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peachglazewrites · 19 days ago

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𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 ⸙ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: abby anderson x f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: suggestive content, vague medical procedures, nightmares, PTSD 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: fluff, making out, angst, angst x2, literal sleeping together, Owen is a good partner, reader is a good friend 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n or any reader descriptions 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 10.8k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: The one where you do some shopping, Abby has another nightmare, and you have dinner with Mel.

a big huge thank you and shout out to @l-zhk for all the beautiful photomodes of the stadium you've been posting! so much of the worldbuilding is thanks to you ♡ i would be so lost without them and you!!!! 🫶

a/n: hey!! a brief note that christmas is mentioned, and will continue to be mentioned, but i have written for reader to not celebrate it. you can make up any kind of reasoning for this, but my goal was to not discriminate against those who don't observe christmas <3

gifts will still be exchanged around the ‘holiday period’, but i think i made it clear that this is really mel's excuse to give all her friends gifts lmao

thanks!

̗̀➛ masterpost

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𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸: XIV

“You’re sure no one can see us from up here—” Abby’s words cut off with a sharp gasp, the large hands on your hips squeezing a bit tighter.

“Mmhm,” you hum against her jaw, trailing soft kisses back up to her lips. “Promise. Used to come here all the time.”

Your lips lock with her own, hands playing with the curls of hair along the nape of her neck that have slipped from her braid. Her lips are rough against yours, chapped and bitten, and you can’t supress the shiver it sends down your spine.

The two of you are up in the bleachers, nestled away in your favourite spot. Well, second favourite. This one is just off from your usual lunch spot, all the way at the very top and in the corner, completely hidden by the WLF banner hanging from the railing above. It’s dark, especially on a rainy day like today, covered by shadow on the balcony. It’s perfect at hiding the way you’re perched on her lap, her hands kneading along the fat of your hips, kissing like a couple of teenagers.

You’d come up here to have lunch, having snuck away from the noise of the caf during your hour-long break. It was peaceful, eating your food to the ambient sounds of the stadium, watching the rain fall heavy on the ground below. It was just what you needed.

It’d been going on three days since Abby had left for assignment, and you were beginning to feel it. The two of you had gone lengths of time longer than this without seeing each other, but that was before you knew that Abby loved you, and so your anxiety around the whole thing has gotten a little bit worse.

You trusted her to take care of herself, trusted her strength and her skills to bring her home to you— but things happen. You know that firsthand.

You’d been tempted to go talk to someone on comms, see if they had any word on the status of her unit, but ultimately decided against it. She was fine. You were going to be fine.

You were just about done with your food when you heard the heavy footfall of boots on the concrete steps. Your eyes met cool blue ones when you looked up, Abby drinking in the sight of you as she climbed the last few steps towards you.

She was home, and by the look of it—wrinkled clothes spattered with heavy drops of rain, muddy boots and pant legs, the butterfly bandage on her forehead—she’d come to see you as soon as she could.

“Bring many girls up here?” She asks teasingly, lips dragging over your own as she pulls back, eyebrow cocked.

Heat creeps up your neck as you stumble over your words, caught off guard by her question. “I—I mean, a few.”

“Huh. Here I thought I was special,” she sighs, just a little bit dramatically, casting her gaze off to the side.

You huff, bringing a hand up to her cheek to guide her face back to yours, pinching the skin between your fingers. “You are special, idiot.” You let go, patting her cheek gently. “I love you, funnily enough.”

Abby’s lips twitch, curling up at the edges. “Yeah? More than…” The look on her face is expectant, waiting for you to fill in the blank.

“Any of them.”

“Not gonna give me any names?” She pulls you closer, shifting you on her lap. “And don’t say Isabella, because I think everyone knows about that one.”

You groan, slumping forward to bump your forehead onto her shoulder. Her shirt is still damp from the rain, the lingering scent of her cologne hidden underneath the smell of wet earth and gunpowder.

“Katie.”

She’s silent for a moment, flipping through her mental rolodex for every single Katie, Kate, and Katherine she knows. “Katie… Katie from Laundry?”

You nod, just the once. “It lasted like, two days before she said she felt like I was taking things ‘too seriously’, then she and Melissa made it official a week later.”

Abby laughs, a lovely rumbling sound that has you clinging onto her just a bit tighter. “Oh my god. Is that why you do your own washing?”

“No,” you say, far too quickly. “… I mean at first—”

That sends her laughing once more as she wraps her arms around your back, holding you flush against her chest. You squirm in her grip, pulling back to look down at her, unamused. “Are you having fun laughing at my girl problems?”

Her laughter dies down into a warm chuckle as she presses in to nose along your cheek, the sound vibrating against the skin. “Thanks to your girl problems, I have you sitting all pretty in my lap right now. I think I can find them a little bit funny.”

Her warm breath puffs across your skin, sending another wave of shivers rolling down your back. “Yeah?” You ask, a little breathless.

“Mmhm,” she hums, placing a kiss to the heated skin of your cheek. She trails them down across your face, eyes briefly catching yours before finally kissing you properly.

You’ve missed her. Badly. Missed the feeling of her lips on yours, the way her hands always seem to find their way home on your hips. You’ve missed how she melts under you, how quickly she can go from teasing and ribbing to soft and gentle.

Under normal circumstances, you’re certain you’d have more self-control than you do in this moment-- but having Abby leave you just two days after your whispered confessions on the couch has made you just a bit more needy for her attention than usual.

So, you keep kissing her, and she keeps kissing you, arms tangled around each other, your thighs on either side of her hips. Your hands slide across the back of her shoulders, trailing down her biceps until you reach her waist. She follows in kind, large hands caressing up and down your sides, along your back. She slides a hand into the back pocket of your pants and keeps it there, giving a playful squeeze that makes you gasp into her mouth. Abby uses this to her advantage, swiping her tongue against yours and grinning at the noise that leaves you.

The kiss deepens a fraction, and you inch your hands up her sides, thumbs just barely brushing the undersides of her breasts. Her soft grunt pulls you through the other side of the lust ridden fog clouding your mind, and you reluctantly pull away. You’re both left panting into each other’s mouths, lips grazing as you catch your breath.

