Chapter Text
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Morning came before you were ready. The light crept in through the wide open window, soft and golden at first, then sharp as it climbed higher. The rustling of wind through the dry coastal brush had stilled, replaced now with the distant cry of gulls and the steady hush of the ocean tide just beyond the hill.
You were tangled around Abby.
She lay on her back, her chest rising and falling slowly. Your face was pressed against the space just below her collarbone, your arms wrapped tightly around her torso like a makeshift life vest. Her skin was damp with sleep, her scent salty and warm—sun, sweat, and the faint traces of soap from the night before. Your cheek stuck to her slightly, and you felt the fine layer of sweat that had gathered between you both overnight.
You hated mornings like this. Santa Barbara was cruel in that way—nights like paradise, and mornings like punishment. Cool sea breezes that lulled you to sleep, then sharp, sticky heat by dawn. The sheet was half-kicked off, twisted down by your legs, and the air felt heavy and thick already.
You groaned and shifted, peeling your face off her chest with a quiet sigh. Abby stirred beneath you, murmuring something incoherent into the ceiling. Her arm twitched once, then stilled.
You rolled away carefully, hissing when the movement pulled at the bandages on your hip and shoulder. The pain was dull but present—angry, aching. You lay on your side now, staring out the window, watching the morning light ripple across the ocean. Pale blue and silver, the waves catching fire where the sun hit them just right. Somewhere far down the coast, a boat’s engine droned softly, too distant to see.
You felt stupid.
Stupid for last night. For the blood. For the hiding. For the look on Abby’s face when she pulled back the curtain and saw you shaking like a dog in the shower.
You sighed and closed your eyes again. Maybe you could fall back asleep before the heat got worse.
Then you felt her shift behind you.
Her arm slid over your waist, lazy and familiar. Her body curled into yours, her chest pressing into your back. Her voice was low, rasped by sleep.
“Good morning,” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
Before you could answer, her hips rolled forward against you—slow, deliberate, grounding into yours like a quiet question.
You froze.
Your pulse jumped.
What was she doing?
Her hand splayed across your belly. Not demanding. Just there. Holding. Wanting, maybe.
But there was no pressure. No hunger in it. Just warmth. Presence. A kind of silent checking-in that didn’t need words. She exhaled again, her breath warm across your neck. You could tell she was still half-asleep, body moving out of instinct.
You didn’t know if she was trying to comfort you or if she just needed closeness after everything last night tore open.
You stayed still, uncertain.
The sun crept a little higher, catching on the dust in the air. A breeze stirred the edge of the curtain, carrying the scent of salt and eucalyptus and distant smoke—someone’s breakfast fire, maybe, or a controlled burn down the coast.
You didn't speak.
And neither did she.
Her fingers ghosted along the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow at first—testing. Then with a practiced flick, she nudged the elastic down a fraction, just enough to make your breath catch.
She was relentless when it came to you—always had been. Not in a rough or pushy way, but in that quiet, steady way Abby did everything. Once she set her mind to something—especially you—she didn’t waver.
You shifted under her, not pulling away but not leaning in either. Your face burned with heat that had nothing to do with the sunrise. You wanted her. You always wanted her. But the shame from last night still clung to your skin like a second layer—thick, suffocating.
Her hips rolled against you again, slow and deliberate, like a tide lapping at the shore.
Then came her mouth—warm, soft kisses pressed to the nape of your neck. Lazy, reverent. Her lips dragged down the slope of your shoulder, her breath hitching softly as she exhaled against your skin. She moaned, not out of urgency, but like touching you soothed something in her.
You gasped quietly at the contact, your body betraying your hesitance. Her kisses reached your collarbone and you turned in her arms, catching her lips with your own.
The kiss was slow, but full of hunger beneath the surface. It tasted like sleep and salt and the edges of forgiveness. You reached for her without thinking—threading your fingers into the back of her curls, pulling her closer, letting the weight of her push against you.
