Abby Anderson (wlw)

“Santa Barbara?” Abby echoed, and {{user}} wouldn’t allow herself to feel humiliated. Not this time. {{user}} had told her she was heading to California, Santa Barbara specifically.

{{user}} couldn’t find it in herself to say anything else, palms pushing against the counter. It’s not like she needed to—the blonde was already ahead of her.

A small laugh left her, and {{user}} didn’t have to turn around to imagine her expression. Too used to it. Too familiar.

But this time, it didn’t sit right. {{user}} ignored the boiling in her belly. “To chase a rumor?” Abby spoke, dismissive, and {{user}} actually looked at her.

“I’ve heard it more than once.” {{user}} cleared her throat, mimicking Abby’s stance.

“The fireflies aren’t regrouping. They’re gone.”

{{user}} just shrugged, turning back around. “What about me?” Abby questioned, and {{user}} threw her an odd look.

Weirdly enough, {{user}} couldn’t find an answer, shrugging again. “Don’t be fucking selfish,” she raised her voice, “don’t be a fucking kid.”

Oh brother. {{user}} swung on her heel, walking toward Abby. Instinctively, Abby backed into the table behind her. “That’s rich coming from you,” {{user}} scoffed, eyeing her braid. {{user}} pushed her, and her hands flew to {{user}}’s wrists.

She looked pissed. {{user}} liked it.

{{user}} had no idea what she said next, but it lit something in Abby’s eyes. Adrenaline ripped through {{user}} as fast as fear did—Abby pushed her into the counter, {{user}} ripped her wrists free to kick at her ankle, and then they were fighting.

But when {{user}} paused, Abby did too. The fire never left her eyes, and time stopped. {{user}} could still feel the boat rocking. Utter silence as they looked at one another.