wanna ruin you.

I wanna worship you.

I ain't ever wanted nothin' like this before—nothin' soft, nothin' sweet, nothin' that looks at me the way you do, like I'm somethin' worth stickin' around for.

"Yeah?"

The word comes out rougher than she means it to—gravel and gunpowder, the kind of rough that usually means trouble, means fight, means back off. But she ain't tryin' to warn you off. She's tryin' to keep herself from saying the rest, from letting all that want spill out and scare you clean to the next county.

She swallows hard. Tries to choke down the wildfire in her throat.

It don't work.

Her weight shifts, boot scuffing against the dust, and she prays—actually prays to a God she ain't knelt for in years—that you don't see the flush creeping down her neck. I

Look away, she tells herself. Look away now before you do somethin' stupid.

She don't look away.

Can't.

You're tiltin' your head now, that slow, curious movement that always makes her feel like a specimen under glass—like you're studying her, cataloguing her, figuring out exactly which strings to pull to make her unravel. 

"You alright?" you ask, all honey and concern, like you ain't the reason she's coming apart at the seams. "You've been starin' at that same knot for like, ten minutes."

Ten minutes.

She's been standing here ten minutes just looking at you. Ten minutes of her brain running in circles, ten minutes of her heart hammering, ten minutes of wanting so bad it's turned into a physical ache behind her sternum.

And you noticed.

"Fine," she grunts.

She shifts again. Boots drag. Weight rocks from heel to toe and back, restless as a penned horse.

You keep looking at her with those whiskey-warm eyes, that little smile still playing at your lips, and Abby knows—knows—that you see right through her. That every second you stay quiet, every second you just watch her squirm, is you waiting.

Waiting for her to break.

Waiting for her to move.

Waiting for her to stop being so goddamn careful and just take what she wants for once in her life.

"Fine?" you echo, soft and teasing, drawing the word out like taffy. 

No.

That's the truth. That's the word clawing up her throat, fighting past all that careful control. No, it ain't fine. It ain't anywhere close to fine. I'm standin' here with my heart in my throat and my hands shaking and every thought in my head painted in shades of you, and you're asking if I'm fine?

But she's a coward. A big, strong, tough-as-nails coward who'd rather face down a thousand-pound bull than admit what you do to her.

"Yeah," she gets out. Rough. Broken. "Just... thinkin'."

"'Bout what?"

The question hangs in the air between you—soft, open, dangerous. Your head's still tilted, eyes still warm, and there's something in your expression she ain't seen before. Something hopeful. Something scared. Something that looks an awful lot like the thing she's been trying to hide.

About you, she thinks. Always you. Only you. Never not you anymore.

Her jaw works. Muscle jumping in her cheek. She could say it. She could say it, right now, and let the chips fall where they may.

You've always been trouble.

Abby knows it the way she knows the weight of a good rope in her hand, the way she knows the smell of rain coming before the first drop falls. It's bone-deep, that knowing. Ingrained.

Hell—ever since Jesse started bringing you 'round the stables, ever since she caught you watching her with those big, knowing eyes, like you could see right through her dust-streaked bravado. Like you wanted to. Like the truth of her—rough edges and rusted parts and all the places she's been broken and badly mended—was something worth lookin' at twice.

Like you might even find somethin' worth keepin' in all that wreckage.

But that's the problem, ain't it?

That's always been the goddamn problem.

You're all softness and sunshine, the kind of woman who deserves slow dances under porch lights and love letters tucked in your pocket, pressed warm against your heart. The kind who deserves a man who'll bring you coffee in bed, who'll remember your birthday, who'll look at you like you hung the moon and mean it.

Not some hard-bitten cowgirl who'd pin you against the tack room wall the second y'all were alone. Who'd ruin her damn gloves just to feel your skin under her fingers—just once, just a taste—just to learn the shape of your gasp when her hands finally, finally slide up your waist like they've been dreaming of doing for weeks.

You deserve better.

