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𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 ⸙ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: abby anderson x f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: pregnancy mention, avoidance, suggestive content 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: fluff, fluff x2, mild angst, Abby is kind of frustrating, Mel is a good friend 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n or any reader descriptions 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 11.5k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: The one where you exchange gifts

a/n: hey!! long time no see! thank you so much for sticking around and reading the latest chapter!!

I apologise for being gone for so long, and hope to never leave you hanging for that long again!

just to refresh once again, while this chapter has gift exchanges, it's not meant to be an actual christmas, but a separate tradition that reader and Mel made up! I hope we're all cool with this <3

enjoy the chapter!

̗̀➛ masterpost

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ link to fic on ao3 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸: XV

“Hey, you want a coffee?”

Mel only hears a grunt in response from under your covers, a muffled noise that was meant to be affirmative, but could really go either why. From the sound of another mug clinking on the kitchenette bench, she’d managed to figure it out.

You’d been tossing and turning since Mel opened the curtains that morning, the light outside just bright enough to disturb you from your already fitful sleep. If it were any other day you’d be up with her, eight hours of rest under your belt and ready to fight over the last spoonful of coffee grounds from the very bottom of the container. But you were unfortunate enough to have been put on the skeleton crew for tonight, and it was like your body knew you needed the extra sleep and decided to fuck you over instead.

Shuffling around to lay on your back, you wait patiently under your covers, not quite ready to face the cold of the morning without a hot mug in your hands. Your morning breath was making the recycled air under the blanket grow thick and stuffy, but you’d take this over the biting cold any—

A sudden weight dropped onto your stomach punches the air from your lungs. With a wheeze you sit up, blankets pooling around your waist and exposing yourself in all of your half-asleep glory— drool-stained cheeks and rucked up henley that belonged to someone with much broader shoulders than you.

The weight of the blanket and something else, whatever had fallen on you, grounds you as you scrub at your face, blinking blearily into the light of the room.

Mel leans back up from where she’s placed two steaming mugs on your bedside table. Her gaze softens at your expression; face scrunched in sleepy confusion as you look up at her.

“What the hell was that?”

Perching herself on the end of your bed, Mel tucks her legs up to cross under her and leans forward, riffling around in the depths of your fallen covers to find whatever she dropped on you.

“Today’s the day,” she says, excitement bleeding through her words as she drags out a parcel wrapped neatly in butchers’ paper and twine, placing it back on your lap (a lot gentler this time around). Your name has been delicately written along the top in a neat cursive, the curling tails of the letter much more legible than what you’re used to reading from her.

“Mel,” you sigh, gently picking the parcel up. “You really didn’t have to.”

“As if I wasn’t going to,” she scoffs, picking a piece of lint off from your blanket. She grins at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just open it.”

Instead of doing so, you push the present gently off your lap and hold a hand out to Mel, palm up. She grabs it without question, and you lock your fingers around her wrist so that you can lean over the edge of the bed, your leg stretching and aching from disuse. Biting at your lip to ignore the pain, you pat around on the floor blindly for the cardboard box you hid under there days before.

“I didn’t wrap mine as pretty,” you say with a grunt, gripping onto the corner of the box and dragging it out into the open. You squeeze Mel’s hand and she helps to pull you back up, the both of you straining and giggling as you lift it up onto the bed. “Here, for you.”

Mel’s palm slides from your own, wrapping instead around the box as she shifts it closer to her.

“Okay, now you didn’t have to.” She turns the box around, examining the small doodles you scribbled alone the sides to try and make it less boring looking. “This is an awfully big box for a mug.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, kicking her gently with a socked foot. “Just open the damn thing.”

“Nope.” Mel lays her hands on the top of the cardboard, drumming her fingers along the surface. “You first.”

You can only say no to Mel so many times in one day, so with a dramatic sigh you relent, settling the parcel back in your lap. The twine tied in a neat bow on the top unravels with a tug of one of its tails, the rough fibres lightly scratching your fingertips as it slips from the paper. Mel had folded the wrapping in such a way that all you had to do was tug a piece of itself from a pocket along the side to undo it, much like an envelope. Your crudely drawn-on cardboard box had nothing on this show of precision from Mel, but you try not to feel so guilty about it.

In your lap, tucked into a neat little pile in the middle of the butchers’ paper were a couple of different things.

The first thing you notice is a keychain, the name ‘Owen’ shining in baby blue glittered letters against a faded backdrop of the Seattle skyline. A sharp laugh leaves your lips, a hand coming up to clap over them in embarrassment.

“Owen got that, if it wasn’t obvious,” Mel says, nodding to the keychain. She rests her chin on a propped-up hand, playfully rolling her eyes. “I told him to get any name that wasn’t your own, and he thought he’d be funny.”

“It’s kind of hilarious,” you chuckle, plucking the keychain from the pile and holding it up to the light. The back is heavily sun-faded, barely being able to make out the name of the gift shop where he got it from— but you wouldn’t give it up for anything.

“I’ll make sure thank him when I see him next.” You grin, sliding the ring of the keychain around your middle finger, keeping it safe against your palm.

The next item in your lap is a neatly folded bundle of fabric, a light blue that could almost be mistaken for grey. The keychain rattles against your hand as you pick it up, giving it a little shake to unfold the material from itself.

“No fucking way,” you laugh, breathy with disbelief.

Your fingers pinch the shoulders of a shirt a size bigger than you’d normally wear, a large cartoon whale splashing across the front with a faded speech bubble that says, “Don’t KRILL my vibe!” coming from its open, smiling mouth.

“When did you get this?” you ask, clutching the shirt to your chest, looking up at Mel.

“When you were at the aquarium. I shoved it down the leg of my pants when you went to look at the keychains.” She shrugs, a lazy smirk curling her thin lips.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, holding out the shirt again to look at the design. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

“There’s one last thing,” Mel says, hooking a finger along the collar of the shirt to tug it down just enough to peek over it. She nods down to your lap, gently taking the shirt from your hands to re-fold and drape it over her knee.

Blinking, you look back down to your lap and sure enough, a small book lay in the centre of the wrapping.

It’s just too big to fit into a pocket, but still small enough that you could keep it in a bag without taking up too much room. It almost looks like a journal, the dark brown leather of the cover closing with a sturdy button snap off to the side. It almost reminds you of Abby’s coin book in a way.

The leather is soft to the touch, even the worn and exposed corners feeling smooth against your skin.

You’re not prepared for the emotions that swell all the way up to your throat when you open the book, the way your heart does a delightful little somersault against the cage of your ribs.

What you’re holding isn’t just any book, but a photo album—one that’s filled to the brim with dozens of pictures of you and your friends.

