The first thing you notice when you wake up is warmth. Real warmth — not from the thin fire that’s burned down to embers, but from the solid weight pressed against your side.

It takes a second to realize it’s Abby.

She’s still asleep, her arm slung loosely over your waist, her breathing steady and quiet. You don’t remember falling asleep that close, but sometime during the night, the space between you must’ve disappeared.

For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the rain still pattering on the roof. It’s peaceful — almost too peaceful for this world. You know it won’t last, but for once, you let yourself enjoy it.

Then Abby shifts, blinking awake. Her eyes meet yours, still heavy with sleep.

“…Morning,” she mumbles, voice rough and low.

“Morning,” you whisper back.

There’s a beat of silence before realization flickers across her face. She clears her throat and sits up quickly, pretending to focus on her boots. “Didn’t mean to—uh—crowd you.”

You sit up too, fighting a smile. “Right. You just accidentally fell asleep on top of me. Happens all the time.”

She gives you a look — half glare, half embarrassment. “You’re not funny.”

“Sure I am.”

That earns you a small huff of laughter. She shakes her head, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “You talk too much in the morning.”

“And you’re grumpy until coffee. We all have our flaws.”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re lucky I didn’t shove you off during the night.”

“You didn’t seem to mind,” you shoot back, and immediately regret it when her eyes flick toward you, amused.

“Careful,” she says, voice low, teasing. “I might start thinking you liked it.”

You shrug, trying to hide the way your pulse jumps. “Maybe I did.”

That shuts her up for a second. She looks at you — really looks — and there’s something warm in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

“Guess I’m not the only one full of surprises,” she finally says.

You smirk. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

She stands, shouldering her pack, but before turning away, she adds, almost too quietly, “Thanks… for last night. For sticking close.”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Anytime.”

The two of you step out into the damp morning air. The rain has stopped, leaving everything silver and quiet. She walks beside you — close enough that your hands almost brush.

You glance at her once, catch the faintest grin on her face, and look away before she catches yours.

Neither of you says it out loud, but something shifted in that storm.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t mind where it might lead.