This is as much for me as it is for you. Giving all of these authors all their flowers because everyone is so, so talented.
Series
Between Shades of Blue
Golden Hour
For the Plot
Is the Moon Still in Love With the Sun?
Looking Down at You
Platonic Plus One
Pressure
Sherry Bomb
Soft Spot
Terms of Endearment
Terms of Play
Thinking of You (While I'm Up Here)
Trouble
Wishing You the Best (In the worst way)
Your Lips My Lips
One-Shots
Anaktoria
Beneath Her Tongue, There is a Poem...
Between Breaths (I lose myself in you)
Cause I Could Be So Good to You...
Cost of Attention
Exit 42
Five Lies and One Truth
Heat Check
Hills
I am giving you food because I cannot give you the world
I want to be something useful, like in love
Letters of Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd
Long Time Coming
Miami Problems
Paige's Lessons on Kissing
Petty
Recognition
Secret Obsession & SO2
Study In Want
Tipping Point & TP2
Trust in me (I'll Give You All of Me)
A/N: after almost a month, i am finally able to post ch6 for you guys! i am so sorry for the wait. i’ve been so busy, while also struggling a bit with getting my ideas for this chapter written out the way i wanted them. if you need a refresher, skim back over ch5! anyway, here it is. sry, there are a lot of pov switches in this chapter. lmk what you think!
CHAPTER SIX: Withdrawal Effects
Monday morning felt different before Azzi even left her dorm. She woke up the way she always did— by her alarm, a groggy reach for her phone, and the glow of the screen filling the room.
But, something about it felt off. She unlocked her phone automatically, and notifications filled the screen. Some group chat messages from her family, a reminder from Canvas about a soon due assignment, and a TikTok Caroline had sent to her after midnight.
Azzi stared at the lock screen for a moment longer than usual before she opened Instagram. Her thumb moved automatically toward the DMs icon, just from muscle memory, but halfway there, she stopped herself.
She knew nothing would be there. For the first time in weeks, pbsbaseline hadn’t messaged her. No late-night analysis, no strange observations about something she had said earlier, no questions, and no oddly comforting paragraphs about human behavior that somehow ended up being about her.
Azzi swallowed thickly, then locked her phone again before she sat up in bed. It had only been one night since everything went down. Technically less than twelve hours. She knew space was what she needed, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy.
She sighed, then swung her legs off the bed and tried to focus on getting ready for class.
By the time she left the dorm, the thoughts about Paige had already returned. Her phone felt heavier in her jacket pocket than usual, like it was missing an important piece, or maybe even waiting for something.
Azzi told herself she was imagining it and that it was just a matter of broken habit. The last few weeks she and Paige had messaged constantly, so of course it felt weird now.
She crossed the quad, weaving through clusters of students heading toward their Monday classes. Her molecular biology lecture didn’t start for another ten minutes.
Normally, she would have cut straight across the center lawn and stopped to have a coffee from The Lantern Room on the way. Paige would already be there, sat at their regular table with that quiet and observant look on her face.
Azzi slowed down as she approached the path that led toward the building. Her chest tightened up, then she turned in a different direction. Instead of heading down the route that passed by The Lantern Room, she took a longer sidewalk that curved around the archeology buildings. It added three minutes to the walk, but it also meant she had less of a risk of seeing Paige.
This is temporary, Azzi told herself as she kept walking. I’ll only feel this way for a few days.
—
Monday afternoon passed quietly. Azzi had a few classes, then went to lunch at the dining hall with a couple of girls from her lab section. Everything was normal… mostly.
Every half hour or so, Azzi caught herself reaching for her phone in her pocket. She’d unlock it and open Instagram, and every time, her thumb wanted to drift toward the message icon again.
Every time, she stopped herself. She didn’t need to look, because she knew the conversation was still sitting there exactly the same way they had left it.
The last message Paige had sent before everything exploded.
azzifudd: i will be there around 6:30 then :)
pbsbaseline: i will be awaiting your arrival.
Azzi had reread it twice on Sunday night after she left Paige’s apartment, then she’d closed the app before she could scroll further up. Now, she was forcing herself not to open it again. Instead, she checked some stories, liked a couple of posts, and scrolled aimlessly. Anything except clicking on that thread, because if she opened it, she knew what would happen.
She’d see weeks of messages, late-night conversations, and jokes with observations mixed in between, that slow shift from a shared article to something… more.
Azzi shoved her phone back in her pocket and tried to focus on quite literally anything else.
Tuesday was somehow even worse. The silence had settled in. It wasn’t just the absence of DMs from Paige, but the absence of expectation.
For weeks, Azzi had gotten used to Paige appearing in her day— sometimes physically, but digitally, too. A DM between classes, a weirdly insightful response to something she’d said, or a question about what she was doing later. Now, the spaces where those things should have been just… stayed empty.
Azzi noticed it most when she walked across campus. Her feet kept trying to take those familiar routes, but each time, she corrected herself and turned in a different direction.
On Tuesday afternoon, she actually got herself halfway across the quad before realizing she was heading straight toward the psych building. Her stomach dropped when she noticed. She stopped walking, and for a second, she just stood there and watched the entrance from a distance.
Students were coming in and out. Someone held the door open for a girl carrying a stack of textbooks. Another group lingered on the steps, laughing about something. Paige was probably inside, running her study or walking down the hall, looking the exact same as always.
Azzi turned sharply and walked in the other direction.
Wednesday morning, the habit became too hard to ignore. Azzi woke up and opened Instagram before she was fully conscious. Her thumb tapped the DM icon automatically, and she opened up the thread.
pbsbaseline
Her stomach dropped, and she froze. There it was again, their last conversation, sitting exactly where it had been for three days now. No new messages, no typing bubble, nothing. Azzi stared at the screen for a long moment, then she backed out of the messages and locked her phone.
You don’t need to talk to her, she told herself. You shouldn’t talk to her.
She missed Paige in a way that didn’t feel right. She should’ve been ready to completely distance herself from Paige, because she had logged literally everything. Every conversation, every moment, and even the stupid things Azzi had said without thinking.
The memory of the laptop screen flickered through her mind again. Pages of notes, photos, and bullet points.
Attachment markers.
Azzi pressed her lips together. The humiliation still burned when she thought about it, but another memory from Sunday night kept intruding too.
The couch, Paige’s flushed face, the way she’d looked surprised when Azzi teased her, and the way Paige had kissed her back.
Azzi shut her eyes briefly. Stop, she told herself, before she grabbed her backpack and left for class.
It was colder outside today, and Azzi was really feeling the low temperatures as she crossed the quad. The midweek crowds moved quickly around her. Someone biked past too close and a group of freshmen laughed loudly near the fountain.
Azzi kept her head down as she walked. Her molecular biology class met in a building on the far side of campus. The easiest path was one that cut directly past the psychology building. It was the fastest route, but Azzi knew— from the past few days— that she was avoiding that building like the plague.
She had a chance of seeing Paige in places like The Lantern Room and the library, but near the Psychology Building? It was pretty much a guarantee.
For a second, Azzi let herself imagine Paige inside 314C, running her study, watching someone the way Paige had watched her. She was probably analyzing them, and logging their behavior. The thought made her stomach twist.
Azzi inhaled slowly, then of course, instead of taking the straight path toward the building, she took the long way around the quad, the route that curved along the far edge of campus. It added nearly ten minutes to the walk in the freezing cold, but it kept the psych building a good ways away from her.
Azzi adjusted the strap of her backpack and kept moving.
Temporary space, she reminded herself. Just for a little while, until things stopped feeling so complicated. Until she stopped missing someone she wasn’t sure she could ever trust again.
—
Monday began the same way that it always did.
Paige woke up at 6:27 a.m., three minutes before her alarm. She turned it off before it could sound, sat up in bed, and mentally organized the day’s schedule before her feet touched the floor.
Classes, then lab hours. She had two confirmed participants, possibly three if the waitlist student from Friday still wanted a time slot. This was her routine. It was predictable and efficient. It had just been kind of… thrown off by Azzi’s presence these past weeks.
Paige usually could slip back into a routine fairly quickly. She got dressed in khakis and a gray sweater, then pulled her hair into the same tight bun she wore almost every day. She put her contacts in, then zipped her backpack with careful precision.
By 7:00, she was already walking toward campus. There was no reason to delay.
After two morning classes, she headed straight to the Psychology building. She ached to be somewhere that felt stable.
Her study required ongoing participant recruitment, and after the weekend gap, she had a backlog of small administrative tasks to complete. She had been slacking some recently. Her mind had been… elsewhere.
Consent forms needed to be reprinted, participant ID logs needed to be updated, and stimulus files needed to be checked.
This would occupy her next hour or so, which was ideal.
Room 314C smelled faintly like printer toner and disinfectant wipes when Paige unlocked it. The space was exactly as she’d left it Friday afternoon— a chair by the computer table, pulse sensor cables neatly coiled beside the monitor, and the eye-tracking camera angled precisely toward where the participant’s face would be positioned. Everything was orderly and familiar.
Paige exhaled quietly as she set her backpack down and pulled her laptop out, before setting it on the corner desk. This was routine, which felt good, because routine meant forward movement.
She powered on her laptop and immediately opened the study interface. Participant 223080 was scheduled for 10:30 a.m.
She printed a stack of new consent forms in the copy room while the system booted. The printer hummed, and paper slid nearly into the tray. Paige stacked the sheets, aligned the edges carefully, walked back to 314C and placed them beside the intake clipboard. The preparation took exactly four minutes.
When she finished, she checked the clock. 10:22. Right on schedule.
Participant 223080 arrived two minutes later.
They were a sophomore psychology major, just like her. They displayed a mildly nervous demeanor, and avoided eye contact.
Paige guided them through the introduction with practiced efficiency— consent form, explanation of the stimulus sequence, and sensor placement.
The student just nodded along politely while Paige attached the pulse monitor to their wrist and calibrated the eye tracker. Everything proceeded normally, exactly as it always did.
When the stimuli began playing— audio clips, short videos, and emotional prompts— Paige moved to her usual seat in the corner of the room. Her laptop screen filled with the incoming data stream. Heart rate variability, pupil dilation, and fixation points. Numbers and graphs appeared in slow real-time increments, and Paige watched, observed, and recorded the data carefully.
For months, human responses translated into measurable data had been the most interesting part of her day. She was enamored with the patterns that emerged from raw reactions. But now, as she watched the readings accumulate, a strange thought surfaced.
The signals felt… flat. The participant’s heart rate shifted slightly during one of the emotional prompts, and the eye tracking followed the expected stimulus patterns, but the overall variability was minimal, predictable, and unremarkable.
Paige frowned slightly as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then she typed a note into the study log.
comparative cognitive engagement significantly lower than Subject 220175 baseline
The line glowed quietly on the screen, and for a moment, Paige simply stared at it.
Subject 220175. Azzi.
The realization, that she was comparing this participant’s responses to Azzi’s, arrived slowly but firmly. She was doing this automatically, without really intending to.
Paige leaned back slightly in her chair as the data stream continued to scroll across the screen. Heart rate fluctuations, micro-saccade tracking, and routine physiological responses.
Now that she’d noticed the comparison, it was impossible to ignore. Azzi’s dataset had been… unusually complex. She displayed layered emotional reactions, nonlinear engagement patterns, and unexpected physiological responses to certain stimuli.
Paige had spent hours analyzing those anomalies. Now, watching the graphs from 223080, the differences felt obvious. Too simple, less dynamic, and uninteresting.
The session finished seven minutes later. After the participant left, Paige sanitized the equipment, reset the system, and prepared for the next scheduled slot.
223091.
The process repeated almost identically. Consent form, sensor attachment, stimulus playback, and data monitoring.
Again, Paige observed the graphs appearing on her screen, and again, the same quiet thought surfaced: the responses were technically valid, but they lacked depth.
She typed another small notation in the log.
engagement variability remains within expected parameters
Then, almost unconsciously, she added a second line.
still below Subject 220175 baseline
Paige stopped typing and her eyes lingered on the screen. It was becoming clear that the comparison wasn’t going to stop. Azzi’s dataset had effectively recalibrated her expectation, and every participant would now be measured against it— against her.
Paige closed the log window and moved on to the next task.
By early afternoon, Paige had processed three participants.
223080.
223091.
223111.
Each session ran smoothly, and each dataset populated the system without errors, but each one felt… increasingly unremarkable.
Paige sat at the desk between sessions, sorting printed consent sheets into a neatly labeled folder. Her laptop screen displayed the cumulative dataset for the week. Rows of participant IDs and columns of behavioral metrics.
Ordinarily, the visual order of it all brought her satisfaction. The clean data, clear patterns, and the progress. But today, the numbers seemed oddly distant.
Her attention drifted repeatedly, not to anything specific, just away. Paige noticed the shift immediately— the distraction, a cognitive drift, which was unusual.
She opened the study log again and typed a brief observation.
research engagement subjectively reduced
possible comparison bias introduced by atypical dataset (220175)
She stared at the line for a moment, then closed the file. She had acknowledged something and documented it. No further analysis was required.
By the time the final participant left that afternoon, the hallway outside 314C had grown quiet. Most students were already heading to their final late-day classes or back to their dorms.
Paige powered down the computer systems and began organizing the desk. She made sure the monitor cables were aligned, the consent sheets were stacked, and the sensor wires were coiled neatly. The routine steadied her breathing. Structure always helped restore equilibrium.
When she finished, she reached down and opened her backpack, and her fingers brushed against something new, but familiar.
Paper. Paper that was thicker than the usual study materials she carried. Paige pulled it out, and let her eyes land on the field notes notebook. The one Azzi had given her the night before. It looked almost out of place among the rest of her research materials.
For a moment, Paige simply held it in her hands. Her thumb traced the edge of the cover slowly, and the memories began to surface without warning.
Azzi standing in her apartment— takeout bag in one hand, the small wrapped gift in the other. The quiet and almost shy way she’d said: It reminded me of you.
Paige felt something shift in her chest— a brief and unfamiliar pressure. Her grip on the notebook tightened slightly. She could still picture the exact moment Azzi handed it to her. The warmth in her voice, and the expectant and hopeful way she’d watched Paige open it.
Paige’s throat felt strangely tight. The sensation lingered for several seconds, then she closed the notebook and slid it carefully back into her backpack, before her breathing steadied again.
There was no reason to dwell on the memory. The object itself was simply a tool, a portable extension of her logging system, that was all.
Paige zipped the bag shut and turned off the lights in 314C. Routine would resume tomorrow. It always did.
—
By Friday, the quiet had settled into something heavier. It wasn’t sharp anymore, and not really immediate, just constant.
Azzi sat cross-legged on her bed with her laptop open in front of her, that displayed a half-finished molecular biology assignment blinking back at her. The words on the screen blurred together after a while, not because she didn’t understand them, but because her focus kept slipping.
Her phone sat beside her thigh, face-up and silent. She had checked it less today— not because she didn’t want to check it, but because she already knew. There was still nothing.
She was well aware that she was the one who put space between her and Paige. She also knew that she missed having that connection with someone. She felt split down the middle about the whole thing.
Azzi reached for her phone anyway and unlocked it, before scrolling through a of couple notifications she didn’t care about. Instead of opening Instagram, she opened her messages with Caroline.
Her thumb hovered for a second. It had been some time since they talked about anything beyond surface-level. Not complete silence— they had sent each other things, like short replies. But nothing like before. Before Paige.
azzi: you busy tonight?
azzi: come over?
caroline: oh??
caroline: you actually wanna hang out with me?
Azzi huffed a quiet laugh through her nose.
azzi: shut up
azzi: i always wanna hang out with you
caroline: mhm
caroline: i’ll be there in 15
Azzi set her phone down before she started to think too far into it.
—
Caroline didn’t knock. She never did. Azzi heard footsteps coming down the hall, then her bedroom door swung open like it always had, and Caroline stepped in with the same easy familiarity— her messy ponytail, oversized hoodie, and a bag of snacks tucked under her arm like she planned on staying a while.
“Hey,” Caroline said, like nothing had changed.
“Hey,” Azzi echoed, just as casually.
Caroline kicked the door shut behind her and dropped the snacks onto Azzi’s desk before flopping onto the bed beside her. “Your room’s feels weirdly cold,” she said, tugging the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands.
Azzi shrugged and tried to keep a lump from forming in her throat. She had been keeping her room cold this week. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is,” Caroline said immediately.
Azzi forced a faint smile, and Caroline stopped there. This felt normal and easy. That was one thing she liked about spending time with Caroline— things didn’t feel tense or forced.
She leaned back against the headboard and pulled her blanket loosely over her legs as Caroline grabbed the remote and turned on the TV without asking, before flipping through all the channels.
For a few minutes, it was just background noise. The TV was playing something neither of them paid attention to, and Caroline had opened a bag of chips and offered some without looking. Azzi took a handful. This was familiar and comfortable, but something sat underneath it. Something unspoken.
Caroline noticed, because she always did. “You’ve been weird this week,” she said, not looking at Azzi. “Well, for more than a week,” she clarified. “But, more so, recently.”
Azzi didn’t react right away. She just crunched down on a chip with her eyes still on the TV. “I’ve had stuff,” she said after a second.
Caroline glanced at her then. “What kind of stuff?”
Azzi hesitated. It would be easy to brush it off, say it was school-related or just stress, some textbook answer and move on, but the quiet from the past few days pressed at her chest.
“She…” Azzi started, then stopped.
Caroline’s expression changed immediately into something more attentive now. “She?” she echoed.
Azzi nodded slowly. “She broke my trust.”
The words felt strange out loud— simplified, like they didn’t fully capture it.
Caroline’s brows pulled together slightly. “Paige?”
Azzi nodded once, and Caroline sat up a little straighter. “What did she do?” The question was careful, not really prying, but she wasn’t letting it drop either.
Azzi’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket, and her mind flashed— the laptop screen lighting up, her participant ID at the top, the pages of notes, and her own face, pulled from Instagram, both labeled and categorized. Her stomach turned from the memories.
“I just—” she shook her head. “I don’t really wanna get into it.”
Caroline studied her for a moment— long enough that Azzi felt it, but then she leaned back again and exhaled. “Okay,” she said simply.
A beat passed, then, a little sharper and a little more protective— “I told you, though.” Azzi’s head turned slightly. Caroline’s eyes were still on the TV, but her jaw had tightened just a bit. “That girl has always seemed way too intense.”
The words landed heavier than the tone they were delivered in. Azzi felt something in her chest react immediately— a quick and defensive spark.
“She’s not—” Azzi started as she turned more toward her. The sentence caught halfway out and she stopped, because she didn’t know how to finish it. She’s not what? Not intense? That wasn’t true. Not… wrong? Azzi’s throat tightened.
Caroline glanced at her again and caught the hesitation. “See?” she said quietly. “You can’t even defend her.”
Azzi looked away and her gaze dropped to her hands as her fingers twisted lightly in the blanket. “I just…” she breathed out, slower this time. “It’s not that simple.”
Caroline didn’t push nor did she interrupt, which somehow made it worse, because Azzi could feel the space where she could explain it. To describe what Paige had done, and say it out loud to make it real.
The thought alone made her stomach turn again. If she said it— if she described the file, the notes, and the way Paige had been watching her— it would solidify something she wasn’t ready to fully accept yet. So she didn’t. She just shook her head slightly.
“I don’t know,” she said instead.
Caroline nodded once. That was enough for her for now. “Okay,” she said again, softer this time.
Caroline reached for the remote and turned the volume up a little, like she was giving Azzi space without making it obvious. A few minutes passed like that, then, “You want me to stay?” Caroline asked, more casually now.
Azzi blinked. “What?”
“Like,” Caroline shrugged as she glanced at her. “Spend the night or whatever. We can watch something, or I’ll just knock out. I don’t care.”
Azzi hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Stay.”
Caroline smiled a little at that. “Cool.”
She shifted on the bed and pulled the blanket over both of them without asking, settling in like she always had, like nothing had changed, and for a moment, it almost felt that way.
Azzi leaned back against the headboard again and let her shoulder brush against Caroline’s.
The TV flickered and the room stayed cold. Caroline’s presence was steady, familiar, and safe, but as the minutes passed, Azzi became aware of something she hadn’t expected.
The quiet between them felt… different. Not uncomfortable, just… less. Caroline didn’t ask questions in the same way. She didn’t notice the small shifts in her tone and didn’t pull things out of her before she even knew how to say them.
Azzi stared at the screen that she wasn’t really watching and thought about Paige. About the way conversations with her had felt focused and perfectly intense.
Like she was being studied, yes, but also like being understood in a way that didn’t require any explanation.
Caroline nudged her lightly with her shoulder. “Stop thinking so hard,” she said.
Azzi blinked and forced a small smile. “I’m not.”
“Liar.”
Azzi let out a soft breath. Caroline was here., and everything was normal. This was good. This was what she needed. So why did it feel like something was still missing?
Azzi pulled the blanket a little tighter around herself and leaned her head back against the wall. She didn’t have an answer, and that unsettled her more than anything.
—
Paige preferred weekdays over weekends. Weekdays consisted of class, lab, research, and analysis. The weekends tended to leave her with time to get lost in her thoughts.
Friday night had settled into her apartment without an announcement. There was no shift in lighting, Paige still kept the overhead off with no background noise, and the TV remained untouched. There was just the low and consistent hum of the air vent pushing cold air through her space. Sixty-two degrees, unchanged.
Paige sat at her desk with her laptop open, the glow of the screen casting a light across the otherwise dark room.
The document filled the display.
220175 — Priority Subject
Paige’s fingers rested lightly on the keyboard, then, she began typing.
Week of 10/21, no campus interaction observed.
She paused to review the line. It was accurate. There had been no sightings of Azzi in or anywhere around the psych building, no incidental crossings on the quad, and no overlap in shared locations. Avoidance behavior was likely.
Contact frequency: zero
Subject has not initiated communication.
Her eyes lingered on the words. Contact frequency: zero. The phrasing felt clinical— neutral, even, but the reality it described felt… heavier than that.
Paige stared at the screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, before she scrolled up above the new entries and back through the week, then further. The earlier logs began to fill the screen.
Lantern Room Meeting
Subject appears responsive to selective affirmation strategy.
Paige’s gaze moved slowly across the text, and the memory surfaced immediately. Azzi had been sitting across from her, laughing at something Paige had said, something she hadn’t even intended to be humorous. Paige blinked, then scrolled further.
Library Interaction
Subject initiated physical contact (forearm)
Paige’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. She could still feel every physical interaction her and Azzi had ever shared. The brief pressure of Azzi’s hand against her arm, warm, casual, and unprompted.
Paige had logged it as a behavioral marker, but now, the memory carried something else with it— something less defined. She scrolled up more.
Interpersonal discussion (Caroline)
Subject response: reflective and receptive.
Paige’s jaw tightened slightly. That had been a pivotal moment. There was a shift in the dynamic. Increased reliance and increased trust. She had noted it clinically at the time, but looking back, that conversation had felt… significant in a different way. Not just strategically, but personally.
Paige stopped scrolling, and her eyes moved lower on the document, toward the most recent section.
Subject Departure
The line sat alone. As Paige stared at it, the events of the night replayed with precise clarity. Azzi standing across from her, speaking with a shaky voice.
You documented me.
Paige swallowing, and trying to explain. Paige trying to correct the misunderstanding, but the door had closed anyway. Happy birthday.
Paige’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk. There was something wrong. Not with the log. The log was accurate and consistent, but something about her current state didn’t align with her usual internal framework.
Paige sat back slightly in her chair and allowed herself to focus inward. She attempted categorization and emotional response analysis.
She ran through the usual classifications. Stress? Not really. Her physiological indicators didn’t match. Anxiety? Partially, but incomplete. Disappointment? That felt insufficient. The sensation was more persistent than that, more… intrusive.
Paige frowned slightly, because this was unusual. She could not clearly define the emotional state she was experiencing, and that rarely happened.
Paige turned abruptly and reached down beside her desk chair, where her backpack sat partially unzipped. She pulled it closer and opened it fully, her fingers moving quickly until they found the object she was looking for.
The field notes notebook. She pulled it out and set it on the desk before flipping it open to the first blank page.
Unresolved emotional state following subject departure.
Symptoms: distraction and intrusive recollection.
The pen paused and hovered as Paige stared at the words she’d written. Unresolved emotional state. The phrasing was imprecise, but accurate. Her attention had been inconsistent all week— during lab sessions, during class, even now, while attempting to log data. Her thoughts kept returning to the same subject— Azzi.
Intrusive recollection. That was also accurate. Memories were surfacing without intentional recall. The Lantern Room, the library, the couch, the kiss…
Paige stopped, and her breath caught slightly in her chest. She set the pen down and leaned back in her chair, while letting her head rest briefly against the backrest.
The realization settled in slowly, that this wasn’t just about the study anymore. It wasn’t just about the data. It hadn’t been for a while.
Paige’s eyes drifted back to the laptop screen, to the file. To the weeks of logs documenting Azzi’s behavior, her responses and patterns. Paige had spent hours analyzing, mapping, and understanding those entries, but now, there was a new variable. One she hadn’t accounted for initially— her own.
Paige inhaled slowly. She missed Azzi. The thought arrived fully formed, clear, and undeniable. Azzi wasn’t just a subject or a data source. She missed her presence and the conversations, the way interactions with Azzi had felt engaging and stimulating, different from anyone else Paige had encountered.
Paige’s chest tightened slightly again, but she didn’t attempt to categorize it this time. She already knew it didn’t fit cleanly into any existing framework.
Instead, she reached forward and closed the notebook gently and set it beside her laptop. Her eyes stayed on it for a moment, then they shifted to her phone. It sat just to the right of her keyboard. The screen was dark and inactive.
Paige stared at it, had a brief internal hesitation, then picked it up and unlocked it. She opened Instagram quickly, and her thumb moved to the search bar.
After typing az, Azzi’s profile appeared instantly. Paige tapped it, the page loaded, and her feed filled the screen. They were all images she’d already seen, cataloged, and analyzed.
The gym mirror selfie, the one with Caroline, and a candid from earlier in the semester. Each one was exactly where it had been before.
Paige scrolled slightly, then stopped. There were no new posts, no visible updates, and no indication of the last five days at all.
Her thumb hovered near the message icon. She could message, reinitiate contact, and provide clarification, but— Azzi had stated she wanted space, very firmly, to be exact.
Paige lowered her hand, locked her phone, and set it back down on the desk. The apartment returned to silence as her laptop screen still glowed softly in front of her.
The file was still open, waiting for more entries, but Paige didn’t type anything else.
—
Azzi had stopped going to the third floor of the library over the past week. She told herself it wasn’t intentional— that it just happened, that the first time she chose a different section, it was because it was crowded. The second time, because she was already nearby. By now, it had become a quiet rerouting.
She sat at a table near the back of the second floor with her math notebook open in front of her and her pencil resting loosely between her fingers. The overhead lights buzzed and casted everything in that same flat and neutral tone that made time feel like it was going by slower than it actually was.
Around her, people worked, typed, and whispered. Azzi stared down at the problem in front of her. Limits, something she knew how to do, and something she had done before.
She exhaled softly and rubbed her temple with her free hand. “Focus,” she muttered under her breath. She leaned forward slightly and began trying again.
As she rewrote the equation and broke it down step by step, her brain felt slower than usual. Not incapable, just uncooperative, like it kept reaching for something that wasn’t there.
Her phone buzzed lightly against the table and Azzi glanced at it instinctively.
caroline: i just saw the weirdest guy in the dining hall
caroline: he had like three plates of just eggs??
Azzi let out a quiet breath and a small and automatic smile formed on her lips.
azzi: maybe he’s bulking
azzi: or just insane
caroline: no like. it was aggressive
caroline: i felt judged just sitting there
azzi: 😭😭
azzi: you’re so dramatic
caroline: i’m serious
caroline: i think he was watching me eat my cereal
Azzi continued to smile, but it didn’t quite reach all the way through. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary before she locked her phone and set it back down.
Her attention returned to the notebook. The equation sat there unfinished and waiting. Azzi stared at it, then, without meaning to, her mind shifted to a different kind of conversation.
Paige would’ve said something about this. Not about the eggs, and not about the random guy, but about the way Caroline described it. Her word choice.
Aggressive. Paige would’ve picked that apart. She would have asked why that was the word she chose, and what made it feel aggressive instead of just excessive. She would’ve turned it into something bigger and something more… interesting.
Azzi sighed. She hadn’t even realized she was comparing them, but now that the thought had started, it didn’t stop.
Caroline’s texts were easy, light, and predictable. There was comfort in that, but there was something missing too, something sharper.
Paige never responded the way she expected her to. Every conversation had felt like it mattered, and like it was being examined from angles Azzi hadn’t even considered yet.
Like she was being seen. That word always landed heavier than she wanted it to. She shifted slightly in her chair and crossed one leg over the other.
Her eyes drifted back to her phone screen that was still dark and quiet. No new Instagram notifications, and no messages from pbsbaseline.
Azzi looked back to her notebook and the math problem before writing the next step. It wasn’t long before she stopped again, and her mind slipped once more— this time, more deliberately.
She thought about the way Paige used to look at her during conversations. Not in a casual way, not distracted, but focused and intent, like she was paying attention to every small thing.
The way Azzi phrased something and the way her tone shifted, even the pauses.At the time, it had felt flattering in a strange way.
The things Paige would say, too, like those offhand observations that didn’t sound like compliments at first.
You default to humor when you’re deflecting.
You maintain eye contact longer when you’re trying to prove a point you’re not fully confident in.
You think faster than you speak, but you filter more than you realize.
Azzi felt a slight sting behind her eyes. No one had ever said things like that to her before. No one had ever noticed those things, or if they had, they hadn’t said them out loud. Paige had, casually, like it was obvious.
Azzi pressed her lips together in thought. The realization came quietly. She missed that. She missed the intensity of it. The way conversations didn’t just pass time— they filled it. The way she had felt pulled in and fully engaged, like she had to keep up, like she wanted to keep up.
Azzi frowned as she stared down at the half-finished equation. This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not after—
Her stomach curled as the images came back again. The laptop screen, her ID number, and the pages of notes. Everything Paige had been seeing, recording, analyzing…
Azzi’s hand stilled and her breath caught slightly. She had felt seen, yes. That was true in itself, but… what if it had been too much? Too precise and too intentional.
It hadn’t just been natural observation. It hadn’t just been someone paying attention. It had been structured, documented, and sometimes engineered.
The warmth she had felt in those moments twisted slightly in her memory as her mind reframed things. Was it still the same, knowing what she knew now?
Azzi stared down at the page, but she wasn’t seeing it anymore. What if no one else ever made her feel like that again? The thought slipped in suddenly before she could stop it. Unwelcome, but real.
Because even now, even knowing everything, there was a part of her that wanted that back. The connection and the intensity, the feeling of being understood without having to explain herself over and over again.
But trusting Paige again, that felt… impossible, or at least, not simple. Not after what she had seen.
Her pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled slightly across the page. Azzi didn’t pick it up right away, she just sat there, staring.
She was caught between two things that didn’t seem to fit together anymore. Missing something she wasn’t sure she should want, and not knowing what to do with that.
Azzi leaned back in her chair slightly, her gaze unfocused now, and just stayed there, stuck in the middle of it.
—
Her apartment was quiet again. It wasn’t the neutral quiet Paige preferred, the kind that made it easier to think, to process, and to work.
This one felt heavier and more present, like it occupied space instead of clearing it. It had felt this way since her birthday.
Paige sat at her desk with her laptop open, the Priority Subject — 220175 file filling the screen once more.
She had been here scrolling and reading for a while. Her fingers rested lightly against the trackpad as she moved through the document in small increments, her eyes scanning each entry with careful attention.
Not for data collection, because that part was already done. This was different. She considered this review and analysis.
She was trying to identify where the shift had occurred. Where the reaction had diverged from expectation.
Paige scrolled further up back to the earlier entries. The initial logs— first contact and first extended conversation. Her eyes moved steadily across the text. The tone was consistent, structured, observational, and precise, but something about it felt different now.
Paige paused and scrolled back a few lines to read them again. The content hadn’t changed, but her perception of it had. The entries carried a kind of familiarity now. A subtle recognition, not just of behavior patterns, but of specific moments.
She remembered each Lantern Room conversation. Not just what Azzi had said, but how she had leaned forward slightly when she was engaged. The way her voice had shifted when she got more invested in a topic.
Paige’s gaze lingered on the screen. There was something almost warm about it. Not in the language, that remained clinical, but in the recollection attached to it.
She started to scroll again as her chest tightened. She didn’t even begin to categorize it, she didn’t even pause long enough to. Instead, she shifted her attention to the field notes notebook sitting beside her laptop. Azzi’s notebook.
Paige reached for it without hesitation, pulled it closer, and flipped it open to the next blank space beneath her last entry. Her pen moved quickly.
