A behind-the-scenes story about two co-stars, a slow-burn connection, and finally confronting the feelings they've tried to hide
Cw: slow burn, emotional, mutual pining, angst, anxious moments, confessions, romantic tension, mild language, rain, suggestive themes.
You didn’t really see each other much until the recording of season three began — just a handful of cast hangouts, a couple of birthday parties, and that one red carpet event where the cameras caught you standing side by side but worlds apart.
Months stretched between you, a growing distance marked not by silence alone, but by the effort it took to forget. You tried—hard—to erase her from your thoughts, to quiet the reckless pounding of your heart every time her name came up in conversation. You told yourself that time would dull the ache, that the space between you would be enough to let go.
She tried to bridge the gap. She reached out, sending texts inviting you to lunch, casual hangouts with mutual friends, little attempts to recapture what had once been effortless. But you always declined. And with each refusal, the weight in her chest grew heavier—each “no” a quiet unraveling of hope. She wanted to know, more than anything, if maybe, just maybe, you felt the same. But your absence was an answer in itself.
So she did the only thing she could—she tried to move on too. She let the current carry her forward, wearing the mask of the perfect actress, the devoted girlfriend. She smiled in photos, laughed at the right moments, but inside, the world she’d built without you felt fragile, cracked, on the verge of collapse. pretending her world wasn't crumbling without you close.
Yet, fate has a way of undoing even the most carefully laid plans.
But once again, you were seeing each other every day, for an ungodly amount of hours and days, filming until dawn, repeating stunts and choreographing fights, over and over again. It was easy for old habits to resurface.
It started small.
A cup of coffee waiting for you on the makeup table before call time. Her jacket draped over your chair after a late-night shoot. Little things that could be explained away, but felt deliberate.
At first, you told yourself not to read into it. This was Abby—warm, thoughtful, always like this with people she cared about. But it was different this time. You caught her watching you during table reads, her lines forgotten for a moment too long. You noticed the way her laughter lingered when you said something—like she was afraid to let the sound fade.
It unnerved you, the way your chest tightened around her presence again. Months of distance, of trying to unlearn her, unraveled in a matter of days. All your hard work vanished the moment you saw her on set, that familiar golden braid sending your heart fluttering away.
You told yourself it was nothing—Abby was just being Abby. Always thoughtful, always kind. You refused to let your mind twist her gestures into something they weren’t. Not again.
You had worked so hard to get here. Months spent putting the pieces of yourself back together, months of carefully untangling her from your everyday thoughts. You weren’t about to let a few late-night smiles and quiet glances undo all of that.
So you put space where you could. You weren’t rude—never rude—but you let conversations fade before they could find their rhythm. You offered polite smiles instead of lingering ones, clipped laughs instead of easy ones. When she tried to start a real conversation between takes, you’d suddenly remember you had to rehearse lines with Ellie, or join Dina for lunch. You made yourself busy with anyone but her, letting other people fill the silence she used to.
It was safer this way. Safer to stay in the shallow end instead of drowning in her again.
Still, the space didn’t stop her eyes from finding you. In the middle of a crowded set, your attention would drift and—like clockwork—you’d catch her watching you. Sometimes she looked away quickly, other times she didn’t, and you hated how that made your heart trip over itself. You hated it even more when you had to be the one to break the moment, turning away first.
Every time you did, it felt like you were closing a door she didn’t even realize she’d opened. A door you had sworn to lock for good.
But doors like that… they never stayed shut for long.
She saw it in the little things— the way you didn’t quite meet her eyes anymore, how your smiles felt smaller, shorter-lived, the way you kept just enough distance so her shoulder wouldn’t brush yours when you passed. It wasn’t avoidance born from anger. It was careful. Controlled. Like you’d drawn invisible lines and were terrified of crossing them.
And it hurt. More than she expected.
Because Abby remembered the way you used to be with her—the lingering conversations, the way you laughed like it was a secret between you, the casual touches that had felt like second nature. She’d replay those moments in her head during the months apart, wondering if maybe she’d imagined their weight. Now, seeing you deliberately pull away made her wonder if she’d been wrong all along.
She tried to let it go, to focus on her scenes, on the endless hours of choreography and fight blocking. But her eyes kept finding you, even when she didn’t mean for them to. And every time you turned away first, it felt like losing something she’d never truly had but desperately wanted.
She thought she was good at hiding it. At playing it cool. But the truth was, every time you drifted further from her, she wanted to reach out, take your hand, and pull you back.
Abby wasn’t sure how much longer she could stop herself from doing exactly that.
It happened after another grueling night shoot.
