abby’s sitting on the floor of your new apartment, back against an unopened box labeled books + random shit, watching you move around the kitchen like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

her hair’s pulled back in that messy braid she always does after a long day, tank top loose, arms resting on her bent knees. she looks tired, but softer somehow, like the weight she usually carries has been left at the door.

you glance over your shoulder at her, a spoon in one hand and a crooked smile on your lips. “what?”

“nothing,” she says, shaking her head, eyes not moving. “you just look... happy.”

you turn back to the stove, hiding your grin. “i am happy.” you don’t say it out loud, but you think she might be the reason.

the apartment’s still half unpacked, with jackets hanging off chair backs and blankets in the wrong rooms. abby’s toolkit is on the dining table, because of course it is. but it feels like home already. warm. lived in. yours.

“you hungry?” you call over your shoulder, stirring the pan.

“starving,” she groans. “you’re lucky i trust you not to poison me."