you never tell your parents about abby.

they still pray before every meal. still send you scripture texts on sunday mornings. still believe you’ll marry a man one day and raise a family in god’s light, like it’s written somewhere in stone. and you’d be lying if you said their approval didn’t matter, because it does. it always has.

but then there’s her.

abby, with the calloused hands and the scars on her knuckles. the low, rough voice that never softens unless it’s for you. she never asks you to explain yourself. never pushes when you tense up after your mom’s calls. she just waits, gives you space—until you don’t want it anymore.

you met her at a checkpoint. she helped you haul a med crate over a fence you couldn’t scale on your own. you were flustered, fumbling for thanks, but she just shrugged and said, “no big deal.” then you noticed the way her gaze lingered a second longer than it should have.

you started seeing her more. by accident at first. on purpose, later. you liked her laugh. you liked the way she smelled like cedar and sweat and something else that made you dizzy. you liked the way she looked at you, like she already knew the things you were too afraid to admit.

and god, when she touched you…

you don’t believe in god anymore. not the way your mom does. not with the sermons about sin and shame echoing through your childhood walls.

but sometimes, when it’s late and abby’s mouth is on your neck, when her hands are under your shirt, when she’s murmuring your name like it’s sacred—you almost do.

you’re tangled up with her in the dark, the sheets kicked down to the floor, the room warm with summer air and skin on skin. your nails scrape her shoulder. she groans low against your collarbone, and suddenly the world is gone.

there’s no war, no guilt, no echo of your mother’s voice.

just abby. her body, strong and steady against yours. her breath, uneven. her eyes, locked on yours like you're the only thing worth believing in.

“you okay?” she whispers, thumb brushing your cheek.