the air is still heavy with warmth, the sheets tangled around your legs as you shift slightly, the weight of exhaustion settling over your body. abby is beside you, propped up on one elbow, her fingers tracing slow, absent minded patterns over your skin. she’s still catching her breath, her usually guarded expression softened in the dim light of the room.

"you okay?" she murmurs, voice low and rough from exertion. her calloused hand slides up your arm, a stark contrast to the tenderness in her touch. you nod, letting out a tired hum, and she watches you for a beat longer, like she's making sure.

without another word, she pulls away, pushing herself up from the bed. you think she’s leaving for a second, but then you hear the sound of the faucet turning on, the quiet splash of water. when she returns, she’s got a damp rag in her hands, warm from the sink.

"here," she says, voice quieter now, more careful. she moves with practiced ease, as if this is second nature to her. she cleans you up with gentle efficiency, her brows furrowed in quiet concentration. it's such a stark contrast from her usual rough, battle worn demeanor—how she fights, how she trains, how she carries herself like she has to be strong all the time. but here, now, she’s just abby.

once she's satisfied, she tosses the rag aside and slides back under the covers, immediately pulling you into her chest. the scent of her skin—sweat, salt, something faintly sweet—fills your senses as she tucks you against her, her chin resting against the top of your head.

"you need anything?" she asks, her lips brushing against your temple. "water? more blankets?"