You recognise them all from different gatherings from he (nearly) two years that you’ve known everyone; hangouts that Manny has organised, parties that Leah has thrown whenever she’s home. You’re in all of them, some with your arms slung drunkenly around your friends, others with your cast still on and people that you both do and don’t know huddled around it with a marker. Most of them are with Mel, candid shots of the two of you giggling together, one of you and Mel trapping a poor Owen on the couch at Jordan’s place, your sleeping bodies slumped on either side of him.

The last photo in the album is one that you actually remember taking; you and Mel with your cheeks pressed together as you grin into the polaroid camera’s lens, gripping onto each other like you’d float away if you didn’t.

A single tear drips off the tip of your nose and splatters onto the plastic sleeve of the album, pulling you back to the present. Pulling the sleeve of the henley over your fist, you wipe away the tear from the book, sniffling back the rest of them.

“What the fuck,” you whine, closing the leather with a creak. You look up at Mel, flushing in embarrassment as she laughs at your damp cheeks and pouting lips. “My presents suck compared to this.”

Mel leans forward, drawing you in for a hug over the gift boxes settled between you, eyes rolling at your self-deprecation. “I’m sure they’re perfect.”

The pilled fabric of her vest tickles your cheek as you pull away, scrubbing at your cheeks and nose with the sleeve of your borrowed shirt.

“Thank you. Everything was so thoughtful, I can’t—I don’t know what else to say,” you stumble, sniffling away the last of your tears. You weren’t prepared to be so caught up in your emotions this morning, your words feeling so far away from you as you try to piece together a proper thank you.

Mel’s hands rub soothingly along your upper arms, head ducking down to meet your reddened eyes. “You’re fine.” She struggles to hide the soft laughter behind her words, which only gets louder when you shove her with an embarrassed huff. “I’m just glad the album was worth it. Manny and I went through too many embarrassing party photos to fill it up.”

“Oh god,” you laugh, leaning back on your hands. “They really need to stop passing the cameras around at those things.”

“Manny really needs to stop developing all of them,” Mel counters, strands of brown hair brushing her lashes as she shakes her head. “He’s got enough blackmail on all of us to last him a lifetime.”

You both grimace at the thought, minds rushing to fill in the silence with hazy memories of drunken escapades and card games where losing comes with a price.

“Anyways, enough of that,” Mel says, slapping her hands down on the box in her lap, the sound breaking you from your thoughts. “I believe I have a mug to open?”

“What if you open it and it isn’t a mug, huh?” You tease, nudging her once more with your foot.

Mel laughs, the sound light as she slips her fingers under the folded flaps of the cardboard. “I’ll love whatever you give me, but I think there’ll be a genuine disappointment if you break our tradition.”

“Tradition?” you playfully scoff, head tilting to the side. “There’s only been one mug.”

“And how sad I’ll be when it dies before it can begin.”

Mel had no reason to worry about being mug-less this year, because of course the first thing she sees when she opens the box resting along her thighs is shiny white ceramic. It’s a little bit chipped along the handle and a coffee ring along the inside that you couldn’t scrub away, but Mel grabs for it and holds it in her hands like it’s a fine piece of china, regardless.

She takes a moment to read the faded design along the front before turning it to you, a mirthful glimmer in her eyes. A cartoon bone stares right at you, bold letters reading ‘I find that humorous’ crackling below it.

“Now this is already better than what I got you,” Mel says, the whites of her teeth showing between her smile.

“I thought it was funny, since you fixed my leg and all.” You wriggle the toes of said leg, the movement strange from within your sock.

Mel laughs, batting your leg away as she shakes her head. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. You’re hilarious.”

“I think you mean… humorous?”

A noise close to a squawk leaves your lips when Mel mock throws the mug at you, the two of you dissolving into giggles as she sets it down gently beside her, nestling it in the softness of your blankets.

The next item is the reason the box you chose was so large, the deep sage canvas bulky despite being folded in on itself.

“It’s the same size as your aquarium one,” you explain as she unfolds the duffel bag, the long over-the-shoulder strap falling into her lap. “But it’s got a waterproof pocket on the inside for your dirty clothes. That way you can separate them. I know you don’t like—”

“—when they make the rest of my stuff stink,” Mel finishes, smiling. Her fingers run gently over the worn, corded straps, fiddles with a paint-chipped zipper. “Thank you. This is really thoughtful.”

You slump a little bit in relief, meeting her kind eyes with a smile of your own. “I’m glad. You already had a bag so I was worried this would be… dumb or something,” you confess.

“Not dumb at all.” She reaches over, gently gripping your knee. “Thank you, seriously. It’ll be nice not having to wash everything twice.”

Mel starts to fold the bag back up, making to put it back into the box before you reach for her arm, stopping her.

“Wait—there’s one last thing. It should be at the bottom.”

She pauses, arching an eyebrow at you. “You really didn’t have to—”

“This one isn’t for you,” you interrupt, letting go of her arm to take the duffel from her. “I mean, it is, but not? You’ll see.”

“If this is something weird that Owen convinced you to get…” Mel starts, scepticism bleeding through her tone-- though she interrupts herself this time, a soft gasp, barely a breath halting the rest of her thoughts.

She reaches an arm into the box, fingers brushing delicately over the puddle tied together with ribbon that sits alone right at the bottom.

“I didn’t know what colour to get, so I chose purple since it’s your favourite. I think it’s a pretty neutral colour too—but not boring like brown or white or something.”

Mel’s quite as she scoops the little bundle out of the box, thumbing the knitted material of the impossibly small beanie, gloves, and booties—the perfect size for a newborn.

“I got something that they could grow into, so that they don’t become useless right after you bring them home. I don’t know much about babies, but I know they grow pretty fast, and for the amount I paid for them I want to make sure they get worn at least twice,” you joke, trying to hide the slight tremble of nervousness that rattles you from the inside out.

It’s been almost a week since Mel came to you about the pregnancy, a very long couple of days brimmed with anxiety. Since the dinner, Mel’s gone and had not one, but two different blood tests just to make sure that she truly was pregnant. Sure enough, her hCG levels came back indicative of a pregnancy, and she was just as nervous telling you the second time round.

It was early stages, maybe only a month she said, so you were really uncertain on whether or not getting her something for the baby would be okay. But you couldn’t stop looking at the bundles when you spotted them the day before, tucked between the scarves and gloves as you were picking up the last of your ordered gifts.

You were hoping maybe Mel would wait a bit longer to exchange gifts, give you a few more days to let things settle before you gave them to her, but you should have known she’d be too eager.