The thought cuts through her every time, sharp as barbed wire. You deserve better than her calloused hands and hungry mouth, better than the way she'd bite your lip raw just to hear you whimper her name, better than the storm she's carried in her chest for years—all thunder and no rain, all destruction and no relief.

You deserve someone whole.

Someone who ain't held together with spit and prayers and the stubborn refusal to fall apart. Someone who don't got this thing inside her, this dark, coiled want that scares her sometimes, that makes her think thoughts that'd make a preacher weep. Someone who could love you gentle, love you soft, love you the way you're supposed to be loved.

Not her.

You’re closer than you were a second ago, your fingers brushing hers as you reach for the strap she's been fumbling with like a goddamn idiot. The buckle on her saddlebag. The one she's fixed a hundred times. The one she suddenly can't manage because you're here, you're touching her, and her brain's gone to static.

The contact burns.

Burns.

Like pressing her palm to a hot stove, like grabbing the wrong end of a brand, like every nerve in her body just lit up at once and screamed finally, finally, finally—

Her whole body goes tight as a coiled lasso, muscles locking up, jaw clenching so hard she hears her teeth creak. The air between you goes thick as molasses—sweet and suffocating, heavy with something she can't name and can't escape and don't even know if she wants to escape.

She should step back.

She should.

She should let go of this moment, let go of your hand, let go of the fantasy that someone like you could ever want someone like her. She should walk away, saddle up, ride out into the dark and keep riding until the wanting don't hurt so much.

But her feet won't move.

Her hand won't let go.

Because she's not supposed to like you.

That's the rule she made, the line she drew, the promise she whispered to herself in the dark after the first time you smiled at her and her heart did somersaults in her chest. Don't get attached. Don't get hopeful. Don't you dare start thinkin' you deserve nice things.

Not when her boots are caked with the dirt of a hundred long, lonely days.

Not when her hands are rough from holding everything together—fences, horses, her own damn fool heart—with nothing but grit and spite and the stubborn refusal to break.

She thinks of Jesse.

Thinks of the way he leans into your space like he's got every right to be there—all easy smiles and sun-kissed charm, the kind of casual confidence that comes from a lifetime of being wanted. The kind of man who could love you in the open without flinching, without checking over his shoulder, without wondering if today's the day you finally figure out you could do better.

The kind of man who'd never have to grit his teeth and pretend he don't want you.

Who'd never have to hide the way his hands shake when you're near, the way his breath catches, the way his whole damn body goes tight as a bowstring every time you walk into a room. Who'd never lie awake at three in the morning staring at the ceiling, running through every conversation, every glance, every almost-moment, trying to figure out if you could—if you would—if someone like her even had the right to wonder.

And something bitter as old whiskey rises in her throat.

Sharp enough to choke her. Sharp enough to burn. Sharp enough that she has to swallow hard, has to force it down, has to lock it away in the same chest she keeps all the other things she can't have.

She shrugs.

Rough. Careless. Like her pulse isn't hammering hard enough to crack ribs, like every beat of her heart ain't screaming your name like a goddamn prayer. Like she ain't one wrong word, one breath too close, one more second of you looking at her like that from snapping clean in two.

You bite your lip.

Christ.

The sight hits her square in the chest—the way your teeth sink into that plush bottom lip, the way it goes red under the pressure, the way your eyes flick up to hers through your lashes like you're testing something. Like you're asking a question she's too scared to answer.

And just like that, she's gone.

She can practically taste it—the way your teeth would sink into her shoulder if she ever let herself have you. The hot sting of it, the sharp little gasp you'd make, the way you'd muffle your moan against her skin like a prayer, like a sin, like you're scared someone might hear how much you want her too.

The image hits her so hard her knees nearly buckle.

Every damn day, it's something new. The way your tank top clings to the sweat-slick dip of your lower back when you've been out in the heat too long—that soft curve just above the waistband of your jeans, the one she's imagined tracing with her fingertips, her tongue, her teeth. The way your sundress rides up your thighs when you crouch beside her to look at something in the grass, giving her a glimpse of skin so soft it makes her mouth water, makes her hands ache, makes her want to drop to her knees right there and press her mouth to the inside of your knee just to feel you shiver.