Continued absence. Subject avoidance behaviors probable.
She paused briefly and reviewed the statement. It was consistent with observed data. No contact and no incidental interaction made active route changes likely.
Paige tapped the pen lightly once against the page, then added another line that was more deliberate this time.
Main hypothesis: subject interpreting documentation as betrayal rather than intellectual interest.
Paige looked at the words. This was the most plausible explanation. Azzi’s reaction had been immediate, emotional, and framed around trust.
You documented me.
The emphasis had been on the act of recording, but Paige’s intention had not been malicious, not deceptive in the way Azzi seemed to interpret it. It had been curiosity, interest, and an attempt to understand, map behavior, and engage more effectively.
The disconnect remained. From her perspective, the documentation had been an extension of attention. Of care, even, though she hadn’t labeled it that way at the time.
She had invested time, effort, and focus, all directed toward Azzi. But Azzi had interpreted it as a violation— as betrayal.
Paige’s gaze shifted back to the laptop screen and to the file. To the volume of entries, the detail, and the consistency.
She could see how it might appear excessive from an external perspective, but excessive didn’t equate to harmful. Not inherently.
There was something missing in the equation, a variable she hadn’t accounted for, not in behavior, but in interpretation.
She turned back to the notebook and added a small notation beneath the hypothesis.
Discrepancy between intent and subject perception remains unresolved.
Paige leaned back slightly in her chair with her pen still in her hand. Her mind moved quicker now, running through possibilities.
If the issue was trust, then the solution would involve restoration of that trust. Clarification, reframing, and providing context for her actions. She could explain the purpose behind the documentation. Paige nodded to herself. That was logical, structured, and solvable.
Unintentionally, her attention drifted again back to the memory of that night. The couch, the proximity, and azzi’s voice, softer than usual. The kiss.
Paige’s breath caught slightly. That moment had not been part of the study. It wasn’t planned or structured, and there definitely hadn’t been a framework or predictive model for it. It had just been impulse and response. That didn’t align with her usual patterns.
The words were more immediate this time, less observational and more reactive.
Paige stared at the line for a moment, then closed the notebook. Not forcefully, but with a kind of finality.
She set the pen down beside it and turned her attention back to the laptop. The file remained open and unchanged, complete, but no longer sufficient.
The quiet around her felt filled with something she still couldn’t fully define, and that kept her from closing the file.
—
It was late enough that her dorm had gone quiet. Not completely silent— there were still distant sounds in the hallway, a door closing somewhere down the corridor, and someone’s laugh echoing— but inside Azzi’s room, everything had settled.
Caroline was asleep beside her, sleeping over again. She was curled toward the wall, breathing slow and even, with one arm half-tangled in the blanket that they were sharing.
Azzi was lying on her side and staring at her phone, wide awake with the screen dimmed. She had been switching between apps without really thinking. Instagram, messages, then back again. Nothing was really holding her attention for more than a few seconds. Her thoughts kept circling back to the same place. Back to her.
Azzi slowly dragged a hand down her face. This is stupid. You need to stop, she thought to herself. Move on. That’s what she’d been telling herself all week.
Then, before she could overthink it, she tapped Instagram, clicked to add to her story, and set it to Close Friends only. The green circle always felt safer. Smaller and more contained.
She hesitated for only a second before typing.
need advice about something
what would you do if someone crossed a boundary, but you still cared about them?
Azzi stared at the text and read over it twice. It felt vague enough for other people to not realize who she was talking about— detached, with no names or specifics.
It was just a question. She hit post, and watched as the story uploaded. Azzi locked her phone and let it fall back against her chest.
She didn’t expect an immediate response from anyone. Caroline would probably see it in the morning, maybe text her about it later in the day or bring it up casually like she always did. A few other people might reply too with something simple.
Depends what they did.
Talk to them.
Cut them off.
Normal responses and normal advice. That’s what she wanted— something uncomplicated.
Her phone then vibrated. The sound was loud in her quiet bedroom. The Instagram notification lit up the screen.
She unlocked it, and gaze dropped to the message preview.
pbsbaseline replied to your story.
Azzi’s stomach dropped. She had forgotten to remove Paige from her Close Friends Story.
—
Paige was already in bed with all of her lights off when the notification came through.
She had been lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, not sleeping, not working, just… suspended. Her phone suddenly buzzed against the mattress beside her.
Paige turned her head slightly and shifted her eyes to the screen as it lit up. It was an Instagram story notification.
@azzifudd added to their story.
Paige blinked once. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual, but the ring around Azzi’s profile picture was green. This was a Close Friends story post.
Paige pushed herself up slightly against the headboard and picked up her phone.
That was unexpected. She had assumed, logically, that she would have been removed following Azzi’s prior reaction. With her avoidance behaviors and contact withdrawal, exclusion would have been consistent with that pattern.
Paige unlocked her phone and tapped the notification. The story loaded, and the black photo popped up with white text.
need advice about something
what would you do if someone crossed a boundary, but you still cared about them?
Paige read it once, then again, then a third time. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her chest shifted— recognition.
The referent was clear. There was no ambiguity. Someone. Boundary. Care. All the variables pointed to the same conclusion: This was about her.
Paige’s grip on her phone adjusted slightly as her thumb hovering over the reply field. This was an opening. An unstructured and unprompted one, but still, an opportunity for re-engagement.
She didn’t hesitate long. Her response formed quickly, almost automatically, aligning with the framework she had already established— her hypothesis. Clarification of intent and restoration of trust.
pbsbaseline: boundary violations can sometimes be addressed through clarification of intent.
She paused to read it over. It was concise, accurate, appropriate, and neutral in tone. She sent it. As she considered sending more, maybe expanding and providing direct context— my intention was not—
Suddenly, a reply appeared, both immediate and faster than expected.
azzifudd: i am not sure if taking your advice is appropriate during this specific instance.
Paige went completely still. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen as she read the sentence again and again, processing and breaking it down.
Not sure if taking your advice… appropriate… this specific instance.
There was no hostility in the wording and no overt aggression, but Azzi’s implication was clear. This was rejection, not just of the advice, but also of the source. Of Paige.
Something tightened sharply in her chest. She had an unfiltered reaction, that was a bit unfamiliar in its intensity.
For a moment, she didn’t move, nor type, or even adjust her grip on her phone, because something else had surfaced beneath the initial interpretation. A realization, both small and distinct.
Azzi had repeatedly come to her before for input, perspective, and analysis. That had become a consistent pattern. Azzi would present a situation, thought, or a question, and Paige would respond, break it apart, or provide insight, and Azzi had accepted that. She relied on it, even. Paige was her first point of reference. Her primary—
Paige’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the phone. Now, Azzi didn’t want her input. The shift didn’t only feel abrupt, but total, and it didn’t align.
The reaction split cleanly into two parts. The first was hurt, both sharp and unpleasant. It was difficult for Paige to categorize, but it was undeniably present.
The second was more structured and familiar. Frustration? Maybe, or something more specific. Possession.
The thought surfaced before she could filter it. She used to ask me. That access, that role, it hadn’t just disappeared. It had been deliberately removed.
Paige’s eyes flicked back to the message. Her mind moved quickly now, trying to reframe and correct it. If Azzi’s response was rooted in her perception of betrayal, then resistance to input would be expected. Temporary, just a byproduct of the unresolved discrepancy. Not permanent.
Paige forced her fingers to move and to respond.
pbsbaseline: your hesitation is likely influenced by the context of the situation rather than the validity of the advice itself.
She paused, then added another line that felt less clinical but still controlled.
pbsbaseline: i can clarify my intent if that’s the primary concern.
She stared at the messages after sending them and waited. The screen remained still for a moment, then, the seen receipt appeared.
Her eyes stayed locked on the screen as she waited for the typing indicator, for a response, for anything.
Seconds passed, then more, but nothing. No typing bubble and definitely no reply. Paige lowered her phone slightly, though her gaze didn’t leave it entirely.
The conversation sat there, open and unanswered, and for the first time since she had sent the message, there was no immediate action to take and no clear next step. Just absence, again.
Paige swallowed once and her jaw tightened subtly as she turned the phone face-down against the mattress beside her. She didn’t lie back down or close her eyes. Instead, she just sat there, waiting for something that didn’t come.
—
Paige couldn’t sleep. She had laid back down and closed her eyes, but her mind hadn’t followed. It stayed active— running, looping, and circling the same sequence over and over again. The message she had sent and Azzi’s response.
i am not sure if taking your advice is appropriate during this specific instance.
The phrasing replayed with exact clarity. She could basically hear Azzi’s tone. The content was definitive— rejection.
Paige turned onto her side, then onto her back, then sat up. The darkness in the apartment felt thicker than usual. Not quite in the way she preferred, not empty, but occupied by absence, interruption, and something unresolved.
She reached for her phone again and checked their message thread. No response, no correction, and no follow-up. The conversation remained exactly where it had ended.
Paige exhaled through her nose, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sleep was no longer a viable outcome under the current conditions.
She stood up and moved across her bedroom over to her desk without turning on the lights. Her laptop was still closed, and her notebook was exactly where she had left it.
Paige sat down and flipped on her lamp that she rarely used, before pulling the field notes notebook toward her. She opened it, and the page where she had left off stared back at her.
That line had proven accurate, but insufficient. Paige flipped to the next page, picked up her pen, and began writing.
Subject rejection of advisory input.
Significant shift in relational dynamic.
Loss of established interaction pattern.
Her thoughts moved faster now, less structured and more reactive, because it wasn’t just a shift, it was a removal. It was a disruption of something that had been consistent, predictable, and functional.
Her role and position in Azzi’s decision-making process was gone. Paige’s grip tightened on the pen, and the next line came without hesitation.
INTERVENTION REQUIRED
The words sat heavy on the page, not observational or passive, but directive. Paige stared at it. Her breathing had into something shallower now and more controlled. Her mind had finally began to reorganize and refocus.
If the current state was unstable, then it needed correction. Avoidance behaviors had persisted for days, and digital outreach had failed.
Paige leaned back slightly in her chair and her eyes unfocused for a moment as she accessed something else. Memory, to pattern recognition, to schedule mapping.
Azzi’s routine surfaced easily, not because Paige had intentionally memorized it, but because she had already logged it. She had observed it repeatedly.
Morning classes, lunch gap, afternoon classes… Paige’s eyes sharpened. Azzi spent her evenings in the library frequently. Third floor, usually, but even if that had changed, the location itself remained probable. Study habits didn’t dissolve entirely under avoidance behavior.
Paige’s fingers tapped once against the edge of the notebook. Tomorrow night. Azzi would have a high likelihood of presence in the library.
Paige looked back down at the page at the words she had written.
INTERVENTION REQUIRED.
Her breathing slowed and finally stabilized, because now, she had a plan. It wasn’t abstract or theoretical, it was actionable. She would make direct contact, clarify her intent, correct the misinterpretation, and restore their dynamic.
Paige closed the notebook, set the pen down beside it, and rested her hands flat against the desk for a moment. The earlier tension hadn’t disappeared entirely, but it had condensed into something more focused.
She turned her lamp off and stood after a moment before moving back toward the bed. Something in her had settled into place— a decision.
Paige laid back down and stared up at the ceiling again. Her eyes didn’t close, at least not yet, but her thoughts had quieted enough to form a single and consistent line.
She had observed, documented, and proven that repeated contact creates attachment.
But absence, she was beginning to understand, didn’t dissolve attachment. It distorted it. It intensified it, and turned it into something harder to control. That, more than anything, made this intervention necessary.
Tomorrow, she would find Azzi, and this time, she wouldn’t leave the outcome to chance.
plot synopsis reminder: wings!paige x singer!azzi. azzi's album went viral when people realized the songs were about paige. they fought & decided to be Friends. that did not work. will they or won't they literally nobody knows including them
other: there is a . lot of nsfw in this chapter AND it is an emotional rollercoaster thank u for bearing with me while i took my sweet time writing it.
it was mid-december. the new york wind was tinged with hatred, and azzi’s skin was sinking into itself. she had just wrapped up preparations for her upcoming tour, and the interviews and shoots that had consumed so much of her life when she’d blown up half a year ago had dwindled down to something finally manageable.
it had never gotten easier, the fame part. she tried to stay offline, but it was disconcerting to try to make one trip to a restaurant and end up with her face plastered over twitter the next day.
azzi fudd with mystery girl (it was mackenzie), azzi fudd appears distraught leaving the airport (she was tired and people kept asking her for pictures), azzi fudd debuts new hair style ahead of tour (well, yeah).
azzi felt detached from the images they showed of her, like it was someone else’s life. the only parts of it that felt real to her were when she sat down to write music and when she sang. she wondered if that would ever change.
if she were on social media more, she was sure that she’d be miserable. staying off it allowed her to be blissfully, if not a bit ignorantly, unaware of what people were saying about her.
she’d given a few magazines a day-in-the-life preparing for tour, and she’d made some dumb tiktok trends to promote it; however, more important was the month of time off she had starting tomorrow. she didn’t really know how to spend it– she was planning on taking mackenzie on a two-person vacation to somewhere tropical at some point, but other than that she’d probably stick around the city, try out new food places, and post the pre-recorded tiktoks.
as far as her career, she’d been invited to a few upcoming parties, her name on a couple industry lists, but she was known to stick to herself. she’d been working on befriending a few other up-and-coming indie women, sonia and rori– maybe she’d invite them to dinner or something if they were in the area. her dms were filled with messages from celebrities she didn’t know existed; that had been fun to tell paige about.
it was difficult to navigate new york city alone without getting recognized, so today she’d ordered in pho from a place down the street after a vocal lesson. she wasn’t supposed to talk too much in preparation for the tour, so she had paige on the phone in the background while paige lifted weights and she watched the pitt. samira was so ungodly fine.
“you’d think that dallas would understand air conditioning,” paige grumbled. azzi blinked her way back into consciousness, noticing paige’s sweat-soaked forehead making an entrance in the corner of the facetime screen.
“work out somewhere else,” azzi suggested helpfully.
paige shushed her. “you’re on vocal rest. this is the paige show.”
“i–”
“i read one of your interviews recently,” paige interrupted her.
azzi’s face heated up. paige, who saw more of azzi than anyone, still went above and beyond to keep up with her.
“you were talking about wanting to go on vacation, and– if you don’t have anything to do before i go to miami, i–” paige cut herself off. azzi stared at the image of her on her phone, eyes wide.
“i was thinkin’, i’ve been to your place so much but you’ve never been to mine. do you want to, maybe, come down and visit for a few days? i can take you to my favorite food places, and there’s some good live music bars, and we can go see a movie or help at a soup kitchen or– i dunno, i’ve just been thinking about it and it’s not like vacation but i’m gonna be in miami for a while and we might not have the chance to see each other, so– i– yeah.” she clammed up. the phone camera had drifted so that only the tip of her head was visible, and she seemed to notice and jerked it back to her full face. her cheeks were pink.
azzi’s skin buzzed. her heart pumped warm blood around her chest. paige was inviting her into her house. in arlington.
azzi thought about it frequently. ardently. walking into paige’s home, being let into paige’s space. would it feel normal? would it make azzi feel even worse, that this was the place that could have been azzi’s too?
did she decorate it with her favorite colors, did she stock the fridge with takeout or ingredients, did she get better at vacuuming the kitchen? azzi wanted to know all the little things that she’d missed out on. and she kind of wanted paige to fuck her in paige’s own bed. for no reason.
she didn’t think paige would really ask her to make that trip. she should be elated, should be jumping for joy. it was interesting, she thought, that it only made her ache more.
azzi wanted to kiss her so badly that her jaw twitched. she wanted paige to climb through her screen so she could press their foreheads together, squeeze her hand, do something. her face felt like a sheet of parchment paper stretched too thin as she attempted a smile. “sounds great.”
paige shushed her again, and azzi was so fond that she felt sick. “text me.”
azzi let her fingers open their text thread. sounds great.
“a period? what the hell,” paige complained.
sounds great
“it’s like you don’t even care,” paige sighed, “no regard for my feelings. no emoji or nothing.”
azzi rolled her eyes. can’t wait! :) :) :)
when??
“i leave for miami in a week,” paige said. “you free like saturday to monday?”
the only plans that azzi had were vocal exercises that she could do from anywhere and a gym sesh. yeah :)
“okay, i’ll look into flights, and we’ll see when a good time is for me to pick you up from the airport–”
i can do it myself!
“yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” paige shrugged. “it’s the least i could do, ‘cause you gotta make your way all the way down here.”
you’re literally hosting me at your house?
“you’re acting like that’s hard. you’ve had me at your house. frequently. unless you forgot that time on the couch, or the time on the counter, or in the shower when you got your foot up on the high tile, or the time i found out you have a vibrating strap-on, or–”
ENOUGH, azzi’s face flamed red. good god, did she remember. YOU’RE IN PUBLIC?
“the time when you made us ride the elevator up and down like three times because you were grinding on my thigh–”
I GET IT. SHUT UP.
paige snorted. “don’t worry, baby, there’s nobody else in the gym.”
azzi rolled her eyes, feeling her cheeks in a futile attempt to cover up the flush. still.
“i’ll send you a couple options, and you can approve the final date and time, okay? compromise,” paige grinned, easy.
still sounds like you’re doing all the work…
“consider it a welcome present. or a thank-you for all the times at your house. hell, consider it a late birthday present.”
you already got me a birthday present. multiple
paige had gifted her a full body massage after a tour rehearsal, a percussive keyboard, a hot pot date, flowers, and blackout curtains for her apartment. for paige’s birthday, azzi had gotten her a new pair of shoes, an immersive leg massager, a gold chain bracelet, and a month’s worth of groceries via online delivery.
it was nice to have money, to not have to think twice about buying something just because she wanted it. it was something that azzi was still adjusting to. azzi used to get embarrassed on paige’s birthday, knowing that paige had so much money from her nil deals that anything azzi could buy her would pale in comparison to what paige could buy for herself, or could give her in return.
once azzi had broken off contact with her family, she’d had practically nothing. she went to college on scholarship and had just finished paying off her debts with her streaming money and brand deals. she’d only had money for less than a year, and she didn’t trust it; if she overshot, if she invested too much, if she used it on something stupid and then fell out of the public eye, she was done for. the life of a musician was not nearly stable enough to have faith that it would last. but it was still nice.
of course, paige never minded, but azzi felt an odd sense of pride in finally being able to take care of paige the way that she’d always felt taken care of. not that it mattered. paige seemed determined to make her feel like no matter how much money she had, she was still paige’s to tend to.
“yeah, but that don’t matter,” paige shrugged, “you being born should be celebrated frequently, if you ask me.”
azzi rolled her eyes, but a smile split her lips. she was getting used to paige flirting with her.
you taking showers should be celebrated frequently
“you tryna tell me something?” paige pouted, wiping sweat from her brow. azzi shrugged. “fine, whatever. i’ll head to the gym shower. enjoy your pho and,” she waggled her eyebrows, “the pitt.”
paige thought the pitt sounded like an innuendo. you may as well name it ‘the hole’.
will do. enjoy your shower 🙄
“no ‘without me’? no ‘don’t have too much fun’?” paige complained. “you suck at this.”
ah fuck my vocal rest
i can’t talk anymore gotta go
azzi stuck her tongue out at the screen and watched paige’s eyebrows raise and her jaw fall open in her silly amused-offended face. she hung up, shaking her head.
arlington. soon. she needed to talk to paige about her family. she’d do it there, in person. she took a deep breath.
—-
azzi stood outside of a small, unassuming house in the arlington suburbs. the exterior was half brick, half white vinyl, with a smattering of windows and lawn that was a hair overgrown. a small concrete porch lifted up to the left of the doorway, and a flowerbed that held only some bushes at this point in the year sat to the left.
196. that was the house number. azzi checked the number that paige had texted her one more time, cross-referencing it with the number on the mailbox. 196.
something that azzi couldn’t put her finger on felt off. the house was too plain, too straightforward. paige had been living here for just about two years, but the house was homely and stiff.
she examined the windows, the door, the lawn for any hints of personality– like a purple doormat, or a cardboard cutout of kobe in the window or– azzi didn’t really know. some other bullshit. something paige. but there was nothing.
maybe it was just house regulations. if this was one of those southern white people neighborhoods, who knew what crap they came up with to keep the selling value high. but azzi still felt wrong about it. she didn’t know why, she just had this feeling, like she’d just know paige’s house when she set eyes on it.
she didn’t. she crosschecked the number one more time, to be certain. 196.
she exhaled so deeply into the mask she used to cover her face that she fogged up her glasses. literally whatever. she took the mask off now that she was alone. the uber had left her on the street, so she’d best be moving as soon as the moisture–
the door swung open. azzi rushed to take off her glasses before paige saw her looking like professor frink from the simpsons.
paige didn’t seem fazed, leaning comfortably against the doorway in a way that felt lived-in. a strange feeling gnawed at the pit of azzi’s stomach, nerves and discomfort and something else that she refused to label as jealousy.
what could she be jealous of? that paige had a house? that it’s not what she expected? that paige was comfortable in this odd home? that paige had a place where she felt comfortable so far away from azzi?
she shook off her nerves and tugged her suitcase up the driveway and to the front door. she moved to bring her bag up into the house, but paige’s hand caught her wrists and forced her to drop it. azzi let out a muffled sound of surprise as paige lifted her arms above her head and spun her so that her back was now against the doorframe, sweetly connecting their lips.
azzi’s tension melted away at the touch. no, things felt right. it was paige. wherever paige was, it was correct.
paige pulled away with a grin and muttered a corny hello, beautiful that had azzi shaking her off and rolling her eyes. before she could lift her bag, paige took it upon herself to bring it in, so she slipped her shoes off and looked around the inside of the house.
“you look good, az. haven’t seen you in warm weather clothes in a while.” paige’s voice sounded tight. she wound her arms around azzi from the back.
azzi was too distracted looking at the interior of the house to answer. it was– it was boring. the walls were largely blank, with a few standard paintings that had probably hung around the house for a couple decades before paige got there. the foyer opened up into a living room space on the left and an open kitchen plan on the right, with a small island and a white tile floor.
paige had a few bits of fruit hanging about the kichen, and everything seemed recently cleaned, but azzi was used to seeing some crumbs and some athlete-protein junk sitting around like paige’s college dorm. her fridge was even free from magnets. it was weird.
paige pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, right above the collar of her t-shirt. “want a house tour?”
azzi snapped back into reality. “do you want the house tour?” she sang, a smile lilting up her lips. she pulled out of paige’s grip, half to start the tour, half to see the look on paige’s face while she sang. paige always looked at azzi in a certain way when she sang. azzi wanted to see it. “i could take you to the first, second, third floor.”
paige snorted, eyes sparkling. “i’m pleasured to be your hot tour guide.”
she skipped some lines, but that was okay. “so, do you have a guest room, or am i sleeping on the living room couch?” azzi asked, nudging her with her hip.
“hey, we haven’t even gone through the living room yet,” paige complained, “of course i have a guest room. what kind of host would i be?”
“you’ve slept on my couch. trying to make me out like a bad host?”
“of course not,” paige smirked, kissing her cheek, “you upgraded me to your bed eventually.”
paige took her around the house, showing her little bits and bobs she’d picked up over time. her room was the most interesting, with general basketball junk and a bunch of pictures stuck to her wall. azzi was in a few of them, some selfies of them eating together from recent months and pictures of azzi with her guitar in her living room.
paige’s clothes and extra shoes filled up the guest room closet, which azzi found endearing. azzi had a feeling that she’d recently straightened up the room, moving things back to her own room. it made her laugh.
the guest room also shared a wall with paige’s room, which was convenient, though azzi had a feeling that she wouldn’t be spending much time in there. regardless, she left her things in there and walked to sit outside on the back porch.
“so, how do you like it?” paige asked, more of a pleasantry than as a genuine question.
azzi paused. “it’s– different.”
“different?” paige laughed. azzi thought she saw a shadow twitch at paige’s mouth, but she wasn’t sure.
“yeah, i guess i’m just– i’m a little surprised. it’s really clean, really arlington, i’m just– i’m surprised it’s not a little more, uh, lived in.”
paige ran her thumbnail across her fingertips. “yeah, y’know i’m- i’m not here too much. i bought this one ‘cause it’s close to the facilities, and it’s small, for one, and…” her voice trailed off.
a familiar guilt settled into azzi’s bones. it’s not paige because paige had been expecting to live with azzi. when azzi had shot her down, she’d probably scrambled to find another place, one that she tried to make work, but it was like tugging your head through the arm hole of a shirt. it wasn’t the right fit.
“i’m still young,” paige joked, “it’s just me here, so…no need to settle in too hard yet.”
right. no need to settle down. azzi’s mouth felt dry. her toes curled unconsciously.
“unless drew moves in, or somethin’, but he’s still way too young.”
azzi forced a laugh. “right. drew.”
azzi felt disoriented, suddenly distant. before she could settle into the feeling, though, paige took her hand and gently drew her back into the house. “c’mere, baby, you haven’t eaten in hours.”
her heart burned in her chest. paige opened the fridge, and azzi was relieved to see that it was an organized chaos, just how she’d expected. she took quick note of a tub of cottage cheese and a bag of dried fruit and swallowed.
“you want a snack, or you want a meal? ‘cause we could do a little lunch now, and then eat a late dinner. there’s this place nearby that does really good asian-mexican fusion, and i’d love to take you there if– well, if you’re comfortable maybe getting recognized,” paige finished, a blush on her cheeks.
“a meal sounds good to me,” azzi said quietly, taking a seat on a stool next to the island. “want to do sandwiches now?”
“yeah, i gotchu,” paige affirmed, pulling out azzi’s favorite ingredients. “and, um, the restaurant later? we could also order in, or do some pasta, or frozen–”
“no, yeah, it sounds great,” azzi interrupted. she didn’t know why she felt so nervous. “i haven’t been out in a– in a while. i miss it.”
paige nodded, putting four slices of bread out on a paper towel. “fans too much? paparazzi? it’s hard to get used to. i hoped that when you blew up it wouldn’t be as bad for you as it was for me.”
“yeah, it’s really scary sometimes. a lot of them are really sweet, but sometimes you don’t really want to get sent instagram posts of you shoving a burger in your mouth. or sweating in pilates.”
paige snorted. “or blowing your nose, or walking into a hooters, or…”
azzi laughed and shook her head. “i hate when they act like they already know you, and they try to joke around but it just comes off mean. and i hate turning them down, but it’s so much to be asked to give yourself to the public at all times, like just by existing you somehow owe people something,” she said quietly.
paige paused her ministrations, listening intently.
“and i also get tired of– of hiding.”
paige swallowed. “yeah.” she didn’t need to say anything else.
azzi cleared her throat. “sometimes i swear they don’t even know me, just my face,” she laughed.
“oh, that’s a classic,” paige smiled, “they’ll probably start confusing you with other black singers soon, too. they do it with me and every blonde to exist in the league, it’s gotta be worse for you.”
“yeah, it makes me nervous,” azzi continued. she didn’t really know why she had so much to say, but being around paige made her feel like all of her thoughts could spill out without judgement. she could probably say i’m thinking about bombing the white house and paige would be like okay and slab some mayonnaise on her bread.
“i’m really worried that the fans who come to my shows won’t know the songs,” she admitted, “like, i’m this stupid tiktok artist or whatever, they put my song in a sad heated rivalry edit but don’t know anything but a couple lines.”
paige set the cheese back down on the table. “azzi.”
“what? it’s happened to so many other artists who have incredible records, it’s just a reality of the post-covid music scene–”
“azzi, you’re forgetting that i’ve seen you live. remember the festival? the crowd fucking loved you, and they weren’t even expecting you! nobody there bought a ticket to see you, and they loved you. it was insane. you went viral. it was literally electric on that festival ground. i have never felt anything like it before in my life,” paige confessed, “and i mean, i’ve seen you sing a million times, and it’s always beautiful to me, but azzi– i was crying. you’re meant to be on a stage. even if the crowd doesn’t know your songs, which by the way, i don’t think is going to happen, it’ll be an incredible fucking performance.”
azzi’s face burned. her lips pursed. “okay.”
“okay?” paige repeated.
“okay,” azzi confirmed quietly, a small smile on her face.
paige nodded, shifting her attention back to the sandwiches. she peeled a wad of cheese off a block of it and started placing it down. azzi watched her work in silence.
yeah, the concert was great, but– paige was paige. paige wasn’t even going to be there. azzi was playing in dallas when paige would be in miami for unrivaled. her tour started in d.c., moved down the east cost, went to the– wait.
she wasn’t playing florida; she wasn’t too much of a performer, so she’d put a lot of time and effort into her sets. the amount it cost to travel with her equipment down the entire state of florida wouldn’t really be made up with the smaller venues she was playing, even though she was doubling up some shows. but she was playing atlanta.
could she ask paige to come? mid-season? travel to atlanta for the day?
she opened safari and typed in breeze unrivaled basketball schedule this year -ai. her tour came to atlanta on the fifteenth, which looked to be right after the one-on-one tournament. hypothetically, if she had practice during the day and no plans, paige could maybe make it to atlanta by eight pm for azzi’s concert.
“hey,” her mouth opened before she could stop it, “i have a show in atlanta on february fifteenth. it’s right after the one-v-ones. do you think you would be able to make it?”
as soon as it came out of her mouth, she regretted it. there were a million things wrong with paige coming to her show– would she be backstage? then she would miss the show….but she couldn’t be in the audience, could she? that would be a disaster.
could azzi ask paige to hide? could she get her vip? would some picture of her recognizable lanky frame and questionable choice in pants make its way around twitter like a rat with the bubonic plague?
and what if paige already had plans? what if something came up right before, or if she had some shoot? this was stupid. she should have asked paige what her schedule looked like before diving in. she was being ridiculous.
paige raised her eyebrows. “one sec,” she said, pulling out her phone. azzi hoped that she was checking her schedule and not texting nika dude azzi asked me to go to her concert should i tell her to kill herself.
a second later, she clicked it off and shoved it back into her pocket, going back to finishing their sandwiches. “i’d love to. i’m free. thanks for offering.”
really? it was that easy for her?
azzi stared at her. “really?”
“really what?” paige asked, snapping her head up. “wait, when do they go on sale?”
on sale. like azzi would ever let her pay. “no, i– i got it. i’ll ask my manager to figure it out.”
“sick, thanks. this is so exciting, az, i’m so proud of you.”
azzi kept staring at her.
“what? why are you looking at me like that?” paige asked, defensive. she tossed azzi her sandwich on a paper towel and wiped her hands free of crumbs.
“i just– you’re okay with being seen at my concert? i mean, i know you can hide your face, or i could give you backstage access, but i don’t know what will get out or what will happen. with unrivaled finals coming up, i’m sure that’s not the kind of publicity that you want, and–”
“azzi,” paige laughed, “they saw me coming into your hotel after we lost the semis. i got papped on facetime with you last fucking week. there’s like four youtube compilations of me trying to swallow myself in clothes in the middle of hot ass september as i walked to your apartment in new york. what is there left to be scared of?”
well, that was a good point. azzi shrugged. she could still think of things– someone always had something else to say. what if she wasn’t dancing or singing along and then someone started a rumor that she hated the concert? what if she couldn’t make it back in time for practice the next day? what if she got stuck in traffic and missed the whole thing?
“paige bueckers seen at an azzi fudd concert. fork found in fucking kitchen,” paige shrugged, “honestly, i was going to go even if you didn’t ask me. you think i’d miss out on your first tour? after all the work i’ve been seeing you put in?”
oh. well. that was.
azzi took a bite of her sandwich. “and you’re, like– you’re sure you’re okay with it?” she double checked. sue her.
for the millionth time, she wished that her words came as naturally to her in conversation as they did when she was writing. she should have brought her guitar, honestly, tried to see if having a conversation while strumming e minor made her more loquacious.
“azzi,” paige said quietly, setting down her own sandwich. she moved to where azzi stood and put her hands on her hips, holding her steady. azzi’s chest felt thready, and she inhaled deeply. her body relaxed at the touch, just like it always fucking did. one would think she could have a little more self-preservation.
“i know things have been really weird, and it’s been difficult. and i know it’s scary to put ourselves in the face of judgement. but when it comes to something like this, i–” her grip tightened on azzi’s waist, “i really don’t care. i want to see you. i don’t care what anyone else thinks about it.”
azzi’s heart swelled. she fought to maintain eye contact with paige instead of looking away like she desperately wanted to, and she forced herself to nod slowly, deliberately. “okay.”
“okay?” paige confirmed.
“okay,” azzi promised.