You blink at her, watching her pupils shift as she looks up from your swollen lips. You just know that you have the same look in your eyes that you find in Abby’s-- slightly hooded, dark, a little bit desperate. You swallow thickly, removing your hands from her torso to place them on her shoulders, giving them an awkward pat.

“Okay,” you breathe, clearing your throat. “Alright. This—Let’s put a pin in this.”

Abby snorts, a lazy smile curling her lips. “You don’t wanna stay up here with me?” She whispers as she leans back in, capturing your lips once more.

You hum, almost a moan, and let yourself melt into her, though you pull away before she can make it too deep. “You know I want to. But I have work, and you need to rest.”

She sighs, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek. “Okay.”

“Good.” You chuckle softly, pulling back to look at her. Your eyes roam her face, and you bring a hand up to gently brush against her forehead, just under the butterfly bandage. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Abby reaches up for your hand, pulling it away from her forehead and clasping it in her own. “Positive.” She draws your hand to her lips, kissing along your knuckles. “I love you.”

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, face flushing at those three simple words. You grin, turning your hand over so you can press your own kiss to the back of her hand in return.

“I love you, too.”

⸙

“You’ll want to avoid getting the area wet for a couple of days, so maybe stick to sponge baths for a bit until you get the all clear from us.” You look up at the girl on the cot, smiling softly as you scribble your signature on the bottom of the document. She’s no more than sixteen, face still round with baby fat.

She grimaces, a pout coming to her lips as she inspects her arm, a piece of gauze covering the long line of sutures clipped neatly along her forearm. “What if I just… stick my arm out of the shower the whole time?”

You can’t help the laugh that leaves you, eyes softening at the small break in her sour expression. “Trust me, that never works. You’ll realise your mistake halfway through washing your hair and then it’ll be a soggy trip back up here.” You tear off a slip from the bottom of the page, clipping it to the top of the chart and tucking your pen in your pocket. “I’ll grab you some pain meds and then you’ll be good to go.”

She sighs and lets herself fall back onto the cot as you head into the back room, rummaging around to grab what you need from the medicine cabinets, portioning out some of the medication in a small bottle for her to take home. You write all of her patient information on a small slip, using the underside to write out the medication directions. You tape it just along the top to the front of the bottle, and bring it back into the main room.

She barely listens to the usual spiel, how many pills she can take and when. She’s too keen to get out of there, reaching out for the bottle when you hold it between you so that she can leave.

You pull it back at the last second. “You get all that?”

“Take two every four hours.”

“As needed,” you remind her, still keeping the bottle back. “And no more than…?”

“No more than seven a day.”

You sigh. “Eight, but close enough.” You go to pass her the bottle, but pull it back once more. Her big eyes track the movement. “You come back as soon as it starts to feel weird or look funny, okay? Infection is super serious.”

She nods, fingers twitching in her lap. “Yes ma’am.” She reaches out again, but you don’t give in.

“And next time you wanna sneak out, don’t try to climb the walls.” You lower your voice, stage whispering to her conspiratorially, “Making friends with the guard patrol will get you a long way.”

You wink, finally pushing the meds towards her.

She blinks, grins in understanding-- the gap between her bottom two teeth stark against the pink stain from when she had bitten her tongue when she fell-- then takes the bottle from you, shoving it in her pocket. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She hops off the bed, giving you a small salute, clicking her heels together as she’d probably just been trained to, before taking off out of the tent.

“Surely you’re not giving advice on how to sneak out to the newbies.”

You scoff, turning around to face Mel, still bundled up in her coat from outside, a few flecks of snow melting along her shoulders, short hair slick with rain. “Like you can talk,” you tease, moving past her to walk out to the back room. Mel follows, the water-proof fabric of her coat shuffling as she moves. “She’d never listen if I told her to not sneak out. I’d much rather her know how to do it safely than end up here again.”

“That’s true. I was jumping over rooftops sometimes to get out of base.”

“My point exactly,” you laugh, turning to stand just out of the doorway, sweeping your arm to let her in. “After you.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Mel nods, the two of you giggling as she passes.

The large tote that she carries over her shoulder, a plain canvas that bulges at the sides grabs your attention as she unhooks it from her shoulder. She let’s out small breath, almost of relief as she sets the bag down, rolling her shoulder in its socket now that the weight has been taken off of it.

“The hell is that? Your duffel break or something?”

Mel looks up for a moment, notices your eyes trained on the tote, and shoves the bag into one of the containers she’d pulled from under the counter, using her back to block your sight.

“No peaking. I just finished up the last of my holiday shopping.”

You blink at her, watching her lose half her size as she shrugs off the large coat from her frame. “What’s the date today?”

“The fifteenth, why?” She kicks the tub back under the bench, the arm of her coat flopping over the side.

“Shit—No way are we that far into December already.”

Mel laughs, straightening out her henley and wicking some of the water from her hair. “We literally have a calendar in the room.”

“I know,” you grunt, rubbing at your eyes. “I just got distracted. I was going to be so on top of your gift this year.”

“You don’t have to get me anything,” Mel says, turning back to look at you. “I know you don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“Yeah, but I celebrate ‘Mel’s excuse to give her friends presents’ month.” You wave her off, moving to put the patient file away. “I swore after last year that I was going to get you something like, three months in advance so I don’t have a repeat of last year.”

“I like my mug!”

“Yeah, well somehow a mug that says ‘I have specs appeal’ doesn’t compare to the beautiful blanket you got me. You don’t even wear glasses.”

“Which is what makes the mug so funny.” She leans against the counter, watching you move through the room. “It’s seriously no big deal. I don’t get you things so that you have to get me something in return. I get them because I love you.”

“I know, but I love you too. I might try and head down to the market this afternoon. You want me to pick up dinner on the way back?”

Mel hums in thought, turning away to wash her hands, lathering them in the scentless soap. “I think they’re doing a roast tonight. Grab us some?”

“Done.” You smile, filing the chart away and putting your clipboard under your arm.

You do end up making it down to the market, having a couple of hours before the sun sets and it gets too dark for the stall holders to be able to sell.

Pulling out the crumpled piece of paper in your coat pocket, you squint at the barely legible writing you’d scrawled between the lines, small notes on each person you wanted to buy for that you’d written throughout the day.

