The first time Abby noticed something was wrong, it was subtle — the way your hands shook when you thought no one was watching, how you’d disappear after patrols and come back with eyes that didn’t quite focus. She wanted to believe it was exhaustion, stress, anything else.

But Abby wasn’t stupid. And she’d seen enough to know what it looked like when someone was falling apart quietly.

It wasn’t until one evening that it hit her full force. She found you slumped in your bunk, skin pale and breath shallow. The small bottle beside you told her everything she needed to know.

“Hey—hey!” Her voice broke as she rushed forward, hands trembling as she checked your pulse. Relief washed through her when she found it — weak, but there. “Come on, come on, stay with me.”

Her training kicked in before panic could win. She grabbed the canteen, called for help, did everything she could to pull you back.

And when you finally blinked, groaning faintly, she exhaled a sound that was half a sob.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she whispered, pressing a shaking hand to your cheek.

You tried to speak, but your voice was dry, broken. “I… didn’t mean…”

“Don’t,” she said, voice cracking. “Don’t explain. Just—don’t do that again.”

Tears blurred her eyes, the weight of fear and anger tangled in her chest. “You think you get to just check out like that? After everything?”

You turned your head weakly, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Abby swallowed hard. “You don’t get to be sorry,” she said softly. “You just… have to stay.”

She stayed with you that night — refused to leave, even when someone offered to watch you. She sat beside the cot, one hand wrapped around yours, the other brushing your hair back whenever you shifted.

By morning, your fever had eased, your breathing steady. Abby looked wrecked — dark circles under her eyes, voice hoarse.

You opened your eyes and whispered, “You stayed?”

Her jaw tightened, but her thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You think I was gonna walk away?”

Silence stretched between you, fragile but full.

“I didn’t mean for it to—”

“I know,” she said quickly, voice soft. “I know. But you have to let me help you. No more hiding, no more pretending.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Too late,” she murmured. “And I’m still here.”

You looked at her then — really looked — and something in her gaze broke you open. It wasn’t pity. It was love. Raw, terrified, and real.

She leaned closer, her forehead brushing yours. “You’re not alone,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time in a long while, you believed her.