“good,” paige mumbled, leaning in slowly. when she kissed azzi, she felt boneless.
it was so nice to not be fighting with paige. it was such a privilege to be able to be here, in her house, on her island, eating with her and kissing her and talking about things. as paige’s tongue parted her lips, a sweet, content sound escaped the back of azzi’s throat. she set her sandwich aside.
paige smirked into her mouth. azzi felt her start to shift, slightly, but was so focused on kissing her that she gasped and dug her hands into paige’s shoulders as paige lifted her up onto the counter.
and– jesus, paige was kissing her firmer, hands running up and down the length of azzi’s thighs. her thumbs dipped into the soft skin of her adductors, and azzi knew she was melting under the touch because she could feel the wetness forming beneath her.
damn, already? they were only making out, but the mere act of being in paige’s house, with paige’s scent around her and paige’s hands on her, made every point of contact that much more sensitive.
paige gently spread her legs apart to step into them a little more, and azzi found herself leaning backwards slightly. paige didn’t let her, moving her arms up to her back and keeping her upright, and azzi felt like there wasn’t a part of her that didn’t bend to paige’s will.
azzi felt surrounded by her, consumed by her. everything about their former conversation was forgotten, and her heart felt like it was being pulled taut, loose threads tugging and yearning and begging at the barrier of her skin to escape and find paige. she yearned for her.
azzi found herself nipping at paige’s lip, chasing it with a hard kiss. she exercised her feelings through action, pouring herself out into paige. paige responded with an affected, throaty sound, and a thrill shot through azzi’s gut. i love you, she wanted to say, i want you all of the time.
paige kissed her back like she understood, though azzi knew she didn’t. the blonde’s hands roamed across her torso, one finding the back of her neck and up into her hair and the other settling possessively on the front of her throat. azzi tugged her in closer by the waist, vividly aware of the slow, hot drip between her legs.
if paige didn’t get her off, she’d need to excuse herself to the bathroom. azzi let her own hands roam around paige’s waist, rotating between running up to the line of her sports bra and running across her waistband. her brain felt like mush, though, and she was only half-aware of her own movements.
she was rewarded with paige’s irregular breath, and she felt weak at the thought of paige being just as affected as she was. the hand on her throat tightened almost imperceptibly, and azzi’s eyes fluttered back in her head.
paige kept kissing her like it was the only thing she’d been waiting for the whole time they’d been apart, long and deep and hungry, lips and tongue and head moving reverently, repeatedly, in worship.
“paige,” azzi managed to whisper between breaths, quiet and strained. she wanted it. she knew paige wanted it. paige knew she wanted it.
it wasn’t all that hot in arlington in december, but azzi felt heat beading on her hairline, back, inner thighs. the feel of paige’s hand resting on her neck was unimaginably warm, and it made her head spin knowing that the act of possession no longer felt wrong.
the hand slid down, however, dragging nails over the thin cotton of her t-shirt and beginning to dance around her chest.
azzi dropped her head back as much as she could, lips parting in a low groan. squeeze, she thought. she needed more.
paige, however, seemed committed to dragging this out. her fingers skipped around her chest, alternating touches and drags of her nails, intermittently running across azzi’s nipple. the hint of stimulation made azzi’s breath stick in her throat. more, she wanted to yell, but didn’t want to give paige the satisfaction.
paige rucked up her shirt, finally, and tilted azzi’s head back to her lips. hell of a distraction, azzi thought, as paige’s hand snuck around the back of her shirt and unclasped her bra. she didn’t bother taking it off, just moved her other hand down to slowly grope underneath the loose fabric.
a deep sound escaped azzi’s lips from somewhere guttural within her. harder, she wanted, more.
paige kept the touches gentle but sure, thumbing over her nipples as she kissed azzi soundly. christ. azzi’s back arched into the touch, screaming touch me, touch me. she couldn’t stand to sit and be caressed like something gentle; the love within her was consuming and she wanted to be consumed. her heart pumped hot blood through her core, hungry and wanting.
paige ignored her body’s actions. it was torturously slow, the soft squeezes and brushes of her hands. fuck.
“paige,” azzi said again.
“mmm?” paige hummed in return, breaking apart their lips and mouthing down azzi’s jaw to her neck.
the way paige’s lips felt at the base of her neck was fucking heavenly, and the words were caught in azzi’s throat. she didn’t want to ask for it. still, she swallowed thickly and forced it out. “more,” she whispered, so faint that she wasn’t sure if paige picked it up.
paige breathed a laugh into her neck, flattening her tongue against azzi’s skin before sucking a small mark in. “no.”
no? azzi let out a small, tortured sound. fine, she’d have to play dirty. if there’s one thing she was good at, it was using her voice.
“paige,” she moaned, high and sweet and breathy. the sound of it brought warmth to her cheeks, embarrassed at how needy and affected she sounded. “more.”
paige’s forehead dropped to her shoulder and she inhaled sharply, and azzi felt victorious. for a fraction of a second, her grip on azzi’s chest tightened, and azzi moaned aloud. then, she took her hands away altogether and pulled herself back up, capturing azzi’s lips in a kiss again.
azzi was going to murder her.
“fucking tease,” she growled, nipping at paige’s lip. paige’s breath hitched.
“on the counter? really?” paige murmured. “i can’t fuck you here before the bed.”
azzi was inclined to agree. she’d imagined their first time in paige’s house to be slow and romantic, a few hours of grinding and making out in paige’s bed and a couple rounds of coming. also, her ass kind of hurt. “or you could just fuck me in both places.”
who said that? azzi had not planned to say that.
paige let out a tortured breath from her nose. “most beautiful girl in the world in front of me, and she wants me to fuck her where i just made her a sandwich.”
“bet i’ll taste better.” really, who was controlling azzi’s mouth? paige, luckily, forced her to stop talking by capturing her lips in another quick kiss. she dropped down to her jaw, her neck, finally squeezing azzi’s chest more roughly.
“if you want it so bad,” paige nipped at her carotid, and azzi’s breath hitched, “you’re gonna have to fucking prove it.”
the air left azzi’s lungs. “yeah,” she breathed.
“yeah?” paige confirmed. her tone had adopted an edge to it that made azzi’s cunt pulse, hot and embarrassing.
“yeah,” azzi repeated, like it was the only word she knew.
paige slid her hand back up to azzi’s throat, still cocooned beneath her t-shirt, and squeezed gently. “how’s this?”
azzi felt lightheaded. “lower,” she whispered. she didn’t concern herself with the way her voice sounded.
paige dragged her hand down to azzi’s collarbone. “here?”
azzi shook her head. paige’s eyes glinted. the blonde moved down again, cupping azzi’s chest over her bra. “here?” she repeated.
azzi shook her head, and paige slipped her fingers below the bra again to press into her nipple. she circled it gently, squeezing as she kissed azzi again. her broad palm spanned the width of azzi’s breast again, playing along the skin and pushing and pulling azzi’s mind in circles.
jesus christ. it felt good, too good, but azzi felt like she was going to explode. she wondered if her shorts were growing damp, and desperately shook her head again into paige’s mouth. paige smiled into the kiss, shit-eating.
after one last squeeze, paige moved down to her ribs, the toned expanse of her stomach.
“here?” she said again, fingers massaging the skin in dangerous circles. they dipped down to her waistband, skimming under it for a moment before coming back up.
“lower,” azzi choked out again.
paige’s fingers finally, finally dipped below azzi’s waistband. azzi’s head tipped back in relief, column of her neck tilting out for paige to kiss at.
“here?” paige asked. azzi was going to kill her. paige clawed at her, soft, nails trailing over the soft skin of her pelvis. a wave of pleasure undulated from the stimulation, more intense than it should have been, and azzi jerked. her core felt fully liquidated, hot and full and aching.
an animalistic sound ripped from azzi’s throat. “more,” she breathed. it was the only word she could force out.
“hmm?” paige hummed. azzi’s hands found paige’s shoulders, and she pressed down, pleading lower, lower.
“i like it when pretty girls use their words,” paige murmured, voice low.
“more,” azzi pleaded, unthinking.
“more what?”
“down.”
“well, why didn’t you just say so?” paige grinned. paige bueckers found dead in her arlington home, azzi imagined the headline.
paige withdrew her hand from azzi’s waistband, instead sliding it up the leg of her shorts to massage her inner thigh. azzi was going to scream. so fucking close. it was so. fucking. close.
she let out a strangled sound, head falling forward and onto paige’s shoulder. she couldn’t take this anymore. her pride wouldn’t let her be direct, to ask paige to fuck her like a slut over the counter, but she could try to play to paige’s weaknesses again.
she swallowed, heavy. “paige,” she sighed into the older woman’s ear, “don’t you want to?” she put extra breath in her voice, a gentle whine. she let her head lean against paige’s neck.
“come on, baby,” she breathed, needy, “don’t you want to make me feel good?”
paige’s pulse jackrabbited, azzi could feel it. success. an excited thrill shot through her, anticipation and nervousness.
the blonde’s fingers twitched towards her cunt. then, like she was trying to make a fist, she squeezed azzi’s inner thigh and azzi choked. her free hand came up to tilt azzi’s jaw up to look at her, commanding.
“what i want,” she started, low, “is for you to beg me for it.”
azzi exhaled wildly, frustrated. she was torn. the ache between her legs was almost unbearable.
“what i want,” paige continued in a whisper, a façade of gentleness, “is for you to ask for what you want like the whore that you are.”
azzi’s cunt throbbed.
“can you do that?”
azzi swallowed. nodded. she could do that. paige parted her lips with her thumb, pulling her lower lip out and letting it bounce back into place. not one part of azzi wasn’t paige’s.
“go ahead,” paige encouraged, slow. she looked straight at azzi’s lips, eyes hooded and dark.
“i..” azzi started in a whisper. “i want you.”
“want me to what, pretty?”
“i want you to fuck me.”
“that’s it,” paige purred, “so good f’me. again.” her fingers edged closer to the line of azzi’s underwear.
azzi knew her face was pink and awful, breathing labored and eyes half closed. “i want… you to fuck me.”
paige hovered over her clit, tapping it once over the fabric. azzi’s entire body jolted. “ask.”
“please,” she sighed, “please fuck me.”
“that’s it, perfect,” paige complimented, kissing her softly on the lips. she ran her fingers down the length of azzi’s cunt, lingering where her dripping hole soaked the fabric and pressing in slightly. azzi tightened her grip on paige’s shoulders.
jesus fucking christ, jesus god. azzi felt like she’d cum if paige looked at her wrong. she needed it. she needed it so fucking bad. paige was free to take her apart and put her back together in any way she wanted, legs askew and head on sideways, if she would just keep touching her.
she’d imagined getting fucked in paige’s house so many times, the same way she’d imagined the interior of the house and imagined how paige would act and everything was so different that it didn’t fucking matter and everything was perfect in its own stupid fucking way and–
she loved her. she trusted her. so much so that–
“again,” paige ordered.
“please fuck me.”
“again.”
“please fuck me.”
“fuck you like a what.”
“like a slut,” azzi gasped, cunt throbbing, “fuck me like a slut, paige, please.”
“yeah?” paige challenged, slipping her hand into azzi’s dripping cunt, starting an immediate circle on her clit. “you want me to fuck you like a slut? right here on the kitchen counter?”
azzi couldn’t speak, it felt so good. she felt like her body was short-circuiting, sparks flying from where paige was touching her.
“answer me,” paige demanded, slapping her lightly. azzi fought to keep her thighs open as her breath grew rapid.
“yeah,” she breathed, and it seemed to be good enough for paige, who looked unbearably hot in her stupid loungewear as she laid claim to azzi’s body.
“you wanna cum all over it? lay your mark all over my fucking house?”
azzi moaned aloud as paige pressed into her clit firmer, faster. “yeah, yeah.”
the idea of christening paige’s house with herself, making hers the place that paige hadn’t even quite made paige’s, was ridiculously hot. she suddenly wanted to cum all over it, all over paige, as if that would have the same effect.
“so easy,” paige muttered, “so fucking close to the edge already.”
and– yeah, azzi was fucking close to the edge. paige was fucking fingering her under her shorts and underwear, the bulge of her hand moving a fucking pornographic sight, and azzi was close to coming in her pants like a goddamned teenager.
i love you, she wanted to say. instead, she bit her cheek and hoped she’d break skin.
“azzi,” paige sighed, kissing her deeply. azzi would kill to stay in her mouth. she let her eyes shut and still saw paige in the closed lids. her teeth ached with how badly she wanted her.
azzi’s core trembled, trying not to buck her hips, trying to keep herself up.
paige pulled her face back, keeping her rhythm steady. azzi felt it building in her gut, boiling hot.
she wanted– she was going to–
she couldn’t believe paige was letting her cum so easily, no pulling away or teasing, and a hot wash of arousal tugged through her gut like a drain. paige must really want to see it, she realized. she felt slightly victorious that her begging had accomplished something eventually.
“so perfect,” paige whispered, adding a touch more pressure. at the words, azzi sighed in pleasure. it was coming much faster than she anticipated, dangerously close to the edge.
“can i–” she choked out.
paige grinned wickedly. “not yet.”
another frustrated sound came up from azzi’s throat. being denied almost sent her over the edge; her hips twitched away from paige’s finger to try to relieve the pressure. “i’m gonna–”
“not yet, princess,” paige repeated, not slowing down. “stay still and take it for me. you can do that, right? my good girl?”
her– fuck, azzi teared up with the effort of not coming. she didn’t think her body was going to listen, she didn’t want to disappoint paige by coming, she needed it so fucking badly she thought she was going to explode.
paige hummed. “don’t cry, baby. you’re doing so well, right?”
azzi mumbled something that sounded like mmmmrggfh. paige took her fingers away and used them to slap lightly against her clit, slipping them down to azzi’s entrance and back. azzi mumbled something that sounded like MMMMGGFH.
“use your words, pretty. you’re doing so good, yeah? tell me how good you’re doing for me.”
paige’s ministrations resumed, and jesus fucking christ this was it, azzi had to prove that she could cum because it was going to happen either way. she had to be good for paige. “i’m doing so good for you.”
“fuck,” paige muttered, half-lidded eyes boring into azzi’s own blown-out pupils.
“please,” azzi begged, “please, i’m so good for you, please let me cum, please.”
paige visibly shuddered, and the sight sent azzi over the edge as paige muttered, “yeah, baby, fucking cum for me. fucking cum all over fingers.”
azzi’s hips canted up like she’d been shocked, head falling back and mouth opening with an ungodly sound. it tore through her like a freight train, hard and fast as her fingers squeezed the shit out of paige’s shoulders and paige worked her through the apex of the crescendo.
“ah, fuck, paige, yeah,” azzi sighed, high and throaty, as she rode out the aftershocks.
paige hummed. “that’s it, baby. so good f’me.”
azzi’s shoulders relaxed and her body felt boneless. the orgasm had swept through her whole body, leaving her light and buzzy. she caught her breath slowly, paige’s fingers slowing down and finally coming to a stop.
“perfect,” paige muttered, kissing her forehead.
it was fucking insane, the way paige could make her come. nothing was like it. stupid fucking bitch.
paige moved her hand to azzi’s side, rubbing slow circles into the skin of her waist. “good?”
azzi nodded her head, loose. of course it was good. it was phenomenal. she’d just cum on the fucking kitchen counter, clothes still on. her core still twitched with the aftershocks.
it made something burn in her chest that paige never stopped reassuring her, making sure that she was always enjoying herself. she wanted to kiss her face off.
so she did. she took paige’s face in her hands and leaned forward, pressing her lips against paige’s, firm and chaste and trusting.
paige softened under her touch.
azzi’s brain surged. she wanted to ruin her, melt her down into nothing but liquid. she wanted to see paige bueckers weak, to know the power she had over her. she kissed her harder, slipping her tongue into paige’s mouth.
paige didn’t match her energy, kissing back slow and languid to gently rock azzi back down. that was sweet and all, but azzi knew that she was much more riled up than she let on. it showed in the feverish warmth of her tongue, in the way her fingers stuttered in their rhythm on azzi’s waist.
she gently caught paige’s lower lip between her teeth for a moment, and paige’s breath caught in her throat. she seemed to fight a mental war with herself before pulling away; she sighed before renewing her efforts to calm azzi down, hands steadying and meeting azzi’s lips softer, gentler.
azzi couldn’t stand it. she needed paige to feel good.
she slid her palms to paige’s chest, squeezing. paige quietly sighed into her mouth, trying to subtly shake her head.
“how do you–” paige muttered, “so fast.”
“how do i what?”
paige kissed her cheek. “come down.”
“who said i came down?” sure, azzi had relaxed, but she still felt like she was in heat. she just had a different focus.
paige inhaled sharply. “you want more?”
azzi pretended to think. she moved her arms around paige’s neck, playing with the baby hairs at her nape. she leaned in close to paige’s ear.
she could hear paige’s erratic breathing, feel the heat radiating from her neck and chest. she was fucking gorgeous, all riled up, and azzi felt crazy. she dropped her voice to a whisper.
“the strap is in the outside pocket of my suitcase.”
paige’s head snapped toward her, pupils blown out. “azzi,” she whispered, hoarse, like it had been punched out of her.
azzi couldn’t help it. she grinned. she slipped out of paige’s grasp and off of the counter, tugging her shirt and unclasped bra off of her head and letting them fall to the floor.
she took a few steps before turning and shrugging. paige stood rooted to the spot, pink-cheeked and staring at azzi like she’d just been struck by lightning.
“your bed?” azzi asked, jovial. before waiting for a response, she turned the corner into the hallway and walked towards paige’s room. making sure that paige wasn’t following, she drew off her shorts and left them in the hallway, then left her underwear at the entrance of the doorway.
the air conditioning blew against her warm skin, against the damp between her legs, and she shivered as she sat down on the bed. she heard the sound of a zipper and shivered in excitement, her nipples hardening exposed to the air. she was still so turned on it was a fucking sin, waiting for paige to come and fuck her again.
paige was pulling out the strap. azzi knew she would. it always released something animalistic in her, getting to bend azzi over and fuck her three ways into the next week. something about seeing paige completely losing herself inside of her, drunk off the feeling, riled up azzi to no extent.
fuck, would paige put it on out there, or would she bring it inside and let azzi put it on herself, like she loved to? how would she react seeing that azzi had brought the vibrating one? god, azzi wished that she could see paige’s face.
azzi situated herself at the edge of the bed, biting her lip. even though she’d just come, her stomach churned at the prospect of paige coming in. she regretted leaving her side for a moment, she should have–
she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting herself settle into the soft down of the comforter. she’d fingered herself the night before, more to prepare than to cum, and she slipped a finger right into herself with no resistance and began to pump it in and out.
she added a second and began to scissor gently, stretching herself out a bit more. she let her fingertips find what was soft and slick inside of her, moaning softly at the feeling. selfishly, she let herself find a rhythm, the wet sound of it filthy and hot.
when she opened her eyes, paige was standing in the doorway. the harness, vibrating dildo already strapped in, clit massager on the other end, dangled off of a finger on her left hand; on her right, azzi’s underwear. she cocked an eyebrow, looking half stunned at azzi’s audacity and half like she was going to eat azzi alive.
azzi burned. she lifted a hand and beckoned paige in.
“jesus christ,” paige muttered, like she’d lost all ability to say anything else. as soon as she came within reach, azzi yanked the panties from her hand and tossed them to the floor. paige threw the strap on the side of the bed, pushing azzi onto her back and crawling on top of her with fervor.
she kissed her hard and passionate and wet, lips slightly cold from their time apart, and azzi keened. she tugged at the hem of paige’s shirt, lifting it up, and paige broke the kiss to tear it off.
paige slotted a knee between azzi’s thighs, pressing down, and her eyes fluttered back in her head. to counter, she lifted her leg that was between paige’s, pressing up. it was damp where her thigh met the fabric, and she felt ravenous.
she let them make out and grind for a few minutes before deciding it was unbearable. she reached for paige’s waistband, tugging at it lightly. off, she thought, off.
paige slipped off her shorts, leaving her in only her boxers. the sight, as always, sent a fresh wave of molten heat through azzi’s core. she felt herself leak a little onto paige’s thigh, who muttered a fuck into the side of azzi’s neck.
paige bent to her chest, closing her lips over azzi’s nipple. azzi’s back arched; christ, she knew paige could stay there all day. paige looked wrecked, sucking on it while her tongue flicked over the nub, other hand pinching the free nipple, hair mussed up and face flushed.
azzi mewled. it felt so fucking good.
paige squeezed, nipping lightly around her chest and leaving marks. the attention on both breasts was too much yet not enough; her cunt pulsed with want of something more, inside. paige was a mess just from this, from worshipping azzi’s chest, from making her cum on the counter and drinking in her bare skin in her bed. azzi needed her ruined.
paige’s head dipped, and her tongue ran a long, languid line from azzi’s navel to the hollow of her throat. one of her hands dropped to steady herself while the other squeezed the fat of azzi’s hips, mouth pressing to her neck and taking the time to suck in an even larger mark.
paige’s.
“paige,” she choked out, “i…”
paige’s head snapped back, looking at her wildly, expectantly. a little scared.
azzi swallowed. “i want…” she started. she shook her head, pushing paige off of her slightly and rolling onto her side, tugging paige down to the bed and climbing over her instead.
she couldn’t say it then. she couldn’t. but she could bury her face in paige’s cunt and make her cum all over her face, taste her and have her and adore her in ways that were allowed.
she began her descent to the apex of paige’s thighs, lips falling apart in anticipation. she was too strung-out for foreplay to even cross her mind, single-focused on getting her mouth on paige.
paige realized what she was doing as she neared her pelvis, catching her jaw in her hand and shaking her head.
no? azzi was confused. paige should want it. why didn’t paige want it?
“baby,” paige whispered, “i want to cum inside you.”
azzi exhaled sharply. her mind was numb. she was torn, she wanted paige to cum inside her, too, but she wanted to eat her out. she tried to explain, but her mouth refused to work. she blinked hopelessly up at paige and hoped that she would understand.
“baby,” paige repeated. azzi could see her chest twitch with how hard her heart was beating. “i….you want this?”
azzi nodded.
“you okay?”
a whimper escaped azzi’s throat. her stomach flipped violently. she wanted. all she was was want. she nodded again.
“okay,” paige said gently, stroking her cheek. she hesitated a moment, then rested her thumb on azzi’s lips. azzi didn’t think before enveloping it in her mouth. a deep breath left paige, and she softly removed her finger, dragging it out and onto azzi’s cheek again. “just for a bit. i’m going to stop you before i cum, okay?”
her words only half registered to azzi, who had blacked out at okay. her head was full of nothing but paige, eat her out, make her feel good, and she immediately lay down between paige’s legs and starting mouthing at her clit through the fabric of paige’s boxers.
“let’s get these off, first, okay baby?” paige paused her, sliding off the boxers and leaving herself exposed.
azzi barely registered it. nothing mattered in her world except paige, her lips, and her tongue. paige was so wet that her tongue slipped more than she wanted, but she tried valiantly to pressure her clit, pleasure everywhere that her mouth could reach.
she was a little sloppy, she knew, but she couldn’t stop herself from tonguing up her slit again and again, circling her clit, looking up at the rise and fall of her chest. paige’s swears and praise fell on her ears like gentle rainfall, encouragement, and she felt like she was floating.
her fingers spread paige apart, and she continued with her tongue on paige for a period of time that was probably much longer than it felt, lapping fervently and mindlessly, before paige’s rough hands fisted her hair and tugged her up and off.
she looked up at paige from between her legs, mouth covered in slick and hair in paige’s fist, eyes dark and shining. paige swore and looked away quickly, squeezing her eyes shut and taking in a deep breath.
“so good, baby,” paige managed, “g’na cum if you keep going.”
good. azzi wanted that.
“you wanna make me cum, pretty?” paige asked, like she could read azzi’s mind.
azzi nodded.
“okay,” paige affirmed. “let me get the strap on.”
azzi nodded again. usually, she’d help, but she felt fuzzy and light and not all quite there, and she watched through a haze as paige stepped into the harness. paige adjusted the flat of the back of the vibrating dildo where it came through and nestled into her clit, taking a deep breath, and made sure that everything was strapped in correctly. azzi thought she was the hottest woman alive.
paige stepped towards her and azzi instinctively moved onto her stomach, opening her mouth for paige to put the strap inside. paige relented, letting her take it deep into her mouth, but refused to fuck her throat with it. the slide of it against azzi’s cheeks and tongue felt so good, the weight of it grounding and solid.
she bobbed her head as paige’s hand slid to grab at her hair, making sure she was gentle and didn’t take too much. her head spun with it, thinking of absolutely nothing but the taste of paige in her mouth. getting paige’s slick from earlier mixed with her spit all over it sent azzi’s brain reeling. god.
paige pulled her off, and her forehead fell against the side of the strap as she caught her breath. paige’s fingers stroked through her hair, gentle, and she mouthed a kiss at the base of the harness.
“can you lay back for me, beautiful?” paige murmured. azzi nodded again. she was doing a lot of that. she jerked herself up, almost robotic, like she was programmed to obey paige’s requests, and laid back against the pillows. she let her legs spread automatically, heat open and willing for paige.
paige looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to start praying or crying. “you ready, baby?”
azzi let out an affirmative sound. paige slid two fingers in her anyways, just to check, and azzi whined. not enough. “more,” she vocalized, scratchy and sudden.
paige slipped another along with it, and yeah, that was better, but not enough, and azzi didn’t let her keep up that pace before looking up at paige pleadingly. “need it,” she whispered.
paige’s eyes were wide, searching her face at every instant. azzi felt so cared for, so trusted, so loved. she was sick.
“you need me, baby?”
“need you.”
paige kissed her then, something quiet and careful. she slipped something cold and hard into azzi’s hand, and it took her a second to register that it was the remote for the vibrator. she clicked it once to make sure that she was right, and paige gasped as her presumably swollen clit was stimulated by the silicone.
azzi turned it off again. she blinked up at paige.
paige had an unreadable expression on her face. she drank in azzi’s countenance for a moment longer before squeezing her eyes shut and reopening them, drawing back.
she took her time gently lining up the dildo with azzi’s entrance. azzi shuddered, overwhelmed. she felt like she was going to combust if it didn’t get inside her soon.
when it slowly, slowly breached inside, a high-pitched sound left azzi that was embarrassing to recount later.
“that’s it, baby,” paige was whispering, a stream of praise and comfort, “you’re doing so good. you’re so perfect. you’re so good for me. look at you.”
she thrust inside shallowly for a few beats, warming azzi up, and azzi’s chest trembled. paige’s hands were busy keeping herself up, biceps bracketing azzi, and the sight of the flexed muscles made azzi gush over the silicone. the wetness was enough for paige to finish sliding in, and that was enough for azzi to press the button the controller and to start the vibrations.
the pulsations carried deep within her, the base of it vibrating and coming dangerously close to her clit, and paige whimpered at the pressure.
watching paige’s hips snap into her was more erotic than even getting fucked. her lips were slightly parted, wet and shining, eyes hyper-focused on making sure she stayed inside of azzi. each thrust was always purposeful, instinctive, like she was exactly aware of the shape of azzi’s insides and was feeling out the perfect spots to hit.
her abs gleamed with a sheen of sweat, hair falling out of her messy bun. when she hit a particularly deep thrust, she moaned right along with azzi. good, was all azzi could think. she feels good.
paige flipped her onto her front, tugging her up by the hips. azzi’s face was buried in the pillows, probably wetting them, ass up while paige entered her again. the new angle pressed against her in a way that was almost overstimulating, and with a groan she turned off the vibration before it overwhelmed her.
she felt her ass bounce against the harness, the slapping sound along with the wet sounds of her cunt sloppily filling the room. she could feel how paige was getting into it, fucking her hips in a dirty, steady rhythm as her breaths started to come faster.
“fucking perfect,” paige muttered, hitting her asscheek. the jolt and sting of it flushed through azzi with an electric buzz, and she moaned, muffled, into the pillows. paige gripped her hip bones, leaning forwards, and snapped her hips forward faster.
azzi’s breathing was labored, head fuzzy, heat building up inside her gut again. in this position, with paige fucking into her deep and hard while she trembled trying to stay up, she felt good.
she felt like she was being used, like she existed for paige’s pleasure and was doing a damn good job of it, letting paige fuck her all she wanted and all she deserved to. the possessiveness of it all drove her mad.
just when she thought about turning the vibrator on and getting paige to cum, paige flipped her over again.
“wanna see your face,” she mumbled.
her eyes bored into azzi’s. azzi could barely keep hers open, the only thing she could focus on being where paige entered, entered, entered. azzi wasn’t even thinking about cumming anymore, wasn’t thinking about anything.
“fuck, azzi, you’re so good, baby,” paige rambled, almost incoherent. azzi felt something warm on her jaw, and she got tugged to face paige fully. the hand on her chin slid down to her arm, to her hand.
a click sounded through the room, and a vibration shot through azzi’s insides.
“fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasped, hips canting up. a hand kept her down, thumb landing on her clit and circling around it. she felt like she was being electrocuted. pleasure coursed through her body like a heat wave.
she could only manage an “i’m–” before she came again with a cry, an incoherent sound that had her back arching and her mind crashing over itself.
paige released a broken sound, fucking her faster, harder, and her hips suddenly stilled as she came, deep inside azzi. her thumb, by some miracle, kept moving on azzi’s clit, and azzi jolted as the stimulation became too much, each subduing wave growing overly sensitive.
the blonde removed her hands as the pleasure subsided, not so much bending to meet azzi as collapsing on top of her, kissing her mouth and cradling her face. she was still inside of her, but her hand snaked back out to the vibrator controller to turn it off.
azzi relaxed as the stimulation stopped, and she kissed paige back wordlessly. love you.
she imagined paige saying it back so vividly that she almost thought she did.
they lay there for a minute, maybe five, catching their breath and holding each other. azzi’s eyes drifted shut, and she was vaguely aware of paige whispering praise in her ear and stroking her stomach with soft fingers. she was still inside of azzi, and gently pulled herself out.
azzi braced herself for the empty feeling, the buzz of the pleasure that remained and the slight soreness that came from getting utterly fucked. it felt worse than she remembered, like her body didn’t want to let go of paige. like paige belonged inside.
paige kissed her cheek. “okay?”
she nodded. paige kissed her again. “can you talk to me, baby?”
she shook her head.
“can i get up and get a washcloth, or do you want me to stay here?”
azzi turned her head to lock paige in with another kiss. paige kissed her back for a minute, then broke away smiling. “stay, got it. gonna need to shower this shit off, anyways.”
azzi huffed a laugh at the unexpected joke. it helped her brain come back online a little, take note of the feeling of the bedsheets beneath her and the warmth of where paige pressed into her and the wetness between her legs.
paige had fucked her brains out, and she still hadn’t told her that a) she loved her, or b) what happened with her family. whatever.
“what you thinking about?” paige mumbled into the side of her face.
azzi blanked. “tour,” she fibbed, voice low and slurred. she didn’t have the energy to come up with anything better.
paige laughed. “really? now?”
azzi smiled. “endurance practice.”
“stupid,” paige muttered, endeared. “you’re gonna do great though, really. excited for your first show.”
“you have a game,” azzi said automatically. not creepy at all.
paige sighed. “yeah.”
they fell into silence for a minute longer. it was quiet, intimate. it was everything azzi wanted.
“so,” paige started, “i’m thinking, you finish your sandwich. we go sit outside on the porch. then, i take you out for dinner. and tomorrow, we can go mini golfing and i can take you to my favorite brunch spot. and i can introduce you to arike and nai and jj, and we can go to the botanical gardens after that. and then i booked us ziplining and a ghost tour for our last day because you like that history shit.”
“jesus,” azzi groaned, pushing her away, “you’re so– organized.”
“whatever you want,” paige said simply, matter-of-fact. azzi ached. she bit down on the inside of her lip.
“whatever you want,” azzi countered.
“whatever we want.”
“whatever we want,” azzi agreed, quiet.
paige kissed her shoulder. “so, about that sandwich.”
—-
“i’m going to throw up,” azzi muttered, head in hands, “i’m going to throw up.”
“hey,” azzi’s manager soothed her, rubbing her back, “you sounded great today at soundcheck. you’ve worked so hard to get here, and it’s your first real show. nobody is expecting you to be perfect. you just gotta do what you love to do.”
azzi nodded miserably, eyes still closed. her stomach felt like the bottom of a draining pool, swirling around dirt and grime. she’d done a festival on short notice, she could do a concert where people actually wanted to see her.
that, oddly, made it worse– they wanted to see her. they were coming in with expectations, with hopes that she would play their favorite song, with knowledge of her artistry and her personal life and they were going to see her at her most raw and vulnerable, performing the craft that she dedicated her life to.
she was ready– she knew she was ready. she tried to feel like how she felt at the festival, to turn herself into azzi, the idea, the artist, the myth.
it wasn’t working.
nobody can see how you’re feeling inside, paige had texted her. sometimes u just have to walk out and take your time becoming who they see.
she inhaled deeply through her nose, tried to ignore the pounding of her cataclysmic heartbeat. four beats in through the nose into the stomach. hold. exhale and press the air out. repeat.
it didn’t have to be perfect. it just had to be decent. her props just had to work. the sound just had to be mixed right, and the producers all had to signal the right cues, and her band just had to be perfect, and she couldn’t let her hand slip on the guitar, and there needed to be cameras and water and–
one thing at a time. first, the song everyone knew. then five more songs off her album. she’d thrown in her lovesong cover. full set change. another popular song. her newest single. full set change. last song. encore, an unreleased song.
one, two, azzi to center stage in three minutes, her in-ear monitor buzzed. she inhaled one more time, for good measure, and her manager squeezed her shoulder.