It had started with ideas for Mel, things you know she likes or would find useful. You then obviously had to add Abby, because any excuse to buy your girlfriend something nice you’ll take up in a heartbeat. And you guessed that while you’re here, it wouldn’t hurt to look for something for Nora-- you’d been meaning to get her something to say thank you after your evaluation. Manny and Owen have also been really good to you this past year, so something small for them would be nice too…

Soon your scrap of paper was full, and your plan to pop down for half an hour tops had you roaming around for the rest of the afternoon, talking to all of the vendors and rummaging through their wares.

It was nice, taking the time to come down here. You find that a lot of your free time now is taken up with either catching up on sleep or being with Abby, so you don’t roam around as much as you used to. You’re also a lot stronger than you were a few months ago, being able to more confidently handle all the standing and walking around that comes with browsing the market, especially after a whole day at work. It was a good day today, so hopefully your leg will only be a little cramped on the way home.

Switching over to being a medic had also filled your wallet a bit more, bringing home a couple more rations each week than you used to as a soldier.

You were honestly a little bit surprised when you first arrived that the WLF used a rations system, though you were quick to find out that it was entirely different to the one you were used to in the FEDRA run QZs.

Back in Denver, your parents had to work to earn rations so that the three of you could eat. FEDRA was meant to just distribute them amongst the population, an allocated amount per person, per week-- but that quickly went out the window after a few years. Now it was all dependant on what you could provide for the city. You were lucky enough that your parents had a small stash saved in case of an emergency, giving you some time after they died where you didn’t have to worry about working. You stretched them out as much as you could, and by the time they ran out, you decided to leave.

The WLF have two types of rations; actual ration stamps that get allocated to each person every week, and the ‘ration’ tickets you got through employment.

You lived in abundance here on base, and while everyone— regardless of their ability to work or ‘provide for the community’— gets allocated a liveable amount of food, those who do have the means to work get a bonus.

It’s a system that mimics the currency of the old world, and works much better in being considered a form of reward than in the QZs, where people were using their only source of food to trade for literally anything else they might need. The amount you earned each week was job dependant, and gave you a means to indulge.

A lot of the soldiers use theirs to bulk up, eating bigger portions or second helpings outside of their weekly amount. That’s what Abby uses a lot of hers on, as well as buying ingredients to take home to cook more concentrated meals, things much higher in protein than what you can usually get in the cafeteria.

Pretty much everyone else uses them down at the market—a long curving line of stalls in the old train yard that sells everything from homemade shampoo and conditioner to books and electronics.

These stalls are mostly run by those unable to work for one reason or another, usually due to age or ailment, so their extra income comes from what they sell. They put most of their profits back into getting new stock, sending soldiers on patrol off with a list and a band of tickets as payment, but they earn it all back by the next time they set up.

That’s not to say that bartering isn’t alive and well because it very much was, especially in the market. Those who have jobs that take them off base are the ones who barter the most, bringing things down to the market in hopes of a trade. Sometimes you’d even get better deals through bartering than the handover of rations, and it was a quick way to liken yourself to particular merchants.

You spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around the market, collecting bits and pieces and making conversation with all the different merchants; asking about their stock and whether they have the specific things you’re looking for. You end up doing pretty well for yourself, finding a lot of what you had set out to find, and being able to politely request that they keep an eye out for the things you couldn’t get your hands on just yet.

Paying full price had surprisingly been more of a struggle than you had anticipated. Nearly everyone recognised you as one of the medics, some of the stallholders being past patients of yours, or having loved ones you’d treated instead. It was a fight with some of them, trying to hand over the full amount of tickets only to get your hands pushed back towards you, an endless cycle of “No really, I’m sure—” “No, no, I insist—”, until one of you ultimately gave in (it was almost always you).

By the end of the day, when the floodlights around the edges of the stadium turn on with an echoing fwump, you had a bag that felt just as heavy as Mel’s had looked thrown over your shoulder. Everything had been bundled carefully inside, the more delicate items wrapped in scrap pieces of fabric or crumpled newspaper.

You definitely didn’t account for the weight of your bag plus the dinner you had to pick up on your way home when thinking about the strain on your leg by the end of the day, but you found that you didn’t mind the ache when you were feeling so much love and tender care for your friends.

⸙

“Here.”

You barely catch the bundled shirt thrown to you from the steps, the pilled fabric surprisingly soft in your hands. You pinch it at the shoulders, shaking out the tee to look at the design on the front.

“Abs, this is your shirt.”

“And?” Abby asks from a few feet away, holding onto the railing as she leans over, snatching her discarded sweats from the floor, where she’d dropped them over an hour ago.

“I actually brought my own pyjamas this time.”

She looks to you past the strands of hair that have fallen in her face as she bends at the waist, dragging the fabric of her sweats up her naked calves. “And?”

The effect of your eyeroll is dampened by the way your lips twitch up in a fond smile, one that you try to hide by tugging the sleep shirt over your head, the faded print of a sports mascot falling across and covering your bare chest.

It’d been a few days since Abby came home from assignment, and you both finally had a free evening to spend together. It was meant to just be dinner and a movie, knowing that you had an incredibly early shift the next morning and there was going to be no way you’d get a full night’s sleep if you stayed over. But that all went out the window when Abby hooked her chin over your shoulder about halfway through the movie, strong arms wrapped around you from behind as you sat in her lap in the beanbag, pressing her cheek to your own as she asked if you were really sure you couldn’t stay tonight.

She sounded tired—and when you turned to look at her, brushing your fingers along her jaw, you saw that she looked just as exhausted as she sounded. The bags under her eyes were giveaway enough, but it was the look behind them, the dull look of someone who hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days that made you agree without a moment’s hesitation.

And you were just going to go to bed. You’d even gone home real quick, grabbing a pack with everything you’d need for the next day, including your own pyjamas. Work has had you on your feet all week, and you were feeling the farthest thing from sexy… but then you were getting ready for bed and got caught staring at Abby’s naked back and that was that.

You let Abby strip you down to your underwear, knowing that the feeling of your skin pressing hot against hers was one of her favourite things in the world, but that’s as far as you went. You wanted to focus on her tonight, to take your time making her fall apart, commit every touch and sound to memory.

