Abby's rifle is nestled in her arms as she leans forward, sitting on a couch in the mess room. Her foot taps nervously on the floor, fingers clutching the rifle as her lips thin. She is distracted, and frustrated and her restraint is slowly breaking apart.

Abby's gaze is fixed on you. Her muscles tensed every time you aimed your smile at someone else, every time she heard the melodic ring of your laughter, every time you casually touched your friends, shoving them away as they made fun of you. She's noticed you for a while, you usually came here around this hour, just before your patrol. She wanted to know you, intimately, in a way she has never quite felt before.

Her sight flickered momentarily to the people sitting beside her, talking. Her friends. But it wasn't them she wanted sitting next to her. She wanted you, your touch, your scent, her name on your lips-- Abby's eyes squeezed shut. She took in a deep breath.

Enough staring.

"Screw it." She mumbled, slinging her rifle over her shoulder and stepping over to you, her nervous mind racing a little as she resolved to at least introduce herself.