“you got this, kid,” her manager muttered.
azzi managed to nod and pull her lips into some marionette-stuff version of a smile. she stood up, eyes scanning the stage for her guitar. the humming of the crowd was electric, intensified by the dimming of the crowd lights and the glare of the spotlights.
she tried to focus on just one conversation, but her brain couldn’t tune in. the whole crowd sounded like it was sounding out the syllables of her name, azzi, azzi, thick and heavy with eager anticipation.
the band struck up the introduction of the first song, and the crowd was deafening. azzi’s head whipped around to the sound crew, who beamed at her and gestured forwards.
azzi to center stage, her in-ear said, now.
azzi adjusted the white collar of the shirt below her blazer and smiled again. she let the rapid beating of her heart push blood into her lips, let it carry them up into a real, nervous smile. she would come as she was.
she stepped out onto the stage, and became azzi fudd.
__
azzi was performing her first real concert, ever, and paige was playing against the stupid fucking mist. sure, playing against stewie was always fun, but she’d done it a million times.
rephrase: azzi was performing her first real concert, ever, and paige was sitting in the locker room bathroom, pretending to need to pee while she watched a grainy tiktok livestream on her phone.
she’d already been in there for ten minutes, and she knew there wasn’t much more that she could get away with. she just couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen, not when azzi looked like that. cargo pants and a belt, a soft brown and beige blazer, hair braided back from the front into long, cascading waves. fingers manicured a gentle french, deftly strumming along her silvery guitar strings. she was captivating.
after this song, paige told herself. i’ll go back to the locker room after this song. it was stolen time, more than she was probably allowed, but she gave herself some leeway. the breeze were playing decently, and as the captain she was generally afforded a little more space because they knew she could hold herself accountable.
the current set was this blooming, alive thing that suspended flowers and plants and books and records in midair, azzi sitting in a fake room of a mossy house. azzi had refused to talk about the set with her, and paige was fairly certain it was because the house vaguely resembled her family’s minnesota cabin.
paige wished she could turn the volume up more without it echoing off the tiled walls and giving her away. her stomach jolted with each lilt of azzi’s voice, nervous almost as if she were azzi herself. probably more.
she blinked, putting her hand on the bathroom door. the livestream glitched, pulling her out of it, and she hissed softly. she felt like an idiot. a grown woman, with a job, sneaking away to watch a girl she couldn’t even ask out perform the most important show of her life. she’d do it again.
the bathroom door suddenly jolted, a loud banging coming from the other side.
“yo, p,” rickea shouted at her, “you alright? we gotta go, halftime’s over.”
paige swore, panicking and turning off her phone with a click. “fuck, yeah, stomachache,” she lied. she tucked her phone into her waistband and covered it with her shirt, swinging the door open.
rickea stared at her. “you look stressed out. you sure everything’s good?”
“nah, yeah,” paige laughed, reaching up to touch at her ponytail. “just gotta lock in.”
“somewhere you wish you were?” rickea asked, and paige realized that she was nowhere near as slick as she thought she was. she swallowed, throat dry, and shrugged.
“where would i rather be than with kea, my favorite basketball player?”
rickea rolled her eyes. “starts with an a. rhymes with bazzi budd’s boncert.”
paige’s lips pinched together. what did it say that she had basketball, her favorite thing in the world, in front of her, waiting, and she was glued to her phone for the barest glimpse of what she couldn’t have?
she washed her hands, even though she hadn’t used the bathroom. rickea opened the door for her. mercifully, she didn’t say anything else, or tease her. “c’mon, p,” she said quietly, and led them back out and to the court. “noelle says you gotta drive from your left or pass it up to dom.”
__
AZZI. AZZI. AZZI. AZZI. AZZI.
the crowd was deafening. they were stomping and clapping, and azzi felt like the whole arena was shaking. she pressed her hands to her mouth in disbelief for a moment before taking a sip of water that a crew member held out to her.
twenty seconds to encore, her in-ears said.
the show had been wonderful. she’d started the tour in washington d.c., near where she grew up in virginia, to feel a sense of home, and the crowd loved her. she saw the familiar faces of a few friends from high school a couple times and nearly cried.
transforming her former home from a place that she was scared of to a place where she felt loved again felt incredible. her hands were still shaking with adrenaline, nerves, and gratitude. the crowd had known all of the songs she played, even her most recent single. being able to watch them sing her lyrics back to her, sing her lyrics to each other, had been the single most meaningful event of her life.
she was giving all of herself to these people and they were appreciating her, loving her, giving it right back. her heart felt three times its size. maybe she was crazy, but– between that and how well her trip to paige’s had been, she was feeling like everything was working out.
hanging out with paige had been nothing short of a fucking honeymoon. no, azzi hadn’t talked to her about her family, and no, she hadn’t told her she loved her, but there just– hadn’t been a right moment. azzi was content to bask in the world they created, in the home paige had made for herself.
one more song to go. she’d already performed her latest single, which left her unreleased song as the one she’d sing for the encore. it was bold, to choose an unreleased song for the encore; usually, the artist picked a few fan favorites to sing. but azzi didn’t have that much fucking music, so she’d already played through her whole album and her new singles.
she was really excited to be able to share it with her audience, to watch their faces as they listened to her and realized that they were getting a new song.
she was also really nervous to sing it, because it was sort of a confession; she’d written it about yearning, wanting so badly to tell paige that she loved her again but not doing it. it was less than subtle, but maybe paige would get the hint, and–
fudd to stage, encore start.
she stepped back onto the stage. the crowd erupted.
she grinned widely, abounding joy. she’d arranged for a curtain to close over her set, leaving just her in a spotlight. as the song crescendoed to its emotional peak, the musicians would slowly walk onstage, playing their instruments, and they’d take the final bows together.
she walked to the center of the stage, standing and waiting for the crowd to die down. if anything, they got louder; she couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she tried to wave her hands to subdue them.
she tapped her right in-ear monitor once, the signal to start playing the introduction.
encore start. a metronome started in her left ear. the spotlight seemed even brighter after leaving it and coming back to it, and she squinted a little.
she started singing, all alone on the stage, and a hush fell over the crowd as they realized that the song was new. they waited eagerly, perched at the edges of their seats, their eyes shining with the reflection from the stage. azzi felt like a siren, like she held the minds of these beautiful people within the four walls of her voice box.
she sang about wanting and aching and the repeated i-love-you in her head, and the music swelled as her musicians began to file onstage. the spotlight began to turn pink, and delicate, eco-friendly, fake cherry blossoms began to rain down from the ceiling.
the musicians all joined her on stage. the lights swelled and more blossoms dropped until they looked like rainfall, and she repeated her last line again and again as the music crescendoed. the crowd slowly got louder until everything became one big roar, and azzi’s heart hammered in her chest with love, love, love.
“thank you d.c.!” she yelled, throwing a hand up. she took a final look around at the warm, shining faces calling to her, yelling for her, smiling at her, and she took a bow.
fudd off stage. she blew kisses to the front row, wings, upper levels, lighting crew, stage crew, musicians. fudd off stage. she held her hands over her heart and mouthed thank you, i love you.
fudd off stage, now.
she jogged off stage, feeling like the smile on her face would never leave. the adrenaline high was insane, she felt like she needed to do something with her hands, or run a marathon, or scream, or–
god, she wished paige were here. she wanted to throw her arms around her backstage and kiss her senseless. she wanted to talk at her for hours about every little thing that happened during the show, even when paige stopped her and reminded her of her vocal rest.
her hands still shook as she reached for a sweat towel and a bottle of water from her crew, someone else already taking out her in-ears. of course, it’d be the biggest moment of her life and she’d be thinking about paige.
“azzi?” a voice said. “this woman–”
azzi’s head snapped up, expecting to see a head of blonde hair and a sheepish grin.
“--says she’s your mother.”
what?
the water bottle in azzi’s hand was suddenly ice-cold. she froze in place.
of every situation that she’d imagined seeing her parents in again, it was never backstage at her own concert. back at her childhood house, maybe, or at college, or accidentally in the supermarket, but never somewhere that felt sacred to azzi. the stage was her own creation. they’d made it clear that they thought she was an idiot for wanting to pursue music. she’d fought for this.
her eyes landed on her mother, short with her eyebrows pinched together like always. there were new lines around her forehead, around her jowls, and her hair was a shade less natural than it used to be.
though her face had changed, she looked like a memory. it was the same feeling azzi got when she remembered, when she thought too hard about it; chills scraped down her spine. azzi stared in disbelief. her hand twitched forwards, as if to touch the woman and check.
“azzi,” her mother said, thin lips curving up into a smile.
everything shocked in azzi turned to anger in an instant. how dare she. how dare she show up during what was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of her life. how dare she have the audacity to stand there and smile, to force her way backstage, to insert herself back into azzi’s life the fucking moment that things were finally looking up for her?
azzi’s lip curled, and her hand balled into a fist. her mom moved forwards, as if to hug her, but azzi turned her head and put her palm up.
“who let her in?” she directed the question to the security guard. her voice quivered. she couldn’t speak to her. she couldn’t. she couldn’t do this right now.
“i-i did, ma’am,” the security guard replied, eyes wide, “she came ‘round the back, she said she was your mother and she was trying to surprise you, and she showed proof–”
“did you check with my manager first? my agent? the reps? anyone?” she sounded like a bitch. she couldn’t help it.
“no, she just– i didn’t have time before– before the show ended,” the security guard babbled.
azzi felt her whole body trembling like a leaf. she hated for strangers to see her weak. she hated for this to happen in public, with thousands of fans just beyond the curtain. she closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her belly.
“thank you for your thought. in the future, never do that again.” it was as polite as she could manage to be. she gave the security guard a pained smile. “you can escort her off the premise now. if you would be so kind.”
“azzi,” her mother scolded, condescending, like she had any right to be. azzi’s stomach flipped painfully. “i just wanted to see you, to ask you how you’re doing. is that too much for a mother to ask?”
“get her out,” azzi said quietly.
“azzi, come on, i’m so proud of–”
“GET HER OUT,” azzi yelled, finally, pointing to the door. the backstage went quiet. azzi’s vision began to blur at the edges. she felt like she was going to be sick. she tried to be quieter, but her voice sounded odd and tinny. “get her out, please.”
the security guard looked scared of her, but nodded. they grabbed onto her mother’s arm gently, trying to guide her out.
“absolutely not, i am her mother,” her mother scoffed, offended. she tore her arm away and stepped out of the guard’s grasp. she looked over at azzi like how could you do this to me, and azzi couldn’t fucking believe that after everything, she still felt guilty.
she felt guilty for sending away the mother who disowned her, she felt guilty for never going back or visiting, for never following up with her little brothers, for separating herself from the people who left her to die on the street.
“azzi, let me start over,” her mother ordered. it didn’t matter if azzi wanted her to or not, because azzi’s heart had started to pound in her chest and every nerve was alight with panic. she was frozen to the spot, the idea of talking to her mother fucking terrifying. she couldn’t say no.
“your dad and i want to start over. the boys miss you, and the people in the neighborhood keep asking about you. we’ve seen your success and we are so happy for you. we know things could have been better at home growing up, but things have changed, and–”
“things have changed?” azzi interrupted. her voice was muffled, high and strange to her own ears. “you want to start over? you don’t get to start over with someone you left for dead.”
her mother narrowed her eyes. “azzi, really. we did not ‘leave you for dead’. we gave you a clear choice to try to help guide you in the right direction. but it seems like you found it on your own, and we want to rebuild with you.”
“wh–” azzi was so mad that she couldn’t speak. she blinked hard. “conversion therapy or the streets? that’s not a fucking solution!”
“azzi,” her mother said, spreading her arms out like she wanted a hug, “you were young and misled. we tried to teach you correctly, but you were stubborn. you fought us for so long. it was beginning to hurt the boys, and just think about what the town would have said to us if they knew that you were–”
“a lesbian?” azzi snapped.
her mother went quiet. her upper lip twitched in distaste.
“a…. yes,” her mother replied. “but it’s okay, azzi, we’ve all changed, and we’re so sorry that you felt so alone and that we weren’t there for you when things got dark. you always were a brilliant little kid, so happy all the time and so smart. all we want is to try again. to make things better.”
blood roared in azzi’s ears. her mouth fell open in astonishment; she didn’t even know where to start.
“you still can’t even say it,” she muttered, shaking her head. she stared at the floor, willing desperately for her mother to disappear, for this to all be some insipid adrenaline daydream.
“what?” her mother asked.
“you still can’t even say it,” azzi repeated bitterly, louder. “you can’t say that i’m a lesbian.”
azzi’s mother’s lips thinned. “you’re a grown woman, azzi. you can say you’re whatever you like.”
“but i wasn’t then,” azzi shook her head, “i was fucking fifteen. i was a child. and you–”
“you were being selfish,” her mom interrupted, “you didn’t think about the future–”
“i was being selfish?” azzi shrieked. “was it selfish when i was living out of church fucking basements? selfish when i begged my friends to let me sleep on their couches and drive me to school? selfish when i wrote you letter–” her voice broke, “after letter, begging you to come get me, apologizing again and again for existing wrong, calling you and leaving messages and hoping every fucking night that you’d answer me just to get nothing in return?”
her mother stood still, stunned.
“was it selfish when i sent you invitations to not only my high school graduation but my college graduation? selfish when you threw my suitcase at me and told me to get the fuck out of your house? you said the only way i could continue to live in your house was if i went to fucking conversion therapy, which makes kids like me kill themselves, and i’m selfish for choosing to live?” azzi screamed. she was fully crying now, clear rivulets burning down her cheeks and her neck.
in every version of meeting her parents again that she’d imagined, she’d always screamed. she’d never cried.
when she’d gotten thrown out of the house for refusing to attend conversion therapy, she’d run away so fast and full of anger that she’d tripped and torn open her knees. she remembered the heat of it, the way the blood had bubbled up and popped. she’d had to stop by a nearby pond, trying to rinse it away, and she’d cried so long and hard that she’d vomited all over the clear surface. she never wanted to cry like that again.
she wiped her face angrily. “everything that i have today is despite you. everything that i have is because of my friends, and their parents, and my teachers, and the people who raised me when you didn’t do shit.”
“i gave birth to you. i raised you. i tried to keep you on the right path,” her mother tried to explain, “i’m sorry that everything happened the way it did, but that’s why i’m here. we want to apologize, and we want to try again. the boys are going to head to college soon, and they miss their sister.”
azzi scoffed. “if you cared what the boys thought, you would have kept me there to start with.”
“you have to understand how difficult of a decision that was. we–”
azzi cut her off. “some things can’t be apologized for.”
“you’re not even letting me try!”
azzi’s jaw clenched. her eyes felt swollen, and she felt humiliated, having to do this in front of her crew. her biggest secrets, out in the open. she could feel everyone’s pitying eyes on her, watching, waiting for her next command to spring into action.
“maybe you should have answered my fucking calls,” she said, quietly. “you’re a decade too late, mom.
“i know we’re not perfect, honey, but we’re family. doesn’t that mean anything to you? we’re trying.”
azzi stared at her for a long moment. her mother’s eyes were shining, like she genuinely believed what she was saying. she’d spent so long hating the thought of her mother’s face, hating what she’d taken from her. but azzi had things now that couldn’t be taken away.
“when i go home at night,” she started, “it’s to the woman i love. and it is more than anything you could ever give me.”
her mother looked like she was going to be sick.
“you have two choices. leave yourself, or get thrown out on the street.” azzi whirled on her back foot, walking away. she paused. “give the boys my best.”
before she could hear her mother’s response, she slammed the dressing room door shut behind her.
—
the breeze lost to the mist. what fucking ever. paige burned her way through postgame stretching, the ice bath, the locker room chit-chat.
how was the concert?? how are u feeling??
her texts to azzi were unanswered, but paige didn’t stress about it. she was bursting at the seams to know about it, but she was sure that azzi had her own post-show rituals to fulfill, people to talk to, and routes to find back to her hotel before she could text paige back.
call later? she sent, just in case.
arike invited her to get cinnamon rolls from a new place in town after the game. paige’s dietician would have a word with her, but she didn’t really care. dieticians generally did a poor job recognizing how much delicious food improves quality of life.
the clock ticked by, and arike and her wife kept paige talking and laughing for hours. every time paige checked her phone, there was still no response. no big deal, she figured, but it still felt weird.
maybe she met someone after the show and is spending the night with them, an evil voice in her head whispered. she shook her head violently, ridding herself of the thought. azzi wasn’t that kind of person.
“you good?” arike asked, looking at her funny. her wife, lala, giggled.
paige smiled and rolled her eyes. “fine. just thinking about how i gotta clean my shower drain when i get home.”
“your hair thin as fuck,” lala teased her, “who you been having over?”
paige felt the same stupid smile creep over her face. “nobody, bro, swear. not since last time.”
“you two exclusive yet?” arike asked her.
paige thought about it. “not….really?”
lala raised an eyebrow. “the fuck does that mean? you’re either together or you not.”
“like,” paige explained, “not verbally. but physically, emotionally….yeah i– i think i gotta ask her soon.”
“she could ask you,” arike suggested, “she broke up with you, technically. why it always gotta be the masc?”
an excellent critique of gender roles, paige appraised. but the truth was– “i just want to.”
“fair enough.”
“anyways, i’m gonna head back. gotta get some more recovery in. don’t know how you still do this at your big age,” paige winked. arike hit her on the shoulder.
they argued for a minute until paige’s cheeks hurt from laughing, then she excused herself to throw out her trash and head back to the miami residence.
she got back and took a hot shower, getting on her yoga mat and rolling out her muscles. she laid back lazily and slid her leg along the roller while she scrolled through twitter on her phone.
it was a bunch of stupid memes and basketball stats. she wondered how azzi was doing, what people thought of the show.
azzi fudd, she typed into the searchbar. sue her.
@/fuddaround: AZZI’S PAGYIGN AN UNRLEASED SONGGGG!!!!! OH GMGHDGHJG <<video clip>>
@/violetsrblue: THIS IS NOT A DRILL I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL AZZI FUDD UNRELEASED SONG
@/routercable: these SETS? the PROPS? hello azzi fudd you are INSANE <<images>>
@/azzicakes: if you haven’t bought tickets to see azzi fudd do it Now. she sounds just like the record and the show is heartwrenching and beautiful and fun and wow. one of the best concerts i’ve ever ever been to
paige’s heart beat loudly in her chest. she took the praise entirely personally, endlessly proud of azzi and how well the show must have gone.
@/random538: rumors of yelling coming from backstage at the azzi fudd concert….someone said it sounded like “get her out”.... trouble in paradise?
@/fudderooni: nah it can’t be p she was playing in miami
paige stopped stretching abruptly. who had visited azzi backstage? was that credible? azzi hadn’t told her anything…she couldn’t think of anyone who would pay azzi an unwanted visit. kaitlyn and mackenzie would be more than welcome, dorka would be welcome…now that she and paige were close again, none of paige’s friends would be unwelcome. but she doubted they would show up.
maybe someone from high school? someone paige didn’t know? an ex of sorts? the thought made paige a little queasy, but she knew azzi only had one other ex, and it hadn’t ended on terms bad enough to warrant that reaction.
@/aroundazzi: can someone explain the azzi fudd drama to me please? thanks
@/pandafan: @/aroundazzi u shouldn’t look it up tbh it’s not any of our business as fans
@/golfingsucks: this account rumored to be a’s mom is reposting a bunch of hate about
her. there’s some slurs in here so i’d recommend viewing cautiously. <<screenshot>>
Recommended Tweets for You:
2h ago - @/fudderrr: who would say some shit like that like genuinely. about their own daughter. that’s sick
1h ago - @/azzifan1: Just a reminder that we do not know A personally! This is none of our business! Stop stalking accounts of people related to celebrities!
@/fuddropes: Yea that woman has to be crazy. The things she said azzi did are insane.
5s ago - @/peoplesnews: TMZ Reports that Azzi Fudd’s Mother was Kicked Out of her Concert! Read Her Exclusive Interview HERE
paige sat up, suddenly sick to her stomach. oh, god, azzi. she only knew the basics of what had happened with azzi and her family– that azzi had been kicked out at some point and that they no longer spoke to each other. clearly, it was something really messed up, because it fucked azzi up badly.
she didn’t bother reading the interview, knowing that it would piss her off enough to potentially do something that she would regret. she wouldn’t give that bullshit any of her attention or interaction.
she went back to the tweets complimenting azzi’s performance and retweeted some of them. there.
was that why azzi wasn’t responding? why hadn’t she told paige?
paige paused. azzi….this was sensitive. was it her place to call? she checked trending. the second-most tweeted-about item was azzi’s mother’s name. jesus christ. she– no, she had to warn azzi about it before azzi accidentally saw the interview. she knew that azzi wasn’t on social media, but she might have checked after the concert to see–
paige was hitting the call button before she even registered it.
it rang once. paige clenched her jaw. twice, three times. she looked up, nervous. four. five.
she was about to hang up and call azzi’s manager (via instagram dm, you gotta do what you gotta do) when the line stopped ringing.
“hey,” azzi said, quiet. she sounded drained. paige’s heart felt like it was being pressed in a juicer.
azzi was silent for a moment. “mm,” she mumbled, barely there. she sounded small. paige wanted to kill someone.
“i saw on twitter that you sang a new song,” paige tried, “i didn’t listen yet, but you didn’t tell me about that in rehearsals.”
a weak laugh came through the receiver. “yeah, i…you should listen.”
“i will. i promise.”
should paige bring it up? how do you even bring something like that up?
“azzi i… i saw something else on twitter, too.”
“what?” azzi sounded genuinely confused. shit. did she not know it leaked?
“baby,” paige started, “where are you?”
“i’m– i’m in my tour van. i’m alone. nobody can hear me. why?"
okay. good. “they’re saying– it’s, uh– something about your mom. and people heard a fight. and now– online, your mom… like, everyone’s talking about…she’s making up stuff.”
azzi was silent. paige panicked. fuck.
it had to be her worst nightmare; performing the first show of your new career, succeeding against all odds and putting on a magical performance, just to be upstaged by her fucking mother. the woman who kicked her out.
she heard a breath from the other side of the line, low and sharp.
“you okay?”
azzi didn’t answer. paige gave her a moment. a few more deep breaths came from the speaker.
“azzi? you okay?” she repeated.
still nothing. paige’s eyebrows furrowed together, hand tugging at her ponytail. shit. azzi got like this when it was really bad, when she was really overwhelmed.
the same thing had happened the first time they’d been together, when paige had asked one question too many about the details of azzi getting kicked out. azzi had later described her words as getting “stuck in her throat”-- she wanted to say them, but they just– wouldn’t come out. it was overwhelming, and frustrating, and paige had held her through it and decided not to push any more.
but paige couldn’t hold her now. she exhaled deeply, chewing her lip. “i’m here,” she said quietly, “i’m here.”
azzi was still quiet, sans a deep breath and a small choking sound. paige was silent, and let her process. the emotional rollercoaster must have hit azzi hard.
she put azzi on speaker and texted azzi’s manager a reminder.
she waited in silence for a few more moments. she sent azzi a gif of an animated cat giving a hug. azzi let out a little breath at it.
“she...” azzi started. paige put the speaker to her ear. she didn’t want to miss a word. “she came backstage. she told a security guard she wanted to surprise me, and the idiot– he let her in.”
“okay,” paige replied. “what did she want?”
“i don’t know,” azzi said, choked, “she said– she said she wanted to start over. and she was proud of me, and everyone was proud of me. and they missed me.”
jesus christ. that couldn’t have been fun.
“fucking asshole,” azzi spat, suddenly, “you can’t just show up, and say all the things you know i want to hear. you can’t just do that when i waited for–” her voice broke, “almost a decade, and she– and they– not one fucking word! did you know i sent them an invitation to my graduation?”
paige listened. that’s all she could do.
“i sent them an invitation to my graduation like a fucking idiot, like maybe they’d show up for their stupid lesbian daughter just because. because i was so alone, because you were gone, and everyone was inviting people they loved and i had nobody, and– like they hadn’t ignored my invitation to my high school graduation, and before that all my calls and all my texts, and–” she cut herself off with a frustrated sound.
“azzi,” paige asked, gentle, “how old were you when you– when you split?”
“fifteen,” azzi whispered, “i couldn’t even drive.”
“that’s fucked up.”
azzi huffed a laugh through the receiver. “yeah it– they.” she paused, gathering strength, “we would get into these fights, because they had suspicions that i was– and one night, they got into my phone, and they read through my texts with my friends, and they found out that i’m…”
“you’re?”
“a lesbian. they…they hated it. and they never looked at me the same. and they started ignoring me, and they didn’t let me hang out with any of my friends just in case we were… y’know. i wasn’t allowed my phone, or to write letters, or to be around my brothers in case i influenced them. and one night they came to me, and they gave me two options: go to conversion therapy for the entirety of the next summer, or get kicked out. you can guess what i chose.”
paige physically winced.
“where did you go?”
“wherever,” azzi muttered, “i stayed in churches for a bit, but they kept asking too many questions. i rotated between my friends’ couches, working to save up to get to college. i couldn’t let the school know, or they’d call the police or something. i couldn’t face them, didn’t want to force them– i wanted them to want me. they never– i tried to call– they never–” she broke down in tears.
“it’s okay,” paige whispered again. “i’m here.” i love you. you don’t have to worry about anything anymore. i’m here. i’ll fix it.
“she called me selfish,” azzi choked out.
“you’re not selfish.”
“i have money now, i could use it to support my brothers. what if she really did change?”
“do you think she did?”
azzi paused. “no.”
“no?”
“no, it feels like i’m finally successful enough for her to overlook the fact that i’m a lesbian. it feels like in return, she expects me to overlook their wrongdoing because she acknowledged that things went south. but it’s not really love. i know what lov– it’s not really love.”
“it’s not,” paige agreed. “you don’t owe her anything. what she put you through is horrible, azzi. you don’t owe any of them anything.”
“thanks,” azzi said quietly. she groaned. “what am i going to do?”
paige shrugged, forgetting that azzi couldn’t see her. “are you going to have to put out a statement?” she asked.
“fuck, i hope not,” azzi swallowed, “i don’t want to give her any attention.”
“you don’t have to worry about it now,” paige offered, “you did something amazing tonight. take your time to feel proud of yourself for that instead.”
paige texted azzi’s manager again.
“it was amazing,” azzi confessed, “it was like a dream. and she ruined it.”
“no, she didn’t. she can’t take anything good away from you anymore, az. you’re free.”
azzi was quiet. paige heard a sniff through the line.
a knock sounded through the speaker.
“hold on,” azzi muttered, “someone’s knocking. i’ll be right back.” the line went quiet for a minute.
“i’m gonna kill you,” azzi said quietly, but paige heard the smile in her voice and grinned widely. “these are beautiful.”
paige had set azzi’s manager up to give her a large bouquet from paige after the show. she wasn’t sure they’d be beautiful so many hours after being purchased, but she wanted to do what she could to show azzi how proud of her she was.
“you’re beautiful.”
“fuck off,” azzi scoffed, and paige could hear her eye roll. “i– this– thank you. thank you, paige. this means so much to me.”
“i have something else, too,” paige stated. her stomach swam with butterflies, suddenly nervous to ask. was it bad timing? she’d been planning on asking for a while, but had been working up the courage.
“something else? paige, this is enough.”
“well, it’s– it’s an invitation,” paige began. she chewed her lip.
“an invitation? to what?” azzi asked, incredulous.
“well, i dunno if you can make it, and i know this is maybe really bad timing, but– i’ve been meaning to ask for a minute just to see if maybe we can make it work. i was just thinking, uh, y’know, my family’s been– asking about you. and they’re coming to miami next month like a week before your georgia concert and i was just wondering if– y’know, you’d maybe wanna come say hi. to everyone.” she finished dumbly.
stupid, stupid, stupid. she felt like she was rubbing salt in the wound, saying hey azzi, sorry about your fucked up family, look at my awesome one!
but the truth was, and azzi knew it, that her family was also far from perfect. her parents had divorced, and her stepsiblings didn’t know each other well, and things were always half-split and kinda awkward. but they loved each other anyways. and paige hoped that was what she was conveying. that paige wasn’t the kind of person who cared when things were broken. she was the kind who loved anyways.
and that azzi had someone. her. always her. (paige’s parents also loved azzi. and they missed her.)
azzi’s voice when she responded was soft. “of course. i–” she paused, “i would like that. very much.”
“okay. awesome,” paige said, breathing a sigh of relief. “it’s a date.”
a/n: this was all @sweettea5285 so yall better thank her
FLASHBACK: THE BASKETBALL COURT
The gym was empty.
Drew stood at the free-throw line, ball in his hands, staring at the hoop. He'd been here for an hour after practice ended. Maybe longer. He'd lost track of time.
Practice had been bad. Coach kept yelling at him to focus. Teammates kept passing him the ball when he wasn't looking. He'd missed shots he never missed. Airballed a layup. Got benched.
He couldn't focus.
Couldn't stop thinking about Paige's face that night. The way she'd looked at him—like she was trying to be strong but couldn't. The way she'd said "I'm fine" when she was clearly not fine. The way she'd shut him out when he asked what was wrong.
No one was telling him anything.
Kate had been weird lately and distant. Nika was gone for days. Paige was holed up in her office, door closed, not answering when he knocked. And Azzi—
Azzi was gone.
He missed her. Missed the way she'd ruffle his hair. Missed the way she'd sit on the couch with them and watch his terrible movies. Missed the way they would bicker about Healthy food vs yummy food. He didn't understand what happened.
He wasn't stupid. He knew something was wrong. But no one would tell him. No one would look at him. No one would say her name.
So he stayed at the gym. Shot hoops. Tried to make his brain shut up.
The ball clanked off the rim. Bounced away.
He didn't go after it.
Just stood there. Hands on his hips. Breathing hard. Sweat dripping down his face. He thought about Azzi. About the way she'd said "you're very brave" when he cried about his ankle. About the way she'd looked at Paige when she thought no one was watching.
He wanted to go home. But home was too quiet. Too empty.
He wanted to call Paige. But she'd been so distant. So closed off. He didn't know what to say to her anymore.
He wanted to ask someone what happened. But no one would tell him.The ball rolled to a stop near the bleachers.
Drew didn't move to get it.
The gym doors creaked open.
Drew looked up. For a moment, his heart jumped. Maybe it was Paige. Maybe she'd come to get him. Maybe she'd finally explain everything. It wasn't Paige.
Two men walked in first. Big. Broad. The kind of men who looked like they'd been hired for their size, not their smiles.
Behind them, a woman.
She was tall. Blonde. Sharp cheekbones. A smile that didn't reach her eyes. She walked like she owned the place. Like she'd been waiting for this moment.
Drew backed up. His heart started pounding. "Who are you?"
The woman tilted her head. Studied him like he was something interesting.
"You must be Drew. Paige's little brother."
Drew's stomach dropped. He didn't know this woman. Didn't know these men. But he knew that tone. The same tone people used when they talked about Paige's business. The business no one would explain to him.
"Paige told me to wait here," he said. It was a lie. It was the only thing he could think of.
The woman's smile widened. "Did she?"
Drew backed up further. His heel hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go.
"You've been hard to reach, Drew. Your sister keeps you very protected. School. Home. Always someone watching." The woman stepped closer. "But tonight—tonight you made it very easy for me."
"I'll scream."
"Go ahead." She laughed. It was a cold sound. "This place is empty. Your teammates left hours ago. Your coach is in his office with headphones on." She shrugged. "No one's coming, Drew."
His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding. But he didn't scream.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
The woman smiled. It was the worst smile he'd ever seen.
"Oh, Drew." She stepped forward. "You already have."
The two men moved. Fast. Drew tried to run. Tried to scream. One of them grabbed him from behind. A hand clamped over his mouth. He kicked. Fought. Bit down hard.
The man grunted. Didn't let go.
The woman walked toward him. Crouched down. Eye level.
"Your sister and I go way back. We've always hated each other. But we've always respected each other." She tilted her head. "Until tonight. Tonight, someone she cares about burned down something that belonged to me. Something valuable. Something I'd spent years building."
Drew's eyes were wide. His chest was heaving.
"And your sister? She's going to make it right. But I need something to make sure she stays focused." She patted his cheek. "That's where you come in."
Drew tried to scream. The hand over his mouth pressed harder.
"Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you. I just want my money. And Paige? Paige is very good at paying her debts." She stood. Brushed off her pants. "Take him."
The last thing Drew saw before the cloth covered his eyes was the empty gym. The basketball hoop. The ball still sitting under the bleachers where it had rolled.
He should have gone home.
He should have stayed where it was safe.
The cloth went over his mouth. Something sweet. Something sharp. The world went blurry.
Then everything went dark.
PAIGE'S MANSION —
The phone hit the wall.
It shattered. Plastic and glass sprayed across the floor. Paige didn't watch it fall. She was already moving.
The desk went next. Papers flying. Laptop crashing. Glass shattering. She grabbed the edge and flipped it. It landed with a sound that was almost satisfying.
It wasn't enough.
She grabbed the lamp. Threw it at the wall. The bulb exploded. Sparks for a second, then nothing. She grabbed the chair. Slammed it against the floor. The wood cracked. She did it again. The armrest snapped off. She threw it across the room.
The bookshelf came next, She pulled it. It teetered. Crashed forward. Books and frames and everything she'd ever cared about scattered across the floor.
She saw Drew's photo. The one from his basketball game. Smiling. Holding his trophy.
She grabbed it. Held it in her shaking hands.
Her throat closed up. Her vision blurred. She threw the frame against the wall. Watched the glass shatter. watched Drew's face disappear behind the cracks.
Then she screamed.
It ripped out of her. Everything she'd been holding in since that moment she walked into Azzi’s apartment. Since that moment she knew.
It was all coming out.
She dropped to her knees. Glass crunched under her. She didn't feel it.
The door burst open.
Kate was first.
Nika was behind her. Phone in hand. Gun at her hip. Both of them frozen for one second. Taking in the wreckage. The overturned furniture. The shattered glass. Paige on her knees in the middle of it all.
"Paige—" Kate started.
Paige looked up.
Her face was wrecked. Tears streaming while her Hands were shaking. Blood dripped from her knuckles where she'd grabbed the broken frame.
"She has him." Paige's voice cracked. "She has Drew."
Kate's face went white. "What?"
"Sophie. Sophie Cunningham. She has Drew. She took him. She—" Paige couldn't finish. Her voice broke. Her whole body broke.
Kate dropped to her knees beside her. Grabbed her arms. "Paige. Paige, look at me."
Paige couldn't. Couldn't look at anything except the shattered photo. Drew's face. Smiling. He’s Gone.
"How long?" Nika's voice was sharp. Controlled. "When did she call?"
"Two days." Paige's voice was hollow. "She wants everything replaced. Everything we lost. Every dollar. Every shipment. Everything from the warehouse. Two days or—" She couldn't say it. Couldn't say what Sophie would do. Couldn't let that thought finish.
Kate's grip on Paige's arms tightened. "We're going to get him back."
Paige looked at her. Tears still streaming. Hands still shaking. "She had him when I was on the phone with Azzi. She had him while I was—while I was yelling at her. While I was—" Her voice cracked. "I didn't know. I didn't hear anything. I was so focused on her. On Azzi. And Sophie was taking him. Sophie was—"
"Paige." Nika's voice was firm. "Stop."
Paige looked at her.
"You didn't know. You couldn't have known. Sophie's been planning this. Probably since the warehouse went up. Maybe before. This isn't your fault."
"Then whose fault is it?" Paige's voice rose. "I'm supposed to protect him. I'm supposed to keep him safe. That's the only thing—the only thing I had to do—" Her voice broke again. She couldn't finish.
Kate pulled her in. Wrapped her arms around her. Held her while she shook.
"We're going to get him back," Kate said. "We're going to find Sophie. We're going to burn her whole operation to the ground. And we're going to bring Drew home."
Paige pressed her face into Kate's shoulder. "I can't lose him. I can't lose him too."
Kate held her tighter. "You won't."
Nika was already moving. Phone out. Calling someone. Her voice was low. Fast. "I need everything on Sophie Cunningham. Where she's been. Who she's been talking to. Where she's been seen. I need it in the next hour."
She paused. Listened.
"I don't care who you have to call. I don't care what you have to promise. Find her."
She hung up. Turned back to Paige.
Paige was still in Kate's arms. Still shaking. Still bleeding. But her eyes were clearer now. The panic was fading. Something else was taking its place.
"Two days," Paige said. Voice steadier now.
"Two days," Nika confirmed.
Paige pulled back from Kate. Looked at her. Looked at Nika. "We're not waiting two days. ”
Kate's eyes sharpened. "What are you thinking?"
Paige stood. Her legs were unsteady. Her hands were still bleeding. But her voice was solid.
"I'm thinking Sophie Cunningham made a mistake. She thinks I'm going to sit here and count money for two days. She thinks I'm going to play by her rules." She looked at the shattered photo on the floor.
"She doesn't know me."
"I'm going to find her. And when I do, I'm going to make her regret the day she touched my brother."
She walked out.
The door closed behind her.
Kate and Nika stood in the wreckage. The shattered glass. The overturned furniture. The broken frame with Drew's face smiling through the cracks.
Kate looked at Nika. "She's going to burn the city down."
Nika's jaw tightened. "Good."
She pulled out her phone. Started making calls.
FUDD MANSION— Tim’s study
Azzi sat behind her fathers desk, maps and documents spread out in front of her. She was staring at the financial records and shipping routes. She was tryna figure out how to rebuild it. She’d been here for hours calculating and strategising just how to stay one step ahead.
Footsteps slowed outside the door, she knew exactly who they belonged to. The same steady stride she’d had since they were teenagers sneaking around this house, trying to avoid her fathers guards. Azzi looked up as the door creaked showing its old wealth.
Caroline stepped in, file in hand, already talking.
“Sir- oh hey Az, wasn't expecting you,” caroline turned to leave “ill come back later”
“Caroline,” Azzi's voice is sharp, filled with command she only ever used in the operating room and never to her friends, especially Caroline. “Come in, and shut the door.”
Caroline stepped in slowly unsure weather to listen, but something in her tone told her it was best to do as she was asked. Instinctively she stayed near the door incase she needed to retreat. "Aren't you supposed to be living out your own Rapunzel story locked away in your tower?” Caroline half joked refusing to meet Azzi's piercing gaze she knew was locked on her “he does know you’re out right?”
“Yes Carol, we’ve come to an agreement” Azzi spoke smoothly “you’ve been avoiding me, why?” its not cold but its not exactly comforting
“Just been busy” she tries to deflect, it doesnt work.
“Thats not what I asked”
The silence that filled the room was deafening, finally, Caroline let out a low sigh “your father” she said lowly
“Pardon?” she asked flatly.
“Your father warned me to stay away from you, that you were to be left to solitude” Caroline said finally meeting her eyes. Something was in them Caroline hadn’t seen before, fire? Vengeance maybe? but unmistakenly Tim Fudd.
“Of course he would,” she rolled her eyes in annoyance “maybe before, but we’ve found a shared interest”
Caroline, still weary, furrowed her brows in confusion “shared interest?”
“Paige took every ounce of dignity I had left in this house because she got her feelings hurt. Then she threw a tantrum and decided to go after my family business proving to me she's not different and just as bad as the rest of her godforsaken bloodline and quite frankly im over it”
“So that means…”
“That means my father and I have finally formed something of a bond. One where we are done taking shit from that family and their emotional outbursts” her voice wasn’t the same voice of the girl who lost her mother so young, or who battled her way through medical school. No, this voice was the voice of a Don, was the voice of Paige Bueckers worst nightmare.
Suddenly, as if a damn broke Caroline's shoulders sagged and her eyes welled with unshed tears. As if on cue Azzi stood and closed the distance between them wrapping Caroline in a hug she didn't know she longed for until this moment. She wrapped her arms around Azzi and clung to the first relief she'd felt in days.
“ I shouldn’t have lied to him.”
“ It doesn't matter, I told him the truth. About Paige, about everything. And he told me the truth too. About Marcus. About my mother. About why he is the way he is." Azzi's voice softened. "It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't undo what he did. But it's a start. There's still so much we have to figure out. But the hiding? The secrets? The way he's been treating us like soldiers instead of people?" She shook her head. "That's over."
Caroline held on tighter. "I thought I lost you," she whispered.
Azzi's throat tightened. "You didn't. You never could."
Azzi's voice was quiet against Caroline's hair. "I need you here. Not avoiding me. I need you right now."
Caroline's arms tightened. "I'm here."
"Promise me."
Caroline pulled back. Looked at her. Eyes red. Face wrecked. But there was something in her expression that hadn't been there before. Something steady.
"Promise."
Azzi nodded. Let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
She stepped back. Looked at the maps on the desk. At the work she'd been doing before Caroline walked in.
"I'm trying to figure out how to recover what we lost. The warehouses. The shipments. Everything Paige took." She looked at Caroline. "I need your help."
Caroline wiped her face. Took a breath. "What do you need?" She said softly.
Azzi almost smiled. "First, you need to sit down. You look like you haven't slept in days."
Caroline's mouth twitched. "Look who's talking."
"One of us has to be the responsible one."
"Since when is it you?"
Azzi's lips curved. Just barely. "Since you decided to avoid me and let me figure things out on my own."
Caroline laughed. It was a rough sound, tired, scraped raw. But it was real.
She walked to the desk. Sat in the chair across from Azzi. Looked at the maps. The notes. The careful calculations.
"You've been busy."
"I had to do something. Sitting in that room was going to drive me insane." Azzi sat down too. Picked up her pen. "I've identified three potential new shipping routes. They're riskier than what we had before, but they're off Paige's radar. For now."
Caroline leaned forward. Studied the map. "And the money? We lost millions in that warehouse."
"I know." Azzi's jaw tightened. "We're going to need to reach out to some old contacts.
Caroline nodded slowly. "I can make some calls."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Caroline laughed again, and azzi didn’t realise how much she had missed her best friend up until now.
Caroline was still talking, still tracing routes on the map, still running numbers in her head. "—old Brink connection might still be good. She’d not happy with the Bueckers either. If we offer her exclusive rights to the eastern corridor, she might—"
Azzi reached across the desk. Grabbed her hand.
Caroline stopped. Looked at her.
"I missed you," Azzi said.
Caroline blinked. "What?"
"I didn't realize how much until just now." Azzi's voice was quiet. "I missed you."
Caroline stared at her. Something in her face shifted—
She was around the desk before Azzi could react, pulling her up, pulling her in. Arms around her. Face pressed into her hair. Holding her like she'd been waiting to do this for a very long time.
“ never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth Fudd.”
Azzi let out a laugh but let herself be held.
Let her head rest against Caroline's shoulder. Let her hands grip the back of Caroline's jacket. Let herself breathe.
Caroline's hand came up. Pressed against the back of her head. Held her there.
They stayed there wrapped in each other's arms for what felt like hours, until a knock came from the other side of the door.
Caroline jumped back on instinct but Azzi's steady hands stayed on her forearms keeping her in place.
Veronica walked in glanced at them both clearly pondering whether to come in or dart away.
“Whats wrong with your face?” Azzi asked
“What?” she froze clearly trying not to get caught
“Your face,” she repeated, “what's wrong with it?”
“Theres nothing wrong with it” Veronica pushed
“You look like a kicked puppy V…” caroline applied
“I do no-” she tried
“Yes you do, what did you do?” Azzi asked unimpressed by her efforts “and don’t lie to me, you’re a terrible liar”
“I'm a great liar, I lied to Kate for weeks!” she protested
“No, you lied to her for MAYBE a week and then you caught feelings and everything that was supposed to be a lie became truth to you” Azzi stated “and I of all people can’t criticise you”
Veronica opened her mouth then closed it knowing there was nowhere else to go, because it was the truth, the horrific, awful, beautiful, lovely truth.
“The other night at the warehouse your father assigned me to,” Veronica started lowly “Kate, she came alone, to destroy it or burn it or whatever. And we fought and I had her pinned to the ground with a knife to her throat like I was going to take the life from those beautiful eyes I allowed myself to fall in love with.” Her voice shook as she continued “and she still looked up at me and asked if any of it was real, like she was begging me to prove something to her, to myself, and i-” her voice cracked as her tears fell from her lashes “ I told her none of it was real. How could I do that? She was the only real thing I've ever truly had, how could I look at her like she was nothing when in reality she was everything? Every smile, every laugh, every kiss and touch and silent prayer was the most alive I've ever felt, and now she's gone”
she wrapped her arms around her middle as she sank to her knees on the antique rug in Tim Fudd's office. Sitting on the floor letting her sobs run through her and then out of her. Somewhere on the way down Azzi and Caroline had joined her and wrapped her into their arms as she cried. None of them know how long they stayed on the floor wrapped up in one another but for the first time in days they all felt a little less alone.
Bobs Hospital Room—
Paige opened the door with almost too much force starting the new guards she'd placed to watch him in her abscess.
“Give us a minute” Bob said to the security guard, who glanced at Paige as if waiting for permission. Once she nodded he swiftly made his way out the door shutting it behind him softly in contrast to how it was opened.
Bob patted the spot on the bed in front of him with weak arm “come, tell me what happened”
Paige hesitated but went anyway, sitting close but just far enough that she didn't crack. She looked down at her hands that rested in her lap when she responded “ Im sure you already know, sure you have spies of your own checking up on me”
Bob let out a light laugh “maybe, but i want to hear it from you”
Paige finally looked up, and the calm look in her fathers strong but trusting eyes made everything worse “I messed up” her voice cracked “I let myself fall in love with someone I could never have and as it turns out none of it was real to her or i guess it was but she doesn't care, and in the tangle of my emotional war she burned down a warehouse that she shared with the Cunninghams to get back at me and-” she had to stop as a sob left her body and Bob reached up and ran his hand down her back in soothing stroke like he used to do for her as a child when her mom left and she could never understand why. “And Sophie, she, she took Drew” and that's when everything truly fell apart, all the walls built and sleepless nights came to head and she broke down in front of the one person she always strived to impress.
“What do you mean she took Drew” Bob asked his veins suddenly cold as ice
“She took him from practice, she called me to warn me that i had 2 days to double everything she lost or else…” She didn't need to go on; they both knew what happened when assets were lost. “We’re working around the clock and Nika is working on getting an inside on the Cunninghams, Kate is out gathering resources just in case I have to double it all while maintaining this war with the Fudds” she rambled on trying to get some strength back in her voice.
Bob looked down, worry written all over his aging face “and do we have confirmation he is still alive?” he asked
“I heard him in the back of Sophie's phone call last night, it was distant but id know him anywhere” she spoke more clearly now “but no contact has been made since that call”
“And when you say ‘The Fudds’ you mean…” he trailed off
“Yeah Azzi” she looked away not wanting to feel the emotions that just saying her name brought to the surface “turns out she was playing under my nose the whole time and i was blind because i allowed myself to love her when i knew better”
To Paige's surprise Bob didn't say anything, just stared out the window in thought. Then her phone dinged and she looked down to see a text from Nika
Nika: might have something, meet me in your office in 30
“I have to go” she looked back up at Bob, but as she tried to stand up he rested his hand on her arm
“We will get him back and sophie will pay for what shes done” hes spoke softly, probably the softest hes spoken to her since she was a child “you are a Bueckers and maybe you did mess up but you havent failed me and you certainly havent failed drew. Now go im sure its important” he removed his hand from her arm as she stood
“Ill bring him home, if its the last thing i do” she said to him as she walked towards the door
Bob just hummed in agreement but before she could fully leave he spoke again “paige” she turned to look at him “have that guard stay outside for now, i would like to be alone for a while”
She gave a small smile and offered a simple “of course” and closed the door behind her.
Once alone Bob pulled out his phone and scrolled until he found the one name, the one contact he thought he'd never have to use again. He stared at it for a minute pondering if it was actually worth the try. In the end he knew it was his only hope to get his son back despite his daughter's greatest efforts there was really only one match for the Cunninghams, so he pressed the call.
Fudd Mansion— Tims office
Azzi sat across from her father at his desk discussing which warehouse they anticipated Paige to hit next when Tim’s phone buzzed on the dark wood. Azzi and Tim glanced down at it and then back at each other once they saw the name. Azzi froze in an almost panic as Tim reached down and connected the call putting it on speaker for both of them to hear.
“Bob Bueckers, not a name i thought id every see come across my phone again” Tim spoke calmly
“Trust me,” Bobs voice cracked through the speaker “its not a call id ever thought id be making either”
“Then what could you possibly need, that possessed you to call us while we are at war?” Azzi spoke this time, voice full of authority.
“Aw Azzi, how i missed your voice” Bobs voice softened just a bit but the hardened just as fast “the warehouse that you burned down last night, it was a joint warehouse-”
“And what exactly does this have to do with us?” Azzi cut him off, already aggravated at the audacity “It is your daughter that started this war we were just returning the favor”
“Always straight to the point, some things never change” Bob remarked “but as I was saying it was a joint warehouse, joint with the Cunninghams" that made both Tim and Azzi perk up. Azzi knew of the family, knew they were known to to cruel and vile things just to get what they wanted even if it had no real benefit. “They lost a lot of their assets in that fire and are demanding double in return from us”
“Im sure paige can pull somethings together” Tim spoke again “nothing we can help with”
“Thats the thing, she didn’t just demand it she threatened it” he paused “with my sons life”
Azzi's head snapped up, Tim glanced up at her, seeing that growing faer of what was about to be said.
“What do you mean she threatened Drew?” she spoke trying to remain calm
“She took him from practice, we have no idea where hes being held and she gave paige 2 days as of last night to double what they lost or they will kill him” he pause momentarily before continuing “now im all for keeping the peace and returning lost assets but we both know sophie is not one to keep up her side of the bargain and I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't my son life”
“You think she’ll kill him anyway?” Azzi asked, softer this time.
“Yes,” Bob said somberly “and as much faith i have in my daughter to get those asset to her i need to know hes truly safe, she needs to know he’ll live”
They all sat in silence as Tim thought, Bob hoped and azzi spiralled about what might happen if she did end up killing Drew. Sure she and Paige fought and were literally at war with one another, but Drew was innocent. He was a child, a child that Paige fought so hard to keep from this world Azzi could only admire. All for it to be for nothing because Azzi picked the wrong warehouse to burn to ash.
“I know im in no position to ask for your help, but you're my only hope. You're his only hope. You're hers.” he said the last one so softly Azzi barley heard it, but it was all she needed for that switch to flip. Bob continued “you were raised to be the best assassin, and you are that for a reason, please Azzi.”
They sat in silence for a long before Tim finally spoke again
“We’ll discuss it, but no promises” cold, flat
“Thank you” bob almost sighed and the call went dead
Azzi Stayed starring at the phone even after it ended, thinking, wondering, hoping if drew were still alive. Hes just a kid. None of this is his fault.
Your hers
Azzi wasn't sure if he meant for her to hear it but she did, and deep down Azzi knew what would happen to Paige if she lost Drew. Despite all the anger and humiliation she's caused Azzi in the last weeks, even she didn't want paige to lose him. Azzi grew up alone, no siblings, dead mom, emotionally absent dad, and while paige didn’t live a picture perfect life either she did have Drew. Her first baby, her humanity. Azzi was upset, furious even, but not cruel.
“Azzi” her father snapped her out of her daydream as she looked back up at him.
“We have to save him” she said quickly “hes just a kid”
Tim sighed like he knew deep down he should fight it, but could see on his daughters face she’d decided already “Azzi-”
“No” she cut him off “hes just a kid, none of this is his fault and she will kill him without mercy if she feels like it” she pause letting the words sink in “Marcus would want us to help him” she said softly.
Tim let out another breath considering this before he spoke again “and this has nothing to do with your feelings towards Paige?”
That made Azzi pause
Tim spoke again “i saw the emotion flicker on your face when he mentioned her, you still love her, and because you still love her you don't want her to truly lose everything”
“I really wish i didnt” Azzi replied “it would make war much easier” Azzi sat for a moment before continuing. “I know Marcus was betrayed trying to end our family's war, but he did want it over and I think helping them might be the start of some form of peace. Wars cannot last forever, eventually they have to end, whether its in death or peace, and I think we've seen enough death.” she said softly
Tim stared at her for a long time, almost like he was remembering something she didn’t know
“You sound just like your mother” he remarked with a small barley there smile
contains: vet!paige x rookie!azzi. age gap (ten years). yearning. trolling. descriptions of anxiety. arguing in public. beginnings of a dom/sub relationship (?). a saved strawberry
word count: 7.9k
niyah speaks: chapta tres! im sorry it took so long, life had been eating my ass in the worse way. it starts off kinda slow, but i wanted to establish the angel and kea's involvement in their relationship and also, i love a good nosy friend group. enjoy freaks and geeks. proofread (not really). sponsored crooked smile by j.cole. inspired by trouble. lmk your thoughts per usual i love responding to you guys' anons about my writing lmfao.
"why are you at my house?" paige asked, staring up at both angel and rickea.
if they weren't both visibly taller than her, she'd have threatened them by now, but she knew that wasn't a battle she'd win.
"we're helping you get ready for the rookie dinner, of course." rickea pushed past paige, walking into the house like she had that right.
she did, but that wasn't the point.
tonight was the rookie dinner. it was a tradition that paige couldn't remember the origin of, but it always took place the weekend before the first game of the season. every season, all the players went to dinner with the rookie, so that they could feel like they were apart of the team.
it was meant to rid the rooks of any lines in the sand. so that they knew that they were just as important as anyone else. that they'd be loved and protected and held accountable just like the vets were.
paige didn't get a rookie dinner, but she always felt like it must be great to have that. she hated social interactions, but she always went to these.
"i'm a grown ass woman." she quipped, shutting the door and following them to her bedroom. "i don't need help getting dressed."
she didn't mind them coming over, but she knew damn well they weren't about to help her do a thing. these weren't just her teammates, they were her friends. and she knew them. they were here to be messy.
"no," angel agreed. "but you do need help with whatever you have going on with the rookie."
paige groaned. "i don't have anything going on with azzi."
angel spun around in the doorway of paige's room. with raised brows, she slowly pulled her lips into a knowing grin. "she's azzi now?"
paige sighed from her spot in the hallway, rubbing at the corners of her eyes.
that was a slip up. she'd never called azzi by her first name, but something in her brain began to mush over the last week.
she'd been keeping her distance— a respectable distance. far away enough that her name was no longer trending and henry from admin was so desperate for clips that he recorded aneesah and kk's fruit roll-up eating contest.
rickea tipped her head as she turned back around. "i'm just saying."
"maybe she's right, angel." rickea chimed in. "they got their own thing, after all."
paige flopped on her bed, covering her eyes with her arms. "bro."
she really needed them to stop.
"bro." rickea mocked.
"i'm not doing this with ya'll." paige shook her head beneath her arms, then she threw them out so they stuck in the air. "you just got here."
angel opened paige's closet. "never too soon to talk about you're lady boner for fudd."
paige made a stank face at the choice of words.
this couldn't be her fucking life.
"you're thirty-two years old using the term 'lady boner', and you wanna talk about me?"
"don't switch the subject, heffa." rickea pointed her finger like paige wasn't five whole years older than her. "what thingdo you and fudd have?"
paige shut her eyes and used every muscle in her body to keep from screaming. she knew it was coming. that eventually, she'd be interrogated about azzi's stupid retweet.
she had no response to give them about it. not an honest one, anyway. because she couldn't say that the water bottle clip wasn't anything, or that she didn't have something for azzi.
she was well beyond the point of lying to herself about the whole thing. that only seemed to make things worse. but she didn't know how to say that to the two nosiest, most pestering women in the W.
"we literally just played pick-up." she deadpanned.
"right." angel echoed from the depths of the closet. "and a game of pick-up had you fleeing the scene whenever she was in the room for an entire week."
"that wasn't no fucking pick up game." rickea said. "you were staring at her drink fucking water."
"that—" paige cut herself off. she took a moment to adjust her tone to something less defensive. something believable. "that clip was taken out of context."
"p."
rickea wasn't falling for it, and paige had to commend her. the woman refused to be lied to. but paige had a special talent for avoidance, and she wasn't about to fold.
"kea."
rickea crossed her legs in her chair and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. she cut her eyes and pushed her hair behind her shoulder. "so you really boutta sit in my face and lie like you don't notice when that woman's breathing patterns change."
"she's my rookie. i'm her vet." paige stayed solid. "she's twenty-three for fucks sake."
angel scoffed from the closet. "you act like you wasn't cougar hunting your rookie year."
"HELLO?" paige sat up then, whipping her head towards the closet. "will you shut the fuck up?"
she couldn't figure out if she was more offended by angel bringing up her past, or by the fact it had just been implied that she was a cougar.
she wasn't that fucking old. (and azzi wasn't that fucking young.)
"fine." rickea shrugged. "god forbid a 'grown as woman' addresses her feelings."
"rickea, i'm really boutta—"
she was cut off by her teammate waving her off and slouching into the chair. "you not gon do shit."
"oh damn." angel called out. "fudd and kk look hot."
"what?" paige looked at the closet again. "fudd and who?"
something her chest panged. some dark, animal-like thing that paige was scared to address because it wasn't supposed to be there.
quickly, she realized her mistake. rickea was giggling, shaking her head. "you gotta do better bruh."
she tried to shut her head up while angel made her way out of the closet and over to the bed, phone in hand. she flipped it around, shoving it in paige's face.
on the screen, azzi and kk were in a mirror. kk was beside azzi, with her arm curled around her waist. she was holding her there and azzi was flashing a little smile, her teeth peeking out of her top lip.
her hair was down and she had on black jeans and casual grey blouse. if she was wearing make-up, it wasn't dramatic.
kk's vibe seemed similar. dreads in a low bun, black button down, gray slacks.
hm. they were matching.
kk was shorter than azzi.
paige passed the phone back to angel, pulling her own out and burying herself in it. "they look cute."
"uh oh." that was rickea. "passive p."
—
paige knew that she'd feel this way the entire night. she'd made herself well aquainted with the tightness in her chest, and the stinging sensation that came with chewing into the meat of her inner-cheek.
she, angel and rickea were the second group to arrive, meeting kate and neesah at the table furthest from the door. for a second, paige felt a since of pride. sitting their with her teammates, waiting to carry a tradition that they created, she felt proud because as a group, they'd made a talent of creating community, and paige knew how badly that was needed.
she knew that in basketball, a strong team relationship was necessary for success. but more than that, she knew that moving somewhere new to be in competition with the best was hard enough as it is. doing it alone was nearly debilitating.
but then azzi and kk finally walked in, arms linked and laughing about something that could not have been that funny. they weren't late, they were just young.
they looked close. joyous. like they knew what the inside of each other's apartments looked like already. paige hadn't realized that they'd grown so fond of each other. that they'd reached the stage of Friendship where they posted pictures together and arrived at restaurants touching each other.
but paige would be calm. she'd go on the way she always did; quiet and observant. because anything that made her stomach turn the way it was, had to be trouble. and azzi fudd was the twenty-three year old physical embodiment of trouble.
⇆
azzi had been at the bar, where she always tried to be when she was in a public setting that required an abnormal amount of posturing.
it wasn't that she felt like she had to be Something Else for her teammates. she'd gone to that club with them, played with them, stalked the team group chat while they trolled each other— she knew that she'd fit in relatively well with the group.
but she'd always struggled with the feeling of belonging. she'd always been able to blend in, to vibe with whoever. but there were only a handful of time in azzi's life where she felt like she belonged. like she belonged to people the way they belonged to her. like they were meant for each other in whatever capacity of relationship she was trying for.
she knew that she belonged to sarah and jana. she knew she belonged to her family, and to basketball and to the color pink. but she didn't feel like she belonged to the golden state valkyeries, or to california or to the WNBA.
so she sat at the bar, nursing a vodka cran that she'd taken exactly two sips of. she'd said her hello's at the table after arriving with kk. everyone seemed happy to see her— she was one out of the two rookies attenting the rookie dinner, but azzi couldn't shake the out of place feeling she'd been stuck with since she arrived at kk's house to get ready.
kk— with the confidence of a mediocre white man— had fit right in at the table. she sat across from anessah and instantly started their usual banter.
azzi tried to make due at the table. to make herself noticable enough for someone to talk to her. but everyone was chatting amongst themselves. everyone had relationships with each other already— even kk had rapport with the vets.
there, at that table, she realized that she had spent so long focused on the wrong things. she'd been so locked in on making the roster and every little step paige made, that she hadn't even thought to make fucking friends.
she was sitting across from people she'd be around for the better part of the next four years, and she had no idea who they were. so much time had passed that she didn't know how to start getting to know them.
and to top it all off, the only person whose attention azzi truly wanted, hadn't looked in her direction since she walked in. paige had been the only other person at the table who wasn't wrapped up in a conversation, instead she was zeroed in on her phone. maybe azzi had truly fucked up with the twitter thing. maybe paige decided she wasn't worth the bad press. or maybe paige had never given a fuck all along and azzi had been grasping at straws with the same amount of desperation she'd been feeling at the bar.
azzi thought about that as she watched the bartender fly from one side of his section to the other, trying to keep up with his patrons. she'd felt better there, alone rather than lonley. she'd always be more comfortable feeling sorry for herself in private, rather than in the faces of her peers. not that they'd notice, but azzi didn't want to risk them seeing her like this.
rook buddy: the waitress is here to get our orders wya?
rook buddy: come getcho food sista
former opp: comingg
azzi's mind swirled through various origin points for anxiety.
for one: she'd have to go back to the table and be around everyone again. to watch their togetherness from the outside.
two: they were probably all wondering why she left to sulk alone like a weirdo.
and three: she had no idea what the hell she wanted to eat. she hadn't even really looked at the damn menu and she was probably going to end up sputtering through the whole interaction with their waitress because she hadn't given herself the required amount of time for her to make a decision.
azzi sipped her drink again and placed the glass back down, leaving it there when she left.
she tried to calm herself down on her way back to the table, but she was just so fucking out of place. by the time she made it, the waitress was swaying side to side on her feet as she wrote on her notepad. she'd been standing long enough for her feet to ache, and azzi just knew she was about to ruin this woman's night.
she slipped into her seat, opened the menu and ran her eyes over the choices while kk ordered. she was next, and there wasn't any chance in hell that she'd know what she wanted in time. she felt sick to her stomach as she tried her best to find something that she might like.
god, she felt sweaty. like she was about to testify in court, rather than order her dinner. she hated making decisions. she hated choosing. and she hated the fact that she didn't think about that before retreating to the bar.
"and for you?" the waitress— her nametag said brielle— asked, nodding towards azzi.
everyone's eyes were on her. every neck turned in her direction, like they'd forgotten she was even there, much less noticed her return.
azzi swallowed, smiling at the waitress.
"um…" she forced her eyes back on the menu. "i think i'll go with…"
she was stalling, and she knew it was painfully obvious. her brain was literally malfunctioning in front of her teammates— her mentors.
she should have just stayed at the table. she shouldn't have let herself be so affected by everyone and paige with her stipid phone and it's practical wallet/phone case.
she wanted to cry. she'd internally given up on her fight to make a decision. she'd slowly closed her eyes and accepted her defeat. this was how she'd die. in a random restaurant, after failing to choose a meal she wouldn't be paying for.
she sighed, opening her eyes and turning to kk, who was staring at azzi like she had IDIOT written across her forehead in big red letters.
they held that look— kk confused and azzi mortified— until azzi began to lose herself in her breakdown.
"she'll have the garlic prawn pasta with broccoli."
azzi didn't register the words at first. it wasn't until kk's head finished creaking in paige's direction that azzi realized what was happening.
"garlic prawn…" brielle repeated, tongue out in concetration as she scribbled on her notepad. "…broccoli." when she finished, she smiled at azzi.
"okay!" brielle chirped, shoving her notepad into the pocket of her apron. "i've got everyone. i'm gonna get these turned in and i'll check in with you guys in a few!"
azzi stayed on paige while everyone passed the menus back to brielle. at first, azzi thought she'd gone insane. that maybe this wasn't a major life event and she was just losing it. because everyone just went back to what they were doing. talking, laughing—whatever. even paige pulled her phone back out and for a total of 30 seconds, her eyes didn't leave it.
but then she looked up, and azzi caught those blues. she held them, telepathically screaming why did you just do that?!
paige hadn't so much as looked at azzi the whole night. and then all of a sudden, she takes it upon herself to order her fucking food. as if azzi needed saving— needed her.
azzi couldn't even be mad. well— she could be mad. she could scrape her pride together and be angry at the fact that paige didn't give her the chance to get herself together or whatever, but that wasn't what her brain had chosen to focus on.
it could have been worse. azzi could have just kept sputtering over the menu and everyone would have kept looking at her like she was having a fucking stroke. no, azzi was more confused than anything.
because why had paige done that? why was azzi so fucking relieved? and what the hell what she supposed to do now?
azzi didn't know if her bewilderment was evident on her face, but paige didn't stop looking at her. she kept her head down and her phone in her hand, but she was staring right back at azzi.
if was… uncomfortable. azzi felt uncomfortable. with the feeling of paige loooking at her— watching her enough to recognize the fact that she was incapable of ordering her own pasta. she was uncomfortable with the level of relief she felt when brielle finally left and she wasn't on the spot anymore. she was uncomfortable with the lack of anger in her body and even moreso with the levels of gratitude she felt for the woman who'd ignored her existence for the past forty-five minutes.
but she just kept looking. kept letting paige look.
