The crowded station was alive with the usual monday midday rush—people weaving through each other, elbows hitting other people, the noise of conversation blending with the yelling and dishes clinking . You adjusted the strap of your bag as you approached the stairs, already bracing yourself for the climb.

Then, before you could take another step, a hand settled lightly on the small of your back. Not pushing, just there. Steady. Protective.

Abigail.

“Hey,” her voice was low, just for you. You turned slightly, catching the faintest smirk playing on her lips. “Let me walk behind you, alright?”

You blinked.

She nodded toward your skirt, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement. “Dudes at the bottom are looking way too hard.”

Abigail had this weird senses, she always knew when something was wrong, or suspicious, you hadn’t even noticed, too caught up in your own head, but Abigail had. She always did.

She didn’t wait for an answer—just fell into step behind you, keeping close, one hand casually resting on the back of your back. Like it was nothing—but inside? She was proud, proud that she again could protect you.

You climbed the stairs, heartbeat just a little uneven, feeling the solid presence of her right there, blocking any wandering eyes without making a show of it.

And when you reached the top, she stepped next to you, her hand lingering for a second longer than it probably should have.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured.

She wasn’t good with words—so she didn’t know what else to say. It was so obvious that she cared, even though her mouth left dry and parted when there was an emotional moment, only air coming trough.