The crew was packing up under the dim glow of portable floodlights, shadows stretching long across the gravel. The fake blood and dirt clung stubbornly to your skin, itching beneath the layers of your costume, and the cold air bit at your cheeks with every gust. You were halfway through a conversation with Dina about grabbing something warm to eat—half listening, half watching your breath fog in the night—when movement in your peripheral vision made you glance over.
She was striding toward you with purpose, her jacket half-zipped, hair damp from the light rain earlier. Even in the chaos of crew members calling goodnight and equipment clattering into cases, her presence cut straight through the noise.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Her voice was steady, almost casual, but her eyes… her eyes told a different story.
You froze for a beat, the familiar instinct to make an excuse rushing in—tell her you had somewhere to be, someone waiting—but something in the way she was looking at you rooted you to the spot. You gave Dina a small nod, promising you’d catch up later, and followed Abby through the maze of cables and prop crates until you were behind one of the trailers, tucked away from prying eyes.
She didn’t waste time.
“You’ve been ignoring me.”
You sighed, your breath puffing white into the air. You had hoped she wouldn’t notice—or at least wouldn’t call you out—but you should’ve known better. Abby was never the type to leave something unresolved, not when it came to you. “I haven’t,” you said, keeping your tone light. “I’m just… distracted with stuff. Busy, you know, with all the filming and—”
“I’ve been trying to play it cool,” she cut in, her words sharper now, “to act like I’m fine with you keeping your distance, but I’m not. I miss you.”
There it was—simple, unadorned, and impossible to sidestep.
You stared at her, the words hanging in the cold air between you. “Abby…” you started, unsure where you were going with it. Your voice felt small compared to the weight of hers.
She took a step closer, her hands flexing like she didn’t know what to do with them. “Did I do something? Say something? Because if I messed up, I’d rather you just tell me instead of… this.” She gestured vaguely toward the space you’d been keeping.
“You didn’t do anything,” you said quickly, because that was the truth. That was the problem.
“Then why?” Her brow furrowed, not in anger but in something closer to hurt. “One day you’re there, and the next it’s like you’re… pulling away before I can even catch up.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to look anywhere but at her. “I just… needed some space. It’s nothing personal.”
Her jaw tightened. “It feels personal.”
Your throat worked around the silence that followed. She looked like she wanted to keep pushing, to force you into saying the real reason, but she held back—maybe out of restraint, maybe out of fear of the answer.
You shifted your weight, gaze dropping to the wet gravel. You exhaled slowly, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you avoided her gaze. “It’s... personal stuff,” you said quietly, voice almost breaking. “Family things. Some things I need to figure out outside of work. It’s been… hard to keep everything together.”
You felt a pang of guilt immediately after the words left your mouth. It wasn’t the full truth, but it was what you could say without unraveling everything inside. You hated lying—especially to Abby—but you convinced yourself it was for the best, for now.
Abby’s expression softened, but only slightly, her eyes searching yours with quiet patience. She took a gentle step closer, careful not to overwhelm you. “I’m sorry you’re going through that,” she said softly, her voice steady but restrained. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know. Whenever you want to talk—or even just not be by yourself—I’m here.”
Abby hesitated for a moment, then offered a quiet suggestion, her voice soft and careful. “Maybe... sometime, if you want, we could hang out. No pressure—just friends. Sometimes it helps to have someone around, even if it’s just to sit together without saying much.”
You felt a small, tentative smile form at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah. That sounds... nice. Thank you, Abby.”
She gave a barely perceptible nod, relief flickering in her eyes but held gently. “Whenever you feel ready. I’ll be here.”
The space between you didn’t suddenly feel lighter—more like it shifted just a little, subtle and fragile, as if something quiet had begun. Still, beneath that slight shift, you clung to your secret, hoping that with time, it might become easier to share.
You reunited with Dina, who was standing nearby. She wrapped her arm around your shoulders and gave you a gentle squeeze as you both walked away.
Maybe… maybe you could hang out again if Abby really wanted to. Keep things light. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. You’d just have to get over her quicker this time—only now, she’d be close enough to watch it happen.
In the days after that conversation, Abby didn’t push. She let the silence be, but quietly showed up in small ways—sending a simple message, checking in without overwhelming you, sharing a meme that reminded her of an inside joke between you two. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind you she was there.
One afternoon, she invited you to a low-key lunch with a few castmates. Nothing formal, just a casual spot with good food and no expectations. You hesitated, the knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach, but eventually said yes.
At the table, Abby sat beside you, her presence comforting rather than demanding. She listened more than she spoke, letting you set the pace of the conversation. When you faltered or grew quiet, she offered a smile or a gentle nudge, never pushing but always steady.
