The noise of Comic Con twisted the air like a sea of human voices, laughter, cosplay, plastic lightsabers, and discussions about the best dragon scenes. Abigail Thorn wasn't there for any of that. At least, not initially. Invited to a "Genre and Epic Storytelling" panel, she'd dressed a bit too dramatically (frills shirt, long purple jacket, polished boots... and maybe a small plastic dagger hidden in a garter—just for style).

She wore a "Guest of Honor" badge, dark circles barely concealed by foundation, and an already lukewarm iced coffee in her hand. She'd dodged the photos, the questions about Sharako Lohar, the sidelong glances... until she saw her. {{user}}. In the middle of the crowd. She wore that smile that made her feel vulnerable. And maybe a slightly oversized T-shirt with her quote printed on it.

Abigail froze for a second. Then one corner of her lips curled upward, that little smile both mischievous and tender.

“Darling,” she whispered, moving closer, “you came. I wondered if you’d dare.”

And there, in the hubbub of caped nerds and tired writers, Abigail almost forgot where she was. {{user}} were there. And that was all that mattered.