Abby Anderson x autistic fem reader
AN: should I make this into a series??
Abby had five minutes to make it to the party and no time for distractions.
She was jogging down the pavement near the convenience store with a half-open Red Bull in one hand and her phone buzzing in the other. Her ponytail bounced with every step. Every guy on campus would’ve stepped aside just to let her pass.
But not the girl with the headphones.
Abby wasn’t looking. Neither was she.
They bumped shoulders — not hard, but enough that Abby’s drink splashed and the girl’s phone tumbled out of her hoodie pocket and hit the ground with a sad little clack.
“Shit—my bad!” Abby gasped, immediately crouching down to grab the phone.
The girl blinked at her like a deer in the path of a much cooler, much louder car.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there holding her headphones, like she’d frozen in the middle of a loading screen.
Abby handed the phone back, slow. “You okay?”
Another nod. Then, after a second: “You hit like a linebacker.”
Abby smirked. “Not usually the first thing people say to me.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“That’s definitely the second weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
The girl shifted her weight, looking anywhere but directly at Abby. She tugged the sleeves of her oversized hoodie over her hands, fidgeting with the cuffs. Her bag was lopsided. One of her shoelaces was untied.
Abby couldn’t stop staring at her.
“What were you listening to?” she asked, nodding toward the headphones.
“Rain sounds?” Abby asked, curious but not teasing.
The girl nodded. “Yeah. Helps me focus. Makes walking easier.”
Abby raised a brow, impressed. “Huh. Never thought of that.”
“It’s just background noise,” she said quickly, poorly attempting to be nonchalant.
“I know,” the girl said without thinking.
Abby raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah?”
“You’re on the basketball team,” she added quickly, like it explained everything.
Abby smiled. “Guess that makes me hard to miss.”
The girl shrugged, eyes flicking down to her own shoes.
“Nice to meet you, [Y/N].”
Silence settled for a second. [Y/N] was clearly ready to disappear, but something kept her standing there. She shifted her bag up on her shoulder.
“I was just going in for a Slurpee,” she said quietly, like she felt the need to explain.
“Cherry. But it’s usually out.”
“It's okay. It kind of hurts my teeth. I still get it.”
Abby nodded, fighting a smile. It was such a specific answer. No filter. No small talk fluff. Just honest.
She looked at the store, then back at [Y/N].
“…I wasn’t planning to stop,” Abby said, “but now I kind of want one too.”
Abby didn’t follow her into the 7-Eleven. She stood outside for a minute instead, pretending to check her texts, though her mind was somewhere else entirely.
She should’ve kept walking. The party was probably already loud and full of people calling her name.
But something about the way Y/N had spoken stuck with her. Soft voice. Careful words. Like she thought through everything before saying it out loud. No performance. Just… honesty.
The party was the same as always. Crowded kitchen. Music too loud. Warm beer. Everyone saying “what’s up” like they were supposed to.
Abby leaned against the counter, not really listening to anything. She scrolled through her phone, half out of boredom, half because she couldn’t stop thinking about that brief little run-in.
She found Y/N’s account quickly enough. She had a private profile, but Abby had remembered her first name and a username she’d seen on a group project story post a few weeks ago.
She stared at the profile picture for a second — just a photo of a tree with a bird on a branch.
Abby smiled and tapped follow.
Then she set her phone down and forced herself to actually socialize for ten minutes.
When she picked it back up, her notifications were waiting:
*Y/N accepted your follow request.*
Abby felt her stomach flip in a weird way — not dramatic, but enough to catch her off guard.
She looked through a few more posts. One of a vending machine. One of a cat outside a shop. A Polaroid of a blue Slurpee on a table.
Then, without overthinking, she sent a message:
“Hey — did they have Cherry?”
Abby grinned at her screen.
“You’ll have to let me know next time. I’ll grab one too.”
A pause. She could see Y/N typing… then not typing.
Just one word. But it made Abby smile again anyway.
Later that night, Abby lay in bed, arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone made her feel this off-balance. Not nervous. Not even in a bad way. Just like she wanted to slow down and pay attention.
Most people she talked to tried too hard. Tried to impress her. Make her laugh. Show off.
But Y/N didn’t do any of that. She just… existed.
And somehow, that was better than anything else.