You tug thoughtlessly at the corner of your blanket as Mel stares, the slight rustle of your bouncing leg and the thump of boots outside your door a lot louder in the silence. Mel sniffles suddenly, a shaking hand coming up to swipe at her cheeks. Another tear falls from her lashes when she looks up at you, her bottom lip shiny and wobbling.

“Mel,” you breathe, pushing the boxes in your way to the side, ignoring as they thump onto the floor to you wrap your arms around your friend.

She melts into your grip, resting her forehead against your shoulder while she sniffles, a shaky breath shuddering from her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispers, hands still cupping the tiny clothing in her lap. “This is—Thanks.”

Kissing the side of her head you pull back, just enough to look at her. “I didn’t overstep?”

“No, just… This is real.” Mel looks up at you. “This is happening.”

“And I’m right here with you.” You smile at her, reassuring and loving. “And so will everyone else. You take care of so many people, and now it’s their turn to take care of you. If you let them,” you tease, jostling her gently.

Her brows relax as she laughs, looking back down at the knitted clothing in her lap.

“I still think I would have been disappointed if I didn’t get a mug.”

A laugh leaves you, sharp and loud as you draw Mel back in, crushing her to your chest.

“Noted.”

⸙

The back of your calves are warm with friction, your tote bag hitting against them as you walk, hands clasped behind your back in a nervous stance. The parcels wrapped in glossy magazine pages rustle from inside the tote, a soft fwish fwish noise following you down the residential halls. It was still cold in the building despite it being well into the day, and you nestle your face further into the folds of your scarf, breathing hotly against the material to warm up your bitten lips.

You’d spent the rest of that morning with Mel, drinking your quickly cooling coffees and finding the perfect hiding spot for the gifted baby clothes-- not that anyone who came over had a habit of rifling through your things, but you both knew that if you started getting too comfortable with the secret, that something would slip way before you wanted it to.

Mel left for work right before lunch, leaving you with just under twelve hours of free time before you would have to drag yourself down to the tents. It put you in a tricky spot; enough time to be bored and feel lazy if you laid around, but not enough to fully immerse yourself in a task—not like you would be able to on a full day off.

Getting more sleep was off the menu, the warm pull of it having completely escaped you by that point despite the cold. Caffeine and serotonin thrummed through your veins in a chaotic dance, and you were much to wired to shut your eyes again.

You could work out, having fallen a little behind in the past few days, but you figured that your motivational issues (the lack of your gymrat girlfriend keeping you accountable) wouldn’t have disappeared overnight. You’d also rather not tire yourself out for no reason right before a long shift. You’re calling it a favour to your future self.

It was while you were picking up after the morning, doing your stretches, washing a few dishes and putting away some laundry that you settled on an idea-- the collection of parcels taking up a quarter of your underwear draw looking up at you and your armful of rolled socks.

You already did one gift exchange today. Why not keep going?

That was the idea anyways. So far, you’d had no luck.

Turns out that Owen is out on patrol right now, and when you swung by the tents to see if Nora was looking at a break anytime soon, you found her covered in blood, magnifier pulled down over a soldier’s leg as she slowly pulled pieces of shrapnel from their torn-up flesh.

The mess hall held no results either, only Mr Alverez eating by himself with no idea of where his son was. You did however get a wonderfully embarrassing story from the man about Manny while they were still living in Mexico, one that you couldn’t wait to bring up the next time he decided to tease you, so it wasn’t all bad.

Your steps slow as you reach your destination, the plaque reading 203 lightly lifting at the corner from where it’s stuck next to the wooden door. Your toes curl in your boots, fidgeting as you come to a stop just outside, the welcome mat stiff under your feet from years of stomping mud into the fibres.

You feel nervous standing here. It feels… wrong. You’re not used to associating Abby’s place with anxiety, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been here this week, and each time your knocks have gone unanswered.

Usually when Abby does this, starts feeling too much all at once and makes herself difficult to find, you still end up seeing her. She won’t come knocking on your door, but she’ll make the effort to see you-- a passing glance, an indulgent kiss, a moment to hold you if she’s really missing you. It’s like she can’t help but seek you out, to find the comfort that she’s too proud (or scared) to ask you for. But at least she did. There was still a part of her that let her do so, allowed her that ‘weakness’.

This time she hasn’t. You still see her, but never in her usual spots with the usual people. Instead of the gym, you see her talking to a group of people you don’t recognise near the ammo supply room, standing in a tight circle with their heads pressed close together. Instead of sitting at your table in the mess hall, you spot her storming from the garage, lips twisted in a scowl.

Not once has she come to see you, let her fingers brush discreetly against yours as you pass in a hallway, finding her arm wrapping around your waist as she pulls you into a dark corner.

It’s been a week, and that little feeling you’ve had-- that gut-flipping nausea you felt when Abby explained everything that night, told you about Joel Miller-- has been steadily growing as each day drags by. It’s what made you finally crack; gave you that little push to ignore the part of your brain that says you’re being too much by trying to find her when she clearly wants to be left alone.

Because you love Abby. You trust her to come to you if she was truly hurting, but something about how she’s been acting this week feels more serious than any of the other times. Dangerous, somehow. Like she’s walling herself off, stumbling into a place that she shouldn’t be alone in.

The tote bag swings by your side as you drop your arms, flexing your fingers on your free hand. You take a hesitant step forward, hand coming up in a fist, resting it gently against the wood. A breath, a chance to turn back that you don’t take, then finally a knock on the door.

You wait, tilting an ear to try and hear for anything on the other side.

Silence.

Your grip on the tote bag tightens, the seams of the handles digging into your palm.

You decide to knock again, one more time before you turn back around and go home. Maybe you’ll catch one of them at dinner, or wait until Owen gets back and enlist him to wrangle everyone up for you.

A low sigh sounds from the other side of the door, followed by the clatter of something dropping onto a table. You move back from the door as boots stomp along the floor, the lock flicking just as you’ve stepped off the mat.

“You have keys—”

The words die on her tongue as she peers through the parting of the door, eyes widening slightly as she takes in your form-- clearly expecting Manny instead.

You blink up at her, both hands coming back to the handles of your bag to fiddle with the fabric, finally standing before your girlfriend for the first time in a week.

Abby’s hair is loose, a lazy braid that hangs over her shoulder. It’s enough to keep a majority of her hair back, but that doesn’t stop the shorter strands that frame her face from coming undone and brushing her cheeks no matter how many times she tries to tuck them away. A pencil is wedged behind her ear; the tip roughly shaved down with a blade rather than a sharpener— probably her knife that she never packs on patrol. Despite her boots, her clothing looks more comfortable than her usual day wear, her cargos swapped for a pair of sweats and her henley a bit looser on her frame.