She chuckled low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. Without breaking the kiss, she slipped her hand beneath the sheet, hooking your shorts with ease. In one fluid motion, she stripped both of you down, the fabric sliding away like it had been waiting.
She positioned both of you and then her body pressed into yours fully—warmth meeting warmth, skin on skin, no fabric between you now. The heat of her made your knees weak. She was already soaked, and the realization made you shudder against her.
Your hand flew to her hip, fingers digging into her flesh as your head fell back into the pillow.
“Jesus, Abby—” you choked out, your voice already wrecked with need.
She kissed you again—slower, deeper this time, her lips parting over yours like she was trying to memorize the shape of your breath. Her hand moved down, firm and steady, settling on your thigh as her body pressed flush into yours.
You felt your legs trembling against hers, locked in a tangled X beneath the linen sheet. The slick heat where your bodies met was dizzying—there was nothing soft about it, nothing delicate. Just need. Just friction. Just the wet slide of skin and the coarse brush of hair where you touched, raw and electric.
Your fingers curled into her shoulder, nails dragging lightly down her back. You couldn’t help it—she moved with this rhythm that felt made for you. Every slow grind of her hips made your breath catch. She rolled into you with practiced force, deliberate and unhurried, like she wanted to feel every inch of you respond.
God, and she was so warm. Her body sun-kissed and soft in places, hard in others. That patch of blonde between her legs shone faintly where the sunlight reached through the window, glowing gold like the coast itself had blessed her. You didn’t even know you could love something like that—but you did. The contrast, the reality of her, the way she wasn’t afraid to be rough and then tender all in the same motion.
Her hand anchored you, fingers wrapped tightly around your uninjured hip, grounding you in place while her rhythm deepened.
You gasped, biting your lip as your eyes fluttered back, the pleasure building slow and low inside you like a storm far off the coast. She let out a shaky breath against your cheek.
“Joan—” Her voice trembled. “I’m close.”
You nodded, barely able to move, even though you weren’t there yet. She was too worked up, hips losing their rhythm as her breathing hitched. You moved against her the best you could—pressing up, meeting her halfway.
And then she came.
Her body tensed, hips stuttering mid-roll. She bit down on her lip hard, a groan rumbling in her throat as her muscles shook against you. You watched her come undone, her blue eyes wide and unfocused, blinking through the haze of it. Her skin flushed pink down her neck and chest, her fingers trembling slightly as they held you.
You moaned softly, caught in the sight of her like it was its own kind of climax. Like watching Abby fall apart for you was just as intimate as anything else.
“Joan—god,” she breathed, her voice raw and reverent.
She collapsed into you, her forehead resting against your jaw, her breath cooling on your damp skin. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the gulls beyond the window, and the slow rhythm of waves crashing against the California shore.
She kissed down your neck slowly, reverently—pressing her mouth to the curve where your pulse thudded just beneath your skin. Her breath was still ragged from her own release, but when she realized you hadn’t come with her, her lips paused.
You shook your head gently, breath catching. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t need to—”
Before you could finish, her mouth was on yours again—harder this time. Desperate.
A wet gasp escaped as her tongue swept across your lower lip, tasting your hesitation. A thin strand of spit lingered between you when she pulled back, her eyes dark and glassy.
“I need to see you cum,” she said, voice gravel-low. It wasn’t a demand—it was a need. Something primal and sacred, like finishing what she started was the only way to breathe again.
You couldn’t hold back anymore.
Your body moved on instinct—rolling her onto her back, straddling her hips as she peeled herself from beneath you with grace and ease. Her hands stayed on your skin the entire time, sliding down your waist as her mouth trailed lower.
She kissed between your breasts, her mouth hot and open, tongue tracing invisible paths across your skin. Every breath she took seemed to vibrate through you. She was savoring this—every inch of you. Like she’d been starving for it.
Down your stomach, her lips followed, slower now. Her tongue made lazy, maddening circles around your navel, then lower. You twitched beneath her, the tension in your thighs unbearable.