Over time, the walls you’d built began to crumble—not all at once, but in small moments: a shared laugh, a glance that held no awkwardness, a touch on the shoulder that said “I’m here.” The old easy rhythm started to seep back in, tempered now with a deeper understanding.
Yet beneath those moments of closeness, you couldn’t shake the weight of the small lie you’d told Abby—the guilt lingered quietly in the back of your mind, a reminder that you hadn’t been completely honest with her. But even so, having her near again, feeling the familiar comfort of her presence, was something you didn’t want to let go of. It was like finding a piece of home you’d lost and didn’t realize how much you missed until it was within reach again.
The tension between honesty and self-preservation twisted inside you, but for now, you allowed yourself to lean into the warmth of having Abby close—safe, familiar, quietly present—and hoped that one day, the truth could catch up without breaking what you’d just begun to rebuild.
The evening light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long shadows across the quiet apartment. Abby paced slowly near the doorway, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her shirt. Isla sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a mug cooling in her hands, watching Abby with calm, steady eyes. The air between them felt heavy, wrapped in a silence that spoke louder than words — the kind of hush that comes right before something important is said.
After a long pause, Abby finally broke it. “I have to tell you something.” Her voice was rougher than she expected, thick with tension. Isla didn’t flinch. Instead, she met Abby’s gaze with a quiet compassion, the kind of acceptance born from time and reflection. “Okay,” she said simply. “Say it.”
Abby took a deep breath, as if releasing months of held breath all at once. “I—this is going to hurt, and I am so sorry for that—but I need to be honest. I’ve been feeling something for someone else. I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t want this to happen to you.” Her hands trembled as she reached out to take Isla’s, fearing rejection or anger.
Instead, Isla squeezed her hand gently, letting out a soft, rueful laugh that felt like both sadness and relief. “I know,” she said, and it was not the sting Abby feared. Isla’s voice carried a strange, fortifying calm. “I don’t mean that like, ‘I forgive you’—because that’s not the point. I mean… I saw it. I’ve seen the way you look at her, the little ways you light up when you think no one’s watching.”
“Honestly? I thought it would happen a lot sooner than tonight,” she added after a beat. Abby’s mouth opened and closed, startled into silence by how lucid Isla was being, how unafraid of naming what she’d seen.
The truth hung between them, raw but somehow freeing. They talked for what felt like hours, weaving through memories and emotions — about timing, intentions, what had been good and what had grown numb. Abby’s apologies were sincere and tender. “I never wanted to be cruel to you,” she said, voice breaking. “I should have been braver, or quieter, I don’t know. I just… I didn’t know how to hold both truths at once.”
Isla listened, occasionally interrupting with a memory or a quiet joke about their shared life, the little disasters and triumphs that had once felt so important. Laughter came—quiet and shaky—and it broke something cleanly, like a hinge finally giving. They parted with the sort of gentleness that felt rare and, somehow, earned. Neither stormed nor begged; instead, they held space for each other’s disappointment and relief— it was an odd kind of relief: grief and kindness braided together into something that felt like a smooth transition rather than an abrupt end.
It’s a short break, the kind where everyone disperses in tiny orbits and the set breathes for a moment.
You’re on a crate, script in hand, trying to hide the fact that your fingers are still shaking from the last take, when Abby appears with two coffees and a crooked grin that makes her eyes crinkle. She hands you one without ceremony, sets her own down, and leans in closer than strictly necessary to point at a line she thinks you should hit softer. Her shoulder brushes yours and the contact is feather-light, casual — the kind of touch you’d write off as practical on any other day.
She jokes about your tendency to over-prepare, then mimics the exact sad face you make when you forget a cue; you both laugh, and it’s easy and warm and the sound settles in your chest.
She lingers longer than she needs to, though: a thumb tucked against the spine of your script, her elbow nudging yours as she reads a line aloud. “You always come up with the most dramatic little pauses,” she teases, eyes bright. It’s playful, effortless. To anyone watching, it’s purely camaraderie — two actors riffing off one another.
To you, it’s a map of memory. You tell yourself she’s being kind; she has always been kind. You catch yourself smiling too long, then flip the page and force a professional tone. “Thanks,” you say, voice neutral. “See you in wardrobe.” You stand up and walk away with Dina calling for you from the craft services table, and Abby stays behind, watching until you round a corner.
She doesn’t follow. She only watches, and the look on her face is a small, private ache that she tucks away when the director calls for quiet.
