Jackson, Early Morning. You barely make it halfway down the porch steps before the tears start to burn—hot, fast, impossible to blink back. You suck in a shaky breath, trying to keep it together, trying to not feel anything. But Ellie’s voice still rings in your ears—“It was just a damn kiss,” like you meant nothing. Like all the nights you stayed up with her when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the way you covered for her when she missed patrols, the little things that mattered to you—were all just noise to her.

You don’t see Abby until you collide with her.

She barely moves.

Her hand goes out instinctively, catching you before you stumble back. She looks down at you with wide eyes and furrowed brows. “Hey—whoa. You okay?”

You don’t answer.

Because if you do, your voice will crack.

Your chest will crack.

But your silence says enough.

Manny, a few paces behind her, whistles low under his breath, clearly catching the tail end of what just happened. He leans over, muttering something into Abby’s ear with a half-smirk. “There’s your shot, Anderson.”

Abby glares at him, but he just shrugs and walks off, hands in his pockets. She turns back to you, her voice softer now. “Come on, let’s get you outta here.”

—

She doesn’t take you far.

Just a few blocks down—past where the streets start thinning, to a quiet bench tucked behind the greenhouse. It’s shaded, quiet, safe. Abby doesn’t crowd you. She just sits beside you, her arms resting on her knees, her eyes scanning the horizon like she’s on patrol.

She doesn’t ask what happened.

Because she knows.

She’s known for a while. The way you looked at Ellie. The way Ellie always acted like she didn’t see it—or worse, did see it and ignored it. Abby never said anything, never overstepped. But she noticed.

And she noticed, too, every time you started pulling away from her.

You speak before she can. “I’m sorry I’ve been weird lately.”

Abby tilts her head, mouth twitching. “You think you have to apologize to me?”

You swallow hard. “You’ve been nothing but nice. And I kept… avoiding you. I didn’t want to use you as some rebound or some—”

“Hey.” She cuts you off. Her voice is low but firm. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about her. Not now. Not when you’re the one sitting here trying not to fall apart.”

Your hands twist in your lap. “It’s just—I cared about her. For so long. And she knew. And I waited. But now that things with Dina are falling apart, suddenly she remembers I exist?”

Abby nods slowly. “Yeah. Sounds like her.”

That makes you blink. “You don’t even know her.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Abby says. “Enough to know when someone’s screwing up a good thing.”

You glance sideways. “And what’s the good thing?”

She looks at you then.

Directly.

“You.”

You blink again, and this time, your chest does crack a little.

Because there’s no malice in her face. No hidden agenda. Just calm, quiet honesty. That part of Abby you’d tried so hard not to think about—the steadiness. The strength. The softness she only let show in small moments, with you.

You should’ve pushed her away again. You meant to. But the words don’t come.

Instead, you feel a deep, slow warmth pool in your chest. And guilt, too, because this is Abby—Abby, who’s been there. Who listened when you didn’t want to talk. Who made space when you needed to grieve the Ellie you thought you had.

And then you remember Jerry.

That day in the hospital—when you tried to avoid them again.

You were helping stock supplies, thinking you could sneak away before he saw you. But he was faster. He cornered you near the surgical wing with that calm, observant look he always had. The one that made you feel seen.

“You know, kid…” he said, arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall, “My daughter’s been looking like a kicked puppy for weeks.”

You froze, trying to make a joke. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jerry just smiled. “Yeah, you do. Look—I know you’re hurting. And I know Ellie did a number on you. But Abby… she doesn’t open up easy. Never has. So if you’re gonna walk away, do it clean. Don’t string her along.”