I woke to footsteps.
Not the heavy tread of a guard changing shifts, not the quick patter of someone with somewhere to be. These were light, measured, almost hesitant—bare feet on cold floorboards, the kind of step someone takes when they're trying not to wake anyone.
I was on my feet before I made the choice to move. Years of sleeping light had hardwired that reflex into my spine. I pulled on my pants, grabbed the oil lamp from the table, and followed the sound into the hallway.
The corridor stretched out in both directions, dim and hollowed by shadow. Emergency lights hummed at intervals, casting weak pools of orange that didn't reach the corners. The footsteps had stopped. I stood still, listening, the glass of the lamp warm against my palm.
Then I saw her.
Abby stood at the far end of the hallway, where the corridor dead-ended into a wide window overlooking the eastern fence. Her good hand was pressed flat against the glass, fingers spread, her palm white at the edges from the pressure. She was staring out at the dark water beyond the perimeter—the black expanse of the Pacific, invisible except for where starlight caught the surface in faint silver ripples.
The dim bulb above her head caught the sharp angles of her face, the hollows under her cheekbones, the way her short blond hair stuck up at odd angles from sleep she hadn't actually gotten. She was wearing the clean shirt I'd left folded on the chair in her room yesterday—plain gray, loose on her frame, the collar hanging open at her throat. The bandage on her shoulder was visible at the edge of the sleeve, a white rectangle against her skin.
She didn't hear me approach. Or she didn't acknowledge it. Her reflection in the glass was distant, unfocused, her pale blue eyes fixed on something beyond the fence I couldn't see.
I stopped a few feet behind her, close enough to speak without raising my voice. The lamp cast our shadows long and distorted against the walls, two shapes reaching toward each other across the floorboards.
"You know," I said, keeping my voice low, "most people sleep their first night here. Something about the ocean air."
She turned. Not fast—no soldier's snap, no flinch. Just a slow pivot, like she was surfacing from deep water. Her face caught the light, and I saw the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled against her palm as she let her hand fall from the glass.
"Couldn't sleep," she said. Her voice was rough, scraped raw at the edges. Not from crying—from silence. From hours of standing here without saying a word.
I moved closer. One step. Then another. The floorboards creaked under my weight, and she tracked the sound, her eyes following me with a wariness that was almost unconscious, almost automatic.
"Neither could I," I said.
I stopped beside her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her body, close enough to smell the salt on her skin—ocean salt, sweat, the faint trace of antiseptic still clinging to her bandages. She was taller than me, broader in the shoulders, but standing here in the dim light with her handprint fading on the glass, she looked carved from something fragile.
She looked at me then. Really looked. Her pale eyes searched mine, scanning for something I didn't know how to name, and I held still under the weight of it, letting her look as long as she needed.
Her hand lifted. Hovered near my arm. I saw the hesitation in her fingers, the slight tremor she couldn't quite suppress—the same tension I'd seen when I was stitching her shoulder, the same raw control she exerted over every movement. She wanted to touch me. She was stopping herself.
Then she dropped her hand.
"Kassandra," she said.
That was all. Just my name. But the word hung between us, heavy as the ocean beyond the glass, and I felt it settle in my chest like something taking root.
"Abby."
I said it quietly, letting it sit in the space she'd opened. Her jaw tightened, and she looked away, back out the window, her reflection ghosting across the dark surface.
"I keep thinking about the mainland," she said. "About everything I left behind."
I didn't ask what. I knew better than to push.
"It's hard," I said, "leaving a place you survived. Even if it tried to kill you."
Her laugh was short, humorless. "Tried and succeeded, a few times."
I watched her profile in the dim light—the strong line of her nose, the set of her mouth, the way her brow furrowed when she was thinking. She looked younger in the dark. Softer. Like the armor she wore during the day had been set aside with the bandages and the blood.
"Lev's asleep," she said after a moment. "Hasn't moved since you left. I checked on him twice."
"That's good. He needs the rest."
"I know." She blew out a breath, her shoulders dropping. "I just—"
She stopped. Swallowed. Her hand came up again, this time to rub at the back of her neck, a gesture that looked old and worn, something she did when words failed.
"You're not used to letting someone else carry the watch," I said.
She looked at me, something shifting in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Recognition.
"No," she said. "I'm not."
I leaned my shoulder against the wall beside the window, turning to face her fully. The lamp sat between us on the floor, casting warm light up across our faces, softening the hard edges of the hallway.
"You don't have to, here. We have patrols. Watchtowers. The fence is reinforced."
"It's not about the fence."
"I know."
She held my gaze, and something passed between us—an understanding I hadn't expected to find, not here, not with her. She was a stranger. A soldier with scars I hadn't asked about, carrying a child I barely knew, bleeding out her history on my table.
And still, standing in this hallway at three in the morning, she felt like someone I'd been waiting to meet.
The thought unsettled me. I looked down, letting my eyes trace the patterns in the floorboards, the dust motes drifting through the lamp light.
"How's your shoulder?" I asked, because I needed to say something clinical, something that grounded me back in the body I knew how to treat.
Abby touched it, her fingers pressing gently against the bandage. "Hurts. But it's not burning anymore. That's better than yesterday."
"Let me check it."
She hesitated. I saw the refusal forming on her lips, the automatic rejection of help she hadn't asked for. Then something in her face softened, and she gave a small nod.