The set hums quietly around you, but in that noise, there’s a small pocket of calm where Abby stands, her hair catching the light like thin strands of gold. You don’t intend to look, but your eyes keep drifting to her, pulled as if by some unseen force. You think about turning away, heading back to the trailer, focusing on your lines—but your feet move before your mind catches up.
Her familiar scent—pine mixed with something soft, maybe the sweater she wore the other night—fills the air between you, and the careful distance you’d planned collapses. She glances up as you stop just a little too close, offering a smile that feels like it belongs to someone who’s known you for years. “Hey,” she says softly, that single word landing heavier than expected.
You want to make a joke, to break the tension, but instead, a small, honest “Hi” slips out. Your voice sounds unfamiliar, thicker, more intimate—and you don’t try to pull it back. It hangs there, fragile and real.
She steps a fraction nearer, closing the last inch with no ceremony. “You okay?” Her hand reaches out before you can fully decide whether you want it to. The contact is feather-light against your forearm, a check rather than an anchor, but it sends a current straight to the middle of you.
You want to tell her everything—you want to tell her you ran away so you wouldn’t fall apart in front of her; you want to tell her you lied because you were scared of losing what was already there —but no words come. Instead, you breathe.
Words form and slide away like fish. You find yourself saying things you didn’t plan: “I missed this,”. It feels smaller, safer than saying “I love you,” but carries the same weight beneath it. Abby’s eyes soften with a knowing warmth—and she doesn’t pressure you for clarity. She just smiles, easing the tightness in your chest.
For a moment, the rest of the world fades away—the noise, the people, the endless pressure—and it’s just the two of you, standing there in that quiet space. Falling feels less like losing control and more like being held, terrifying but somehow gentle all at once.
Filming was coming to an end, thankfully. You didn't know how many more weeks of running around in dirty and bloodied costumes, sleep deprivation, and cold coffees you could take— it had all started to feel like a slow erosion. The exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, dragging at every step.
But Abby wasn’t relieved. Not really. The last time filming wrapped, you’d disappeared without a word, leaving her with that hollow ache of absence. She worried, deep down, that it might happen again. The memory sat between her ribs like a bruise she couldn’t ignore. She was afraid you might do the same again.
That night you wrapped closer to 2 a.m., the set finally emptying into clanking carts and the occasional shouted goodnight. Abby insisted you stay at her place — it was closer, she said, and you didn’t argue. The walk back smelled of wet asphalt and the cold breath of late spring; the city was slick and glossy under the streetlamps. Inside her apartment, it was warmer, familiar in a way that made you both relax and tense at once.
You ate a frozen pizza, laughing at how pathetic it tasted and how perfect it felt. The grease left a film on your fingers; the TV cast a flat, blue light across the room as an old movie played half-heartedly.
You sat on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bumping occasionally when you shifted. Abby had made a nest of blankets; one was draped over both your legs and smelled faintly of detergent and pine, like her. The rain tapped the window in a steady, comforting rhythm that tried to smooth the edges of the night but did little to mask the frantic pounding of your own heart. You were certain Abby could hear it, somehow, even in the small space between you.
Abby’s hands were restless. You noticed them — the small, repetitive motions she didn’t realize she was making: twisting the blanket’s fringe, tapping the heel of her palm against her knee. She glanced at you, then down at her hands, as if making sure the courage was still there to be offered.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said finally, her voice low and nearly swallowed by the rain. It landed in the room softer than a shout but heavier than you expected.
You slowly turned away from the flickering screen, forcing yourself to meet her gaze, feeling the weight of what was coming. “I’ve been holding this in for a while,” she started, exhaling like she’d been carrying a stone for months and finally set it down. “I tried to sort it out in my head before I said anything, because I didn’t want to make things messy between us.”
Her fingers found yours and squeezed like an anchor. “But I think about you… more than I should. I miss you even if I saw you just hours ago. And no matter how much I try to convince myself it’s just friendship… It’s not. Not for me.”
Her voice cracked on the last words, the shape of them fragile enough that taking them back would have been impossible. There was a pause — rain, the hum of the radiator, the movie’s dialogue trickling like background noise — in which the apartment felt both very large and very small.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden weight of Abby’s confession. For a moment, your mind raced to catch up, to process the flood of emotions and the unexpected vulnerability laid bare before you. But then a flicker of doubt crept in, sharp and stubborn.
You stared at Abby, disbelief hardening into something sharper—a defense you’d built after working so hard to get over her — to push down the feelings that always caught you off guard. And now, this confession felt like a direct attack, a cruel mockery of your efforts. It wasn’t just confusing; it stung.
