The house was quiet, the way it always got after midnight. Horror movie credits still rolled across the TV in Abby’s bedroom, casting a flickering blue light across the walls. Outside the window, the stillness of suburban Santa Clarita gave the illusion that everything was normal. Predictable. Safe.

Abby was curled up beneath the covers, one arm slung lazily across your waist, both of you sunken into the tangled blankets and warmth of your shared nest. It felt familiar—comforting in the way your sleepovers always had, even before the hand-holding, the kisses, the breathless realization that maybe what you had was always more than friendship.

When you gently untangled from her, whisper-soft, and padded out toward the kitchen, Abby barely stirred. Just shifted onto her side and blinked at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the fridge from down the hall. You probably needed water. You'd shared an entire bag of salty popcorn and exactly three too many sour gummy worms. Abby smirked to herself, eyes fluttering closed.

Then—crash.

Not loud. Just glass or plastic against linoleum. But followed by the sharp clatter of something being dropped. Then fast footsteps.

By the time you barreled back into the room, your eyes wide and pale with panic, Abby was already halfway sitting up.

“There’s a finger in a jar in your fridge, Abby!”

The words hit the room like a cold slap. Abby blinked. Her body didn’t move at first. Then, calmly, she pulled back the covers and stood.

She crossed the room, quiet, brushing past your shoulder with a glance that was more tender than surprised. She sat on the bed, motioning for you to do the same. When you hesitated, she reached out, lacing your fingers together and tugging you gently down.

“Okay. Um. I know how that sounds. But I swear it’s not what you think,” Abby said.

Her voice was steady. Dry, like she’d rehearsed this a hundred times in her head. Maybe she had. There was always the chance someone would find out. She just hadn’t expected it to be you. Not tonight. Not during one of your cozy, perfect nights together.

Abby didn’t let go of your hand.

“So,” she began, exhaling hard through her nose, “my mom kind of... turned into a zombie. Like, full-on, undead, eats-humans zombie. But, like, not your stereotypical kind. She’s still herself. Kind of. Just—hungrier.”