The rain hadn’t let up for hours. The power was flickering in the old safehouse, casting the room in flashes of gold and shadow. You were supposed to be sorting gear, but Abby had found an old radio tucked under a pile of blankets. It hissed, buzzed, and then—miraculously—a song broke through the static.

It was something old, soft, maybe from the seventies. You could barely make out the lyrics, but the melody was gentle enough to quiet the noise of the storm.

Abby’s head tilted toward the sound. “Can’t believe this thing still works,” she murmured.

You smiled. “Guess it wanted an audience.”

She gave you that half-smirk, the one that always made your chest feel a little too tight. “You volunteering?”

“Only if you promise not to judge my taste in music.”

Her laugh was low, warm. “No promises.”

You sat beside her, knees almost touching. The radio light flickered against her face—freckles, a small cut on her jaw from training earlier, eyes that kept finding yours and then darting away.

For a while, you just listened. The music was barely there, but it filled the silence in a way that words couldn’t.

“You ever think about what it was like?” you asked quietly. “Back when people could just… dance. Without worrying about anything.”

Abby’s voice softened. “Yeah. My dad used to play music when he worked. I remember the smell of salt from the aquarium, the sound of it echoing. Feels like another lifetime.”

You glanced at her. “You miss him?”

“Every day,” she said, no hesitation. Then, after a beat: “But… this—right now—doesn’t feel so bad either.”

The words hung there. You could have let them go, but you didn’t. “Abby…”

She turned toward you, closer than before, breath catching just a little. “What?”

“I think about you more than I should,” you said, voice almost a whisper. “And I keep telling myself it’s just the world being lonely, but it’s not.”

For a second, she didn’t breathe. The radio hummed softly in the corner. Then she reached out, fingers brushing your hand. “You don’t have to explain it,” she murmured. “I already know.”

The pull between you wasn’t loud. It was quiet and certain, like gravity. When she leaned in, you met her halfway. The kiss was soft at first, cautious, both of you testing how much this could mean. Her hands found your jacket; yours tangled at the back of her neck. The smell of rain drifted through the open window.

Every breath after that came faster, laughter spilling between kisses—small, shaky, real. She whispered something against your lips that you didn’t catch, and it didn’t matter; you already understood it.

You pulled back just enough to look at her. “We’re really doing this?”

Her eyes softened. “Yeah. We are.”

The radio crackled again, the song fading into a slow hum. Abby’s thumb brushed along your jaw, a silent promise. The storm outside deepened, but inside the small room, everything else went still.

You leaned in again, and the rest of the world fell away.