And you did. What started as a slow make out and grind in her bed ended with her bent nearly halfway over the stair railing, your chest pressing along her back as you pumped into her from behind.

Abby shuffles over to the bed, sweats slung low along her hips, noticeably shirtless. She gestures for you to scooch over as she lifts the covers, pressing a knee to the mattress as she begins to slide in next to you.

“Where’s your shirt?” You ask, dragging your eyes away from her swollen and love-bitten chest.

She shrugs, reaching over to turn off the lamp with a click. “You’re wearing it.”

“Babe, it’s freezing tonight,” you say, tone laced with your disapproval. “Put a shirt on.”

“Guess you’ll just have to cuddle up to me tonight, then.” Abby shifts onto her side, wrapping her arms around your middle as she slides up next to you. “Keep me warm.”

With a frustrated huff you give in, shuffling yourself to lay down properly next to her. “You don’t have to be shirtless for me to cuddle you. You can just ask for it.”

She hums, pulling you closer to place a kiss to your cheek, hot breath puffing along your skin. “But I like it-- feeling your hands on my back. Shirt just gets in the way.”

“You’re lucky you’re sweet,” you murmur, leaning in to capture her lips.

Abby sighs into the kiss, soft and relaxed, slow compared to the pace from earlier. Arms slip around her body, hands sliding up and across the expanse of her back just like she wanted. She melts against you, the tension evaporating under your hands. Her own rumple your sleep shirt, tugging you closer.

Her lips shift from yours, pressing them to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then slowly up to your forehead. They’re so warm and soft, and you can’t help but nuzzle up against her, trailing your blunt nails lightly over her back.

“I like you like this.”

“Like what?” she murmurs, lips pressing against the bridge of your nose, then down across your other cheek to your jaw.

“This. You get all… smoochy sometimes.”

Abby huffs a sharp breath from her nose, pulling back to look at you. “I’m not—I don’t get smoochy.”

You can’t help the sound that leaves you, the short laugh as you raise your eyebrow. “Yeah? Then what was all that?”

A blush darkens her face, and she winds a hand up to the back of your head to pull you against her neck. “Shut up. Dogs get smoochy—I don’t.”

“Hm,” you hum, pressing your lips to the column of her throat. “You sure were begging like one earlier—hey!” You yelp at a sharp pinch to your ass, squirming as a fit of giggles leaves you, trying to wriggle away from the fingers that dance along your sides. “—Abby!”

Abby rolls the two of you over, throwing a leg over your hip to straddle you. The blanket falls around her hips as she pins you down, halting her assault. “You were saying?”

Your breaths leave you in a light pant as you look up at her, residual giggles still tumbling from your lips. Her eyebrow arches, fingers flexing as she waits for your response.

She’s beautiful, hair falling over her back, strands of it brushing her face. She’s been leaving her hair out more and more around you, and it takes your breath away each time.

“I love you?”

She grunts, giving a roll of her eyes as she slumps forwards, deciding that either that was as good as she was going to get, or she was too tired to fight for something better—or both. She gives you a quick peck before she settles down atop of you, sliding her legs between your own, resting her cheek against the swell of your chest.

“I love you, too.”

Reaching down for the blanket, you pull it back up over yourselves, tucking it gently around her shoulders. Your hands slip underneath to run up and down the length of her back, fingertips brushing along the bumps of her spine, lightly massaging along her muscles. She sighs and buries herself further into your chest, breathes evening out as she relaxes.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“S’all good, honey,” she mumbles, her exhaustion quickly catching up to her. “Thank you for after dinner.”

You can’t help the laugh that leaves you, chest shaking as you try to keep the volume down. Abby grins sleepily against your chest.

“Of course, baby. Anytime.” You press one more kiss to the top of her head, squeezing her gently. “Get some sleep.”

“Okay,” she says, voice muffled against your chest, shifting slightly before melting all the way in.

You lay with her curled on top of you for what feels like an hour, but is mostly likely only a couple of minutes, focusing on the way Abby’s breaths deepen. You’re so sure that she’s asleep, that you barely catch her soft and muffled voice.

“You’ll be here in the morning, right?”

Your hands still on her back for just a moment as you blink into the dark, staring up at the top of the bunk. “Where else would I be?”

She doesn’t say anything, just lays there and breathes. Her reply comes a minute later.

“I don’t know.”

You frown, looking down at her to try and make out her form in the dark. Her lashes that touch the tops of her cheeks, mouth slightly open as her face squishes against your chest.

“I’ll be here. I promise. I’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up.”

A slow breath out, almost in relief. “Good.”

It doesn’t take her long to fall asleep, having tired her out before bed. You spend that time stroking her back, pressing soothing kisses along her scalp. When you’re certain she’s asleep, deep enough that she’s not going to wake up any time soon, you let yourself slowly drift off too.

“Fuck—I can’t… Why…?”

You take a deep breath in as you wake up, head still clouded with sleep, eyes slowly blinking into the dark of the room. It feels like you’ve barely slept, like you were awake only a few seconds earlier.

“—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… fucking— god—"

You’ve shifted in your sleep, back facing the room as you lay on your side. The blanket has shuffled around as you have, and your borrowed shirt is pulled tight along your back, the material bunched in the tight fists of Abby.

Abby who is curled up against your chest, the hot tears that stream down her face soaking into the fabric of your shirt, material clinging to your chest. Her back shudders as she gasps, her mutters broken up with cries that wrack through her body.

Your brain finally catches up, and you look down at the woman, the love of your life, so small against you as she cries.

“Abby?” your voice cracks, clogged from sleep and worry.

She stills for a moment as she holds her breath, trying to stop the shakes of her body, almost as if she were hoping you’d think she was asleep and give up, falling back asleep yourself.

“Baby,” you murmur, slowly moving yourself to wrap around her when you’re sure she’s awake. “What’s wrong?

She grips onto you tighter, lips clamped shut as she breathes sharply and deeply through her nose, muffling her sounds.

“M’fine,” she grits out, voice hoarse. She swallows back her emotions, throat clicking as she presses her forehead against your sternum. “Go back to sleep.”

