abby shouldn’t be watching you like this.

you’re laughing. really laughing. head thrown back, fingers brushing the edge of your boyfriend’s sleeve as he tells some half decent story you’ve probably heard a dozen times. you’re humoring him. sweet, patient. it’s just who you are.

and abby’s over in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending not to care. pretending she’s just here to fix a busted fence, not stare at you like you’re the only thing worth noticing in this whole damn town.

manny nudges her from beside the stables, voice low. “you’re staring again.”

she looks away too fast. “wasn’t.”

“you were.” he pauses. “she’s got a boyfriend anyway.”

abby doesn’t answer. just keeps her eyes on the hammer in her hand, fingers curling around it too tightly.

she knows you’ve got someone. knows it’s not her. but that doesn’t stop the ache. doesn’t stop her from noticing the way you light up when you see her walking your way, or how you always laugh a little harder when she’s the one making the joke. doesn’t stop her from remembering how your hand brushed hers last week when you handed her your gloves, and how neither of you pulled away right away. it could mean nothing.

but it feels like something.

you walk over later, alone, cheeks flushed from the cold or from running. abby doesn’t ask which. you hand her a thermos of coffee like you’ve done it a hundred times, even though you haven’t. “figured you could use this,” you say, voice soft.

“thanks,” abby mutters, taking it, brushing your fingers on purpose. or maybe by accident. she doesn’t know anymore.