Your fingers twitch as you drink her in, eyes roaming from freckle to scar along the tanned skin of her face. Her eyes are tired, the most tired you’ve ever seen them, deep bags weighing them down. You want to hold her face, kiss them away.

Abby’s face softens, the hard line of her expression shifting the longer you look at her, like just being near your warmth is enough to pull her in-- like she’s coming back to earth, or waking up from a long dream.

“Hi,” you greet, almost shy.

“Hey.” She doesn’t say much else, body moving to lean against the door, feet shifting in place.

There’s a tension building the longer you two stand there, words unsaid in the air between you. It feels weird, uncertain. You realise with a start that it feels awkward.

“I—”

“What—”

You clamp your lips shut, cutting yourself off as Abby starts speaking at the same time. It’s quiet for a moment, but the second you look at her and make eye contact, you can’t help the small laugh that tumbles from your lips.

It’s infectious, and soon Abby is chuckling too, a soft flush rising to the tops of her cheeks as she rests her head on the doorframe.

“You go first,” she offers, the corners of her mouth turned up in a tired smile.

You clear your throat, buying you a few more seconds to compose yourself.

“I missed you,” you confess, voice soft in the hall.

Emotions flick over Abby’s face, so quick that it’s difficult to place them all. Her shoulders roll forwards slightly, slumping in on herself just enough for you to notice, tilting her head more towards you where it rests on the door.

“I missed you too,” she sighs, eyes closing. “I know it doesn’t seem like it. I’ve just…” her eyes open, though she’s looking anywhere but you. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy, or just needing space?”

Abby stiffens, shifts her weight onto her other foot. She slides her gaze back to you, only able to look you in the eyes for a few seconds before looking away again-- at the floor this time.

“Bit of both,” she admits, voice tight.

“Did you… still want space?” You ask, words stilted. You’d give it to her if she asked you for it. You’d give her the stars and the moon-- but finally being here, talking to her after a week of nothing makes you want to be selfish, has you secretly wishing she’d say otherwise.

She doesn’t answer right away, instead moving to look back into the room, her face disappearing behind the door for a few moments.

“No?” Her voice is muffled, but you can clearly hear how unsure she sounds. “I mean, yes but—” she cuts herself off, coming back to knock her forehead against the doorframe with a sigh. “I am busy. Isaac’s got me running around doing a whole bunch of shit right now.” She shifts in the doorway, opening it slightly wider to fit more of her body through.

She reaches an arm out, fingers tentatively brushing against the back of one of your closed hands. You don’t even think, letting go of the tote bag to turn your palm to hers, a wave of tingles rushing along your skin as her thick fingers slide between your own.

“But you’re here, and I think I might go crazy if you just turn around and leave right now.”

You squeeze her hand as you pull it up to your chest, pressing the cold back of her hand against your breast. The skin warms at the contact. “I won’t.”

Abby can’t look away as you lean down, pressing a lingering kiss to the joint of her thumb that overlaps your own. A barely audible sigh leaves her, body shifting to lean more on the ajar door. Her fingers twitch in your grasp, tightening just a fraction as her eyes flick up to catch your own.

“Good.”

Abby’s hand tugs at yours as she steps back from the door and further into the room, guiding you to follow. You do so blindly, watching the way her hair shifts across her neck as she turns away from you, clutching to you still, navigating deeper into the room.

You slip from her for just a moment, making sure to shut and lock the door behind you both. You use this moment to unravel your scarf from your neck and drape it on the TV cabinet, so you don’t forget it later.

Abby’s by the coffee table her and Manny keep in the centre of the room when you turn back to face her, crouched low as she gathers the mess strewn across it into a rough pile of notepads and manilla folders, pens and markers.

“What’s all this?” You set the tote bag down on a clear patch of the table, careful not to crush anything important underneath it.

A map that dangles halfway off the surface gets haphazardly folded in half and shoved under everything else, too quick for you to see anything other than a mess of routes to somewhere highlighted in different coloured pens.

“Stuff for Isaac,” Abby mumbles, catching a pen that rolls off the table before it can hit the floor, placing on the very top of the pile. “Planning some wider patrols. Scars are getting brave.” She pushes herself up from her squat, hands bracing against her knees.

You step around the table to meet her, reaching up to pluck the pencil from behind her ear, holding it out to her. “Is that even your job?”

Abby shrugs, half-hearted and dismissive, fingers brushing yours as she takes the pencil from you. “What Isaac says, goes.” She tosses the pencil back onto the table, watching it as it clatters against a marker and stops rolling.

Her eyes drift back to you as you step closer, placing the hand hovering between you lightly on her sternum. Your thumb shifts along her shirt, rubbing soothing arcs along the fabric.

“As long as you’re okay with that.” Your hand pauses, fingers curling into the fabric. “He needs you. Don’t let him take you for granted.”

A sigh; a resigned sound. “I know.”

Abby shifts her gaze to the floor, and you can’t help but track the way she draws her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying at the skin. Your thumb twitches, wanting nothing more than to replace her teeth with it, tug on it gently and remind her not to do that.

She’s drawing you in before you can, hands sliding around your waist to press against your back, enveloping you in her arms. Her head dips just enough to hide her face away against your neck, where you can feel her jaw working as she continues to chew anxiously on her lip.

Your own arms curl around her, slinging them across her shoulders as you hold her closer to your chest. A hand buries itself in her hair, your blunt nails scratching lightly at the scalp under her loose braid. A sigh of hot air puffs over your neck and down the back of your shirt, the exhaustion seeping from Abby as she slumps into your hold.

It feels like home.

“I really did miss you,” she confesses, her murmur loud and clear from her spot buried against your neck.

“I know,” you whisper back, reassuring her with a nice long scratch from behind her ear to the base of her skull. Abby shivers. “I missed you too.”

She swallows, feeling the bob of her throat against you. “I didn’t mean to check out.”

“I know, Abs.”

Abby draws back slightly, just enough to look at you. The hand in her hair slips to cup at her jaw, grazing your thumb over the tops of her cheek where the bags under her eyes sit.

“You’re too patient,” she says, her head tilting into your touch without realising.

“I’m a medic,” you chuckle, pinching the fat of her cheek gently between thumb and forefinger. “I kind of have to be.”

One of Abby’s hands leaves your back to cover your own on her jaw, shifting it to press a kiss to your palm, eyes closing as she holds you there. Her brows furrow, lips brushing the sensitive skin as she speaks. “Not what I meant.”

