you first notice it during patrol. you’re walking side by side through the overgrown ruins of what used to be a gas station, rifles slung over your backs, boots crunching softly in the debris. it’s quiet. too quiet. but abby’s calm. focused.

until your fingers brush hers.

it’s just for a second, a simple accident, but she glances down like it startled her. and then… she does it again. let's her pinky graze yours, barely there, just enough to feel it. you glance at her. she’s looking straight ahead, pretending like it didn’t happen.

the next time it happens, it’s less of an accident. you’re both on the couch in the rec room, your knees touching, a shitty movie playing on the old tv no one ever bothered to fix properly. your hand’s resting on your thigh, and then her hand’s on yours. strong and warm and so casual it’s almost cocky.

she doesn’t even look at you when she does it. just keeps watching the movie, like this is normal now. like she’s done it a hundred times before.

you glance down. her thumb is stroking your knuckles. slow. rhythmic. you feel like your heart is going to crawl out of your throat.

“you okay?” she murmurs, finally looking at you.

you nod, cheeks warm. “are you?”

“yeah.” her voice is soft. a little lower than usual. “just like holding your hand.”