This does nothing but wake you up more, and you rise up on your elbows to look at her properly, heart tearing in two at the soft sound of protest as you move. You shield her from the rest of the room, a hand coming up to the back of her head to run through the strands that she left untied.

“Abby—”

“I can’t— Just-- please… go back to sleep.” She sounds exhausted, voice strained yet dull, like she doesn’t have any emotion left to force into her tone.

“Not while you’re hurting, Abs,” you whisper, pressing down to kiss her forehead, slightly damp with sweat. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

She breathes out in a soft wheeze, like she’s been punched in the gut. You hear her swallow thickly, clenching and unclenching her fists in the stretched fabric of your shirt. She’s tense, unbelievable so, and you can still feel a small tremor in her muscles.

She’s silent for a long while—you both are. She lays there, breathing deep and shakily against your chest, hot breaths warming your skin. You massage along her scalp, pressing soothing kisses across the side of her face, nosing along her cheek as you let her breathe, moving your legs to tangle with hers.

It’s familiar, as much as you hate that fact. It feels like Abby’s ability to sleep keeps getting worse and worse, and her willingness to let you help has been impacted just as much-- and that’s only when you’re around. Who knows how bad it gets when you’re not there, or when she’s not even home.

“I can’t sleep. I keep—I keep seeing him,” she whispers, hands unclenching to press against your chest, sliding down to hold onto your hips. She finds the hem of your shirt, smoothing under and up, fingers gripping and pulling gently at the bare skin of your back, desperate and seeking. It doesn’t send the usual tingle down your spine; it doesn’t flip your stomach. This is a touch to keep her grounded, to keep her sane.

“Who?” You ask softly, delicately, murmuring into her hair. You brush some out of her face, off the damp surface of her forehead and temples. “Your dad?”

An almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Not—Not dad.”

The repeated question of who is forced back, clamped behind your lips. You let her take her time, not wanting to make her feel rushed or like you’re trying to force an answer out of her. Supporting Abby in these moments is like a dance, a slow, complicated thing that you have to let her take the lead of.

She pulls herself away, extricates herself from your limbs. You look at her properly for the first time, see the way this has aged her, the haunted look in her eyes, her skin pale and clammy. You reach out for her, hands following her movements.

“Abs…” you call out softly, rising with her. She looks to you, a brief flick of her eyes.

“I’m not—I’m not leaving.” She says, shuffling to the edge of the bed. You draw yourself up, moving to give her space.

She throws her legs off the side of the bed, bunching her fists into the edge of the mattress, head hanging so that her chin almost touches her still bare chest. Her skin is freckled and tanned along her shoulders, hair slipping down the length of her torso and hiding her face.

You shuffle up behind her, blanket laying forgotten on the mattress. Your arms slip gently around her middle, coming up to press against her chest. One of your hands lays over her heart, feeling the uneven thrum of it thunder beneath your palm.

You kiss between her shoulder blades, resting your forehead in it’s place.

Her breath stutters, hands still gripping the mattress.

“I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and he’s just—he’s there. But it’s not him because I don’t know what he looks like, so my brain just… I don’t fucking know.” Her chest rises and falls just a bit faster, breathes coming out sharply from her nose. “He’s just this… thing. This fucking monster and I can’t get him out of my fucking head.”

You wet your lips, voice small when you ask once more, “Who?”

“Joel.” Her voice is firm—stronger than you’ve heard it all night. “His name is Joel Miller.”

You don’t know what you expected when you heard his name. A wave of cold? Goosebumps? Shivers down your spine? But his name is so… normal. So generic. Nothing evil, or scary, or monstrous.

“He—” She pauses, and you press closer along her back, placing a few more kisses along the line of her shoulders, up to the back of your neck where you bury yourself.

“I didn’t see it. They—I don’t know who, but they shoved me in a room. Everyone was yelling. People were screaming. There was—” the mattress shakes when she starts bouncing her leg, an anxious tick. “There was so much gunfire. I could hear it move through the building.” She sounds hollow, like she’s reciting lines from a script.

“Abby, you don’t have to—”

“Let me just—” She starts, tone a bit too sharp, which she recognises with a wince. She sighs, slumps into herself somewhat. One of her hands lets go of the mattress, coming up to wrap around your forearm. “I’ve kept it from you. You deserve to know.”

Moving your hand down to clasp at her own, you pull it up to your mouth, kissing the knuckles tenderly. “If you’re sure. I trust you.”

You use your other arm to squeeze her gently, holding her with a reassuring pressure to your chest. You can’t see her face, but you can feel the way she lets some of her weight rest against you, allowing you to help prop her up.

She keeps going.

“I don’t know how long I was hiding, but the alarm started going off and I needed to know. I needed to find my dad.” She breathes, takes a second. “And when I did—” Her voice cracks, and so does her fragile and gossamer-thin mask—her shoulders shaking as her emotions choke her once more.

“Hey,” you whisper, squeezing her hand. “It’s okay. You can skip this part.” You kiss her cheek, shifting yourself to bring a hand up, wiping away the stray tear that connects with your lips. “I love you.”

She nods, throat working as she sniffles, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling, looking up to try and stop herself from crying. Her jaw works, teeth grinding as she tries so hard to shove everything down.

“He killed him. He killed him and then fucking ran.” The back of Abby’s head falls to rest on your shoulder. “We had to bury so many… It took us a week. So many people dead. He made so many of us orphans, while he’s out there somewhere… Probably with his family.

“Why does he get to have his when he took away mine? Ours?”

She sniffs, just the once, letting even more of her weight drop back against your chest. Your hand, the one wiping away the streaks of tears from her cheeks, rests gently against her jaw, thumb smoothing over the skin.

“I have to find him.”

It feels like your gut flips, a wave of nausea rolling over you. It sends something cold slithering down your spine, the same cold that you hear bleeding through her words.

“Where would you look?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere. I have—” she pauses, like she doesn’t know if she should be saying this. “I have some leads. They’re not much, but I have to see them through.”

It hangs there, lingers in the air between you, in the dark of the room. Your chin digs into her shoulder, your eyes staring out into the room.

“What are you going to do to him? When you find him?”

She’s silent. You give her time, wait for a response.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Abby?”

You turn to look at her, watch the way her throat bobs as she swallows, face blank, eyes staring lost at the top of the bunk.