“Are you serious?” you asked, voice edged with disbelief, an uneasy laugh bubbling up amidst the tension. “Did…did Dina—” you tried to reason it out, maybe she told her something by accident, and Abby wanted to get a laugh out of your misery. Of making you believe someone like her could love you.
“There's no way,” you continued, words tumbling out too fast, too raw. “The press, and the cast…A-and Isla,” you kept rambling, standing up from your spot on the floor. “No,” you said firmly, shaking your head. “This can’t be real. You’re messing with me. Dina told you something, and now you think it's funny to play tricks with me.” Your voice cracked, stubbornness thick in every syllable.
Abby’s hopeful expression faltered, pain flashing behind her eyes. But you didn’t wait for her to respond. The heaviness in your chest tightened, the air around you thick with something suffocating. You stormed toward the door, desperate for distance and fresh air, away from the weight of her gaze and the ache in your heart.
It took Abby a few seconds to realize what was happening, and she bolted out of her place, trying to go after you. “W-wait!” she shouted, but the elevator doors closed before she reached you. She basically flew down the 7 flights of stairs in her apartment building, trying to catch up with you.
The rain was pouring outside, cold and relentless, but you didn’t care. You opened the entry door and stepped out, the droplets soaking through your clothes in seconds. The night swallowed you whole, the wet chill matching the ache in your chest.
Your footsteps splashed across the puddled pavement until you felt a hand catch your arm—firm, urgent. Abby spun you around, her grip shifting to your shoulders, tightly holding you in place. Not hurting—never hurting—but refusing to let you go.
You stand there, soaked through, the rain washing over you like a relentless tide. Your breath comes out in ragged clouds, heart pounding, chest tight—not just from the cold but from everything swirling between you.
You stood there in the downpour, drenched to the skin, the rain washing over you in an unending rhythm. Your breath came in ragged bursts, clouds of steam leaving your lips, your heart pounding against your ribs. The tightness in your chest was more than the cold—it was years of buried feelings clawing their way back up.
“Please,” she said, voice small but fierce, rain dripping from her lashes, her hair plastered to her face. “I’m not messing with you, I swear.” Her eyes searched yours desperately, hunting for any crack in the wall you’d built.
You wanted to shove her away. To turn on your heel and run until you were somewhere dry, somewhere safe from her words. But your feet wouldn’t move.
“Then tell me why,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended, trembling with all the months of hurt you’d swallowed. “Why now? I’ve… After everything—after I spent so long trying to get over you—now?” Your voice broke, splintered into a sob, tears mixing with the rain as they fell down your face. Two years of suffering in silence, of teaching yourself to stop hoping, all of it crashing down under the weight of this moment.
Something flickered in her eyes then—shock, recognition, and something warmer beneath it. She clung to those words, get over you, like they were proof. You did feel the same. You always had. And for a heartbeat, it didn’t matter that you were soaked to the skin, or that the street was empty but for the two of you—because she had her answer.
“I ended it with Isla,” she said slowly, deliberately, as if each word had weight. “Two months ago.” Her voice faltered. “We-we talked—” she choked up a bit on the rain and the tremor of her breath,” there was no fight, no screaming. She knew. I couldn’t keep pretending for both of us. I left because I couldn’t keep holding myself back from being honest with you.”
You shook your head, disbelief clinging to you like the rain on your skin. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even delete the posts—”
“We still have a few sponsored posts to finish,” she said quickly, her voice almost tripping over itself. “So yes, online it looks the same. But it’s over. Completely over”
“You’re asking me to undo years of work,” you said, quieter now, the fight in your voice fraying at the edges. Your shoulders slumped, and despite yourself, there was a small flicker of something dangerous in your chest—hope.
Abby’s hands slid from your shoulders to your arms, slowly reaching for your hands and holding them in hers. Her voice trembled, her eyes locked on yours as though you might vanish if she looked away. “I couldn’t lose you again. Not without telling you the truth. Because every moment we spent apart, every text left unanswered, every laugh we didn’t share… I felt it. And it killed me. I can’t keep pretending anymore—pretending that I’m okay with just being friends, or that these feelings don’t exist.” Her voice cracked, the last words spilling out with raw honesty. “I want more. I want you.”
You wanted to be strong, to tell her that you were still angry at her, that you needed time, your chest was a battlefield of resentment and longing. The stubborn part of you wanted to keep fighting. But the rest of you—the part she’d always had—couldn’t wait another second. You both had spent too much time apart already.
“You really mean it?” you asked, voice a bit shaken up and soft, almost lost in the rain.