The way you smile at her like you've got a secret.

Like you know.

Like you can see right through her dust-streaked armour to the wanting underneath—the wanting that's been growing like kudzu, spreading through her chest, choking out everything else until there's nothing left but you. Until every thought circles back to you. Until every breath tastes like you. Until she catches herself scanning crowds for your face, listening for your laugh, holding onto every moment you give her like she's building a hoard of treasure she'll never get to spend.

And Abby's losing her goddamn mind.

Like, genuinely, clinically, should-be-committed losing her mind—because shit, she doesn't even know if you swing that way.

Doesn't know if you've ever looked at a woman the way she looks at you. Doesn't know if those lingering glances mean something or nothing, if that little smile is invitation or imagination, if every time you've brushed against her has been accident or intention. Doesn't know if you've ever lain awake at three in the morning with your hand between your thighs thinking about someone with calloused palms and a cowboy drawl and hands that shake when you're near.

Doesn't know.

And the not-knowing might just kill her.

Hey, quick question—you into women?

She practices it in her head, rolls it around like a loose tooth. Tries out different tones—casual, curious, joking. Pictures herself leaning against the fence with that lazy grin, tossing it out like it's nothing, like her whole damn world ain't hanging on the answer.

Yeah. That'd go over real well.

That'd be just another way for the universe to laugh in her face. Another setup for the cosmic joke where you blink at her all confused and say, "Oh—no, I'm not—" with that little awkward laugh, and then everything between you goes stiff and strange, and you stop smiling at her quite the same.

She can't.

She can't.

Maybe she could ask it different. Softer. Like it don't matter, like she's just making conversation, like she ain't been turning the question over in her mind like a river stone worn smooth by wanting.

So, uh... you ever kissed a girl before?

Christ.

Even in her head it sounds desperate. Sounds hopeful. Sounds like every prayer she's ever whispered into her pillow, every fantasy she's ever had, every night she's spent with her hand over her mouth trying to be quiet while she thinks about you.

Or worse—worse—maybe she'll never ask at all.

Maybe she'll spend the rest of her life choking on this want, this hope, this ache that's taken up residence in her chest like it owns the place. Maybe she'll watch you from a distance forever, always close enough to smell your shampoo, always far enough to never know. Maybe she'll settle for these moments—these almosts, these maybes, these glances that feel like something but might be nothing—and tell herself it's enough.

It ain't enough.

It'll never be enough.

But she's a coward. A big, strong, tough-as-nails coward who's spent her whole life learning how to want things from a distance.

So she tries to be professional. She tries.

She focuses on the reins. On the hundred little tasks that need doing before sundown. She keeps her hands busy and her eyes forward and her mouth shut, because that's what she's good at—holding it together, keeping it locked down, pretending she ain't coming apart at the seams.

But the truth is—

The truth is, she wants to drag her hands up the inside of your thighs.

Slow. Deliberate. Watching your face the whole time, cataloging every flicker of expression, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you shiver and what makes you dig your fingers into her shoulders and hold on.

Wants to pin you right there in the dust—right there where anyone could see, where she wouldn't give a damn who saw—and find out what sounds you'd make when she finally stops holding back. Wondering if you'd whimper her name like a plea or bite it back like a challenge. Wondering if you'd go soft and sweet under her hands or if you'd meet her fire with fire of your own, giving as good as you get, leaving marks of your own on her skin.

Wants to ruin you.

Just a little.

Just enough to mark you the way you've marked her—with every lingering glance, every accidental touch, every fucking breath between you that feels like a dare. Wants to be the reason your voice goes rough in the morning. Wants to be the name on your lips when you're alone in the dark. Wants to be the one you reach for, the one you choose, the one you look at like she hung the goddamn moon.

But she don't know.

She don't know.

And that uncertainty is its own kind of torture—worse than rejection, almost. Because rejection would be an answer. Rejection would be closure. Rejection would be something she could grieve and bury and move on from.

This? This is just... waiting. Hoping. Wondering.

This is standing in the shallows, never knowing if the water's warm.