“What I need to,” she whispers, in a voice unrecognisable to you.

Is this the Abby that Owen talked about? The one Mel sees? A version of her that is consumed by this nightmare-- her nightmare-- with only one possible way to free herself from it?

“What if he’s already dead?”

It slips from you without meaning, before you can stop it. She stills against you, breath stuttering to a stop in her chest as she holds it.

“He won’t be.”

“How can you—”

“He won’t,” she snaps, refusing to look at you. “He can’t. He just—He just can’t be.”

You find yourself nodding, backing down, letting her have this. “Okay. He won’t be.”

You both sit there for a while longer, listening to the sounds of each others breath. You ignore your leg when it starts to ache, waiting for her to move first. You don’t want to pull away until she’s ready, until she wants you to. You don’t know how much she needs, how much she wants from you right now, so you let her take until she doesn’t need anymore.

It feels like close to a half hour before Abby slips herself from your hands, moving to rise from the bed.

“Where are you going?”

She steps away from you, and you just watch as she walks the small distance to the dresser, pulling out a shirt at random and shoving it over her head.

“I need some air. I think—I’m gonna go for a run. Or a shower. Or both.”

You swing your legs over the side, moving to stand too. “Let me come with you.”

When Abby turns to look at you, there’s something behind her eyes, something conflicting and fighting-- like a war. She comes back over to you, gently grabbing your upper arms as you rise to stand, sitting you back down.

“Stay,” she says, flicking her eyes away then back to yours. “I… I want to be alone.”

Your gut flips once more, the nausea getting worse. You frown, looking at her and searching her eyes. She holds yours, though her brows twitch to furrow and her jaw works as she grinds her teeth again.

“You know I’m here for you, right?” you whisper, bringing your hands up to cup her face between them. “If you really, truly want to be alone, I’ll give that to you. But I just need to know that you understand that I’m here. Whenever you need me.”

Her expression shifts, something softer and sadder as she looks down at you, but still terribly guarded. She nods, just the once, leaning down to press her forehead against your own. “I know.”

“Okay,” you say back, soft in the space between you. “I love you, Abby. So much.”

She swallows, voice thick as she responds, “I love you too.”

She kisses you, and you can tell just from that one touch that she means it. She means it with her entire sad and grieving heart, despite how much it’s hurting.

You just hope she can tell how much you mean it, too.

⸙

It shouldn’t have surprised you that Abby became a lot more difficult to find after that night. She did the same thing the first time, hardly ever being home, off occupying herself with anything and everything she can.

The only difference was that last time you could at least find her. Abby Anderson is a creature of habit, and if you had the time to check her usual spots you would no doubt find her. But this time, she was always just… somewhere else. You’d only managed to see her twice over the next few days, but it wasn’t for very long, and you couldn’t help but feel like she was distracted the entire time.

You give in after your second interaction with her and try to find Manny, hoping that if anyone knew how she was really doing that it would be him—but somehow, he was just as scarce.

You resign yourself to just letting her come to you when she’s ready, trusting that she would. She must have felt too vulnerable, the wounds too open and fresh and needed some time to heal, lick them clean and piece the dignity she feels like she’s lost back together.

As it always happened, Owen finds you during this time.

The mess hall is loud around you; utensils scraping against plates, groups of people chattering and laughing over their food, the occasional mechanical whirr and hiss of kitchen appliances going off.

You sit alone at your usual table, somewhat slumped against the bulletin wall as you poke with your fork at the sole meatball left on top of your pasta. The copy of Lord of the Flies that you bought at the market is open next to your bowl, a pen nestled in the crook of the spine between the pages. You were slowly but gradually annotating it, but you’ve been staring down at page seventy-six for about ten minutes now and haven’t taken in a single detail.

You’re too busy worrying about Abby.

The thump of someone resting their elbows on the table across from you startles you from your thoughts, fork piercing through the meatball and slicing it in two. You look up, blinking dumbly at the man before you.

“Owen, hey.”

The polite smile you give him twitches the longer you look him over, shifting into a small frown.

“Hey,” he says, trying his hardest to smile back. He looks run down— his hair that’s usually a bit messy looks like he’s been tugging at it thoughtlessly, the beard that Mel tries to make him keep neatly trimmed a bit more scraggly than normal. His clothes are rumpled-- shirt creased, and the collar of his army jacket rolled awkwardly under itself.

“You okay? You close up your book, pushing it and your bowl off to the side. “You look…”

“Handsome? Dashing? Amazing as per usual?” He jokes, scratching at his beard. His eyes lighten up a fraction, but they’re nowhere near as bright as they should be.

You huff a laugh, shifting in your seat. “I was going to say you look exhausted, but that works too, I guess.” He’s quiet, makes a point of looking away. “What’s wrong, Owen?”

“Does something have to be wrong?”

You stare at him, face blank except for the single eyebrow that you raise, just enough to be effective. You’ve nearly perfected the look Mel gives you when she wants you to stop bullshitting, and you know that if anything is going to get Owen to talk, it’ll be this.

“Owen.”

He sighs, looking back to you—you can tell he’s looking at your forehead and not your eyes, which is better than nothing you suppose-- and drums his fingers on the table in front of you.

The eyebrow things works wonders.

“Have you… How’s Mel been?”

“Mel?” You straighten up in your seat, heartrate picking up minutely.

“Short brown hair, about this tall—” He holds up a hand, roughly Mel height, “— very beautiful, lives with you?”

“Ha ha,” you say monotonously, leaning forward against the table, crossing your arms over the surface. “She’s been… fine, I guess? Busy at work when I see her, and she’s been staying at yours this week, so I haven’t really had time to sit down and have a proper chat… Why? Is she okay?”

Owen slumps a bit, offering a shrug. “I don’t know. You’d think I would, but I don’t.”

You lean in closer, trying to find a balance of absolutely needing more information and reassuring. “What’s going on?”

“She’s just… off?” He runs an anxious hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the strands. “She seems like she’s stressed about something, but she won’t tell me what. Just says it’s work and not to worry.”

“Work has been really busy, lately… Are you sure it’s really not just that?”

He immediately shakes his head. “No. Something’s up.” He finally looks at you, a pleading but embarrassed look in his eyes.