“I do. I don't know when it happened, when it changed, but it did. And it hasn’t stopped growing ever since. I loved you for what felt like years. And I hope to love for as long as you’ll let me.” She confessed, the rawness in her voice and the love and hope in her soft features letting you know what truly lied in her heart.
You shook your head slightly, a slow smile curving your lips, as your hands lifted to cup the sides of her face, steady and sure. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, voice thick with everything you’d held back.
You reached up, closing the small gap between you, and kissed her first. The kiss was slow to start, almost teasing, your mouths moving gently at first as if reacquainting themselves after too long apart. Rainwater mixed between your lips, cool and real, mingling with the warmth of the moment.
Her fingers found the edge of your hoodie, curling around the fabric with tentative strength. At first, the grip was gentle, almost hesitant, but then her hands tightened, pulling you closer with a growing insistence. They slid down, tracing your sides, finding your hips, drawing you in until your bodies pressed firmly together, heat blossoming between the chill of the rain. The world around you blurred, the storm fading into a distant hum.
The kiss deepened almost instantly, shifting from tentative to urgent like a dam breaking after years of pressure. Your lips parted slightly, seeking and yielding, as if every second apart had been a slow burn building to this moment of release. Breath hitched in both your chests, shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between surprise and desperate need.
Your mouths moved in a rhythm both frantic and somehow familiar, tracing silent confessions with every touch. The world around you blurred—time slowed and stretched, folding inward until nothing existed beyond the heat of her breath mingling with yours, the quickening beat of your heart against her pulse.
The hunger between you rose like a tide, relentless and overwhelming, pulling you deeper, faster. Fingers twined through hair, palms pressed with desperate intent, as if trying to memorize every curve, every inch of skin beneath the rain’s cold kiss.
Every hesitation was swept away in that fierce tide of longing, replaced by a raw, all-consuming need that made the air electric and your senses sharp to every brush of lips, every soft gasp swallowed into the storm. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of mouths—it was a claim, a surrender, a promise whispered without words, urgent and infinite.
And still, even as the hunger surged, there was a tenderness beneath the fire—a softness that anchored the fierce desire, reminding you both that this was more than physical. This was the reclaiming of something precious, something that had waited too long to be touched.
She kissed you with the weight of everything she’d held inside — longing, hope, fear, and love — and you kissed her back with equal ferocity, letting the fierce need simmering beneath the surface finally break free.
When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths heavy and mingling in the rain’s steady fall. For a long moment, you simply held each other, suspended in that fragile space between what was and what could be.
“I told you,” she murmured, a faint, breathless smile playing on her lips. “Not messing with you.” You laughed softly, still catching your breath, the sound shaky but real. Her eyes glinted, and before you could say more, she kissed you again—slower this time, like she had all the time in the world.
She stepped back just enough to meet your eyes — those beautiful, beautiful eyes. “You’re perfect,” she said softly, voice thick with emotion. “No, perfect doesn’t even do you justice — even when you’re wrong or make mistakes, you’re like a gift from the gods.”
Her hands lingered on your face, warm against the cold rain, and you both stood there, the storm around you fading into something quieter — something only the two of you could feel.
She smiled softly, her voice tender against the steady rain. “Loving you feels like breathing — effortless, essential, and something I never want to stop.”
Her words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you in the moment, in her — in everything that had been waiting to be said.
By the time you made it back up to Abby’s apartment, your clothes were plastered to your skin, shoes squelching against the hardwood floor. You should’ve cared about the mess, but all you could focus on was the heat still thrumming in your veins from the kiss.
Abby disappeared into her bedroom for a moment and returned carrying a towel, an oversized hoodie, and soft pants that looked more like a cocoon than clothing. She held them out to you with a shy smile, her eyes softer now, almost vulnerable.
“Here,” she said gently, her voice barely louder than the rain tapping against the windows. You peeled off the heavy, drenched clothes you’d been wearing, dropping them in a tangled heap on the floor. The shower was hot and brief, but you lingered just long enough to feel the warmth seep into your skin, letting the hot water wash away the cold rain—and a little of the tension inside you. While waiting for the conditioner to set, your eyes caught the labels on the bottles, a small attempt to distract yourself from the whirlwind of what had just happened between you two.
When you finally stepped out, wrapped in the towel Abby had given you, the faint scent of pine and fresh laundry lingered in the air. Sliding into the hoodie and pants, it felt like wrapping yourself in Abby herself—her shampoo, the scent of her detergent, something warm and grounding that was uniquely hers.
You emerged from the bathroom, a soft steam trailing behind you like a whisper, your skin still tingling. Abby had changed, too—wearing something similar to what she’d given you, cozy and casual. The fireplace crackled gently, casting a golden glow that softened her features as she stood propped up in front of it, soaking in the heat.