—
"don't shoot!"
azzi stood on the pavement with her arms crossed over her chest really wishing she actually had a weapon to blow kk's fucking head off.
"kamorea." she deadpanned.
kk folded her hands together and bent at her knee's, poking her lip out. "aneesah wants to go get drinks!"
azzi furrowed her brows and popped her neck out, because she couldn't give less of a fuck about kk's sex life. she was tired, and she was humiliated and confused. she wanted to go bed so she could replay the night's events and obsess over them in private.
"you are my ride." she gritted out.
"i'll send you uber money, i swear."
"it's not about the mon-" azzi sighed. she was annoyed beyond the point of explaining why. "just go."
"yes!" kk jumped and hugged azzi. "thank you so much azzlington!" she kissed her cheek and began to dart away to car, where aneesah had been waiting. "text me when you get home!"
azzi nodded and rolled her eyes at the same time.
she wasn't even that mad. she didn't care that kk was bailing on her, or why she was bailing on her. it was the inconvenience of it all.
she just wanted to home, and she'd now have to wait minutes outside for an uber. it wasn't cold, or physically uncomfortable. but the air of the night made the exposed feeling azzi had been wearing all evening, ten times worse.
"fuck." she whined, pulling out her phone and searching for the uber app.
if she wasn't a twenty-three year old adult, she'd have stomped a foot and cried real tears. it just wasn't fair— she didn't know what wasn't fair but she knew something was was karmically unbalanced.
she chewed on her lip as she tapped at her screen, trying to find the women drivers feature.
but before she could complete her task, azzi caught a scent of valentino cologne right beside her.
"need a ride?"
it was paige. in her stupid outfit with her stupid cologne that was so good and strong that azzi could smell it out in the open.
she didn't turn her head, but she cut her eyes so that she was giving paige her nastiest side eye. she wasn't looking at her phone, but she tapped it harder than she was before.
"i can uber." she said.
"you don—"
"i'm going to uber." azzi cut her off.
paige huffed but still stood there. breathing all of azzi's air and taking up all the space she wanted. azzi wanted to rip her fucking hair out and scream what the hell do you want from me?!
instead, she dropped her arm to her side and turned her full body towards paige. she squared her shoulders and kept her face as nuetral as she could.
"what?" she asked. because she wanted paige to go away, or to stay or to do something other than standing there like everything was normal.
she shouldn't have been this worked up, and she didn't know why she was. but paige decided to stand there, so she was going to have to deal with it.
azzi held eye contact, despite the fact that she felt herself shrinking under paige's gaze. still, she kept her feet planted and chest out.
"i can take you home." she didn't say it softly, like it was a favor that azzi needed. it came out like a fact. like it was the obvious choice. "it's on my way."
"you don't know where i live, paige." azzi rolled her eyes.
something akin to a smirk crossed paige's mouth for just a second, but then it was gone and she was back to the stone face that ordered azzi's pasta.
"they've been putting the rookies in the same complex for the past ten years, azzi."
she said her name in that condescending way that every undercover villain does. where they haven't done anything wrong, but somehow, you still know your name isn't safe in their mouth.
"i don't care." azzi wanted to stomp her foot. as if that would solify the fact that she didn't need paige. "i'm still not going—"
paige cocked her head to the side and stuffed her hands in her pockets before she interrupted. "why?"
in the span of two seconds, azzi had a tiny internal monologue, in which she told herself you don't have to explain anything to her… but maybe explain it anyway and make it a little mean because you deserve to be mean.
"because i'm a fully grown adult, who is perfect capable of getting my own self home, and ordering my own food and—"
"that's what you're mad about?" paige asked.
azzi froze for a second. then, she felt her shoulders drop a little. "i'm not mad."
she wasn't. azzi wasn't angry. she didn't know what she felt, or who the feeling was directed at. but here she was.
paige wasn't buying it, and she didn't seem to care much about the fact that azzi was "mad" or whatever other emotion was being misconstrued. she looked over azzi before landing right back at her eyes. bluntly, like it was obvious, she said, "you're pissed."
azzi's shoulders popped right back up to their position below her ears. "what are you even doing right now?" dramatically, she gestured to the parking lot, where their teammates were beginning to peel out. "everyone else is gone and you're standing here peer pressuring me into letting you take me home… for what?"
paige broke the eye contact then (finally.) and azzi found herself feeling an absurd sense of pride. paige's eyes moved from hers onto the abyss of the parking lot behind her. she said nothing, and for a some reason, azzi felt like she'd won.
"hello?" she continued, scrunching her face. "you don't hear me talking to you? suddenly you're dea—"
paige slid a hand onto azzi's back and began to usher her off the curb. "come to my car."
azzi planted her feet, stopping the both of them. she'd hyperfixate on the way paige's thumb felt on her skin —and the way the blonde didn't just leave her— later. for now, she was hellbent on whatever point she was trying to prove.
"i just said—"
paige pushed at her back. not hard, but enough for azzi to willingly begin moving again. "just walk, fudd."
"fine." she grumbled. then, quieter, she whispered. "fucking. fine."
and so she allowed herself to be guided across the parking lot until they reached an obnoxiously large black truck.
"you would drive a yukon." she said, stepping to the side so paige could open the passenger side door. "why would you ever need a car this big?"
"i have siblings." paige responded. "my siblings have kids."
"unctie paige." azzi quipped, stepping into the car. "i remember during unrivaled 2026 everyone was calling you that."
"yeah they saw like… three pictures of me with mila and ran with that." paige nodded, smiling to herself.
when paige got in the car, she didn't talk. no one talked. there was no music, either. but for some reason, the silence wasn't tense. at least not to azzi, who was trying and failing not to stare at paige as she drove. she admired the way that even when the only light came from cars passing, paige was beautiful.
finally— shockingly— paige broke the quiet.
"so you gonna tell me why you physically resisted getting in my car, fudd?" she looked over at azzi quickly before turning back to the road. "i thought we had our own thing for real?"
azzi winced at the quote of her tweet. she'd known she shouldn't have done that while she was doing it. but the regret didn't begin to settle in until day two of silence from paige. and now, paige was just throwing it out like it meant nothing.
"i don't know, bueckers." azzi said, tight lipped and mildly irritated. "you're confusing. i don't like being confused."
softly, paige asked, "how am i confusing you?"
earlier, i was azzi. now, i'm fudd.
"one minute, we're teammates and we're playing pick-up, and the next you don't talk to me for a week." azzi said, turning in her seat so she was leaned against the door, facing paige. "then the next you're ordering my incredibly over-price shrimp pasta."
"i um—" paige cleared her throat, leaned forward, then scooted down so she was slouching in the driver's seat. "i don't do well with the media. i spent my teens and twenties with my name in everyone's mouth. magazines, fan pages, sports analysts with think pieces that came so far out of left field that i almost killed myself trying to prove them wrong."
azzi remembered what it was like before paige disappeared from the internet. everyone—including her— had been so obsessed with her. every outfit, every soundbite, every facial expression was put under a microscope.
and paige had spoken about how annoying it was to have everyone in her business. she'd been loud about her want for privacy but no one listened. they still took every little thing she did and made it something much bigger.
"when henry posted that video— that caption— he knew what that looked like. what that would start. and it worked. everyone erupted and you played into it." paige didn't sound mad, but there was something in her voice that sounded like pain. "i know it was a joke. i used to do that same thing. but it made me nervous."
"i didn't mean anything by it." azzi tried to be as honest as she could be without admitting that there was a part of her that thought she and paige did have their own thing. that they were going to be something more than teammates. friends, maybe. "and i didn't mean to make you feel that way. i'm sorry."
"it's okay." paige said. "i'm sorry for confusing you."
"it's okay." azzi repeated in the same tone as paige. quiet but sure. "you had a reason."
paige drove into the parking lot of azzi's apartment complex. she didn't park, she just pulled up to the entrance and pressed the brake. "we're here."
azzi tried not to be sad about the fact the conversation was going to end. she tried to keep her face neutral as she grabbed her purse off the floor of the car.
"thank you." she smiled, opening her door. "for the ride. and for the apology."
paige pressed her lips together and nodded once. "thank you for listening and accepting it."
⇆
paige watched azzi walk into the lobby of her apartment complex. she didn't pull away until she saw her enter the elevator. when she left the parking lot, she chose to take the long way home, passing up the highway entrance and turning her music all the way up.
she hadn't meant for the conversation to go the way it did. she hadn't planned on any conversation, but she especially hadn't planned on that one. she'd planned on watching azzi from across the table because creepy stalker lurking was better than interrogating azzi about the nature of her and kk's relationship.
but then azzi left the table with a sad smile to go sit at the bar alone. her back was to paige, but she could see the slouch in her shoulders, the way she was almost folded over the bar. she'd looked so… hopeless. and it set paige off.
she didn't know why azzi wasn't being herself, and she didn't know how she was supposed to fix that— but she was bothered. by the look on azzi's face, by the way she was visibly in her shell. it wasn't right.
the restaurant was full and angel and rickea had spent the entire drive there pestering paige about azzi, so she made it a point to not talk to the girl—woman— the entire evening. she'd tried not to look at her but… you see how well that turned out.
paige assumed kk had removed her head from neesah's ass long enough to let azzi know the waitress had come to get everyone's orders because azzi made it just in time.
paige observed azzi's every movement. the way her hands shook as she held the menu over her face. the way she squeaked a little when the waitress asked her order. azzi was a wreck, and again—paige didn't know how she was supposed to fix that. but she could solve this one issue.
she ordered for azzi because it was the nice thing to do, and clearly the girl was struggling. everyone stared at her like she'd done something out of pocket, and maybe she had. but she didn't care about how everyone was looking at her, she cared about the way every muscle in azzi's face relaxed once the waitress left.
that was all paige wanted.
by the end of the dinner, angel had texted paige four times with different questions relating to azzi fudd. paige ignored them all.
she planned on going straight home, taking a boiling hot shower, and going the fuck to bed. she didn't argue with azzi because she wanted to take her home. she was just caught up in that adorable scowl— scowl was the only appropriate word— that azzi had painted on her face. she was trying her hardest to be mad and paige couldn't just walk away from that.
but then she saw that man recording their conversation from across the parking lot, and everything got real serious real quick. she hated that. the way people just thought it was okay to record other people. the way she was supposed to just let them record or photograph her because she was a celebrity— as if her privacy was the price she had to pay to society.
it was bullshit, and she refused to let it happen again— to her or azzi. she got them behind 5% tint as quickly as she could, but somehow, she'd exposed herself more than the man with the phone ever could.
she'd always had an… iffy relationship with vulnerability. but hearing azzi—watching her choose to be honest with paige about why she'd had an attitude… it was enough for paige to be honest with her too.
the truth felt safe in that car, with azzi. and she hadn't regretted it, but it made her scared. she wasn't supposed to talk to azzi. she wasn't supposed to order her food, or be recorded with her again, or take her home.
somehow, she'd done all three.
—
when she woke up the next morning, paige didn't even want to check her phone. she knew whatever that man had gotten last night would be swirling, and she didn't want to deal with the media, with her team, with her friends. but mostly, she didn't want to deal with herself.
her chest already hurt from anxiety and she hadn't even seen what was being said yet. she hated that she let herself get like this, but she also knew she'd earned the right.
she knew what it was like to be crucified. the memories would be burned into her brain forever. she could hardly even remember almost a decade of her life because the moment she turned twenty, she wasn't paige anymore. she was everything she'd ever wanted be and more. she was grateful. honestly, she was.
but being what she wanted— being one of the greats— made her feel like she wasn't a person. she hated that. and she swore she wouldn't go back to watching herself outside of her body. she'd done good for the most part. she'd controlled her image, and accumulated enough money that she wouldn't have to take a random brand deal ever again.
she played basketball, she did pre/post game media, she smiled in pictures with fans, she signed autographs. and that was it. that was all she was comfortable with. no interviews, no magazines, no podcasts. she loved it like that.
so no, she didn't want to check her phone. but she knew she had to. that she couldn't be coward because this wasn't just her anymore. it was azzi, too. and if she was going to do damage control, she had to know everything.
when she unlocked her phone, she ignored the texts and calls from her PR team, angel, rickea, aneesah, kate, drew, lauren, ryan and her dad. she went to twitter first because that seemed to be where all evil spawned.
the original video had been posted by a man named scott williams. paige and azzi were in the parking lot talking. paige's hands were in her pockets at first, and she was looking at azzi like she was the most interesting thing in the world.
it could have been harmless.
but then paige said something and azzi began talking with her hands. then paige put her hand on azzi's lower back and they walked to the car. and then paige opened the fucking door for her like the gentlewoman she was.
the video had been retweeted fourteen thousand times.
rambowoman: paige has that girl on a leash lmao
⤷wlworginator: azzi is write where she wants to be tho
k8nnedy: the way paige didn't even push her she just put her hand there. FAWWWKKK
⤷pimpmommyniyah: and azzi just walked her happy ass to the car they are sooooooo
allteaallshade: mind you paige is ten years older than her…
⤷nmibizness: they both grown tho
⤷allteaallshade: 23 vs 32 is an insane age gap tho? like… azzi JUST got to the league
reese10angel: the devil works quick, lesbian twitter works quicker
⤷iamthathooper: guh im tb they didn't hesitate for a SECOND
hcneymooners: they are The Secret Third Thing.
paige left the app after that.
she had no one to blame but herself. she'd always had a special talent for fucking herself over, but more than that, she had a special talent for bringing everyone else down with her. she couldn't— wouldn't— do that to azzi.
she texted natalie and left her house before she got a text back.
coach: do you know fudd's address?
⇆
azzi woke up on the cold tile of her bedroom floor. she woke up like this alot because she hadn't set up her bed frame yet, and she was a wild sleeper. she always ended up rolling off of her mattress on the floor.
she hadn't set any of her apartment up yet. she had a boneless couch that she'd bought on amazon and a single lamp that stood in the corner of her living room, unplugged.
she kept telling herself she'd get to making her home more homey when she had the time, but she never really did. she was always working or sleeping or freaking the fuck out.
she'd been doing that— freaking the fuck out— since she rolled back onto her mattress and checked her phone. she and paige were trending… again. literally hours after she promised paige it wouldn't happen again.
and this time it was worse. this wasn't a valks sanctioned buddy post. this was fuel for rumors and stories to be spun.
she didn't even know how she found herself in this shit. she was always clean cut. always media and family friendly. but now, she was the girl being pushed by paige bueckers in a parking lot. she was paige's sugar baby, her Younger Woman, her mid-life crisis.
the knock at her door terrified her more than it should have and she ran to the door with ehr bladder still full because she hadn't even taken her morning piss yet. when she looked throught peephole, she nearly peed on herself. she did stop breathing and she did rip the door open so fast that the hinges had to have loosened.
"paige?"
"goodmorning." she smiled (kind of.) "i got breakfast. have you eaten at the grove yet?"
azzi squinted ot make sure she wasn't actually going crazy. she wasn't. paige was actually there, in her doorway. in a black tee shirt and black sweats, diamond earrings still in from last night. with a beanie on her head., she had her glasses on. and sure enough, she was clutching a bag of food in her hand.
"uh- no." azzi shook her head. "you're at my house."
she couldn't believe it. she didn't know what in the world was happening, but she couldn't believe that this was her life.
"yes."
"why?"
"well i originally came to check on you, but now i need to ask you where you got my college sweats from."
azzi looked down at herself— braless in a white tube top and navy uconn sweats that jose had gotten for her as a dupe birthday present. little did he know, azzi would keep them until the day she fucking died.
"they're— they're not yours." she sputtered, hoping that paige hadn't caught the #5 on the right of the husky logo.
"they have my number on them."
deciding that pride was the only thing she had left, azzi shrugged and steeled her face. "i was a fan."
"so i've heard." paige nodded, lifting the bag. "you gonna let me in?"
"shit— yes. here." azzi stepped back, opening the door wider. paige stepped in and looked around. "i um… i haven't really set anything up, yet."
the blonde turned around, looking unmistakably irritated. "you've been here a month."
"i know." azzi fidgeted with her hands and looked down at her bare feet. "i just don't know where to start."
"we'll work on it."
she looked up, then. "we will?"
paige, with her brows still furrowed and her lips still tight, didn't give a direct answer. she just nodded to the kitchen island and waved her hand for azzi to follow.
it was like this wasn't azzi's place anymore, because she followed dumbly.
"let's eat." paige said, untying the bag. "and talk. we'll eat and talk about what's happening."
there it was.
azzi felt her face get hot with shame and empathy and utter regret. because paige said she had had been there to "check on her" but the reason for the checking had escaped her. they were a story at the moment, and paige was doing damage control.
"you've seen."
"yup." she popped the p at the end as she slid a styrofoam to-go box towards azzi. "how are you dealing with it?"
azzi sat down and wrapped her fingers around the sides of the box. it was warm in her hands.
she looked up at paige, who was looking at her own food. she wasn't eating, or getting ready to eat. she was just staring at the plate. azzi didn't know what the intentional lack of eye contact was supposed to mean, or what she was supposed to say, so she chose to be safe, telling the woman before her that she was fine.
paige looked up, fingers in tight fists. she looked uncomfortable, which was unusual. paige always owned every room she walked in. she'd even made azzi feel like a guest in her own home. but now, she looked like she didn't fully know what she was doing.
"don't lie to me, azzi." she almost sounded offended.
azzi opened her mouth, then closed it again. because what was she supposed to say? was she expected to complain about a situation that she'd put herself in? that he'd put the both of them in?
"i don't know." she shrugged. "i just woke up like five minutes ago."
paige sat with that for a second, deciding if it was a worthy response. then, she nodded like she decided she'd take the excuse. "fair enough."
azzi thought back to the car. where paige was honest when she didn't have to be. and she decided that she didn't want to lie to her, or half-ass a conversation between them. paige had let her know that it didn't have to be that way, so she wasn't going to let it.
azzi sighed and pressed both of her palms against the marble of the counter. "i just feel really bad. i promised you i'd keep you out of the headlines like… thirteen hours ago. and now i'm your mid-life crisis."
paige's face turned a pretty pink then, her plush creeping all the way up her face, beyond the line of her beanie. she was so pretty and toned. the all black outfit was really doing things for azzi, but thoughts like that were what got her in this in the first place.
"don't feel bad for me." paige shook her head. "it's just noise. we aren't in season right now and everyone's bored. it'll go away as soon as something else happens."
"how do you know?"
"i've played these games before." paige answered. she said it so plainly. but there was more there. paige was a mystery to her but azzi knew at least that much. "i'm used to it."
"you get used to it?"
their eyes met. azzi swallowed. paige blinked. "you shouldn't have to, but yeah. you do."
"everyone's gonna think that we're…" she looked back to her to go box because she was not saying that out loud. "i don't want this to mess up my season. or like… effect how everyone see's me."
"it won't." she sounded sure. like it was fact, solid, inevitable.
and something in azzi told her not to trust it. that paige was making too many promises for them to be honest. "but how do you know that?"
the tiniest smile danced across those pink lips and like it was the most obvious thing in the world, paige said, "because i'll take care of it."
the statement sat in the air. the two of them stared at each other, an understanding be engraved into the both of them. azzi didn't know how, but she knew that everything was going to be okay. maybe she was stupid, naive, even. but she trusted paige. trusted that she'd take care of it.
she ignored the part of her begging to be let out. the stupid teenage daydream version of herself that wanted to scream take care of me, please!
she cleared her throat. "and what about you?"
paige let out a big huff of air and laughed in a way that didn't feel like she was mocking azzi. "i've had worse things assumed about me than being into you."
azzi blinked. she straightened in her seat and willed paige's eyes to find hers again.
what the fuck am i supposed to do with that??? she'd been in a state of bewilderment since she'd woken up. and nowpaige bueckers was saying shit like that over breakfast in azzi's kitchen.
she needed to pee, she needed to think, and she needed to call her friends so that they could make sense of all this for her because it was entirely beyond her at that point.
and paige seemed to catch onto azzi's bafflement bent because she pointed her fork at azzi's plate and smiled big. "now eat your waffle, please."
azzi smiled back and nodded because that was nice and appropriate. she had a standard waffle, topped with whipped cream and whole strawberries and peanut butter chips. she wasn't hungry, but she'd eat because paige brought it and told her to.
she opened the plastic ware that came with the meal and began cutting up her waffle into bite-able chunks.
she looked up to see paige watching her, so with extra-emphasis, she stabbed her fork into a piece of waffle and a strawberry that was slathered in whipped cream. she raised her fork, fully prepared to make a show of eating her damn waffled, but of course, the universe hated her.
her strawberry tumbled off the plastic fork, and onto the counter, then rolled. just when it rolled off the counter, paige caught it. because of course she did.
then—because azzi needed one more thing to short circuit over—she raised the strawberry up, holding it with the tips of her fingers, and asked "need help?"
she was looking at azzi like she wanted to do something to her. dark blue eyes even darker than usual, jaw tight, lips soft and wet with syrup.
god fucking damn.
as if she'd lost her ever-loving mind, azzi bent down, keeping her eyes on paige. she took the strawberry between her lips, making sure she made contact with paige's hand with a softness that was stupidly intentional.
she sat back up, still looking at paige. she fully expected paige to say something along the lines of what the hell is wrong with you? instead, paige brought her hand up and licked the whipped cream off her palm, still boring into azzi.
what. the. fuck.
paige looked at her like she knew exactly what was happening in her mind. like she could see the want all over her face. and maybe she could. maybe she could see azzi fighting the molten heat that had been haunting her since azzi opened her door.
still, azzi didn't move. she sat there with her spine locked so tight it hurt. because if she moved—if she so much as breathed, honestly— it would all unravel.
paige's phone vibrating on the counter made azzi lean back in her seat. mercifully, the moment was broken. paige answered, turning so her back to was facing azzi.
now that she was alone-ish, azzi threw her head back shook her fists in the air, letting out a silent scream.
"hello?" paige spoke into the phone. "yeah. yeah, alright. i'm on my way."
"i gotta go. my manager want to see me so we can talk about… all of this." paige said, putting her plate back in the bag with a speed that made azzi think she'd royally fucked this up. "i'll see you at the arena?" azzi nodded. "and then after practice we can fix this apartment."
"wait what—" but paige was already walking out the door.
"okay? i'll see you?"
she didn't acknowledge the fact that she was talking to a shut door. she just slouched in her chair, and rubbed at her eyes. then, she went to the fucking bathroom.
Summary: Paige chooses her words carefully. She’s never had to talk about Gabby before, never had to wade into describing the dynamic. So many times over the last ten months, she’s thought about Gabby and wondered what her perspective would be.
Authors Note: Thank you to family fc and also to my fantastic thought partners, @nellstark and @buffalo1221, who give countless hours reading, brainstorming, and editing.
Hot Lap Chapter 9: Monza
Storrs, CT
Paige has an eighth grade English essay she’s supposed to be working on. Some nonsense about analyzing the destructive nature of Catherine and Heathcliff’s obsessive love in Wuthering Heights. She’s of the opinion that Heathcliff and Catherine are both wholly terrible and absolutely deserve to make each other miserable, but she’s going to have to find a longer way to say that.
Preferably in three to five pages, double spaced.
All to say, Paige is supposed to be working on her English essay, but in reality she’s watching YouTube coverage of the latest karting race on the F4 circuit from Shanghai. The commentary is in Mandarin, obviously, but Paige doesn’t need commentary to understand the difficult chicanes and daring overtake moves.
The feed has been following the track leader. He made some good moves initially, but has since been coasting pretty easy.
Paige is just considering whether she ought to actually get started on her essay when an email alert pops up. She almost swipes it away but then her eyes catch on the subject line.
She switches to her email, interested to see what the google alert on Azzi Fudd has picked up.
Mercedes Announces 2016 Lauda Fellowship Award
—--Brackley, UK: Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team announced that the 2016 Lauda Fellowship has been awarded to third year Imperial College London student Azzi Fudd. Ms. Fudd received her undergraduate MEng degree with Honours in Aeronautical Engineering from Imperial College London and is currently pursuing a PhD in Advanced Aeronautical Engineering and Computational Methods at the same institution. The Lauda Fellowship is a highly-competitive two-year occupational integrated engineering program. Ms. Fudd is a native of Fairfax, VA (United States), and a graduate of Boston’s The Gallagher School.
Azzi Fudd is going to Mercedes.
That’s so cool.
Paige follows her on Twitter. Not that the account has Azzi Fudd’s name attached, but Paige knows it's her. Her observations on races are sharp, and she’s funny.
Mercedes, though. That’s super fucking cool. Must be her dream come true, to work for an F1 team. That’s the ultimate dream; working in Formula 1. It’s what Paige thinks about when she’s trying to go to sleep. It’s why she lives so far away from her dad.
Everything to chase the dream.
She reads the announcement again, saving it. She does a quick google search of The Gallagher School and learns it’s a fancy academic academy in Boston. The kind that looks like it costs more than Paige could ever dream of.
Paige switches back to the YouTube channel and the karting race.
Maybe someday she’ll be good enough to drive for Formula 1 and she’ll meet Azzi Fudd.
—--
Monaco
The jet lands at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport just before nine. The Urus is waiting for her on the edge of the airstrip, delivered by whatever service her manager pays to make things happen. Maybe there are some parts of the good life that she’s started to lean into; the best part of being an F1 driver is never having to justify that she wants to fucking drive.
So many of the other drivers also live in Monaco and most of them prefer to take a helicopter from the airport in France over the border to Monaco; Paige always enjoys time in the car. She puts some moody SZA on and settles into the leather seat. It’s a fine drive; not majestic or all that pretty at night, but she’s alone and in a sick fucking car, and that’s enough.
Driving also gives her time to think, though that’s a complicated pastime these days. There are so many questions that have no answers, and all of them take up space in her head. Definitely not rent free, because she feels like she’s paying for it. The fight between Diana and Sue is still a mystery, and Azzi’s involvement makes it relevant. The purple dress also plagues Paige’s thoughts, imagining it draped on Azzi’s body. But fantasies turn into dread thoughts, because the issue of the connection between Azzi and Sabrina also circles.
At least Paige can be proud of herself for holding to her resolve. Things were good with Azzi, in Zandvoort. No crashouts, no heated exchanges. Just collaboration and trust and a little bit of connection.
Even while losing a fucking bet. God, Paige had no business making it in the first place.
Her apartment in Monaco is in Fontvieille, the waterfront district. It’s fancy and modern and Phee’s fiance owns the building, hence the steep discount. Paige appreciates the connect but she hates everything about Monaco; it’s small and insular and the wealth is grotesque. She only decided to move there in a fit of rage after the Abu Dhabi blow up, because clearly living in Azzi’s apartment in Brackley was no longer an option for her home base. She needed to make decisions to give herself a sense of control — no matter how rash or stupid the decisions were.
By the time she parks and takes the resident elevator to her floor, Paige’s body has started to feel like lead. The effects of the race linger, of course, but it’s compounded by everything else. One weekend back and it’s already started to build, all the things that are eating her from the inside out. She tries to breathe it out as she stares at herself in the reflection of the elevator, but it only partly works.
The flat came furnished, and Paige has brought almost nothing new into the mix. The walls are bare other than the tasteful pieces of art that the designer put up; an abstract oil painting in the living room, a watercolor of the harbor in the hallway. Paige stuck the photostrip of her and Nika from the Mercedes Christmas party a few years ago onto the fridge and called it a day.
There’s a luggage stand at the foot of her bed. It’s always there, her carry-on always laid out and open whenever she’s in Monaco. Paige puts it there now, unzips it to lay flat and grabs her clothes to toss them in the laundry.
She orders dinner and showers while she waits; not the quick scrub from the motor home, but a long and steaming session, sitting on the built-in stone bench and letting the water cascade over her head. She’ll have another massage tomorrow, be stretched out and have her muscles attended to. That was the biggest shock about jumping from F4 to F3; learning that her body’s a tool.
There’s a Vietnamese place she likes to order from. The pho sits warm in her belly, the spicy broth everything that feels good after a long weekend; especially in Monaco where the air conditioning is turned up high. Higher, even, than Paige feels, locked in an ivory tower.
Her hair hangs half wet about her, the ends dripping into sodden patches that stretch across her shoulders. She puts the TV on while she eats; she’s watching Severence, and also Traitors. Neither of them align in any way with her mood or her interests, but too many other shows remind her of Azzi, of their life in Brackley. They’d binged so many shows together, curled up on Azzi’s shitty couch. Most of the time, Azzi had also been working on something — numbers or models or assessments — while Paige yapped her own commentary as well.
Sometimes when Paige wants it to hurt extra badly, she’ll re-watch the episode of Schitt’s Creek where David sings to Patrick.
There are about three hundred text notifications on her phone; fully half of them are from the only group chat that Paige doesn’t have muted — the vacation group. She scans the messages lazily, reaction responds to Veronica’s picture of her foundation leaking all over her suitcase and laughing at the photo Kate sent earlier, of Nika availing herself to a drumstick from the Haas hospitality suite.
Then she wades through the rest of the notifications, pasting the same response to most of the congratulations for being on the podium.
Thanks! Car felt good, looking forward to Monza!
It’s eleven p.m. in Monaco, which means it’s four in Minnesota. Drivers like their routines, prefer to keep to the same pre and post race habits; Paige opens her contacts and calls her dad.
“Hey, honey. Great race.”
It’s verbatim what he texted her earlier, but the warmth in his voice makes Paige smile. She longs for it to feel like ease but it doesn’t have the comfort of a soft landing place.
“Hi, Dad. Thanks. You at home?”
“Just about to cook up some burgers.”
She can hear him close the grill lid, the ting of the spatula as he sets it down. He lives in a decent suburb outside Minneapolis, in a nice enough neighborhood. After Paige started covering expenses with prize money, he went to school and got an Associates Degree, and now he works as an insurance claims adjustor. It seems like soul-killing, mindless work to Paige, but he likes it. It’s certainly better than the multiple jobs he worked at a time to keep them afloat in those early years.
They talk about the race, because that’s an easy subject for them.
“Looked like the traction was shot pretty early. ‘Specially on your front right.”
“Gone,” Paige confirms. “Worse than the data predictions indicated. Keeping in the racing line was hard.”
When they’ve dissected the seventy-two laps to his satisfaction, Paige clears her throat.
“How’s Angela doing?” Her dad has a girlfriend. In fairness he always has a girlfriend, but Angela’s been around for a solid two years now. She’s nice in the way that most folks in the Midwest are, but best of all she’s a good cook and she seems to adore Paige’s dad. And Paige likes that there’s someone who dotes on him, who takes care of him. It can’t be her —- it can’t be her —- so at least there’s someone.
“Oh, she’s fine. Busy week for her at work so she and her girlfriends are having a girls night.”
Girls night aka white wine spritzers. White Girl Magic, Azzi used to say with a laugh. Paige feels the ghost of a smile.
“You, um. You wanna come for Monza? I’ll send you a ticket. Angela too.”
“I’m sorry, honey, I can’t,” he says, as Paige expects he will. “I wish I could, really. But I have a big team seminar that Monday morning. Big boss’ll be there and everything.”
It was worth it to ask; she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he says yes, someday.
“But hey,” he says, animated, “Just a few weeks to Austin. We’ll be there that Thursday night. Can’t wait to see you, Bug.”
“I’m excited to see you too,” Paige tells him. They haven’t seen each other since Miami, early in the season. And he came to the opener in Melbourne, too. She wonders, briefly, what it would be like to hug him and not let go.
“And Vegas? I know you can’t do Interlagos, but you said you’d check about Vegas. I have a suite reserved just in case.”
It’s a lie, she doesn’t have anything reserved but she’ll be able to get something with one text to her people.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” she hurries to say, before he can make a regretful sound and give her an excuse. She doesn’t know if he has some official algorithm for how he decides what to attend, but going to Vegas three weeks after seeing her in Austin is surely pushing the boundaries of it.
“I don’t want to hassle you, Bug—”
“--- You’re my dad, it’s not a hassle,” she cuts him off, a little sharper than she’d prefer to be.
“Not a hassle, then,” he allows, a little slower. “But you’re busy, Paigey. I know that.”
“Drivers always have family at races,” she reminds him. “Half the grid has their parents at every race.”
Caitlin Clark’s parents are always there. Every single weekend. Their anxiety gives Paige anxiety. And Veronica likes having her mom around as much as she can be. Aliyah Boston’s sisters have been there a dozen times this season alone.