It’s your turn to sigh. “I don’t love not being able to see you,” you start, moving your free hand to cup the other side of her jaw. “And I do wish you’d talk to me sometimes. That you’ll come see me and tell me what’s going on…” Her eyes flutter open, clear blue settling on your own.

You tuck away the glimmer of guilt that passes across her face to bring up later.

“But I also get that this is how you work.” Your hand slides up, thumb reaching across to smooth out the creases between her brows, slow strokes up from the bridge of her nose. “You need patience. You need trust.” Leaning in, you press a lingering kiss to her warm cheek. She smells like old paper, wood shavings, a spiciness that is distinctly Abby. “And I do. I love you. Sometimes I just need contact, a check in to make sure you’re not working yourself down to the bone.”

You don’t tell her how much she worries you sometimes. How she only ever buries herself in work like this when she’s struggling, when there are things she’s trying everything not to think about. You don’t tell her how much you hate that she feels the need to hide it all from you, like she’s going to scare you away or taint you with its touch.

And maybe you should practice what you preach, tell her what’s going on—but Abby is complicated. She’s stubborn, scared to feel too much, a professional when it comes to keeping people at arm’s length—exactly where she wants them. You weren’t lying when you said she needs patience. She needs people to trust that she knows what she’s doing, let her do what she needs to and face the consequences herself. Having someone in her ear telling her she’s wrong the whole time just sets her back.

It’s why Abby trusts Manny so much and why (as you’ve come to realise) her and Owen butt heads. Manny let’s her do what she needs to do, chooses the right times to sit her down and express his worries-- let’s her feel like she’s in control of the situation so that she doesn’t shut it down. Owen can’t ever seem to understand why Abby won’t listen to him when he grills her on her actions.

So, you trust her. You have more patience for her than you have for a lot of people.

You just hope that she doesn’t take that for granted.

Abby blinks at you, eyelashes kissing the tops of her cheeks as she just… stares. You’re close enough to see the subtle ring of brown around her pupil, the one that gives way to your favourite shade of blue.

It strikes you all of a sudden, the way that she’s looking at you. All week she’s been steely and focused, jaw clenched and shoulders tense right up to her ears. Her brow has softened under your touch now, skin flush with the heat of your hands and the closeness of your body. The shadows under her eyes are still there, probably won’t go away for a while, but an impossible tiredness gives way to adoration.

“I love you.”

You’ll never get tired of hearing those words. Not from her.

“I love you, too.” You can’t help the way you smile as you say it, cheeks flushing as you press back in, placing another kiss along her cheek.

Her hand leaves the one on her face, calloused fingers brushing the sensitive skin of the back of your neck as she pulls you in once more. Her lips, swollen from her anxious chewing, slot against yours like they were made for it.

The kiss is slow, sweet, unhurried. You almost forget to close your eyes, so caught up in how pretty she looks in this moment. Her face feels so warm in your hands, the soft line of her chin curving along your palms.

She’s wonderful, and you’ve missed her so much.

You both pull away with a shaky breath, hearts thumping away where your chests are pressed together. Abby settles her forehead against yours, the wisps of hair free from her braid tickling the sides of your face, your nose scrunching at the feeling.

She chuckles, thumb swiping in soothing arches along the back of your neck. “Cute.”

“Flatterer,” you huff, leaning back in for another kiss.

Abby hums against your lips, the tension in her shoulders practically melting away.

“Not that I don’t love that you’re here,” she says between breaths, unable to keep herself away from you for long, pulling you back in for another kiss. “But did you need anything? Or were you just coming to visit?”

“Oh--!” You pull away from Abby’s grip, hands slipping from her cheeks and landing on her shoulders. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” She asks unsure, watching as you detangle yourself from her grip and retreat back to the table.

“Mmhm,” you hum, crouching down next to your tote bag to rifle through it. Abby’s gift sits all the way at the bottom, covered by Nora’s. “For Not-Christmas.”

“Not-Christmas?”

You stand up with her present, leaving the others to sit in the bag. “It’s a thing I do with Mel. I don’t exactly celebrate Christmas but she likes to get me things, so we just exchange gifts before or after the holiday.” You shrug, making your way back over to Abby, reaching for one of her hands. “I wanted to include you this year.”

Her fingers tangle with your own and you tug gently, silently asking her to follow as you slip past her and to the steps.

“Honey, you really didn’t have to,” she says, boots thumping on the carpet behind you.

“I know.” You flash her a smile over your shoulder, carefully hopping off the final step and onto your good leg. “But I wanted to. You deserve it.”

Your arm pulls slightly as Abby pauses, hesitating on one of the steps. You turn to look at her, just in time to catch that same guilty look from earlier. It’s only for a second, a brief glimpse before she’s smiling softly at you, though it doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Thank you.”

She gives your hand a squeeze and starts walking again, catching up with you at the bottom of the steps.

You continue to lead her over to her bed, holding her gift against your chest as you turn and sit yourself down on the mattress. Her covers are neat, blankets folded over at the top and pillows recently fluffed. You almost feel bad for wrinkling the sheets.

Abby clearly doesn’t mind, dropping down onto the mattress next to you with enough force to make you bounce in place.

“Abby!” You yelp, gripping onto her hand tighter as you try to get back your balance. Her answering chuckle does little to help, not as much as the hand she presses to your shoulder to help steady you.

“Why do you feel the need to do that every single time?” You ask with an annoyed little huff when the mattress settles, the dip in the centre making you slump against her side.

“Because I know it bugs you.” She shrugs, resting an arm behind her so that you slip closer, thighs touching.

“You bug me.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, tilting her face down closer to yours. You can feel her hot breath puff over your lips, the tingle of her gaze as she flicks it from your eyes, down to your mouth. “But you love me more.”

Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips, a sharp breath of your own leaving you at her proximity. She knows she has this effect on you, and you find yourself wishing you were back in a time when she had no clue, that way she’d stop using it against you.

She’s laser focused, finding herself leaning closer as you shift against her, eyes fluttering in anticipation for your kiss.

You press two fingers to the middle of her forehead, pushing her away. “Just open your present.”

You press a hand over your mouth to muffle the laugh that threatens to leave you, finding the way Abby blinks down at you, confusion written all over her furrowed brows and parted lips hilariously cute. She gets incredibly embarrassed and huffy when you say so, but you can’t get over how puppy-like she is sometimes.

A little wolf pup.

“Come on,” you urge, leaning in to place a kiss under her jaw as you place the present in her lap. “I want to watch you open it.”

Abby hums, the sound low and rumbly at the feeling of your lips against her skin. She’s watching you as you pull away-- your eyes, bright with expectancy, visibly softening something within her.