She glanced toward you as you turned the corner, her eyes catching yours and holding them. You settled cross-legged on the couch, and she slid in beside you, her damp hair falling softly over the towel draped on her shoulders. The silence stretched comfortably between you, filled only by the quiet roar of the fire.
After a moment, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers clasped tightly as if gathering courage. Her voice was low, sincere, and steady. “I wasn’t kidding out there,” she said, her eyes searching yours with that same intensity you’d seen in the rain. “I want this… whatever this is. I want you to know I’m in it. Not halfway. Not hiding.”
You smiled softly, a quiet nod the only answer you gave. “Okay.” The single word felt full of trust—because it was Abby, and you knew she meant every ounce of it. Abby smiled and let her eyes linger on you for a beat longer.
The sight of you in her clothes, freshly showered and smelling of her soap, and in her house was really doing something to her.
Her fingers moved slowly, tracing small, feather-light circles on your knee—part absent-minded, part focused entirely on you. Your gaze dropped to her hand, warm against your skin, before your eyes lifted again, meeting hers through your lashes. Your gaze kept traveling, pausing on her lips for a moment and then back at her eyes again.
Slowly, she shifted closer, the space between your bodies melting away until her warmth brushed against your arm. The world narrowed until all you could hear was the subtle rhythm of your breaths syncing, the crackle of the fire filling the silence like a pulse.
Her eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if silently asking permission. You didn’t need to speak — your nod was barely a whisper, but it was enough.
Her lips met yours with a feather-light touch—soft, hesitant, almost shy. It was a question without words, an invitation wrapped in the gentlest kiss you’d ever felt, asking if you were ready to cross that line, to dive into whatever this was together.
You responded without thinking, your heart racing as you matched her softness, letting the kiss speak for the thousand emotions tangled beneath the surface.
The world around you blurred, the firelight flickering in time with the steady beat of your heart. Every nerve ending seemed alive, tuned to the subtle shift in her touch, the way her hands hovered, waiting for your permission to close the distance further.
And then, just as the kiss threatened to break apart, a spark ignited—a slow heat blossomed from that delicate beginning, growing more urgent, more insistent. Her lips deepened their hold, pressing firmly now, her fingers threading through your hair with a hunger that made your breath hitch. The gentle question became a promise, the soft invitation turned fierce confession.
You melted into her, matching the passion she offered, losing yourself in the delicious rush of finally, finally giving in.
The kiss deepened with every heartbeat, the softness giving way to an urgent fire that blazed between you. Her hands slid from your hair down to your neck, fingers curling with a possessive heat that sent shivers cascading through your spine. You responded instinctively, your own arms wrapping around her back, pulling her impossibly closer as if trying to erase every last millimeter between your bodies.
Her lips moved with a fervor that was both desperate and reverent, as though each kiss was a vow made in silence. Your hands traced the curve of her back, memorizing the hardness of her muscles beneath your fingertips, the unsteady rise and fall of her breath that matched your own ragged rhythm. Every touch, every sigh, was a thread weaving you tighter together.
Slowly, Abby guided you backward until you were resting on the armrest of the couch, the worn fabric a bit rough against your skin. Without hesitation, you parted your legs instinctively, making space for her to settle between them. She moved quickly and mindlessly into place, your thighs wrapping around her, holding her firmly yet tenderly in place.
Her lips left yours, trailing a slow, tantalizing path down to your jaw, teasing the sensitive skin with gentle nibbles and soft kisses. Then, she found your neck, her mouth pressing against your skin, almost without noticing, leaving a small hickey—a mark of the moment, a silent claim. You arched your back just slightly, a soft gasp escaping your lips as the sensation sent ripples of warmth through you.
Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, thick with want and barely restrained passion. It was rougher now—deeper, layered with the kind of raw desire that sent a shiver straight through you. She pulled back just enough to let her lips brush against your ear, her breath warm and teasing against your skin. “Wanna keep going?” she murmured, each word deliberate and slow.
You responded with a low hum, nodding, surrendering completely as you lay back down against the armrest, your body open and vulnerable to her. She pulled away from your neck and looked down into your eyes, her gaze soft but intense, filled with something more than want—it was need.
The tension between you built quickly, thickening with each breath and every slow, heated movement. Her lips found yours again, softer at first, teasing and slow, but that delicate touch was a prelude to the storm beneath—growing, urgent, and impossible to resist. The kiss deepened, tongues intertwining, the air electric with the kind of passion that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.
