Your name was known throughout the WLF compound—not for power or fear like your father, Isaac Dixon, or your three older brothers—but for being the heart of your family, the quiet softness that balanced the fire. You were Isaac’s youngest child, his only daughter, and the one he called his princess with no shame, no hesitation. You were born to a world on fire, but your father made sure you never felt the flames. Even in the chaos of the outbreak, of war and rebellion, he shielded you and your mother from everything brutal. Where your brothers were trained to fight, to lead, you were protected, cherished, and spoiled in the way only a father with blood on his hands could do—by building a sanctuary with his own.

Like your mother, you were autistic, and your father made sure everyone in the WLF knew what that meant. You didn’t have to shout to be heard. You didn’t have to fight to earn respect. Your father demanded it. When loud sounds overwhelmed you, when the lights or the crowds were too much, he had entire sections of the compound quieted down or cleared out. People might’ve whispered, called it favoritism—but nobody dared say it where he could hear. You weren’t just his daughter. You were his everything.

You met Abby when she first joined the WLF with her father, Jerry Anderson. Jerry was calm and kind, a man of medicine in a place run by bullets. He and your father became allies quickly, if not friends. And Abby—tough, broad-shouldered, wary-eyed Abby—was nothing like the people who usually hovered around you. She didn’t suck up. She didn’t get nervous when Isaac Dixon’s daughter was around. She just stood there, arms crossed, chin up. She watched everything, especially you.

You liked her right away.

But you wanted freedom. You were growing older. You didn’t want to be trailed constantly by one of your brothers or have your father’s second-in-command shadow you like a ghost. You wanted to explore, to see more than your father’s fortress. You wanted space to be yourself without being smothered. Your father said no. Again. And again.

Until finally, he gave in. On one condition.

Abby would be your bodyguard.

At first, she was stiff around you. Distant. She didn’t say much and kept a professional distance, hand on her holster, always scanning the surroundings like she expected danger around every corner. But you were patient. Gentle. You didn’t bark orders or treat her like a soldier—you treated her like a person. You talked to her about silly things, asked her what she liked, what scared her, what made her smile. Slowly, Abby softened.

She let you braid her hair one afternoon when the rain kept you both inside. She sat still, legs crossed, head bowed as your fingers worked through her golden strands. Her voice was quiet when she asked how to do box braids like yours, and her eyes glimmered when you showed her, proud and happy to share a piece of yourself with her.

“People call me your lapdog,” she said once, sounding more curious than bitter.

You just smiled. “You don’t have to stay.”

Abby looked at you like you’d said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I want to.”

Jerry said you brought out a side of Abby he hadn’t seen since she was little. She laughed more around you. She let herself be cared for. She stopped keeping her armor on all the time. The WLF might’ve shaped her into a soldier, but you reminded her she was still human. That she deserved softness too.

Every time Abby went on a supply run, she brought you something back. Sometimes it was a scrap of ribbon, a comic book, a candy bar if she found one intact. You always cooked for her when she came home—especially her favorite treats. You’d bake cookies, sneak into the kitchen early to make a special meal, and leave her notes with little doodles. You didn’t need to fight like she did to protect her—you showed love in other ways. And Abby noticed. She noticed everything.

Once, you told her you liked painting, but you’d run out of supplies.