By the time she reached them, you were already gasping, your back arching toward her. She kissed the inside of your thighs—first one, then the other—letting her breath fan over you without touching where you needed it most.
The anticipation burned worse than your healing shoulder.
When her tongue finally met your heat, your hand flew up to your mouth to stifle the scream that tore its way through your chest.
She moaned against you—deep, low in her throat, like your taste had knocked something loose in her. Her hands clutched your hips to steady you, anchoring herself as she licked with growing intensity. Her grip was strong—too strong on your healing side—but you didn’t care. Her mouth was too good. Her tongue moved with precision and hunger, like she needed to memorize you from the inside out.
Your head fell back, your breath coming out in broken gasps. “Abby—!” you choked.
She ground her hips into the mattress beneath her, moaning again like she was unraveling just from making you fall apart. She was insatiable like this—wild, even now, and it lit your nerves on fire.
It wasn’t just that she wanted you. It was that she craved you. Like the ache between your legs was hers, too. Like giving you this—taking her time, watching you lose control—meant something.
It always had.
It hit you all at once—white heat curling in your spine, crashing through your hips like a wave slamming into the rocks. Your thighs clamped around her head, your body shaking uncontrollably as your climax tore through you.
And just beneath it, you felt her fall apart, too.
Abby moaned against you—deep, muffled, nearly guttural—and you felt her hips grind into the mattress below with reckless desperation. Her whole body trembled as she chased it, her breath coming in hot, ragged bursts against your most sensitive skin.
You weren’t sure if you were crying or laughing or screaming—all you knew was the sound that left your mouth wasn’t quiet, and you prayed no one outside that house could hear you. You buried your face into the pillow, letting the tension leave your body in waves.
Abby didn’t stop until you twitched away from her, overstimulated and breathless. She pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh—then another, directly where she’d just worshiped you. Her lips lingered for a beat, and then she chuckled softly. The sound was hoarse, winded, so hers.
You felt her crawl back up the bed, her skin sliding against yours like silk and sweat. Her arms wrapped around you instantly, like she couldn’t get close enough.
She pulled you to her chest, one leg slung lazily over yours, and held you through the aftershocks. Your breathing was still uneven, and so was hers. The sun was higher now, and the heat in the room had thickened—but her body was comfort, not suffocation.
You turned your face into the space between her collarbone and neck, and for a while, neither of you said anything. You just listened to the waves outside, the rustle of leaves, and the slowing thump of each other’s hearts.
She kissed your temple once. No words.
None needed.
After a while, she stood—moving slowly, like her limbs were still heavy with the morning. She grabbed the black tank top off the back of the chair and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. The hem clung to her ribs for a second before sliding into place. Then came the jeans—faded, worn in at the knees, the kind you’d seen her patch more than once.
She didn’t glance in the mirror. She never did. She just rubbed a hand through her damp curls and rolled her shoulders out, like she was getting ready for patrol even though it was just another quiet morning.
You watched her in the light that poured through the window—sun streaking across her arms, highlighting the freckles on her shoulders and the muscles along her back. For a moment, you felt like a kid watching something holy. Like if you blinked, she’d vanish.
God had made her, you were sure of it. Somehow, in all the ruin and violence and loss, He’d carved out one good thing. And He’d handed her to you. Scarred. Complicated. Real.
You stood up and reached for your own clothes, tugging a soft blue t-shirt over your head—short sleeves to cover the bandages that still clung to your skin. It wasn’t that you were hiding from her. You just didn’t want the others to see. Not today. The black jeans you pulled on felt tighter than usual, still damp with salt air from yesterday’s walk.
She turned to face you, her eyes flicking over your frame like she was checking for injuries again—even though she’d already tended to every wound. Her voice came out a little uneven when she finally spoke.
“Come to base today?” she asked.
Her smile was small. Nervous, almost. Abby never faltered during a fight or a mission—but little moments like this, moments where she asked instead of ordered, made her suddenly human in a way that shattered you.
You nodded, lips tugging into a smile before you could stop it.
Her face lit up.
