abby never let anyone touch her sketchbook.

not manny. not lev. not even owen back when they were still something. she kept it tucked away in her pack, buried between ration notes and old supply maps. like it wasn’t just a book, but a piece of her no one else got to see.

so when you find her sitting on the porch steps, hunched over it, completely absorbed, you freeze in the doorway and just… watch.

her brow is furrowed, lips pursed in concentration, pencil moving in slow, careful strokes. her hair’s falling in her face, loose from it's tie, and she keeps brushing it back with the side of her hand like she’s too focused to care.

you take a step closer, quiet enough not to startle her. but she hears you anyway.

“don’t look,” she says quickly, flipping the page like a kid caught drawing in class.

you raise an eyebrow. “why? is it embarrassing?”

she shoots you a look. “it’s private.”

“so… it is embarrassing.”

abby sighs and shifts, making space beside her. you sit down, close enough to bump shoulders, and glance at her hands. ink smudged, calloused, careful.

“you draw often?” you ask.

“sometimes. when i can’t sleep.” she hesitates. “or when i miss things.”

“what kind of things?”

she doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you. long enough for the air between you to change. soften.

then, almost shyly, she turns the page back.

and there you are.

it’s not perfect. abby would probably hate that you saw it before she cleaned up the lines, but it’s unmistakably you. your jaw. the slope of your nose. the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. there’s even a little curve of your ear, tucked behind your hair, like she couldn’t help but get it exactly right.

you stare at it for a second too long. “is that… me?”

abby’s already bracing for your reaction. “yeah. i just... i don’t know. it helps. to draw you.”

“why me?”

she shrugs, pretending like she’s not flushed. “you’re nice to look at.”