“Well, speaking of parents—”
“Dad,” Paige groans, because she also knows where this is going. “Why are you and Mom still talking, even?”
They’ve been divorced since she was two; she doesn’t have any memories of them together.
“Come on, Bug, don’t be annoyed. Your Mom just misses you. She wants to see you more. She was wondering, since you’ll be in North America for a while—”
“I’m not going to Montana,” Paige says flatly, cutting him off.
“Come on, cut her some slack, Paige. She cares about you.”
She exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. It’s absurd that even after all these years, this is still a topic of contention.
“She has the same offer to visit in Vegas. And Austin. And Interlagos. And any race in Europe if she wants a nice vacation. Hell, I’d fly her to fucking Asia if she wanted to come.”
Her mom hates races and race weekends. She doesn’t say it but she doesn’t want the little kids around that kind of environment; as though a racetrack isn’t where Paige grew up. She’s got a new family, a picture perfect image that Paige doesn’t fit into and doesn’t understand.
“Think about calling her.”
“So she can lay a guilt trip about me not making it to Billings this year? Pass.”
“Paige—”
“I can barely get you to come to a race, you think I want to hash it out with her as well?” She snaps it at him and immediately regrets it as she hears the sharp intake on the other end of the line. “Sorry,” she says, before he can say anything. “I’m tired. Been a long day. I’m exhausted. I should probably get to bed. I have an early recovery session tomorrow.”
She doesn’t have to be anywhere until ten. DiJonai was adamant about wanting her to sleep in, to actually get some recovery.
“Okay, honey. I’ll let you go,” her dad says, happy to take the easy out. “Congrats again, on the podium. You and Sonia looked great up there.”
Paige’s throat is dry and swollen. Swallowing feels like sandpaper.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, Bug.”
Paige hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch in frustration. She doesn’t know why things feel so complicated.
For a moment the guilt sits heavy and she considers texting her mom, but then her mom would just call, because she knows that Paige and her dad talk after each race and she thinks she deserves that right as well. But Paige does not have the energy to deal with her mom right now. Not with the weird mood she’s in. So, instead, she takes the blanket from the back of the couch.
It’s a heavy, aesthetically pleasing throw. Not soft or cuddly. Like everything else —- including the throw pillows — it came with the flat. But it works just fine to keep her warm as she watches TV.
Paige has made it exactly thirty minutes into the episode of Severence — fucking mind trip — when her phone lights up. She and Alessandra have been going back and forth about whether or not Alessa wants to build a deluxe chicken coop at the farm in upstate NY; Paige doesn’t understand anyone’s desire to have chickens, so she doesn’t look over immediately, assuming it to be another TikTok of fancy poultry houses.
But it’s not. It’s another voice memo from Azzi.
She sees the delivery and the summary: I was thinking today… (3:42)
Paige turns her attention back to the TV. She wants to be able to watch this stupid show, to be able to wait to listen to the audio message, to be able to do anything without feeling the cavern in her chest.
Because what Paige actually wants, what she really yearns for, is to watch Schitt’s Creek with Azzi tangled up with her. Not just their feet tangled under a blanket in the middle, but Azzi curled up alongside her, on top of her.
She wants to feel the weight of Azzi on her chest, to idly twirl her little curls around a finger as they relax together. She wants the smell of Azzi’s shampoo in her nose, the sound of her breathing as a baseline to the audio from the show. Paige wants Azzi’s forehead in absent kissing distance, her nose in booping range.
Paige wants the domesticity of a life with Azzi like a physical craving.
It doesn’t feel like a three minute and forty-two second voice memo is going to give her that.
And yet.
And yet.
She mutes the TV.
The first notes of Azzi’s voice inspire such a slew of emotions that she has to pause the recording. The swell is too much. That’s Azzi’s real voice. Not the one she uses in engineering meetings, or to talk track position during strategy sessions. Azzi’s honest voice, her vulnerable voice; husky and sweet and often sarcastic. The voice that Azzi used when they were alone together. And sure, Paige has heard it occasionally, over the past nine months; but most of those times — Silverstone and Budapest rush to mind — were also moments of deep emotion.
It’s not even the voice that she used two hours earlier, sitting on the bench outside Zandvoort.
Azzi: 3:42: I was thinking today about the first time I ever went to Amsterdam. I was eighteen and my computational logic professor invited me to attend a conference. I spent the entire time inside attending sessions. They were interesting, the presenter on nonmonotonic reasoning was really good we actually ended up corresponding for a while, but it felt so fucked to go somewhere and not get to experience anything. I think that’s when I realized that I had to work to see the world, that going to other places wouldn’t just mean I got to explore. Foundationally, children should…
—
The recovery sessions that DiJonai subjects Paige to take all day. Paige gets her muscles loose in the gym, which makes everything hurt more, and then stretching and an ice bath, a message and more stretching. She sucks down a smoothie that’s a shade of green not found in nature, and the day gets capped by a pedicure.
“Bro, what part of this is recovery?”
“It’s for me, recovering from dealing with you,” Nai tells her, eyes closed as the nail technician uses some kind of scrub on her calves and shins.
They ask Paige what color she’d like, and because Paige speaks zero French and Nai is fluent, she ends up leaving the salon with bright pink toes. A stupid shade of bubblegum pink because it’s what DiJonai picked out and Paige couldn’t get her phone to load Google translate fast enough. Pointing and gesturing just felt rude.
“I look like an idiot,” Paige grumbles, wiggling her toes inside her socks and slides.
“It’ll be our little secret,” Nai dismisses, like she didn’t take a selfie at the salon and post it publicly on her Instagram account.
“I know you’re being petty about the jet.”
They can walk from the salon to Paige’s condo building. When they raced Monaco in May, Nika kept asking where shit was, like Paige had any fucking idea. She feels like a tourist not a resident, except this is a vacation that doesn’t end. Every time she breezes through she thinks about re-locating after the season concludes. She could easily base herself in Paris, or Rome, or literally any other major European city.
Except London.
Too many memories in London.
“I just think it was rude of you to decline an offer to fly by private jet without consulting everyone in your party.”
Phee invited Paige and DiJonai to join her for the flight to Monza, which was nice of her. Paige sometimes thinks about when they both lived with Geno; young and lame and awkward. She’d followed Phee around like a little duckling.
“The only other person in my party is you,” Paige deadpans.
DiJonai arches her eyebrows. “And?”
“You can just say it was rude to say no without checking with you. You don’t have to make it all third person,” she laughs.
“Fine,” DiJonai acquiesces. “It was rude of you to say no without checking with me.”
“Too bad, I’m the driver, I make the decisions,” Paige dismisses, smug. “Besides, I’m reducing my carbon footprint.”
“By driving to the factory and then Monza?”
Diana asked Paige and Soni to stop by the Lamborghini factory before they head on to Monza for the next race. Paige jumped at the opportunity to take the Urus for a longer drive than from the airport to her flat.
“Chill, it’s a three hour drive.”
It’s actually closer to five hours.
“And I do great on AUX,” she continues. “Started putting together a playlist for us and everything.”
Nai rolls her eyes like that’s not impressive to her, but Paige sees the ghost of a smile there as well. They match well, she and DiJonai. Especially now that everything seems to be in the open between them. They know who they’re dealing with, who they are. It’s no longer superficial or surface-level. It’s more. And it’s more than just DiJonai investing in a client; Paige is determined to pour into DiJonai as well.
“You better get us there safely,” Nai continues to lecture. “None of this F1 driver on a street course nonsense.”
“I mean, we’re gonna drive fast,” Paige warns her. “What’s the point of driving if you don’t go fast?”
DiJonai starts muttering about idiotic drivers and adrenaline junkies and something about youngins. Paige just smiles and falls into step alongside her.
—--
Sant'Agata Bolognese, Italy
The Lamborghini headquarters — the factory — is a reflective landmark in Sant’Agata. The front of the building is just a giant wall of windows; iconic Lamborghinis visible on several floors of display and a few of the famous models parked outside the front doors.
Paige walked inside for the first time on January 10th, completely in awe that this was now her driving home. They’d lined everyone up then, gathered the leadership near the entrance so everyone could shake her hand. She’d not even been able to look Azzi in the eye at that point and she’d never met Soni before.
It feels different today, as she walks in the front door. She’s still new, still a rookie, but now she walks with success in her stride. She’s won for Team Lamborghini; not the ultimate prize of the Constructors’ Championship — not yet — but she’s delivered them wins, at least.
“Paige. Good to see you.”
Diana’s waiting by the front doors, and it’s truly a mark of her belief in Paige that she’s there to do the greeting herself. They dap each other up, a show for all the folks subtly watching.
“I heard you drove in.”
She hasn’t been to Sant’Agata in well over a month and that’s longer than she’d prefer to go between outings at the factory. Nika’s the one who told her how much the engineers love it when the drivers come by, and Paige deeply appreciates their work; it’s important that she show it.
“Just parked out front,” Paige says with a smile. There’s a parking spot for her in the very front, in the private lot. It’s a stupid waste of space because she’s barely ever in Sant’Agata, but it’s the principal of the matter, she supposes.
“You like the Urus?”
Paige smiles. She doesn’t have to pretend to be cool about this. “I fucking love it.”
She dropped DiJonai at the hotel on her way in. Three hours from Monaco to Monza turned into five hours to arrive in Sant’Agata, but DiJonai had been a trooper. Despite the earlier complaining, they had a good drive up from Monaco; easy conversation the entire ride. Nai talked about growing up in San Diego, about the adventures she’s gone on, the goals that she has for the future. Owning her own gym, maybe. Paige listened more than she talked, but it wasn’t elusion; now that DiJonai has let her in, she wants to invest.
Chatting on a roadtrip while driving a Lamborghini Urus through the Italian countryside ranks as a pretty good way to get to know someone on a deeper level.
“Come on,” Diana nods toward the staff doors. “Let’s dig in. Soni’s already here.”
But Diana seems to understand that half of why Paige is in Sant’Agata is to see and be seen, because they don’t walk directly to a meeting room. Instead, they take a long and circuitous route, walking the factory floor and popping into the engineering rooms. Paige shakes hands and gives hugs and says hello over and over. She thanks people for the work, tells them how much she loves the car, accepts their praise with a humble shrug.
She feels it all, but performance is part of the persona.
The meeting room is already full of familiar faces; Dorka, KK, Jana. The younger ones are even there too — Kelis and Blanca and Allie. Soni sits with an iced coffee, her casual look even more pronounced than it usually is at the paddock. Azzi’s wearing an old pair of dress pants and a soft green sweater Her eyes flick up when Paige enters the room, but she doesn’t stop talking in a low voice with Azurȧ. Paige slips into the seat next to Soni — the seat she assumes to be left for her. The two of them fist bump without even making eye contact.
“Alright everyone, let’s use this time wisely.”
Diana stands at the head of the room, waiting for the chatter to stop.
“It’s good to have the entire team together here at home. Paige, Soni, thanks for coming in before Monza.”
“Thrilled to see everyone,” Soni says with a sweet smile. She looks like a professional skateboarder and she sounds like a sorority girl. Paige finds the dichotomy strangely alluring. She makes a mental note to appeal to Soni again about considering becoming a lesbian.
“Glad to be here,” Paige adds, shooting a few smiles at the engineers she remembers.
“Okay,” Diana turns to business, “this is our last European race. We’ll hear from Dorka in a minute about what our strat ops projections indicate for Monza, but first I want to talk a little bit about the rest of the season.”
Diana launches into a review of the upcoming races, which are clustered nicely into groups; The Americas — Austin, São Paulo, Vegas — and Asia, with Singapore and Suzuka. And then the desert; Jeddah, Sakhir, Abu Dhabi.
Paige feels a clench of anticipation zing through her at just the thought of the desert. The end of season races in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the UAE — that’s where championships are won. It can happen at any time in the latter half of the season, of course, but it’s most common to win in the desert.
She’s not trying to count laps before they’re driven, but Lamborghini is in the lead for the Constructors’ Championship. They’re leading McLaren by sixty-one points; that means it’s theirs to lose. It means Paige has to be on her absolute fucking A game.
Because one bad race for the team and the generous lead they’ve built is gone.
“We’re entering the difficult time,” Diana says, her tone low. “Everyone’s tired. There’s a lot of travel, we’ll be far from home. I know that’s hard. I do. But we need to lock in. Success is going to take everyone. Everyone.”
As far as pep talks go, it’s mid, but Diana does more with her presence than her words could ever do. And Paige isn’t alone in wanting to win; people joke about the drivers and their ego, but nobody talks enough about what the Dianas and the Sues of the world want. What the engineers at the factory, and the technicians on the floor, and the girls in marketing want with every ounce of their being. Everyone wants to win.
And they’re all depending on Paige and Soni to do it.
—--
Azzi: 5:26: … and I’ll fucking tell you it’s dangerous. If I have to read one more think piece from genuine computational economists about how AI is going to revolutionize the world I’m going to scream because the confidence rate is fucking deplorable. Math isn’t vibes, it’s not a fucking app that people can use and discard, and we as global citizens are just supposed to run entire systems based on what I truly believe is faulty logic? And the rate that they’re seeing medical students unable to process basic diagnoses without …
—--
There’s certainly enough at the factory to keep Paige and Soni busy for the day. The performance engineering team is clearly salivating over the opportunity to get them back in the simulator for real time instruction and feedback, and who are they to deny the team their presence?
But beyond being in the simulator, Paige likes talking to the engineers. They’re already so far into the designs and production for next year’s car, and she eagerly tracks down the schematics team to talk through some of the details. They won’t tell her everything — hardly anything, actually — but they let her see some of the differences in the car components, and even if they don’t actually care about her opinion they ask for it.
She could stay at the factory all day, tooling around with the engineering teams, but there are plans for dinner with the girls; Paige wanders around until she finds the heart of the strategy team huddled up Dorka’s office. Nika’s on the ground furiously taking notes in a little notebook while Azzi stands at the whiteboard; half a dozen other people — including Georgia and Caroline — are scattered around the room.
“...coming off the long straight into Variante della Roggia? If we don’t have a slip stream?”
Georgia looks down at the tablet in her hand, squinting. “Differential says point two.”
Dorka sighs, pulling her glasses off her face and rubbing at her eyes. “Okay. So we’re not solving this today.”
One of the junior engineers in the room furrows her brow. “The calculations—”
“Azzi,” Dorka interrupts, “given the numbers?”
Paige watches Azzi frown and shake her head.
“No. Not if we’re losing half on the straight. But we should re-run the numbers.”
It’s obvious that they’re all tired and frustrated. Dorka shakes her head, finally spying Paige hovering in the doorway.
“Here, Paige, come on in. Have you come to save us bearing pastries? This would be an appropriate place for them.”
Paige laughs, her hands up. “Sorry, empty handed today.”
“Well, you have perfect timing,” Dorka smiles. “We’re done for the day. We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Strat-ops debrief at ten.”
The room starts to scatter, the junior engineers filing out quickly and Caroline and Azzi gathering around the desk to engage in last minute conversation. Nika and Georgia also hang about, though Nika nods Paige over to show her the acceleration arcs the team has just been discussing.
Paige doesn’t read in too deeply. She’s more absorbed in listening to what Dorka, Azzi, and Caroline are talking about. Straight line speed, and the wind projections for Sunday.
Azzi looks different, since she’s at the factory. It’s been so long of seeing Azzi at the circuits, in the garages, and seeing her today Paige realizes she’d forgotten how good Azzi can look in business casual. It’s nothing, of course, compared to Azzi in actual casual; she’s devastating in an old pair of joggers and a threadbare longsleeve covered in holes.
She’s lovely in the green sweater. It looks soft, strokable. Paige can just imagine how it would feel under her fingers. HQ always runs cold; it was that way at Mercedes and it’s clearly the same at Lamborghini, and the soft green cashmere offsets the beautiful black of Azzi’s ringlets, the deep hue of her skin.
“Okay, I’m going to head out,” Nika says to Dorka, seemingly done with letting Paige observe Azzi from up close.
“Have fun,” Dorka waves Nika off, already burying her nose into the data reports with Caroline and Azzi.
Right as Paige and Nika start to leave, she sees Azzi flick her eyes up. They don’t say anything, but it’s a warm moment. Azzi doesn’t grin, or even smile, really, but there’s something sweet in her gaze. Something knowing.
Paige gives her a little head nod before she follows Nika out of the office.
—--
Sant’Agata is an old town, despite the modern furnishings that adorn it in the countryside. There’s not even a proper hotel, just a smattering of bed and breakfast spots. Nika and Georgia both live in flats in Modena, which is the larger town. It’s a twenty minute drive, but Georgia claims there are more food options and Nika says she doesn’t want to be under anyone’s thumb.
Georgia and Soni are meeting them at dinner, but Nika wants to change first, so Paige drives her to the flat.
“Diana was in and out of the engineering floor all day yesterday and today,” Nika says, like Paige asked.
She didn’t, but she does want to know.
“And?”
Nika shrugs, her gaze on the Italian countryside. She grew up in Zagreb and living in these little towns — Brackley and now Modena and Sant’Agata — feels like a weird step back. That’s what she said when they lived together in Brackley, anyway, and Paige knows Nika doesn’t enjoy small town life, Italian countryside or not. Mercedes or Lamborghini or any other car maker. Nika’s meant for city life, for the fast pace.
Paige spent so long putting her body where the fastest lap would take her that she never really noticed or cared that she didn’t fit her surroundings.
“Nothing weird,” Nika confirms. “Nothing weird at all.”
“I bet Azzi doesn’t even know about the fight,” Paige murmurs.
“Azzi doesn’t notice anything that isn’t the data.”
“Where does she live?”
When Paige made her first trip to the Lamborghini factory, in January, she’d been too emotionally fucked up to ask any questions about Azzi. To wonder where she lived or ask where she ate, and figure out if she was drinking enough water. She wasn’t, she never does, but Paige can think about it.
With the nature of their roles, Azzi’s spent so much more time in Sant’Agata than Paige has; she’s been letting herself wonder more and more about what Azzi’s life is like in Italy. She plays out romantic little fantasies in her head about how Azzi might spend her time and the routines she’s established.
“I don’t know,” Nika says, honestly. “I think she rides a bike to work, though. I’ve seen her pedal up a few times.”
Paige sighs, because that tracks.
She taught Azzi how to drive, showed her how to work a pedal and a gearstick. And teaching this infernal woman to drive - Azzi, who knows more about how a car works than any other human that Paige has ever encountered - is the hardest thing Paige has ever done in her life. She won’t lie, when they went to the DVLA and Azzi had to take the driving test Paige was not confident that a license was going to be the end result that day. She’d been so surprised when Azzi returned with the evaluation instructor and said “I passed” that Azzi had glared and made Paige pay for dinner without even pretending to offer to pick up the tab.
“She hates driving,” Paige reminds Nika. The second part stays unspoken but present: and she’s bad at it.
“Yeah. She always takes team transport, if she can,” Nika confirms.
So some things have stayed the same.
“It’s pretty here,” she says, glancing out the window. Everything looks better when she’s behind the wheel of the Urus, but Italy is picturesque pretty much everywhere. Paige wishes she could appreciate it more. She wonders if Azzi appreciates it at all.
“It’s Italy,” Nika contradicts, her voice unimpressed. “It looks the same everywhere. Croatia’s got more variety.”
Some things have definitely stayed the same.
—-
Monza, Italy
Monza. The Temple of Speed.
Paige raced most European circuits in Formula 3 and 2, so it's not like she's brand new. And yet, there's something exhilarating, something different, about racing as a Formula 1 driver. But it's not the adulation, even though yes, of course, it's a giant ego boost to be the subject of such fervor. No, it's the feeling of power. Of knowing that she gave so much to get here, to be one of the twenty. To give everything still, to stay at the top.
"I think I fucking hate all this red and yellow," Soni says, looking over the side of the wall, at the Ferrari flags that litter the pathway to the estate.
They got forced into some kind of Ferrari x Formula 1 partnership event. A black tie gala at a freaking castle, like this is some kind of Bond movie.
“I hate racing in Italy for someone else’s home race,” Paige admits.
“They say there’s two religions in Italy,” Soni muses. “There’s the catholic church, and there’s Ferrari.”
“Time for another great schism, then. Long live Lamborghini,” she drawls.
They arrived separately, each of them driving a vintage Ferrari convertible. Soni looks like an old Hollywood movie star in a black halter dress, her hair blown into glamour curls. Thanks to Lili, Paige herself looks like a fucking boss, the black Louis Vuitton suit fitted like a glove and the black cape with gold trim hanging from her shoulders like she's ruling a kingdom. Lamborghini may be a guest but their factory’s only forty kilometers down the road. They’re equal owners of this part of Italy and they travel like royalty.
“Diana looked like she was swallowing glass,” Soni says with a snicker. “Her smile was so fake.”
"So was yours. So was mine,” Paige laughs.
The two of them are taking refuge on one of the turret terraces, outfitted for the evening as a bar. They did the stuff they're obliged to do: a rope line, group shots, interacting with all the right people. Luckily, they don't have to play host for the evening: Kah and Julie are the unfortunate winners of that lottery, though Kah has stunned everyone by being genuinely agreeable and bubbly.
Paige thinks she’s high as a kite.
"Oh there you two are." Veronica emerges onto the terrace, a glass of red wine in her hand. "How are you two always able to disappear so well?"
"We're aggressive about the worst part," Paige says. "And then once you make the rounds nobody cares. Did you at least bring the bottle?"
Kate wiggles her eyebrows as she steps to join them, holding up the bottle of Casamigos Reposado and a handful of shot glasses; Cam appears at her side with four more.
"Angels," Soni groans in relief.
“We’re going to fucking pay for this tomorrow,” Paige mutters.
“Fun while it lasted,” Kate says as she disperses the shot glasses. Cam takes the bottle from her but pauses to open her purse. It’s about the size of a pocket square; Paige can’t imagine anything useful could actually fit in it.
“Limes,” she says brightly.
Paige stands corrected.
“What are we drinking to,” Veronica asks. She’s put her wine on the ledge to help pour the tequila for everyone. There are little jewels threaded through her hair, the curls pulled into an elegant updo. It means every time she moves, she sparkles a little. Paige watches the way Kate’s eyes follow the glow.
“To driving fast,” Cam suggests, and they all laugh.
“To driving fast,” Paige echos.
The tequila burns.
But what’s a little pleasure without a little pain?
—--
Paige is early to the garage on Thursday morning. She's read the memo that outlined all the upgrades Lamborghini is bringing; Computational Fluid Dynamics — which everyone just calls CFD — has determined some aerodynamic adjustments. The front wing has changed, and the angles for the sides. She’s driven the changes in the simulator but it’s always different in the car after upgrades, and Paige wants to see for herself --- feel for herself --- how that'll translate.
She won't be able to drive the car until Free Practice 1 in the morning, but new upgrades mean more to digest with the strategy plans. It means additional data to be conscious of, a deep sense of knowing that her car will drive differently.
"You're in early," Georgia comments, walking by Paige. She’s wearing baggy cargo pants and her hair in a low bun, some stupid shell necklace hangs about her neck in a choker style. Idiotic kangaroo.
"Fuck off, I'm not," Paige says, her eyes on the car.
"Just admit her makeover makes you wet," Georgia teases, and Paige gives her a dirty look.
The indignity.
"Forcast still looking good?"
"Should be clear," Georgia confirms. She barks some directions at a trio of junior engineers and walks over with Paige to look at the car.
The car is assembled, thank god. Paige bends over the side, dips her head down and runs her fingers over one of the dials near the steering wheel. They've opened the flap a few millimeters, after Paige and Soni spent five straight races begging for more lift. Paige has no illusions that Azzi had anything to do with it, because it’s all the aero team and their CFD renderings, but it feels like a request has been granted, nonetheless.
"So," Georgia says. "Do you know Azzi's friend?"
Paige stands up. "Her friend?"
"Kinda tall. Tattoos. Kinda French. You know, that one. Over there."
She waves her hand and Paige follows the direction across the garage; sure enough, in a little trio in the far corner, Azzi stands in conversation with Caroline and another woman. Azzi's the only one facing Paige but Paige doesn't need to see the face of the woman whose muscular frame is beautifully on display in the simple white shirt and cargo pants. Her hair is short, in rows that lead to a low bun, the kind of hair that’s easy to keep tidy and clean.
Azzi sees Paige's stare, and her eyes leave the conversation to meet Paige's gaze. But that pulls the attention of the other woman, and she turns around.
"Oh hey, Paige."
Low voice. Melodic. A hint of attitude because that’s just how she rolls.
So. Gabby Williams is in Monza.
Okay.
There isn't time to interact, really. Paige barely has time to wave a half-distracted hello before Nika appears, dragging her through the garage to look at the newest telemetry reports from the recent simulation sessions.
“CFD says that this will give a tenth on the curves, which you could really do with if you’re in dirty air,” Nika’s saying, running through computational charts and chicane speed calculations.
To be honest, Paige isn’t really paying attention, because for one, she did read her briefings and for two. Well.
"Did you meet Gabby?"
Distracted, Nika shrugs. “Azzi's friend? Yeah. She made some intros earlier. You know her well?”
Paige knows Gabby. Paige also knows everything about Azzi. Knew everything about Azzi.
"She's Azzi's roommate from boarding school," Paige supplies, like that means anything to Nika. It’s strange to think of the ways in which her life was separate, back in Brackley. Paige and Azzi was separate from Paige and Nika, even if both halves of her make up the whole. "Her oldest friend."
Nika pauses. "I guess it was weird that she had a friend."
Paige shoves her. "Don't be a dick."
Nika grunts. "Azzi put me on write up duty," she complains. "Just because she doesn't like the factory assessment."
"Then do it and be grateful for the opportunity,” Paige admonishes. "If she's asking you to do that it's obviously because she trusts your assessment.”
"You just think that because Azzi's a super genius we're all blessed to be in her presence," Nika mocks, going for the jugular since she’s in a mood.
"She is a genius and we are blessed to be in her presence," Paige shrugs.
"She said she wants to run you on light fuel in FP1 and 2," Nika shares, a little too smug and delighted for her words to be anything but true.
"For fuck’s sake," Paige complains, groaning. "Why is she like this? Don’t write that assessment,” she directs. “She can live without."
“Unlike you,” Nika grumbles, “the rest of us don’t have options about deciding when we do and don’t want to listen to Azzi.”
Well, that may be factual but Paige doesn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, she pulls the telemetry reports from Nika’s hands and skips ahead five pages until she finds the graph that she wants.
“This is going to be a problem,” she says, pointing her finger at the arc in the middle of the page. It’s been printed in color, which shows the velocity in red. It’s not a pretty curve the way it should be – more of a squiggle, really.
Nika rolls her eyes. “Why didn’t you say you already read it, could have saved so much time.”
“Bro, I did say it,” Paige reminds her. “You didn’t believe me.”
“Because you hate telemetry readouts, idiot. So you know her,” Nika loops back, non-linear as always.
“Yeah.”
“Really well?”
Paige shrugs. “Well enough.” At Nika’s probing look she shrugs. “She’s Azzi’s ride or die.”
Nika opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but cuts off abruptly. Paige arches an eyebrow, daring Nika to say it, but her Croatian twin has always had a great sense of self preservation.
Yeah. Good decision.
“Anything else you wanna share with the class? Not everyday Azzi brings a mysteriously beautiful woman into the paddock and you’re cool as a cucumber about it.”
“Gabby’s…cool,’ Paige says, choosing her words carefully. She’s never had to talk about Gabby before, never had to wade into describing the dynamic. So many times over the last ten months, she’s thought about Gabby and wondered what her perspective would be, what she’s said to Azzi, what she knows about Azzi’s intentions. What she knows about what happened between Paige and Azzi. And what she thinks of Paige as a result.
“Resounding stamp of approval.”
But Paige doesn’t have anything else to add. Not until she and Gabby get a moment together, and Paige is honestly in no hurry for that.
“Paige! You’re due at media.”
It’s CD, with her eyes on Paige, and she sighs in defeat. CD’s love language — and dedication to work — includes imposing herself as Paige’s handler, which always means less fun. Honestly, the woman seems to level up by sucking the joy out of Paige’s life.
“Gotta go,” Paige breathes, half a second before she about faces and beelines it out of the garage, flat out pretending that she doesn’t see or hear CD.
“Best of luck,” Nika calls. “Go left. I’ll tell CD you went right.”
—--
Unfortunately, Paige is so distracted at Gabby’s presence and what it could mean, what it can yield, that she entirely forgets about her two other preoccupations; the fight between Diana and Sue, and having to be face to face with Sabrina.
Which is, of course, why she arrives at the media waiting room and finds Sabrina already there.
Sabrina’s sitting on one of the armchairs — it’s the padded kind, because Sophie’s always yapping about how uncomfortable the plastic chairs are and some F1 minion had to switch them out— scrolling on her phone, and she glances up briefly when Paige walks in.
Fuck. Paige immediately wonders who their third is supposed to be.
Paige really wants to roll her eyes but one thing she’s always been cognizant of — especially this year — is not wanting to look like a child when Sabrina’s around. It didn’t seem as important before, when she was still in F3 and even F2, but something about making the switch to F1 and having to contend with Sabrina in an entirely different context than she’d assumed they would have to interact has made Paige more conscious of how she presents.
God, she wants to know. There’s so much she wants to ask, she feels like she’s at such a disadvantage. And the only thing that Paige hates nearly as much as losing is being at a disadvantage. Especially when it comes to information.
Because Paige can put her elbows out and make space for herself on track; she’s an equal in ability to any of the other drivers, to anyone in a car. But off track. That’s a different story.
Sabrina smiles, that stupid knowing smile.
Paige leans against the wall and crosses her arms. Stares back.
“Didn’t see you much at Zandvoort,” Sabrina says. “You have a good break?”
She’s enjoying this. She’s absolutely having the time of her life and Paige is doing her absolute damndest to keep herself in check.
Do not. Crash out.
Do NOT. Crash out.
The words loop in Paige’s brain, trying to blanket every instinct she has. Because every instinct she has is screaming for violence. Physical. Verbal. Spiritual. She’ll take any and all, an act of God or a punch.
Was it meant to be a secret, that Azzi saw Sabrina over break? None of the other girls noticed Azzi in the back of Sabrina’s picture, and Paige had to make a separate instagram account just to stalk every single member of Sabrina’s family and her friends. And Sabrina can’t know for sure that Paige saw the photo, that Paige knows Azzi was in California, in Walnut Creek.
So really, Sabrina’s just enjoying Paige’s always-present misery of being out of the loop.
“I did,” Paige says. She forces the casual tone into her voice, loosens her stance so everything about her screams chill. “You?”
“Yeah. Great break.”
Sabrina tips her head to the side, her smile widening just a little bit. The jut of her jaw is daring Paige. She’s trailing the gunpowder to dynamite and handing over a match.
Where the fuck is Becca.
“Nice run, in Zandvoort,” Sabrina says. It wasn’t a great race for her, but nothing embarrassing. Mercedes didn’t have pace, and Paige and Soni somehow managed to stick in there with Caitlin. Everyone gets lucky once in a while. “You’re settling in well,” she adds.
Patronizing bitch.
There are so many things Paige could say to that, depending on which way she wants to take it. But she doesn’t want to escalate this and she doesn’t want to walk away with her head down. She wants answers on Azzi but she sure as fuck isn’t going to Sabrina for them.
“Lamborghini’s a good home,” is what she says instead, and she’s saved from having to engage further when Becca arrives, flustered because she had a run in with some kind of wildlife exiting the Williams garage.
But even as Becca explains the story — something involving a bird — Sabrina and Paige continue to be aware of each other, not quite looking away but never escalating into another stare down.
By the time the first batch of drivers exits the media room, they've cooled into something that can be viewed publicly. Paige keeps her head high, her wits around her, and holds the microphone tightly in her hand. She feels exposed in a way she didn’t earlier.
It’s a good reminder to always keep her fucking guard up.
—-------
Azzi: 2:18: …and you know everyone goes on about the environmental footprint but the emissions of the cars are negligible compared to the operational side. Long-term ecological sustainability is imperative but don’t do a disservice to the sport by pretending that the hybridization of the cars is having any impact on reducing the impact Formula 1 has on the world. If you want to address the actual issues then focus on the infrastructure that the entire…
—-------
The hospitality suite is fairly empty when Paige sneaks in before the afternoon strategy ops meeting to see if there are any raspberry tartlets. A wonder --- there are three left --- and she scoops them all up.
It's a short lived victory, because right as she's about to turn and leave, she makes eye contact with Gabby.
She's seated at one of the four seater tables, her laptop near her at an angle. But she's also looking up, and their eyes meet, rendering egress not an option.
"Gabby, hey."
"Paige."
Her tone is oddly formal. Strange. It's not cold — not with the way she's inviting Paige closer — but it's not warm.
Paige leans down and daps her up, grateful that things with Gabby always had a vibe that was bro-adjacent enough that this is an acceptable way to physically greet her.