It wasn’t a grin—it was something fuller. She beamed, eyes crinkling in that rare way that made you feel like you were the sun she was turning toward. Like you’d said yes to something bigger than just visiting the base.
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Lev joined you and Abby on the narrow dirt path that led downhill from the house, his curls still damp from his rushed morning rinse. He wore a loose shirt—sun-bleached and two sizes too big—and a pair of stiff jeans rolled at the ankles. His hands were tucked in his pockets, shoulders loose, voice bright with whatever joy he always seemed to carry at the start of the day.
You stayed a few steps behind as he and Abby talked. About the birds nesting under the solar panels. About the tides being lower today. About the dry heat making the garden beds crack.
Their words floated ahead of you like fog—thin and distant. Your boots squeaked faintly against the sand and salt-caked earth, still damp from the morning mist but drying fast. You tugged the hem of your blue t-shirt lower on your arms, instinctively shielding the fresh gauze taped to your shoulder. Every movement stung.
The sun was merciless today. No wind. No clouds. Just that glaring white sky and the faint shimmer of the ocean peeking through the cliffs to the west. You raised your hand to shield your eyes. The air smelled like seaweed and eucalyptus and old ash—remnants of a bonfire from the night before.
Eventually, the base came into view. Catalina's Firefly compound stretched lazily across the hillside like it had grown there—organic and mismatched, a blend of what the world used to be and what people had been forced to make of it.
Solar panels blinked atop some of the sturdier buildings, patched together with wires that crisscrossed over dirt paths. Most of the structures were repurposed ranger outposts or storage buildings from before the outbreak—weather-worn and sun-bleached, with canvas tarps stretched over porches for shade. Between them, people moved in steady streams—carrying buckets, children, tools, weapons. There were no uniforms, no salutes. Just the quiet rhythm of a community trying to function.
And then came the market.
Abby had mentioned it the night before—said the traveling traders were docking today. You hadn’t expected this many people.
Your breath hitched.
Rows of makeshift stalls filled the square, each one different—built from whatever could be found. Boat hulls turned on their sides. Doors ripped from rusted hinges. Metal sheets hammered into tables. Colorful awnings fluttered overhead, catching weak breezes that barely touched the ground.
The first stall was run by a woman with sand-colored braids and a missing front tooth. She stood behind a long, slatted table covered in dried fish—split open, smoked, and tied into bundles with twine. The air reeked of salt and grease. She barked out prices in Spanish to a man in coveralls, pausing only to chew from a strip of jerky dangling from her lip.
Next to her, a round-bellied man with a beard down to his chest sold handmade soap bars. His hands were stained with dye, his arms covered in crude tattoos of leaves, stars, and spiral suns. Each bar was wrapped in torn parchment and labeled with loopy cursive: Mint. Rosehip. Eucalyptus. Coal. The scent cloud around him was thick and sweet, clinging to your throat. A baby slept nearby in a crate lined with old jackets, one hand curled tight around a carved spoon.
Across the lane, a stall had been made from the skeleton of an old truck bed. A pair of twin brothers—both wiry, dark-skinned, and maybe seventeen—showed off knives they claimed were “scar-sharp.” The table was cluttered with blades: machetes with bone handles, switchblades with etched initials, even one jagged thing made from rebar and duct tape. One twin did the talking. The other cleaned blood off a blade like it was nothing more than tomato juice.
Further down, a teenage girl sat behind a flipped canoe painted with flowers. Her long black hair was braided tight, and she wore a wide straw hat. She sold books—actual books—their pages warped from water and age, spines sun-faded. Stacks leaned precariously around her: old survival manuals, tattered magazines, a few weathered paperbacks. You caught a glimpse of The Left Hand of Darkness and Of Mice and Men as someone flipped through the pile.
The smells shifted again—wood smoke, citrus, animal fat.
A pot simmered nearby, balanced over a crude fire pit. A wiry old woman stirred it with a stick, her hair tied in a yellow scarf. Beside her, roasted tubers and tough bread cooled on a wooden plank. She handed a bowl of stew to a boy no older than ten, his hands black with dirt and ink. He smiled up at her like she’d just saved his life.