You clock it immediately. “Owen…”

“Just talk to her for me? Please? What if it’s something I’m doing, and she won’t tell me?”

“I can’t force her to tell me what’s wrong,” you say, frowning at him.

“I’m not asking you to force it out of her. I don’t even want to know what she tells you, I just want to make sure she’s okay. And if she doesn’t feel comfortable enough to tell me, then I’m hoping she can find comfort in you. She shouldn’t have to be upset by herself.”

You blink at him, looking into his eyes, pleading and desperate and sad. It’s honestly kind of sweet, how concerned he is for her.

You let out a deep, resigned breath and give in.

“I’ll talk to her. But I cant promise she’ll want to tell me anything, and I’m not going to tell you whatever she tells me, okay? Unless I think she’s like, going to get herself killed or something.”

Owen’s body slumps fully against the table. “Thank you,” he breathes, relieved. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

Reaching over across the table, you pat his arm comfortingly. “I get that. You’re a good partner, you know?”

He flushes slightly, colour creeping up from the collar of his jacket to the tips of his ears.

He raises back up. “I have some room to improve… but thanks.” His smile is embarrassed, but the most genuine one you’ve gotten out of him today. He nods to you. “You are, too.”

You pause; the smile frozen on your face. “What?”

Owen stutters, a wave of guilt passing over his face. He doubles down. “I— I said you’re a good partner too.”

You both stare at each other, the mess hall bustling around you as your minds work a mile a minute. You stumble slightly, trying to find your words. “I don’t—What do you—”

“Look, I promise I won’t say anything,” he rushes out, holding his hands up to you reassuringly.

“I knew you figured it out!” You hiss, leaning towards him on the table. “How did—When did you—”

“I mean, I noticed right away that she had feelings for you,” he said, also leaning in. “I know how she is when she likes someone. And you aren’t exactly all that subtle either, so I was more just waiting on the two of you to realise it yourselves.”

You huff, embarrassed, looking away. “I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You were making goo-goo eyes at her the first time you met. I was there, remember?” You don’t know when his smile became a teasing smirk, but you hate him for it. “And I’m not the only one that thought it was weird that you and Isabella didn’t stay together for longer.”

“First of all, never call them goo-goo eyes ever again,” you say, raising a finger at him. “Second, me and Isabella didn’t work out because we wanted different things.”

Owen raises an eyebrow. “And what did you want?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

He laughs, more of that mirthful light coming back to his eyes.

“You noticing we were uselessly pining for each other doesn’t explain to me how you know, though,” you point out, crossing your arms over your chest.

Owen has the decency to look a little bit embarrassed—somewhat hesitant to speak up. He clears his throat. “You know that just because you can’t see anyone, that doesn’t mean that nobody can see you, right?”

“Huh?”

“The WLF banner. It doesn’t exactly—I mean it does a pretty good job, but if you’re entering from the East Gate, you can kind of see around it and--”

You stand abruptly, nearly tripping on the bench seat. “This was a great talk, Owen, but I have to go now.”

He laughs, watching you lean down to collect your things. “Nobody really looks up there, but if you—”

“We’re never talking about this ever again,” you say, tone final. He grins up at you, and despite the circumstances, you feel a sense of relief at the sight.

Your movements slow to a stop, fingers left to fiddle with the corner of the book. “You won’t like, bring this up to anyone, yeah? Abby’s not really one for people knowing her business and I don’t want her to think—”

His face softens, and he shakes his head. “You know I get how she is about these sorts of things. I promise I won’t speak a word of it, even to Mel. Especially to Mel.”

“Mel knows already,” you inform him, still looking down at the book. “You remember our fight?”

“Oh.” Understanding washes over him like a wave. “That… makes a bit more sense, now.”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, tucking your book under your arm and picking up your bowl of leftovers. “I promise I’ll try and talk to Mel.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“No sweat,” you say, stepping back from the table. “I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” he nods, smiling up at you. “You know, if you want any good spots, I can—”

You turn on your heels and walk away without another word, Owen’s laugh following you.

⸙

True to your word, you organise to have a talk with Mel.

You don’t outright ask, which maybe was a shitty move on your part, but you figured that if she was trying to hide whatever was bothering her from Owen, that this was something that needed to be approached a bit more delicately than catching her in one of your spare moments.

You find her at work the following day, sliding beside her at the wash station to ask what her plans were for that night.

She shrugs, rinsing the lather from between her fingers. “All my stuff is at Owen’s still, so I’ll probably just go back there tonight.”

“Well, cancel that. I’m stealing you for the night.”

Mel looks to you, hands stilling under the water stream. “But my stuff-“

“I’ll go get it on my break. Owen’s home, right?” You already know that Owen is home, having just talked to him yesterday. “I’ll just get him to let me in.”

She eyes you for a few more seconds, studying you, before turning off the tap and shaking out her hands.

“Sure.” Mel nods to herself, lips curling up into a tired smile. “That’d be nice.”

The two of you clocked off at the same time, something that has been happening less and less as the days go by. You appreciate the independence that you have now that you’re no longer under supervision, but you can’t lie and say that you don’t miss Mel more.

You wait for her as she bundles herself back up in her puffer coat, holding out the crook of your arm for her to slip her own into as you make the trek down to the caf for dinner. The lines were thankfully not too long by the time you got there, so you settled on getting some burrito bowls and heading home.

You set up the dining table as Mel got changed, making some excuse about how you never properly sit here anymore, how you miss having family dinners. Really, it was because you couldn’t look at the couch properly anymore, and the idea of sitting on it with Mel after having Abby over the other week… You just couldn’t do it.

So, you ate at the table, you on one end and Mel on the other, food transferred from the takeaway containers to real bowls because you know Mel prefers it.

You also talked. Emphasis on the you. Mel was kind, and she politely joined in on the conversation, made sure you knew that she was interested and listening, but she wasn’t participating as enthusiastically as she normally would. And when you look at her from the other side of the table, looking down at her food and dragging her fork distractedly through her rice, you can’t help but think that she really is off. That Owen was onto something.

You swallow a mouthful of lettuce and beans, setting your fork down in the bowl.

