you didn’t tell her you were dyeing your hair.
 it wasn’t on purpose—just something you did on a quiet afternoon, a little impulsive, a little overdue.

you figured she’d notice eventually, make some sarcastic comment, maybe raise an eyebrow and move on.

what you didn’t expect was the way she stopped cold when you walked into the mess hall. mid-conversation with manny, half a bite of food in her mouth, fork still in hand—just froze.

you blinked. “what?”

abby stared. blinked once. then twice. 
“what the hell did you do to your hair?” 
not angry. not judgmental. more like… stunned.

you smirked. “you don’t like it?”

she didn’t answer at first. just tilted her head like she was trying to solve a puzzle. like your face suddenly didn’t match the image of you she had in her head. 
“i didn’t say that,” she muttered.

you sat down across from her, eyes teasing. “so you do like it?”

abby looked away quickly, pretending to be real interested in her food. “you look different,” she said, almost under her breath.