“Okay, okay,” she chuckles, teeth tugging at her bottom lip to keep her smile from growing bigger than her usual smirk.

She shuffles the two of you around, moving her arm from where it’s resting on the mattress behind you so that it’s free for her to use. You let yourself slump back against her, curling your arms around her bicep to snuggle right up. The solid muscle shifts under your cheek where you’ve rested your head, your warm breaths puffing over the fabric of her henley.

A buzz of anticipation builds just below your skin, watching with rapt attention as Abby finally picks up the parcel in her lap. She turns it around in her hands, admiring the collage of magazine pages you used to wrap it. You tried your best at making them somewhat aesthetically pleasing; keeping the articles about fad diets and Hollywood romances tucked away for somebody else to use and cutting off the particularly waterlogged edges. You didn’t have a lot of options, the best pages already ripped from the spine, but you made do.

“You got pretty creative, huh?” Abby chuckles, flipping the parcel onto its front so that her blunt nails can pick at the medical tape you’d used to stick it all together— a stroke of genius on your part, you think. It ends up being a bit of a mess, the glossy paper separating and sticking to the tape, ripping long lines across the rest of the makeshift wrapping, but Abby makes quick work of it.

“You lucked out,” you say, reaching out to catch the bundle of items as they slip from the wrapping and fall into her lap. “I had to put Mel’s in a carboard box, so I tried drawing on it to make it look nicer… It just ended up looking like a cardboard box I badly drew on.”

A snort of a laugh leaves her, hands busy with balling up the paper to throw in a high arch over the stair banister and into the kitchen. You crane your head to watch the ball fly across the room, hit the corner of the bin and bounce out, rolling to the floor with a soft rustle.

“Nice throw,” you snicker, pressing a chaste kiss to her bicep at her replying hmph.

“Can’t be good at everything, I guess,” she pretends to grumble, unable to hide her pleased smirk at making you giggle.

Finally, Abby’s attention focuses on her lap. You draw your hand back to curl around her bicep, squeezing at the muscle as you look between her face and the gifts, watching for her reaction as excitement and nerves bubble around in your stomach.

A soft ‘oh’ leaves her parted lips, slightly swollen and rounded as she stares. It’s not much, just two books and something knitted and soft, but you can see the exact moment she recognises each item— those eyes that are always the first to give her away widening with something close to wonder.

The first thing she reaches out for is the beanie. It’s fairly plain, a silky knit of dark blue wool that leans closer to grey than purple. You paid a pretty penny for it, because of course you fell in love with the fancy skein of wool instead of the plethora of beanies that were already made. But now that it’s in Abby’s hands, a soft little hum leaving her as she runs her fingers over the ridges of the knit, you feel absolutely certain that you made the right choice.

“I was debating on whether or not to add a pompom, but didn’t want to be the reason you got bullied,” you say, muffling your laugh into her sleeve.

Abby scoffs, turning the beanie around in her hands before ducking her head to put it on. “As if I’d let them.” She turns to you, fiddling with the sides to make sure they cover the tips of her ears. “How do I look?”

“Perfect.” You grin, reaching up to tuck a few flyaways up under the knitted band. “That colour looks beautiful on you.”

Abby can’t help but look away, lips pursed and cheeks warming under your gaze. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you hum pleasantly, making sure to brush your fingers across a flushed cheek before dropping your hand back to her arm.

You nod to the two books in her lap, one more recognisable than the other. “You should look at the top one, first.”

Abby follows your direction, keeping her beanie on as she picks up the next item-- a hardcover book, also plain in appearance. It’s a neutral grey, the cotton fabric that’s been stretched over the cover in surprisingly good condition. There’s no title, just a small black stamp of an open book centred near the top.

A black elastic band keeps the book bound, Abby’s nimble fingers untucking it to be able to flip through the pages. They’re all blank… kind of.

“It’s a reading journal,” you explain, watching the pages flick by. “Whenever you finish a book, you fill out a page. It has a spot for all the book details, like the name and the author, then you use the rest of it to write your thoughts.”

Abby pauses on one of said pages, reading the prompts along the top; book name, author, date started/finished, and rating.

“It’s even got a little pocket at the back where you can keep notes and extra bookmarks.” You look up at her, watching for her reaction. “Do you… like it?”

“I didn’t know this kind of thing existed,” she says, flipping to the back to look at the pocket. “I used to just write down the name of each book I’ve read in the back of my gym notebook, since I didn’t know where else to do that.” She closes the journal, the spine crackling pleasantly as she snaps the elastic back into place.

“But I do now.” She flashes you a warm smile, her eyes doing that thing you love where they crinkle in the corners. “This is perfect. Thank you, honey.”

You let out a relieved exhale, pressing in closer along her side. Your hook an ankle around one of her own, knees knocking gently together. “Good. I’m glad.”

She takes this moment to lean down, placing a loving kiss to the middle of your forehead, then another to your cheek before settling back in for her last gift— tucking the reading journal under her thigh.

A copy of Lord of the Flies sits in the middle of her lap. The cover is different to the one available in the library, this one a striking red and black with a bent upper corner. The spine is cracked in a dozen different places, though they just serve as reminders of all the people who have read this book before you.

Abby’s smile is fond, fingers running over the embossed title across the cover. “I don’t have this one yet.”

“I know. You read the library copy.”

She peers down at you; head cocked to the side. “How did you know that?”

“You were reading it when I found you that night in the library.” Your fingers squeeze gently at her arm, a warmth rising up the back of your neck to the tips of your ears. “When I asked you to come sleep in my room the first time.”

Maybe she wouldn’t remember, and a part of you worries about what she might think about the fact that you did. You should have stuck with something simpler, like new hand wraps or some of that dried fruit she eats like its candy.

“Holy shit. I was, wasn’t I?” It’s soft, breathy, a little laughter tumbling off the end from something close to disbelief. She looks back to the book, thumbing the corner to flip through the pages idly. “I can’t believe you remembered—”

She pauses, words dying off on the tip of her tongue as she watches the pages flick by—a little slower now. Annotations decorate each page, passages underlined or circled in ballpoint pen, the blue ink varying in colour the further along the book goes as your pen eventually ran out and you’d been forced to switch to another. In the margins of the page held notes. Sometimes they were long, detailed thoughts on impactful scenes or thoughtful lines, while others were simple little frowny faces or strings of exclamation points at particularly sad or distressing scenes.

“Is this you?” Abby asks, eyes running across a double paged spread that held more notes than usual. You’d obviously had a lot to say. “Are these yours?”

