The first time you met Abby Anderson, she nearly broke your nose.

To be fair, you had it coming — sneaking into her patrol route, calling her “muscle head” before you even learned her name. She’d glared at you with those piercing blue eyes, jaw tight, like she was deciding whether to deck you or drag you back to base. You never did apologize.

And she never let you forget it.

Now, months later, you’re stuck on a two-person supply run with her — because apparently the universe thinks it’s funny.

“You keeping up, or should I slow down for you?” she calls over her shoulder, boots crunching through the snow.

“Funny,” you mutter. “Didn’t realize sarcasm was part of your survival strategy.”

She glances back, smirking. “Better than whining.”

You scowl, but she’s already looking ahead again, rifle slung across her back like she owns the whole damn landscape. Abby moves with that quiet confidence — the kind that makes you want to push her just to see if she’ll stumble.

The safehouse you’re searching for ends up being half-collapsed, the roof caved in, but it’s enough to set up camp for the night. Abby insists on checking the perimeter twice. You insist she’s being paranoid.

“You always this stubborn?” she mutters when she finally settles by the fire.

“Only around people who think they’re always right,” you shoot back, kicking at a loose board.

She snorts. “That explains a lot.”

You glare at her across the firelight. She looks annoyingly calm, her face softened by the flickering glow. You hate that she looks good even covered in dirt and blood. You hate that you’ve started noticing.

“Why do you even care what I do?” you ask, voice low.

“Because if you screw up, I’m the one cleaning up the mess,” she says, meeting your eyes. “And because you’re not as good at hiding when you’re scared as you think.”

You bristle. “I’m not scared.”

Her mouth tilts into that infuriating half-smile. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You stand up, pacing to burn off the heat crawling under your skin. She’s always doing this — getting under it. Poking, prodding, like she enjoys watching you unravel.

“Why do you always have to push me?” you demand.

Abby rises too, the firelight painting sharp shadows across her arms. “Because you push back.”

You freeze. The air between you tightens. You can hear her breathing, slow and steady, even though you feel like yours might stop altogether.

“Abby—”

She steps closer, boots silent on the cracked concrete. “What?”

Your heartbeat feels like a gun going off in your chest. “You’re impossible.”

Her lips curve — not quite a smile, not quite a challenge. “So are you.”

You swear she’s daring you to move, to say something, to close the inches left between you. The silence stretches, heavy and electric. Then she takes another step forward.

For one dizzy second, you think she’s going to kiss you. Her eyes drop to your mouth — just for a heartbeat — and then she leans in close enough for you to feel the heat off her skin.

“Next time you call me muscle head,” she murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’m not holding back.”

You manage a shaky laugh. “Promise?”

Her breath brushes your ear, and it’s infuriating how your whole body reacts to that one wordless sound she makes — a quiet huff, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

Then she steps back, smirking, and the space between you feels colder than it should.

“Get some sleep,” she says, tossing her bag down. “We leave at dawn.”

You’re left standing there, pulse still racing, trying to pretend that she didn’t just unravel you with a look.

And when you finally lie down, you catch her glancing over once before turning away. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

But the next morning, when her hand brushes yours while passing the map, she doesn’t pull away right away — and you realize you’re both way past pretending.