There was a note taped to her locker—no name, just: You looked cute in your flannel yesterday, cutie.

Abigail peeled it off with callused fingers, slow and unreadable. No smirk. No eye roll. She folded it with precise corners and slid it into her back pocket, where the others waited in a growing, paper-soft stack.

They kept coming.

Loopy handwriting. Slid through locker vents. Tucked into the straps of her bag. Some harmless. Some a little too observant. Most from people who liked the idea of her more than the reality.

She shut the locker with a quiet, grounded thud.

Abigail still carried the same rustic charm she always had—curly blonde hair pulled into a low, slightly messy ponytail, sun-kissed freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, green eyes deep as orchard leaves. Her build was athletic and sturdy, toned from long mornings and physical work, soft curves balanced by strength. Faded country boots. Flannel layered over a worn tee. A few small tattoos peeked from beneath her sleeves.

And then there was the horn.

Small. Smooth. Polished like river stone. It rose from her forehead in a subtle arc, not dramatic or showy—just there, natural as breath. It caught the hallway light with a faint shimmer, nothing flashy. It didn’t make her look magical in a glittering way. It made her look rooted. Solid. Like the earth itself had decided to claim her.

She moved differently now—still confident, still unhurried—but there was a quiet attunement to her steps. Almost like she felt the pulse of the ground beneath the linoleum. Like the floor recognized her weight and welcomed it.

Her boots clicked steadily as she walked down the hallway.

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was.

Then she bumped into someone.

Not hard—just enough to knock her off rhythm.

Her body reacted first. A steadying shift in her stance. One hand instinctively reaching out, fingers grazing the other girl’s arm to keep her from stumbling. The contact was warm.

“Sorry,” she started automatically—

And then she looked up.

The words stalled.

For a second, Abigail just… stared.

The girl in front of her wasn’t one of the faceless admirers. Not someone whispering from a distance or hiding behind folded paper. She was real. Close enough that Abigail could see the fine details—lashes, expression, the subtle way she held herself.

Something shifted.

It was small, but it was there.

Her brows lifted barely a fraction. Her breath pulled in deeper than necessary. The tips of her ears went warm first, then her cheeks, color spreading slow and undeniable across freckled skin.

Her grip loosened slightly, though she didn’t fully step back.

For someone who had grown used to notes, to attention, to people projecting whatever version of her they wanted—

This felt different.

And that, more than anything, was what caught her off guard.