You nod, almost shy as you keep yourself tucked into her side. “It took me all week, and I doubt my thoughts will be as in depth as your own… but I know you liked hearing me talk about The Road. I thought this might be nice.” You chance a look at her, watching her side profile as she flips to random pages to read your annotations. “When you reread the book, you’ll get to hear my thoughts in in real-time. It’ll be like we’re reading it together, even if I’m not physically there.”

Abby’s quiet, the only noise coming from her being the click of her throat as she swallows, almost like she’s pushing something back. She lets the book fold back over, the crinkled front cover staring up at her from her lap as she blinks. That same flicker of something gives way on her face, an almost sombre look that she schools just as quickly as it came.

You feel it start in your chest; a flutter of anxiety that makes it feel like your heart is skipping every other beat.

It hasn’t been lost on you how… weird Abby’s been since you got here. She’s obviously had a busy week-- you don’t doubt that for a second-- but there’s something about the way she’s been acting that makes you feel like something else might be bothering her. Something beyond the tiredness that’s seeped into her bones.

You just wish she’d talk to you.

“Abs?” You detangle yourself from her side, placing a hesitant hand on her cheek to tilt her face towards you. She lets you. “Are you okay? Did you—”

Your words are muffled, practically shoved back into your mouth as Abby swoops in, catching you off guard with a sudden kiss.

The book lays forgotten in her lap, one of her hands finding its way home on your waist, thumbs digging into her favourite spot along the fat of your hips. The other slides up the expanse of your back, cradling the back of your head as she kisses you senseless.

You’re gripping onto the front of her henley when she pulls back, only far enough to press your foreheads together. She looks a bit silly from this angle, as much as you probably do to her, but you can’t find it within you to care when your lips are tingling like this and you’re trying to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” she murmurs on a shaky exhale, the hand on your waist kneading into your flesh. “I just— I love you.”

It’s hushed; reverent and sweet.

You pull her back in.

The both of you fall back on the bed, Abby guiding you so that your head rests gently on her pillow. She’s quick to move the book from where it’s trapped between you, lightly tossing it behind her on the mattress so she can shuffle closer, hands smoothing down to grab at your thighs. Your arms come to wrap around her neck, legs spreading wide enough for her warm body to fit between.

“Thank you,” she mumbles into the kiss, shifting to trail her lips over your jaw, up across your temples and back down again. She’s insistent and loving, letting just enough of her bodyweight press you into the mattress so you feel her.

Your face scrunches as she bombards you with quick pecks all across your face, nose scrunching as she unintentionally tickles you with the drag of her lips and the flutter of her eyelashes. Abby hums pleasantly at your responding giggle, cracking her eyes open to peek at you— the way you bite at your bottom lip to quell your lovesick smile.

“So, it was okay?” You ask, slightly out of breath. You bring one of your legs up to wrap around her hip, Abby’s hand gripping at your thigh to keep you there.

“More than okay.” She draws back, taking in how you look as you lay back against her sheets, cheeks warm and eyes half-lidded. “I loved it. All of it.”

Your fingers weave through the hair at the back of her neck, idly playing with the curling baby hairs. “Good. I was worried you’d be offended about me writing in a book.”

Abby chuckles, dipping down to nuzzle her face against your neck. Your arms tighten around her, tilting your head to the side to give her more room.

“Never.” A kiss to the juncture of your neck sends a tiny jolt of what feels like electricity zipping under your skin. “Not unless it was a library book.”

The laugh that leaves you is louder than you mean it to be, and you press your face into the pillow to muffle it. You feel Abby’s hum against your throat before a light nip at the skin, barely a tug between her teeth. You cling onto her just a bit tighter.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, pressing a soothing kiss to the faintest hint of a mark she left. “Why’re you laughing at me?”

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m…” You pause, thinking it over. “Okay, I’m laughing at you, but--!”

Abby lifts herself up, hands sliding from your thighs and up under your top, settling in along your waist. Under any other circumstance you’d probably be clenching your thighs together, looking up at her with pleading eyes or a dare to continue. This isn’t one of those times.

This is a threat.

“Abigail, don’t you dare!” Your hands scramble for her own, body already tense in expectation. “You didn’t even let me finish what I was gonna say!”

Her grin is positively wolfish, no longer a pouting little puppy. You don’t know which you prefer.

“How could you possibly make what you said any better?” Her braid falls across her shoulder as she tilts her head, the tail of her braid brushing across your chest. Her fingers twitch along your skin, making you gasp.

“I was going to tell you how cute you are,” you say, trying to worm your fingers between her own. You think you have her, but then your hands are being pressed into the mattress next to you and you realise that you’re truly stuck now.

“I didn’t realise that was a punishable offence,” you huff, eyes rolling playfully.

Abby looks you over, your body unwillingly flushing under her scrutinising gaze. “Hm. I don’t know…” She’s smirking as she says it, a dangerous glint in her eyes. She’s really got you caged in now, trapping you under her weight. “I think you were just making fun of me.”

“You wanna know what I think?” You lift your head up off the pillow, tipping your chin up in a way that you hope looks defiant. “I just think you like showing off how strong you are.”

The corner of Abby’s mouth twitches, that shit-eating grin faltering for an almost imperceptible moment.

“Yeah?” she asks, lowering more of herself against you, pinning your hips between the bed and her own. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” you hum, wetting you lips as she leans closer. “I think you love watching me squirm under you.” You emphasise your point by shifting your hips, trying to wriggle free from out under her.

But you can’t, and the way Abby’s pupils dilate at your failed attempt tells you all you need to know.

“That—You don’t—” Her skin flushes underneath the collar of her shirt, the colour creeping up the freckled skin of her neck. You want to bite it.

“Shut up,” she finally gets out, rolling off of you and to the side.

Laughter leaves you in a triumphant giggle, rolling to follow her so that you’re facing one another. She’s got her face shoved between the two pillows, beanie bunching up and nearly slipping off the top of her head.

“Poor baby,” you coo, curling an arm around her to rub at her broad back. “Did I embarrass you?”

She bats you away as you laugh, her responding grunt muffled into the mattress. “Leave me alone.”

Abby only grumbles when you kiss her shoulder, a hopeless sound that just prolongs your giggles into the fabric of her shirt.

Feeling like you’ve tortured her enough you roll onto your back once more, stretching your limbs out like a cat in the sun. Abby’s bed is infinitely comfier than your own, her mattress the perfect kind of firm that doesn’t feel like you’re sleeping on the floor, but keeps your back from feeling like it’s being bent out of shape. It could also be because her pillows smell like her shampoo and the fact that you’ve only slept in it while tangled up in her arms… but who’s to say.

