Summary: Abe carries Y/N over his shoulder because they’re stubborn
He gave you exactly one warning.
“One more stumble and I’m carrying you.”
You scoffed, brushing him off as you continued down the damp alleyway. The late evening mist curling around your ankles, case files tucked under your arm, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement.
“I’m fine,” you muttered. “I’m a fully capable adult with a mild—”
You tripped again, catching yourself with a huff and a muttered curse. Abe sighed like a man who had absolutely given them every chance.
And then? The world flipped.
“Wait—are you— Are you kidding me right now?!”
You were airborne for exactly half a second before landing with a yelp over his shoulder, one arm pinned awkwardly under your chest, the other flailing slightly as the ground tilted away beneath you.
“Don’t wriggle,” he said, calm as a storm cloud. “You’ll mess up my center of gravity.”
“You’re not a damn seesaw!”
“No,” he drawled, “but you are limping, and we’re already late.”
Your face bounced gently against the back of his coat, and you gave a muffled groan of frustration. “This is completely unnecessary!”
“And yet,” he said mildly, “you’ve been limping for half a block.”
“You can’t just pick me up like a sack of potatoes.” you say in a low, frustrated tone.
“You’re more like… a particularly dramatic stack of paperwork.”
“That is the worst comparison you could’ve made.”
He chuckled under his breath, deep and genuine, and you felt the vibration of it from where your shoulder met his back.
But underneath the sputtering indignation, your heart was racing. Not from embarrassment, not even from the awkward way your dress shirt had hiked up mid-lift. But because of the way he held you without hesitation.
Because his grip was steady, like carrying you was no trouble at all. Like it was something he would’ve done anyway, without asking.
And suddenly your thoughts were a mess.
You didn’t think he liked you that much. Not enough to be… like this.
You knew he respected your work. Tolerated your sass. Backed you up in court without fail. But this?
“You’re way too comfortable doing this,” you grumbled against the fabric of his coat, trying not to sound breathless.
“You’d be surprised,” he replied simply, a wry smile in his voice. “I’ve thought about it before.”
“I said you’re surprisingly light,” he covered, infuriatingly casual.
You swore under your breath, not entirely convinced you’d misheard. And even more unsure what to do if you hadn’t.
He didn’t say anything more.
He just carried you the rest of the way. Calm, quiet, and devastatingly unaffected, while your pulse thudded somewhere in your throat.
You squirmed—just a little.
Not enough to escape. More from instinct than defiance. And his arm, still banded across the back of your thighs, adjusted without hesitation. Tightened. Steady.
You felt it, in the span of his palm, the way his grip didn’t jostle but anchored you. Quiet strength you never paid much mind to. All the tailored coats and dry quips made it easy to forget what kind of frame he carried beneath.
And he wasn’t even trying.
You blinked, throat dry. The heat was trying to crawl up the front of your ribs.
They turned the corner of the alley in silence, the city fading to the rhythmic sound of his shoes on concrete and your breath catching every fourth step.
You felt the way he adjusted your weight ever so slightly so your shirt wouldn’t ride too high. The way his hand remained perfectly measured, never lingering, never hesitant. As if he knew your boundaries better than you could comprehend in this moment. It was frustrating.
When they reached the precinct’s side entrance, Abe crouched slightly and lowered you with the same ease he’d picked you up with. No show. No smirk. No wisecrack.
His hands left your waist like they’d never been there at all. And he didn’t even look at you.
Just turned toward the door with a nod.
“Let me know if you’re still limping when we leave.”
As if you hadn’t just had a minor crisis over the feel of his arm muscles. You smoothed your sleeves with trembling fingers. Cleared your throat. “…Yeah. Sure.”
Abe opened the door for you.
You stepped through it, still reeling, still trying to pretend your face wasn’t pink and your thoughts weren’t dangerously scrambled. It bothered you, though, how much better your ankle felt now that you weren’t putting weight on it. The relief only sharpened your mild irritation, making his maddening insistence seem justified, and that was somehow worse than the pain itself.
He didn’t even glance back.
kaledo-art
blakekathryn
dededos
baratheonpilled
