you’re sitting on abby’s bed again. legs tangled up in hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you’re both exhausted—sunburnt from patrol, bruised from sparring, shoulders aching in a way that feels good. familiar. earned.

she’s got one hand behind her head and the other resting dangerously close to your thigh, pinky brushing against your skin every now and then. neither of you says anything about it.

you’re not dating.

not technically.

she buys you coffee when she knows you’ve had a rough morning. you patch her up when she comes back scraped and too proud to ask for help. she looks at you like she’s memorizing something she’s scared to lose, but when anyone asks, it’s always, “nah, we’re just close.”

you laugh at her jokes too hard. she keeps an extra toothbrush for you. you’ve slept over more nights than not.

but still. you’ve never kissed. never said it out loud.

girlfriend or girl that’s a friend?

you glance at her now, her face half lit by the fading light through the window, and your chest aches with how badly you want to know which one you are. but asking feels like tipping over something delicate. like naming it would make it real, and real things can break.

“what?” abby says softly, catching you staring.

you shrug. “nothing.”

she watches you for a second, like she wants to call you out. like she knows. but she doesn’t press.

“you staying over tonight?” she asks instead.