“I had to set a dislocated shoulder today,” you say, looking over at her.

“Yeah?” comes her reply, interested in theory, but she keeps staring down at her food.

“Yeah. I messed it up, though. Pulled it right off instead.”

You hoped that would get some reaction out of her-- a huff of laughter, a playful roll of her eyes— not an exasperated sigh and the sound of her fork clinking harshly against the ceramic as she drops it. Mel finally looks up at you, though her expression is hard, serious.

Anxiety zips through your veins, making the tips of your fingers tingle and spark.

“Mel?”

“I need to tell you something,” she starts, tone just as serious as her expression. “And you need to promise that you won’t tell anyone, no matter what. Not until I say you can, okay?”

You blink, trying to wrap your head around the sudden shift in energy. “Yeah—I mean, of course. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

Your palms sweat as she looks at you, something softening behind her eyes as she takes in your visible anxiety.

“Are… Are you and Owen okay?” you broach carefully, feeling ill just asking it. How would you look at him, knowing that he begged you to talk to her because he was so concerned for her, only to find out that she was thinking of ending things.

Something flickers across her face.

“Owen? We’re fine. More than fine,” she sighs, posture slipping a bit. “I hope we are? This is—I don’t know how this is going to change things.”

“Mel, you’re kind of scaring me,” you admit, feeling like the air around you is getting thinner. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

You watch, confused, as she stands up from the table and pads down the steps of the room, over to her bed. She pulls open one of the drawers by her bedside, shuffling things around before pulling something out. When she makes her way back to you, whatever she grabbed hidden away in her hand, she pulls out the chair next to you and drops herself down into it.

“Have you finished eating?” She asks, looking down at your bowl.

You look down with her, shoving it aside. You weren’t, but there’s no way you could eat now.

She places a parcel, a small thing wrapped in old newspaper, on the table in its place.

You look to her in question, words escaping you in this moment of tension, and she simply nods, giving you permission to open it.

You don’t notice the tremble in your hands until you pick the parcel up. It’s only a couple of inches long and whatever is inside is small, skinny, barely weighing a thing.

It’s wrapped neatly, and you flip it over to unpick the sliver of tape keeping the paper together. You use the same amount of care that you’d use when opening a present, something screaming at you that this is important.

It feels like your body is reacting before your mind, part of you already knowing what she’s given you, what is coming next, but all the signs and warnings are being blocked before they can register in your brain.

It’s only when you’re looking at the pregnancy test in the middle of the paper that it all clicks, and the air in your lungs leaves you in one big rush.

Two lines.

Pregnant.

You look up at Mel, neck almost snapping from the movement.

“Mel—”

“What do I do?” She asks, her large eyes looking imploringly into your own.

Your eyes flick back down at the test, the faded two lines on the stick staring back up at you.

“Aren’t these super expired? Surely there’s no way it’s still working.”

“I know, but I was freaking out and felt like I couldn’t calm down unless I took one,” she says, a slightly tremor in her voice.

“It’s just one test, though, right? I don’t think—”

Mel cuts you off by standing up, once again moving down the steps to her side of the room. This time she squats down by her bunk, pulling out her duffel and reaching somewhere far behind it. She pulls something out, whatever it is clattering around as she grips it and stands back up.

She puts it on the table next to the test when she makes her way back, slumping into the chair next to you to stare at it.

It’s a clear biohazard bag from the tents, full of at least twenty other pregnancy tests.

Without even needing to open the bag you can already see what the majority of them say through the plastic. Some are inconclusive, but the ones that show results all read positive.

“Oh shit,” you breathe, unable to rip your eyes away from the bag.

“Yeah,” Mel sighs, looking with you. “Shit, indeed.”

You turn to her in your chair.

“This doesn’t mean anything. Not yet, right? Do you have any other symptoms? When’s the last time you had your period?”

“I’m late,” she says, and you let out another breath, deflating slightly.

“That’s not— People are late all the time. And you and Owen are so careful, so I don’t—” You cut yourself off, watching the way her cheeks darken, the way she look at the floor. “Oh, Mel, you didn’t,” you gasp, holding a hand up to your mouth.

“It was only the once,” she argues, arms sliding around herself, across her stomach. “When we were at the aquarium, after he took me to get all that Christmas stuff. We were decorating, listening to music, dancing, and it was just really nice, okay? And we usually keep a bunch stashed around the place, but we weren’t by any and we didn’t want to leave so we just—” She cuts herself off, dragging her gaze back to the bag.

You slump back in your seat, staring at it with her.

It feels unreal. You and Mel have never talked about children before, how you feel about them or if you’d ever want them. But even if Mel does want kids, even if it’s something that she’s always dreamed about, having it happen so suddenly…

You can’t help the shocked little laugh that leaves you, a giggle that you try and muffle behind your hand. But then Mel is laughing too, and you both end up laughing together, shocked and unsure and scared at what this means as you stare at the bag on the table.

You blindly reach out for her, grasping one of her hands in your own.

“You’re gonna be a mom. Maybe,” you tack on, not wanting to jinx anything, just in case.

You look over at Mel as she looks to you, squeezing your hand and smiling just a little bit. It’s strained, exhausted, but there. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You’ve got this.No matter what happens, you’re going to kick ass.”

She swallows, eyes getting a bit misty. “What if… What if Owen doesn’t—”

You turn in your chair, facing her head on. “He loves you. He’s crazy about you. If I’m being entirely honest, I’m surprised you haven’t come to me with a pregnancy scare sooner. I know you two aren’t just cuddling when you’re there all the time.”

She huffs an embarrassed laugh, shy as she looks away.

“Don’t worry about what Owen will say right now though, okay? Not until we know for sure, and you know what you want to do.”

She nods silently, squeezing your hand again in response. The other rests absently across her middle.

“No matter what, you’ve got me. If you don’t think I’m going to be the most annoying person left in the world throughout this pregnancy then you’re sorely mistaken,” you joke, making her laugh.

“Thank you,” she says, throat tight with overwhelming emotion. You smile, pulling her in by the hand to wrap your arms around her, hugging her tight.

“You’ve got this.” You whisper into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “I’m gonna be the coolest aunt ever.”

Mel scoffs playfully, and you both dissolve into giggles.

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