You lost yourself in the sensation, every nerve alight, every thought narrowing down to the taste of her mouth, the press of her body, the heat radiating through your skin. Her whisper lingered in your ear, a constant, breathy invitation that pulled you both deeper into a moment you’d been waiting for but never dared to hope would come.
And so you answered—not just with a word, but with everything you were, letting yourself fall into her, into the desire, into the possibility of something wild and beautiful just beginning to ignite between you.
The sun was already rising when you both fell asleep, the first rays of soft pink light spilling through the curtains and casting warm patterns across the room. The quiet hum of the city waking up seeped through the slightly cracked window, but inside Abby’s apartment, time seemed to slow down to a gentle pulse.
After a couple of hours, you woke up tangled in the soft cream sheets of Abby’s bed, the whole room smelling of her, with a soft note of late-night passion. Your body felt warm and calm, the ache of yesterday’s tension now replaced by a bit of soreness and comforting softness.
Abby lay beside you, her breathing slow and even, her hair splayed out messily on the pillow. For a moment, you just watched her—tracing the curve of her cheek, the way the early afternoon light caught the delicate freckles near her nose. Something about the quiet intimacy made your chest tighten with a mix of awe and tenderness.
Careful not to wake her, you shifted closer, letting your head rest lightly on her bicep, your hand tracing patterns on her chest. The subtle rise and fall of her breath beneath your fingertips was a gentle reminder of everything that had shifted between you, the unspoken promise of what might come next.
Eventually, Abby stirred, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was a sleepy smile there, soft and real, and it made your heart skip. “Morning,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep but warm.
“Morning,” you answered, voice just as quiet, but full of everything you felt and couldn’t say.
The air between you was easy, charged but comfortable—like the space where new beginnings live. She reached for your hand, lacing her fingers through yours, grounding you in the here and now. For the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.
“You are insane,” you said, your face contorting in a mix of disbelief and mild disgust as you reached for another can of tomato sauce from the grocery shelf. The bright red label felt almost mocking in your hand as you glanced over at Abby, who was busy selecting a box of pasta with a playful grin tugging at her lips.
She looked up and shrugged, as if daring you to challenge her. “Hey, you have your own weird combos too,” she said, trying to defend herself with that cheeky smile you couldn’t help but love.
You shook your head, the image making you shiver dramatically. “Yeah, but milk chocolate with ketchup? That’s just vile.” You crinkled your nose, feeling the strange mental image linger a little too long.
Abby laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I was five!” she said, waving her hands like a true expert, trying to justify a questionable childhood choice. You rolled your eyes and dropped the can into the cart with a soft thud, still shaking your head in mock disapproval. She chose your favorite pasta box and dropped by the can, pulling the cart onto the next aisle.
“Are we out of tide pods?” Abby asked, holding up a fresh box of the new, supposedly improved laundry detergent pods, her tone half-joking but with a hint of genuine curiosity. She squinted at the colorful packaging like it was some kind of puzzle she needed to solve. You glanced over, dish soap in hand, an amused smirk spreading across your face. “Yeah, I think the last batch mysteriously disappeared sometime last week,” you said, letting the words hang between you like a playful accusation.
Abby raised an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes as if trying to interrogate you through sheer willpower. “Mysteriously, huh? You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been sneaking in extra pods to our every load, do you?” There was that familiar teasing edge in her voice, the kind that only came from someone who knew you way too well.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe. But come on, those pods smell sooo good. I’m just trying to keep our clothes smelling fresh.” The little defense was half-serious — you knew she appreciated the fact that her clothes smelled clean, and if having to buy an extra box, both of you were happy, then so be it.
Between the shelves and the fluorescent hum, the conversation wove through tiny domestic rituals—it was ridiculous and tender all at once: the language of people who had kept each other through late-night shoots, weird childhood food confessions, and rain-soaked confessions.
When you tossed the Tide Pods into the cart, you looped your arm through hers and nudged her toward the checkout. Living together had become this—small negotiations, shared secrets, and a steady stream of little compromises that, somehow, made the whole living-thing feel impossible to imagine without the other.
Hii!! Part 3 is here — the finale! ✨ I hope it wraps everything up in a way that feels just right. It turned out a bit 🤏🏻 longer than expected hehe
I can’t even begin to thank you all enough for the love and support throughout this whole story. You’ve honestly made this journey so much more special than I ever dreamed. Thank you, thank you, thank youuu from the bottom of my heart!! ♡💖🌟
Taglist: @lipglosskxsses @heartlexs @justanotherabbystan @lia-winther @abbyssgf @girlsngearboxes