You roll your head to the side, stretching out the tender muscles in your neck as you do so. It’s a dreary day today, clouds and a steady drizzle of rain washing everything in tones of grey. It’s kind of nice, the drum of rain against the roof a hypnotic sound. Now that you’re cuddled up beside Abby, it’s almost enough to send you drifting off back to sleep.

But you stay strong, knowing that it’s much too late now to nap, your window of opportunity long gone.

You shuffle up a little bit, leaning across to the bedside table to turn the lamp on, knowing it’ll be harder to sleep if the room is brighter. Fumbling around for the switch, you accidently knock a few things out of place with your elbow, only making it worse by trying to save it. A particularly uncoordinated move on your half sends things tumbling to the carpet.

“Shit—” you hiss, slipping off the bunk to kneel on the floor, hoping to god that the canteen that just fell had its lid screwed on properly (it did, thankfully).

“You okay?” Abby’s up in an instant, shuffling to the edge of the bed to peer down at you. “What happened?”

“I knocked half your nightstand to the floor,” you mumble apologetically, laying on your stomach to reach underneath the bed for the things that slid under. “Sorry, baby.”

She chuckles, letting herself relax on the mattress now that she knows you aren’t hurt. “You’re fine. Come back up, I’ll fix it later.”

“In a second, I think I just lost your Dad under the bed.”

Abby barks out a laugh, though it’s muffled from sticking your head under the bunk. You’re reaching out blindly, patting around storage boxes and even more books to try and find the picture frame.

Finally, your hand brushes against the wooden stand on the back of the frame, the folded prongs that keep it all together cold against your palm.

“Sorry, Mr Anderson,” you say as you shuffle out from under the bunk, pulling the picture with you. Sitting back on your knees you flip it around, checking for any cracks in the glass. “Didn’t mean to send you flying—”

It takes you longer than it probably should have to notice, too distracted by your sweaty palms and racing heart at possibly damaging one of the only physical memories of Abby’s father she has left right in front of her.

But the picture in this frame isn’t Jerry Anderson. It’s not even the same frame.

“What’s…”

The photo in the thin gold frame is one you don’t recognise, though you certainly know the people captured in it.

You and Abby sit next to each other on Manny’s bed, enough distance between the two of you for one more person, though no one fills that gap. You’ve got your feet tucked up under you, talking animatedly about something that you can’t remember, hands out of focus as you wave them around to emphasise your point. You’re drunk, clearly at some kind of party (maybe Manny’s birthday?), but you’re having fun.

Abby rests back on one arm next to you, muscle tank rising up just enough to show off the band of her boxer briefs, her muscled legs hanging off of the bed. She’s got a beer halfway up to her lips, arm hanging midair as she listens to you.

But it’s not the setting that sticks out to you, or the lack of memory of this particular moment. It’s the way Abby looks at you.

This was clearly a little while ago, a couple of months at the latest—yet the way Abby’s mouth ticks up at the side, her eyes hooded as she looks at you, so enraptured by whatever drunken ramble you’re on? You recognise this expression. It may be more subtle than you’re used to, especially lately, but you know this look intimately.

It’s love.

“That’s…” Abby clears her throat, finding it difficult to talk through her embarrassment. “Manny gave me that the other day.”

You manage to tear yourself away from the photo, catching Abby’s eyes for a second before she looks away.

“He said it was his ‘I told you so’ moment. Kept it from me until I talked to him about you.”

“You told him about us?” Your soft smile bleeds into your tone, clear enough for anyone to hear. You’re honestly a little surprised, though if she was going to tell anyone, it was always going to be Manny.

She nods, still refusing to look at you. You don’t push it, knowing you’d have to choose between her being open or looking you in the face right now, and you know which one you’d choose a million times over.

“He already knew, but it was… it was nice saying it out loud,” she confesses, although a little embarrassed. “He was just happy he could rub it in my face that he knew before me.” She scoffs, resting her chin on her folded arms. “Pendejo.”

You look back down at the photo, drawing a finger lightly along the edge of the frame. Was she really looking at you like this the whole time? Did you just trick yourself into not seeing it?

“Why was it hiding under the bed?”

Abby stiffens, eyes hesitantly sliding over to where you’re still sitting on the floor, picture frame held in your lap.

You made the question sound more accusatory than you meant it. You go to correct yourself, but Abby beats you to the punch.

“… I was saving it.”

“Saving it?” You ask, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “For when?”

Her already flushed cheeks a fraction more, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose more prominent with the colour.

“For later. An anniversary or something.” She tries to say it like it’s not a big deal, though the way she looks everywhere but your face says otherwise.

Warmth blooms in your chest, vines of it creeping from the top of your head, all the way down to your toes. It tingles, almost like a pleasant hum underneath your skin. It’s hard to describe what love feels like, but you’d say this is pretty close.

You gently place the frame on the bedside table, careful not to place it too close to the edge where you might accidently knock it again. You’re already so close to the bunk, so with a small shuffle you reach the edge, hands finding their place on either side of Abby’s jaw.

She lets you tilt her face up, knowing that she won’t be able to dodge eye contact when you’re sitting this close from one another.

“You are so unbelievably sweet.” Your thumbs brush across both of her cheeks in tandem, the palm of your cool hands soaking up the warmth. You lean in, watching her eyes flutter closed as you press a lingering kiss to her waiting lips.

“Did you want me to forget I saw it?” You ask as you pull away, still holding her head up. “I can shove it back under the bed and will promise to act super surprised when you give it to me.”

The corners of Abby’s lips tick up, a huff of a laugh leaving her. “No, it’s okay.” She looks to the nightstand, then back to you. “I think Not-Christmas is a pretty okay time to give it to you, too.”

You grin, feeling lovestruck and incredibly sappy, leaning back in to steal another kiss.

“I love you,” you murmur between kisses, rising up slightly higher on your knees as Abby sits up more, trying to pull you closer.

“I love you, too.” Larger hands than your own grab at the fat of your hips, fingers digging softly into the flesh. “Now get up here before I lose my mind.”

You laugh, a breathy giggle that trails off into a whine as Abby uses the opportunity to lick into your mouth.

“Abby,” you sigh sweetly, taking far too long between words as you give in to the feeling of her tongue sliding across yours. “I have—I’m working tonight,” you eventually get out, arms looping around her neck as she strays from your lips.

She leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses up the side of your neck, teasing at your pulse point for a moment before continuing up to your ear. Her teeth playfully tug at the lobe, drawing a sharp gasp from you.

“Then we’ll just have to be quick,” she whispers, before gripping you by the backs of the thighs and hauling you up onto the bed with her.

You’d tease her about it being another excuse to show off her strength, but there are much more pressing matters to attend to.

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