Voices filled the air—loud, layered. Spanish. Tagalog. Creole. Some kind of Boston accent that made your blood go cold. You didn’t look to see who it belonged to.
Please not Boston, your mind whispered, tight and panicked.
You kept walking, jaw clenched.
Abby brushed your arm lightly. She probably felt you go still. Her hand lingered there a second longer than necessary, but she didn’t speak.
“Hey!”
A voice cut through the buzz—sharp, familiar.
You turned toward the command building, a squat concrete structure wrapped in climbing ivy and shaded by thick solar cloth panels. Rachel leaned in the open doorway, one hand resting on a clipboard, the other waving you and Abby over. Her sleeves were rolled, her face flushed with the heat. Behind her, two Fireflies argued quietly over a crate of radio parts.
Lev broke into a jog the moment he saw the other teens gathered near the mess hut. Someone tossed him a slingshot. He caught it with ease and disappeared into the group, laughter already bubbling in his throat.
You watched him go.
You should’ve felt relief. Joy, even. But instead, your stomach churned.
This place was alive. Vibrant. Too vibrant.
And you weren’t sure yet if you belonged in it.
The thought lingered, thick and unwelcome, as you followed Abby into the command building. The shift in air temperature was immediate—cooler inside the concrete, but still stifling. The walls were bare except for a few faded maps and whiteboards smeared with grease-pencil markings. Radio parts littered the long central table like debris after a storm. There was a faint hum of static from a speaker in the corner, layered with the metallic scent of old electronics and sun-baked dust.
And there was Rachel.
Perfect fucking Rachel.
She leaned over the table in a faded tank top and cargo pants, arms toned, tanned, and inked. A red pencil was tucked behind her ear, and a clipboard rested against her hip like it belonged there. She was laughing at something a technician said—casual, confident, radiant. Of course she was.
You let out a breath through your nose, just shy of a scoff. Abby nudged you lightly with her elbow. You didn’t need words to get the message: Behave.
That’s when it hit you.
She hadn’t brought you here to stroll around and hold her hand in front of everyone. This wasn’t a date.
This was work.
It was time to pull your weight. To finally stop trailing behind her like a ghost.
You swallowed down the sour taste that rose in your throat and stood beside her, quiet and alert as Rachel launched into a rundown of the southern trade situation.
"Routes through Baja have gone quiet,” she said, tapping a faded section of the map. “There’s talk of pirate groups—maybe old factions trying to rebrand, maybe new ones popping up along the coastline.”
The word “Mexico” rolled out of her mouth like a stone.
Your chest locked up.
Your mind flinched—not at the word, but at the weight it carried.
Manny.
He was from there. Talked about the coast like it was home. Like it was his blood.
Your jaw tightened. Not because of what Rachel said, but because you knew what happened to him. Because you'd seen what was left of him—weeks later, in a warehouse near the Port of Seattle. A bloated corpse with sunken eyes and dried blood on the floor, gunpowder burned into the concrete. Tommy had shot him right in front of Abby.
You didn’t have to look at her to wonder if she was thinking about it, too.
You just... couldn’t focus.
Not on the maps, or the murmurs of strategy, or the click of a radio dial being turned behind you.
Because that’s when you noticed him.
One of the Fireflies—a man sitting in the corner near a crate of broken radios—wasn’t watching the presentation. He was hunched, head low, his shirt soaked through with sweat. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring through the room like he wasn’t even there.
His hand twitched.
Subtle at first. Then again. Sharp, involuntary.
You stared. Something in your gut twisted.
No one else noticed.
Rachel kept talking. Abby nodded along. The others leaned over maps, whispered about rerouting, resupplying, rotating shifts.
But the man in the corner let out a low, gurgling breath. His mouth opened slightly. Spit dangled from his bottom lip.
Your pulse spiked.
No infected had ever reached Catalina. It was the whole point of being here.
Right?