“you’re gonna get me in trouble,” abby mutters, but she’s not exactly stopping you.

she’s sitting on the edge of your bed, hair still damp from a quick shower, tank top clinging to her shoulders. her posture’s a little stiff—like she’s trying to act unbothered, but her ears are already flushed pink.

you crawl into her lap without warning, straddling her thighs. she huffs a laugh, hands instinctively finding your waist.

“what color is that?” she asks, eyeing your lips.

you grin. “black cherry.”

abby smirks. “of course it is.”

you kiss her jaw first. soft. slow. then again, harder this time, dragging your lips across the corner of her mouth. when you pull back, there’s a faint red mark blooming on her skin.

abby blinks. “seriously?”

“seriously,” you say, and kiss her again—this time on her throat.

she groans, head tipping back just slightly. “you’re a menace.”

“and you like it.”

you can feel her smile against your mouth. she doesn’t argue.

you keep going, leaving prints on her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her bicep. every time she shifts, it smudges a little more, red stains pressed into skin that’s seen war and blood and pain—now painted with something soft. something playful. something yours.

her hands squeeze your hips. “you’re marking me up like i’m yours.”

you look at her then, mouth quirking. “you’re not?”

she doesn’t answer right away. just stares at you, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your smile. then she leans in and kisses you—slow and sure. like always.

later, when she pulls her jacket back on and sees herself in the cracked mirror, she swears under her breath.

“you better hope no one sees me like this.”