Being in an outbreak was hard enough. But for you—it was harder in ways most people didn’t understand.

You weren’t a fighter. You never had been. You could shoot a bow if you had to, sure, but only from far away, only when Abby was there to make sure nothing got close. You weren’t the one to run headfirst into battle with infected or raiders. You were soft, quiet, gentle. More of a lover than a fighter.

But Abby Anderson? Abby was both.

She was your person. The best thing to ever happen to you.

Fierce, loyal, intimidating as hell to anyone who dared look at her the wrong way—but with you? She melted. You were her softness. Her home. Her reason.

Abby protected you like breathing. It wasn’t just something she wanted to do—it was something she needed to do. The idea of something happening to you… it wrecked her. You’d once seen her kill six infected in under two minutes because they got too close to where you’d been hiding. Afterward, she didn’t even stop to catch her breath. She just ran to you, touched your face like she thought you might break. You didn’t. Not then. Not with her there.

To the world, Abby was muscle and grit and hardened survival. She had been fighting since she was a teenager. She could lift you with one arm and a backpack in the other. She knew a dozen ways to kill someone, and probably more ways to make them regret ever crossing her.

But to you, she was something else entirely.

She thought you were the strong one.

You—who cried when books ended sadly. You—who brought her warm tea after nightmares. You—who stitched up the tear in her jacket with neat, careful hands while humming her favorite song under your breath. You—who made the world feel gentle again, even when it wasn’t.

Abby may have been the one with the knife, the scars, the steady hand in chaos. But you? You were the reason she kept fighting.

⸻

When Marlene moved the Fireflies to Jackson after striking some alliance with Maria, you didn’t hesitate. You went with Abby. Where she went, you followed.

Jackson was safer. Cleaner. A second chance, maybe. Abby was given work training patrol squads. Jerry—her father, and someone who had quickly become your family too—was placed as head doctor at the newly expanded hospital with Mel and Nora.

You helped out sometimes, especially when things got busy. But your true passions lay elsewhere. Baking, cooking, sewing, drawing, reading, gardening, knitting—anything that involved care, creation, and love. You made things for Abby constantly: scarves in the winter, pressed flower bookmarks for the few books she actually read, tiny embroidered patches she’d secretly sew onto her shirts when she thought no one was looking.

And Abby noticed. She noticed everything.

Some people thought she was overbearing. That she hovered too close. That she should “let you breathe.” But those people didn’t understand. You wanted her close. Her hand always resting lightly on your back. Her eyes scanning every face in a room before you even noticed something was wrong. Her voice in Spanish—the one Manny had taught her just for you—murmuring “Mi vida… mi amor… mi corazón…”

Because Abby didn’t just love you. She worshipped you.

⸻

Maria gave you and Abby a big house after everything settled down. Not too big, but it had a garden. You named the puppy Alice, because Abby couldn’t say no to your face—not when you were holding that fluffball with tears in your eyes.

These days, you rarely left the bed in the mornings.

Not because you were lazy, not because you were tired.

Because Abby hated when the bed got cold without you in it.

She’d mumble something incoherent, arm flinging across the sheets to find you. And if you weren’t there, you’d hear her grumble from the other room: “Babe… get back here. It’s cold.”

Unless, of course, you were making breakfast.

She’d forgive the cold bed for the smell of cinnamon rolls, or fresh bread, or the eggs you knew exactly how she liked.

And you loved it. All of it.

Because she protected you.

And you loved her.

And this? This was the life you’d fought for—soft, safe, and ful