"Okay."
I pushed off the wall, gesturing toward the infirmary. "I've got better light in there. And I want to change the dressing anyway."
She followed without argument, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. I led her down the hall, through the door I'd left unlocked, and into the small room that had become my second home on this island.
The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and clean linen, the oil lamps casting long shadows across the white curtains I'd hung over the windows. I lit two more lamps, filling the room with warm amber light, and gestured to the cot where I'd stitched her up the day before.
"Sit."
She sat. No hesitation this time, no stubborn set to her jaw. Just a slow lowering of her body onto the mattress, her good hand bracing against the frame.
I pulled on fresh gloves—a habit I couldn't break, even in the middle of the night—and knelt beside her. She watched me with those pale blue eyes, her breathing slow and even, as I reached for the edge of her bandage.
"This might sting a little," I said.
"I know."
I peeled the tape away carefully, lifting the dressing to expose the wound beneath. The stitches held clean and tight, the surrounding skin pink but not inflamed, the angry red of infection already fading to something healthier. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"It looks good," I said. "No signs of sepsis. The antibiotics are working."
Abby's shoulders dropped. "You weren't sure."
"I was pretty sure. But infections can turn fast, especially in this climate." I reached for a fresh bandage, my fingers brushing her skin as I positioned it over the wound. She didn't flinch. "You're healing well. Strong immune system."
"I've had practice."
I taped the new dressing in place, smoothing the edges with a careful touch. My hand lingered a second longer than it needed to, and I felt the warmth of her skin through the thin gloves, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
"There," I said, pulling back. "All set."
Abby looked down at the clean bandage, then up at me. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.
"Thank you."
The words came out rough, almost reluctant, like she was fighting against them even as she spoke. I smiled, soft and small.
"You already said that."
"I mean it."
I met her eyes. The dim light caught the blue in them, made them look almost transparent, and I saw something there I hadn't seen before—a crack in the armor, a sliver of vulnerability she was trusting me with.
"I know you do," I said.
The silence stretched between us, full and warm and fragile. I could hear the generator humming somewhere below us, the distant crash of waves against the shore, the sound of our breathing slowly syncing in the quiet.
"Kassandra."
Her voice was lower now, rougher, and I felt the hairs on my arm stand up.
"Yeah?"
She was looking at me with an intensity that made my chest tight. Her hand lifted again—that same gesture from the hallway, hovering near my arm, hovering near something she wanted and didn't know how to take.
This time, she didn't drop it.
Her fingers brushed my wrist, light as a question. I felt the calluses on her palm, the warmth of her skin, the slight tremor running through her hand.
I didn't pull away.
I let her touch settle, let her fingers curl around my wrist, let her thumb press against my pulse point like she was checking if I was real. I looked down at her hand—scarred, strong, holding me like I was something precious—and then up at her face, at the sharp lines of her jaw, the uncertainty softening her mouth.
"Abby."
"I don't know what this is," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know why I can't stop looking at you."
I swallowed. The air between us had grown thick, heavy with something I couldn't name and didn't want to break.
"I've been trying to figure it out since yesterday," I said. "I still don't have an answer."
Her thumb moved, tracing a slow line across my inner wrist. I shivered.
"What if there isn't one?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
She shifted closer, her knee brushing mine, her hand sliding from my wrist to my palm, interlacing our fingers with a careful, deliberate slowness that made my breath catch.
"What if it's just—this." She looked down at our hands. "Whatever this is."
I didn't answer with words. I stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between us, and raised my free hand to touch her jaw. She went still under my fingers, her eyes searching mine, and I felt the roughness of stubble beneath my thumb, the warmth of her skin, the way her breath caught when I tilted her face toward mine.
"Can I?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She nodded. Just once. Small.
I kissed her.
Soft. Slow. A question I was asking with my mouth, my lips brushing hers like I was tasting something fragile. She made a sound against me—low, surprised, aching—and her hand tightened around mine, pulling me closer.
Her lips were chapped, the kiss rough at the edges, nothing polished or practiced about it. It was raw and real and tasted like salt, and I felt it all the way down to my bones.
We stayed like that for a long moment, mouths pressed together, breathing the same air, neither of us willing to break the seal between us. When I finally pulled back, her eyes were dark and her lips were wet, and she was looking at me like I was the first solid thing she'd held onto in years.
"I don't know what happens tomorrow," I said, my forehead resting against hers. "Or the day after. But you're not leaving in the morning, Abby. Not yet."
She let out a shaky breath. "I told myself I'd stay one night."
"Stay longer."
Her hand found the back of my neck, fingers threading into the loose strands of my braid. She pulled me close, tucked her face into my shoulder, and I felt her exhale against my skin—a long, slow release of tension, like she'd been holding her breath for months and was only now letting it go.
"I'll stay," she said into my neck. "For a while."
I wrapped my arms around her, careful of her shoulder, and held her. She was solid and warm and trembling just barely, and I felt the weight of everything she wasn't saying pressing against us both.
Outside, the ocean kept its rhythm against the shore. The generator hummed. The lights flickered once, steady again.
And in the quiet of the infirmary, with Abby's breath warm against my skin and her hand gripping mine like a lifeline, I let myself believe we might be okay.
We stayed there, wrapped in each other, until the dark beyond the windows began to soften into gray, and the first pale light of dawn crept across the floor.