The lights in the WLF gym flickered, one buzzing faintly overhead. It was late — too late for anyone to still be here — but Abby was sitting on the floor against the wall, elbows resting on her knees, lost in thought.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure if you should interrupt. She hadn’t been herself lately — quieter, sharper around the edges. Patrols had been brutal, and Owen’s name still hung like a ghost between everyone who’d known him.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor if you keep thinking that hard,” you said softly.

Abby looked up, eyes tired but flickering with something like amusement. “Didn’t think anyone else was awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, stepping closer. “You?”

She gave a small shrug. “Same.”

You sat down beside her, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — just heavy. Familiar.

“Rough week,” you said finally.

Abby huffed out a laugh, low and humorless. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You’ve been quiet lately,” you added carefully.

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands flexed slightly, her knuckles pale. “It’s easier,” she said finally. “If I don’t talk, I don’t have to think about it.”

You nodded, watching her profile. The way her jaw tensed. The faint tremor in her hands. Abby Anderson — strong, composed, always in control — looked like she might come apart if you said the wrong word.

“You don’t always have to be the strong one, you know,” you said softly.

Her head turned then, eyes meeting yours — sharp, searching, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen. “Someone has to be,” she murmured.

“Yeah, well, maybe it doesn’t have to be you all the time.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips, tired but real. “You always have something to say, don’t you?”

“Only when you stop talking.”

The corner of her mouth lifted again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t get it,” she said quietly. “If I stop moving, if I stop fighting… it all catches up.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. You just reached out, fingers brushing the back of her hand. She didn’t pull away — if anything, her shoulders seemed to ease, her breath softening.

“Abby,” you said after a moment, voice almost a whisper, “you’re allowed to feel things.”

She turned her hand under yours, her calloused fingers lacing through yours. “I do,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”

The words hung there, heavy and fragile. You could feel what she wasn’t saying — all the pain, the guilt, the things she couldn’t name.

You squeezed her hand, and for a long moment, she just let herself breathe.

When she finally looked at you again, her voice was quiet, raw. “You make it harder to stay numb.”

You smiled faintly. “Good.”

She let out a shaky breath, and the smallest hint of laughter slipped through it — sad, but real. Her thumb brushed against your knuckles, a tiny motion that felt like more than words ever could.

Neither of you moved closer. You didn’t need to. The air between you was enough — full of things you weren’t ready to say, and maybe never would.

Outside, the night hummed with the sound of distant patrols, the world still turning. But here, in the dim hum of the gym, it felt like everything had slowed to just the two of you.

Almost saying everything. Almost enough.