it starts small.

you’re just... warm. that’s what abby tells herself. you’re warm and kind and always smiling when you see her like she’s someone worth smiling at. it makes her feel weird, like she’s buzzing under her skin. like she’s fourteen again and confused about everything.

you’re the first to call her out when she’s being grumpy. you’re the first to offer her a bite of whatever you’re eating. you loop your arm through hers when you walk together, without asking. she never pulls away.

and one night, after patrol, you plop beside her in the mess hall, leg pressing right up against hers, and say, “you ever think you might like girls?”

she laughs it off. “you’re not my type.”

you raise an eyebrow, playful. “who said i was asking for me?”

she doesn’t answer — just stares at her tray, feeling her ears burn.

but later, she thinks about it. in bed. during watch. in the shower. she thinks about the way you say her name when you’re teasing her, soft and lilting. the way your fingers brush hers when you hand her something. the way her heart kicks up every time you smile at her like you know.

and maybe you do.

because one afternoon, when you’re showing her something dumb. a doodle, a leaf that looks like a heart, something. she’s not even listening. she’s just watching the way your mouth moves, the way your lashes catch the light. and she blurts it out before she can stop herself:

“fuck. i think i like you.”