"Wow, I can't believe I'm finally meeting the great Paige Bueckers."
Gabby's definitely mocking her, and there's certainly a thread in her voice that's sharp, but the rest of it just sounds like good natured ribbing.
"Please stop."
"I can't," Gabby holds her hands up. "There are about five commercials that they play on one of the few tv stations we can access. Your Coca-Cola ad is one of them. I kid you not.”
"Where you from?"
She hates having to ask, to acknowledge that she doesn’t know. But Paige hasn’t spoken Gabby’s name out loud in over ten months, hasn’t talked to Azzi about where she’s been dispatched and what she’s been doing.
"Burkina-Faso," Gabby says, her husky voice tinged with a childhood of living across the world. "Outside the city though. For the most part. Been there since early in the year."
She’s been with Doctors Without Borders since she finished her residency at Cedars-Sinai, back in Paige's first year in F3. Her specialty is pediatric care for children dealing with malnutrition and maternal-fetal obstetrics. But Paige knows that Gabby’s cleaned enough bullet holes and treated enough wounds caused by violence to give her a specialty in trauma that would admit her to the staff of any hospital in the world.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Gabby shrugs, "I'm good." She adjusts her glasses, pressing the thin metal up the bridge of her nose. "What about you? You good?"
Her voice is suede. Soft if you stroke it right, rough if you go against the grain. She’s effortlessly cool, her aura bolstered by a deep I don’t give a fuck attitude that’s true down to the marrow of her bones. Paige remembers getting absolutely trashed with her in Brackley, walking home from a club in Paris in the freezing cold, spending one night in Prague consuming their weight in dumplings.
"Mmm. I'm good."
Before Burkina-Faso, Gabby spent two years in the Central African Republic, and before that she did a six month stint in Mali. Her assignments have always been in Africa; a lot of places there suffered under colonization and Gabby speaks French fluently.
"You always were a shit liar, Paige."
She grins. "Most would argue differently."
Gabby always saw more than she let on; Paige used to think it whenever she visited. She'd study Paige subtly, her eyes always assessing. There's no question that Gabby clocked Paige's feelings for Azzi long before Azzi herself did.
Paige always wondered if she told Azzi about it. She wonders now what Azzi told Gabby about Abu Dhabi.
"When's your next posting?"
Gabby shrugs. "Heading back to the Ouagadougou area for a bit while I wait for a new posting, actually. Just came through to see Azzi."
"You stayin' for the race?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't miss the opportunity to see her in her element."
There's fire in Gabby's eyes. Paige doesn't know where it's directed and very honestly, she doesn't want to stick around to find out.
"I gotta run. I'm due for a touchpoint with Diana."
Gabby looks like she knows a lot more than Paige does and Paige hates that. She despises not being in on the know, on the joke, on the take. Especially with Gabby, who probably has the best assessment of what happened. If there were anyone in the world who would have better access to Azzi's truth than Paige, it's Gabby.
They were roommates at that boarding school; three years together that bonded them for life. Azzi was always skimpy on the details about school, but she said the best part of Gallagher was meeting Gabby.
It was always such a lovely thing, to see the two of them together. Azzi would relax around Paige but only if they were alone; but when Gabby was around — that’s when Paige got to see Azzi happy and at ease and she got to do it from the rare vantage point of being the third wheel. It felt special.
"I'll see you, then," Gabby says. She holds Paige’s gaze, unflinching; it’s disconcerting.
Paige salutes — like a fucking idiot — and leaves the hospitality suite. As she walks toward the engineering debrief, she reflects on all the other times Gabby visited Azzi in Brackley. And the one time that Gabby happened to be around for the French Grand Prix and hung out in the garage and at the track with Paige for most of the weekend. The two of them drank Heinekins and tossed peanuts in a cup for hours.
It’s strange to see Gabby again from such a faraway vantage point; to feel the resulting closeness from memories shared just deleted without intention. Paige doesn’t know how to be around her.
Paige doesn’t know how to be.
—--
It’s been some time since Lamborghini had a long media segment, so Paige and Soni get sent to do a twenty minute sit down with the comms team.
“I just think, objectively—”
“I don’t know how your point of view could be objective—”
“That with my coloring and bone structure—”
“I have excellent bone structure—”
“That the polo looks better on me.”
“Unthinkable.”
Everyone thinks Soni’s such an angel but nobody has to see this side of her. Rude, assertive. Delusional.
The producer attaching the microphones to them doesn’t look endeared by their shit. Seated across the half circle, Nastya surveys them with amusement. She’s already mic’d up, was just waiting for them to arrive.
The costuming department is really leaning into the Italian sundress vibe.
“Okay guys,” she says, when Paige and Soni are all settled, and they’ve already elbowed each other so many times that the producer made them separate the chairs by another half foot. “Two questions each, easy peasy. The weekend, the fans, the atmosphere.”
“Like any of this is going to air,” Paige says, with what she hopes is a charming sneer.
“Don’t pout,” Nastya says, pointing one finger at Paige. “You had your home race; it’s Kah and Julie’s turn.”
“She struggles to give up the spotlight,” Soni adds, helpfully.
“Don’t we know it,” Nastya smiles.
“She’s just as bad as me,” Paige asserts, glaring at both of them, unenthused. She’s saved only by the producer calling a start to the segment.
“Well, it might be Ferrari’s home race this weekend in Monza, but there is another Italian team. I’m here with our favorite all-rookie team, our bulls in gold, Soni Citron and Paige Bueckers of Lamborghini. Welcome, ladies.”
There’s literally nothing that Paige hates more than being greeted with ladies, and judging by the look on Nastya’s face — glee, masquerading as warmth — she knows it.
“Sup,” she grins, pasting the smile on. None of it’s real. Not at all.
“Paige, tell me what it’s like to be racing here, in the heart of the Tifosi.”
Beside her, Soni straight up snorts, and then bursts into laughter. She can’t get it together, and then Nastya can’t keep it together and then Paige is the only one who’s got any decorum at all and the producer has to call cut so they can re-record the segment.
—--
Dijonai summons Paige at the crack of dawn, because she’s a witch and that’s when she’s most powerful.
They go for a run in the early morning, slightly cooler air, long before the track has opened to fans or even most employees. Paige has been running more, since DiJonai came into her life. She hates it less than usual, though she attributes that to just enjoying being in step next to Nai. It’s steadying to go out when it’s barely light and to watch the sunrise together.
And getting up earlier means she’s actually sleeping earlier, sleeping better. Being less of a night owl and keeping to a schedule is actually doing wonders for cutting down her spiral time. If her body is too tired to stay awake then her brain has no choice but to succumb as well.
Most trainers would have Paige on a treadmill during race weekend, but DiJonai seems to know what Paige needs, and being confined to the gym to sweat it out definitely isn’t it.
“Loser buys breakfast,” Paige shouts, trying to edge out DiJonai as they round the corner to the back entrance and enter the home stretch.
DiJonai smokes Paige, which isn’t surprising. Paige is still laughing as they come to a stop outside the motorhome area.
“You’re an idiot,” DiJonai pants, doubled over. “I could run circles round you six ways to Sunday.”
Paige squirts at DiJonai with the waterbottle in her hand, and DiJonai slaps at Paige in retaliation; sadly for Nai, Paige is a sweaty mess, and her hand just slides off.
“Fucking child,” DiJonai hisses, wrestling the water bottle from Paige’s hand and squirting her square in the face.
Naturally, they’re so engrossed in getting one up on each other that they completely miss the two figures approaching from the Lamborghini Team Motorhome until they absolutely have an audience. And all of Paige’s luck has been given to her performance on the track, so obviously the two people are Azzi and Gabby.
“Morning.”
It’s DiJonai who notices them first, and Paige turns, unexpectedly hit with the view of Azzi lit in the easy morning light. Ethereal.
“Hey.”
She feels unexpectedly exposed, the black sports bra and light blue shorts leaving her open to Gabby’s direct gaze, to Azzi’s assessing eye. They can see the way her heart thumps, the way her lungs expand.
“Y’all are up early,” Paige observes, stupidly.
“Just getting some time in,” Gabby says.
DiJonai blinks at Paige, then clearly loses patience. “Hi. I’m DiJonai, Paige’s performance coach.”
She and Gabby exchange greetings and a handshake, and Paige has to force herself to move her gaze to and from Azzi at a normal rate.
God, she’s beautiful. Among her regrets — and there are many — Paige mourns that she never got to see Azzi wake up after their night together. Azzi bathed in morning light is as radiant as Azzi in starlight, as Azzi in dripping in victory, as resplendent as Azzi unshowered and wrinkled and buried in calculations. All the drip in the world and Paige never felt like she was anywhere near Azzi’s level.
At a loss for what to do with her limbs and her face, Paige begins to stretch. They’ve been talking to each other through the voice memos, though neither of them acknowledge anything that they’ve sent in recordings over the previous days and weeks.
It’s a strange way to communicate; everything’s a statement. No questions are asked. And in some ways, that makes it easier. Less pressure. In unspoken rules, they don’t talk about anything too deep, or about how things are between them. Paige doesn’t edit herself, doesn’t listen or re-record. She says whatever she says and she sends it.
But it means she doesn’t ever record a message when she’s in a mood.
“You ever been to this part of Italy before?” DiJonai and Gabby are making small talk, the easy kind of conversation that people can make upon acquaintance. And Paige is grateful, she really, really is.
“Can we talk about aero load,” she asks Azzi. “I woke up this morning thinking about the simulations from the factory. Can you ask them to separate the arcs for the new wing package on the downforce-to-drag efficiency?”
The worst part is it isn’t even a lie. Not even a fib. Maybe Azzi wasn’t interested in being with someone who only cares about racing and doesn’t have any other interests.
“You want them for the chicanes or the whole track?”
Paige grimaces.
Azzi sighs.
“I do think it’s worth it to look at,” Azzi agrees. “I’ll ask them this morning. Hopefully the team can send them over by this afternoon.”
Paige wipes some of the sweat from her brow and notices Azzi’s eyes flick down to her abs, where she’s unintentionally flexing. But Azzi looks away so quickly Paige almost wonders if she imagined it. But she didn’t. Definitely not when Azzi does it again, like she can’t even help herself.
“Okay, we should probably head out,” Azzi says, and the way she’s absolutely not looking at Paige — at the smile Paige can’t quite suppress — is giving Paige life.
“I have to be in the engineering room in an hour,” she adds, like it’s not meaningful that she’s running away.
Azzi and Gabby walk away, and Paige turns to watch them go, her smile so wide it threatens to eclipse her face. DiJonai shoves her, muttering profanities.
—--
She’s barely gotten her tyres to temp when there’s a traffic mix up during FP1. Paige’s front wing gets clipped by Aliyah Boston in the Williams, and she has to be pulled in immediately.
“We’re fine,” Nika says in her ear, as Paige pulls into the Lamborghini pit. It’s not a quick stop; the crew has to replace the front wing and Azzi’s ordered some tightening on the back flap as well. “We’ll send you back out in clean air,” Nika promises.
The grandstands are filled with Ferrari red, though there’s a good amount of the Lamborghini black mixed in as well. Italians and their motorsport. Italians and their cars.
“We’ve got forty-five minutes and a whole list of things to do,” Nika continues. She’s turned around on the pit wall so she can look at Paige, but the helmet visor’s down so Paige knows they aren’t really making eye contact. “Lock in, we’re fine.”
Paige appreciates the talk down. She hates starting a race weekend with an incident, no matter how small it is. Makes it feel like everything gets thrown off. She exhales, closing her eyes, putting the frustration out of her mind.
The session isn’t a wash. They get some good data on the aero upgrades that have been made, and Paige gets a decent understanding of how the car feels different.
“Balance is off,” Paige says in the debrief afterward, almost the moment she sits down.
“Agreed,” Soni chimes in. “Really off — especially through the turns.”
Dorka nods. “We heard that on the radio from both of you. Let’s dive into that.”
“Variante del Rettifilo,” Paige says immediately. It’s a heavy-breaking chicane, a good spot to overtake. She wasn’t at speed but it’s a curve where she should need to go from about 300kph to just under 90kph.
“You thought it was worse than Ascari,” Azzi asks, standing up to lean over the table and make a red little X on the track layout.
Paige shrugs. “I think the balance is worse at speed with the intense braking. Way worse than at the left-right-left.”
Ascari is technical sequence. It’s fast, and it comes left-right-left, but it’s not the massive swing in speed that Rettifilo is.
“Fighting for my life at Rettifilo,” Soni says. “Car was all over the place.”
“I couldn’t trust it through the corners,” Paige adds. “At speed it would have been way worse.”
“Is it pulling equally?” Jana asks, piping up from her spot next to Azzi.
Paige furrows her brow. “Honestly it was all over the place. It didn’t feel consistent.”
“Maybe more on the left,” Soni suggests. “But, like, only slightly.”
It goes like that for over an hour. Paige and Soni break down all the parts of the car that felt off, share what went well, talk about how to approach FP2. The engineers around them are scrambling to take notes and align what they say with the data readouts, and in the center of the table, Dorka and Azurȧ have additional conversation about changes that can be made before the next session.
Upgrades are great and they make the car better — there’s no question about that — but CFD can only tell so much. With upgrades come massive adjustments, and three practice sessions aren’t really enough to be able to prepare for qualifying, for the actual race. Paige and Soni spend time together away from the engineers, talking through the circuit and what felt especially difficult. Paige jots down their notes and then gives them to Nika, who shares whatever she deems relevant with the engineering team.
There’s a tense atmosphere in the garage that feels different to the other race weekends; a collective feeling that everyone needs to figure things out so it can come together. Paige likes it, enjoys the camaraderie; it really feels like team effort, not just each person or crew doing their parts.
—-------
Azzi: 1:39: …did that I think meaningful change could be made; it’s statistically impossible to posit that the drivers in F1 are the best in the world when the barrier to entry of the sport is beyond the means of the world’s population —even if you omit communities historically excluded from economic opportunity and households in the middle income distribution. I anticipate that if…
—-------
The team doesn’t break for lunch — not with so many changes that need to be made before the afternoon practice session, but people have to find time to eat. Paige wanders through the hospitality suite and sits for a few minutes with Nai, and they’re joined soon enough by Soni and Kiki.
It’s hot but not stupidly so, not egregiously unpleasant; she has enough of an appetite to be able to eat some of the pasta that’s on offer. She picks at an assortment of cut fruit, the watermelon not sweet enough for her American tastes and the pineapple too citrus for her tongue. In the end, she snags an apple and disappears back into the garages, strolling about with her racing overalls unzipped and sticking her nose into places it doesn’t belong.
She finds Azzi in one of the huddle offices, curled up on the desk chair and crunching numbers, her mouth moving as she talks to herself, muttering about derivatives and velocity projections.
“Ayo,” Paige grins, resting a shoulder on the doorframe.
Azzi’s eyes flick up and she raises her eyebrows; not the best greeting Paige has ever had, but she’ll take it. Especially when she remembers Azzi being an embarrassed freak that morning.
She reminds herself not to be smug.
“You eat yet?”
It’s a rhetorical question, and she doesn’t wait for the answer. Just lobs the apple across the small office and watches as it hits Azzi on the shoulder.
“Ow!” Azzi winces as the apple bounces onto the table, scrambling to snatch it before it knocks over an uncapped bottle of water that Paige is sure pre-dates Azzi settling into the space.
“Sorry,” she says, and it sounds like a lie even to her own ears.
“I didn’t eat,” Azzi admits, biting into the apple. She’ll eat around the roundest part and then get her teeth into the ends, her lips pulling back as she takes delicate little nibbles. Paige wonders if she’s being an extra freak or just a normal freak for knowing how it’ll go.
“You could say thank you,” she chastizes, inviting herself inside the small space and settling into the chair opposite the desk.
Even at Mercedes, where Azzi had an office, she never did much to make it personal. No real decorations or easy touches that let her inhabit the space. Because Azzi carries her work with her everywhere. In her head. In that beautiful brain. An office is just a place her body is.
“Azurȧ’s implementing changes,” Azzi says, instead of communicating her gratitude for Paige saving her from imminent starvation. “We’ll do five laps and then recalibrate, in FP2.”
“Sounds good. Where’s Gabby? You send her off on her own?”
“She drove into town. Had to do some work. She stayed in the team home last night because there was an empty bed, but the junior engineers arrived this morning. I’ll meet her for a late dinner.”
It’s absolutely not Azzi’s preference to have anyone visit during a race weekend; she never has the time to hang out, and her focus is always on what needs to be done. She’s complained to Paige on any number of times about it; people want to see what F1 team staff do, want to see the action, but they don’t like being ignored for three days straight.
But the nature of Gabby’s job means that often times her weekend visits can be spur of the moment. Her pre-approved long leave would be planned months in advance, but Paige remembers times when Gabby would send Azzi a What’s App message with hours to spare – hey, I’m heading to Europe. Where are you? — all because someone could randomly cover for her for a weekend.
“Nice to have Gabby around,” Paige offers, inviting conversation. But Azzi only sighs and nods, the half lilt to her mouth not the big smile Paige expects.
“Yeah…Yeah,” she tacks on, like she’s telling herself it’s true. “It’s good to see her.”
Gabby steadies Azzi. Paige saw her do it, early on, and tried to replicate it in a way that would feel authentic. She always thought she largely succeeded. Though events of the past year might indicate otherwise.
All to say, it’s not the expression of glee that Paige expected.
“Everything okay? With her? And… you?”
Azzi swallows, the delicate muscles in her throat moving in slow cohesion. She doesn’t look at Paige as she continues to write out formulas in her notebook, the pencil flying across the page even as she talks. “Yeah. Of course. Everything’s fine. Just, you know. Gabby being Gabby.” She waves her hand about, like that’ll clue Paige into what she means.
“She loves you,” Paige says, because it seems like the right thing to say.
“I know,” Azzi agrees.
To Paige’s surprise, she’s a little choked up, like the reminder is necessary. “I miss her, when she’s gone,” she says, hurried. Like she hates to admit it. “I wish she’d just take a job in Paris, work out of a hospital.”
Azzi once told Paige that she always felt guilty that Gabby was off saving the world and she chose a career ensconced in the most gratuitous display of wealth, calculating numbers to line the pockets of the richest of the rich.
But what could be done, really, when it was clear how deeply everything about racing made Azzi’s blood sing.
“But that wouldn’t be Gabby,” Paige says, gently.
“No,” Azzi agrees. But it clearly doesn’t do anything to soothe her discontent.
There’s a frown on Azzi’s face, and Paige wants to kiss it away. She wants to run her thumb down the middle of Azzi’s forehead, to smooth out the furrow. Her fingers twitch with the urge.
Paige clears her throat. “You, um. You heard from the factory yet, about the aero load?”
Azzi smiles, something like gratitude in her gaze for a moment. “No, not yet. But we’ve got a conference call in an hour. I’ll bring it up again.”
“I better go prep for FP2,” Paige says, standing.
“Thanks,” Azzi says, when Paige is halfway out the door. She waves the apple a little. “For this.”
Maybe she means more than the apple. Maybe she means the forbidden fruit.
“Anytime.”
Doesn’t really matter what she means, in the end.
—--
The engineers are amazing, because the car feels like a different beast when Paige gets her on the track during FP2. The balance isn’t perfect but it’s markedly better. Certainly it’s drivable, controllable.
“Already improved,” Paige says into the radio as she makes it past Rettifilo.
“Tyre readings look good,” Nika confirms. “Williams, coming up on your left.”
She guides Paige through traffic and three more laps, brings her back into the garage and has her sit for ten minutes while engineers slide under the car to make adjustments. The whole time, Paige reads the telemetry screens that they slide over for her, the visor flicked up so only her eyes are visible.
“Can I see the acceleration on the exit at Turn 9?”
Azzi wanders over, Nika on her heels. She puts a hand on the front of the car and the other on the seat, caging Paige in.
“Okay, we’re changing the differential settings,” she says, gesturing to where KK’s plugged in to run a software update to the car. Paige can see her mouth moving, but her voice is only audible through the earbuds connected to the helmet. It’s too loud in the garage for any kind of chatter. “Talk to me.”
“A little understeer when I’m mid-corner,” Paige reports.
“How much?”
She tries to shrug but she can barely move with the safety harness. “Nothing dramatic.”
Azzi nods. “Okay. Let’s soften the rear bar. That might help you free the rear on entry.”
She taps the halo, the three-pronged titanium bars that surround the cockpit, and turns away, flipping the mobile amplifier attached to her waist to switch into another communications channel. Paige can’t hear her, but in her mirror, she sees Kelis straighten and then nod. She scurries away to communicate instructions, and Azzi turns back to Paige.
“Okay. Give us four and we’ll have you back out there. Software update’s almost done.”
This is the part that Paige loves about the free practice sessions. It’s the only time she really gets to see Azzi in her element in the garage. Before, at Mercedes, when Paige was racing in F3 and more often when she was in F2, she’d been able to sit at Sue’s side during the races, listening to the comms and watching Azzi work. She’d always had a hundred questions for Azzi after, while they were commuting to the next race site or back to the factory in Brackley.
Azzi in race mode is formidable. Paige misses being able to see it up close.
—--
Paige and Soni meet in the garage to walk over to the driver’s debrief, giving Paige the opportunity to finally ask the question that’s been burning inside her all day.
“You hear anything out of the Team Principals briefing?”
“Nah, nothing on the paddock.”
“Visit that coffee cart tomorrow,” Paige suggests, not totally in jest.
“Get your ass up and go with me,” Soni chirps back.
They’re strolling together, about to exit the garage, when Kelis comes running up. She skids to stop in front of them, smoke almost cartooning out of her ears.
“Oh good, I caught you.” She looks a little out of breath. “Can you pop into the strat room before you head out? Azzi and Caroline are huddled. I think they’re heading out earlier than usual tonight.”
If Paige didn’t already know about Gabby’s presence, she’d be shocked to hear Azzi’s leaving the track early. She’s had to physically pull Azzi away from the circuit — too many times to count, really.
And, indeed, Azzi and Caroline are huddled in the strategy room, an extremely large and detailed diagram of the car between them. It takes up nearly the entire length of the large conference table. It’s probably to some type of scale; 1:3 or something close.
“Aero wants to run the cars with different wing angles,” Caroline says when they walk in. “Do either of you have a preference on who goes down?”
Soni shrugs. “I’m fine with it — unless you want it?”
“Nah,” Paige shakes her head. “I’d do it but I’m not desperate for it. Front wing was good.”
“I agree,” Azzi says, and she sounds annoyed.
“Order?” Paige asks.
“Strong suggestion,” Azzi answers.
Soni bends over the table to look at the schematic with Caroline, so she can visualize where the changes will be on the front wing. Paige eases her hip onto the conference table, the giant Stanley waterbottle dangling from one of her fingers.
“You and Gabby going for pizza?”
“Some pasta place that Georgia recommended,” Azzi says, her voice a little distant. She’s got a calculator in her hand - one of the graphic calculators that are always nearby. She punches in a series of combinations and then four more buttons, and nods to herself. “Here,” she calls, holding the calculator out.
Jana comes by almost immediately, taking it and glancing at the screen. “I’ll give this to Gandy,” she says, walking away before Azzi says anything else.
Paige raises her eyebrows and Azzi shrugs. “They find it helpful to see the math sometimes,” she admits.
There’s a grin tugging at Paige’s lips, too strong an urge for her to suppress.
“Your brain too fast?”
“Not exactly.”
“But something like that?”
“Something like that.”
Now, she’s giving Paige her full attention, not bothering to pretend to be working on something else or actually working on something else. And she’s in jeans, today, which are almost worse than the leggings because her curves are on full display.
So Paige is really suffering.
“You reading anything good these days?”
Azzi’s always got a book — correction, multiple books — on her nightstand. She prefers physical copies to digital, so she’s always lugging around a couple hundred pages. And the poetry, of course. Always the poetry.
“Nothing too exciting. You?”
Paige is so surprised, she’s sure she resembles a fish. It takes her a moment to recover.
She’s always been a big reader, because she had to spend a lot of time by herself; at the track, in Storrs, on the karting circuit. But she mostly read novels; mystery, some sci-fi, a lot of thrillers.
When she met Azzi, she realized how much there was that she didn’t know; her reading material transformed. It wasn’t as prescribed as wanting to read things that Azzi was interested in, because Azzi was interested in everything. Paige started reading the newspaper and glancing through magazines about things other than car racing. She started consuming classic novels she hadn’t read in high school, and diving deeper into nonfiction. And, of course, poetry.
“Um, the new Karin Slaughter, but it gives me nightmares so I’ve been winding down by watching Bob’s Burgers.”
Azzi’s blank stare is almost comical.
“Ask Gabby about it. I’ve got driver briefing now,” Paige says, making a face. “Pray for me.”
“Try not to piss off Cathy today,” Azzi advises.
“No promises,” Paige says, and she’s feeling really fucking bold, so she pairs the words with a little wink.
She turns to walk away before she can see how it lands. It’s not cowardice, she tells herself; it’s giving Azzi the privacy to receive it.
—--
Nika’s back in the morning, with her espresso bullshit.
“I mean, it’s everywhere. Every-fucking-where.”
“It’ll never happen,” Paige disagrees. “We could never fucking get that lucky.”
But Nika shrugs, like she knows more than she does. She doesn’t, she just likes acting like she picks up better gossip because she thinks people like her more. They don’t. They like Paige more.
“Sophie’s in a worse mood than usual, that’s a fucking fact.”
“She almost started a fight at the briefing last night,” Paige dishes, like they didn’t discuss this very thing twelve hours earlier. Over dinner. And dessert. And a sparkling water.
Paige isn’t even into gossip, really.
“I’m telling you, I think Red Bull is done with her bullshit.”
No. Paige doesn’t believe it. Sophie’s like a cockroach; she always finds a way. “Maybe Diana has heard something,” she offers, since Nika seems invested.
“Think you could ask her?”
Paige can’t fucking ask Diana Taurasi if she has inside gossip on Sophie keeping her seat.
“Did you put money on this?”
“That would be illegal,” Nika says, which doesn’t mean no.
Paige finishes rubbing lotion into her hands and reaches for the gold ring that Nika gave her when they won for the first time in F3. It settles into her knuckle, a comforting presence. She glances in the mirror again, checking the fit. She’s due for breakfast with Diana and Soni. They’re going to sit at the hospitality suite — the outside portion, probably.
“Diana really thinks she can eclipse Ferrari this weekend,” Nika snorts.
“She’s sick of giving free press,” Paige theorizes. “We all had to go to that insipid gala.”
“Good word.”
“Yesterday’s crossword,” Paige admits; another habit she developed after meeting Azzi.
They walk to the paddock together but Nika hurries ahead as they approach the turnstiles; Paige throws a peace sign at the photographer stationed by the entrance, not quite smiling but definitely not frowning. Head up, she can hear Lili saying in the back of her brain.
“Good luck with breakfast,” Nika says, as she peels off toward the garage.
Paige heads toward the paddock mall, to the Lamborghini hospitality suite. She finds Soni already seated, looking alert and fresh in the morning sunshine.
“How many coffee’s you had already?”
“One,” Soni answers. Paige fixes her with an appraising stare. “Two,” she amends. “God, what are we going to talk about? Think of a plan.”
“Why do I have to think of the plan?”
Soni sighs, eyes roving over the paddock. There’s a good amount of foot traffic, but none of it’s really all that interesting. The celebrities won’t show up until later, closer to qualifying time. They’ve got to get through this breakfast, and FP3 before that.
“Good morning,” Diana booms, her deep inflection tinged with a hint of amusement, just as it always is. She looks like the coolest version of Death, all in black. Paige doesn’t know
They both rise to dap her up, and Diana says something that makes the three of them laugh. It’s half performance for the public, half for Diana’s benefit. She and Soni have to sing for their supper, after all.
“I’m gonna fucking kill myself if I have to see those Ferraris on the podium,” Diana says through smiling teeth as she sits.
“Same,” Soni says, her eyebrow moving infinitesimally.
“We’ve got pace,” Paige asserts. She leans back, one elbow draped over the chair, the picture of nonchalance.
“I would hope so.”
They order drinks and some breakfast. Paige picks at the eggs, at the toast, at the avocado slices. Soni seems happy to peel back a croissant one layer at a time. What a freak.
Throughout, Diana pelts them with questions, asks for their opinions; on the aero package upgrades, on the drivers briefing, on what they think of the conversation that McLaren also brought good updates. She’s a master puppeteer, Diana, and Paige and Soni have to make enough eye contact to always be on the same page.
“You think Sophie’s gonna keep her seat?” Paige asks it because why not, and across the table Soni smirks.
“Feels like we’re not lucky enough to be rid of Sophie yet,” Diana sighs. Her water has two lemon slices in it, and a lime wedge. She doesn’t even have to ask for it that way anymore; everyone knows how she takes it. There are advantages to being known. Disadvantages, too.
“And Mercedes,” Soni asks, her voice careful. “Sue looks like she’s been making moves. She just signed those F4 prospects.”
A silent assassin. Paige’s heart leaps into her throat. God, Soni can be bold.
Diana chuckles; it could mean anything.
“You know Sue,” she says, a wry smile on her face. “Always making moves. She can focus on the pipeline. I want us focused on the Constructor’s Championship.”
“Locked in,” Paige murmurs in agreement.
“To the last lap,” Soni adds.
“I’ll drink to that,” Diana approves.
And she does. With lemon wedges and a lime.
—--
Qualifying goes very well. Pole position again.
Paige takes an extraordinary amount of pleasure in qualifying ahead of the Ferrari’s and she outright winks at Kah as she waits her turn to talk with Nastya. Even better for Paige, Caitlin takes an engine penalty and so she’s starting at the back of the grid.
But it’s a good qualifying session for Team Lamborghini, since Soni starts third on the grid, after Phee. They shove at each other, before Soni steps up to talk to Nastya; and again after Paige finishes her own interview.
By the time they make it out of press responsibilities and into the strategy debrief, Paige is itching to be done with the paddock. She hasn’t had a chance to change, so she’s still in her racing overalls, undone to the waist as always. She can’t wait to take a shower.
“Since Paige is in pole, I think we should plan for the podium,” Dorka says. “Azzi—”
“No,” Azzi says, not even looking up from her notes.
Paige watches in amusement as Dorka rolls her eyes and smooths a hand over her hair. Some things never fucking change, and Azzi’s eschewing of all things media is one of them.
“I was going to say, that you should pick someone from your team, Azzi.”
“Jana and KK can battle it out,” Azzi says, and Paige watches as Jana and KK try to restrain themselves from squealing with delight.
“I’ll try to win it for you,” Paige assures them. “Just make sure one of you can still stand and get on the podium with me.”
Halfway through the session, they take a break as the data load comes in. Paige takes the opportunity to duck back into the hallway, determined to track down some kind of snack in the kitchen.
“Yo,” she says, as she enters.
Gabby’s set up at the small table, a smoothie in her hand as she reads from a thick book.
“Congrats on pole position,” she says. “Beautiful drive.”
The first time they met, Gabby took great glee in sharing stories of Azzi as a teen. Apparently she’d forced Gabby into watching Formula 1 enough that Gabby developed her own appreciation for the sport.
“Thanks,” Page accepts the praise as gracefully as she can. “It’s a pretty good car. You having a fun weekend? Been a while since you’ve been to a race.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Gabby says. She fixes Paige with what could only be called an assessing gaze.
Paige walks to the fridge, opening it to evaluate her options. Mostly waters. She turns to the cabinets to scrounge for some kind of baked good.
“You being good to her?”
The words ring out in the silence.
Paige pauses. Her back is to Gabby, which doesn’t feel good from a confrontation perspective, but at least it gives her the opportunity to gather herself. She takes a deep breath and turns around.
“No. You don’t get to ask me that.”
Gabby arches an eyebrow. She’s always been so sure of herself, and it’s not confidence so much as it is an innate assurance that she has the right to meddle. Or to speak on any topic that she likes; Paige never minded it before because Gabby always picked topics in which she was an expert so it didn’t feel intrusive.
“Don’t I?”
But this feels intrusive. It feels like an accusation. Like Gabby’s needling where Paige is just now scabbed over.
“Don’t fuck with me about this, Gabby. It’s honestly none of your business.”
She’s never been so blunt with Gabby. Certainly, she’s never been so aggressive. Because Gabby was always fun, always enjoyable to be around, but she was also Azzi’s best friend. Always someone Paige knew she needed to be on good terms with. To curry favor with.
And it had been fine, because Gabby liked her. Paige knew it. That’s why it was easy.
“She’s my best friend,” Gabby says, unrepentant. “It is my business if she’s getting punched over and over.”
Paige prays for patience. She grips the countertop behind her, squeezing until she can feel the strain in her fingers.
“Things are better between us. But that’s taking a lot of work on my part. Azzi made decisions. And I’m just living with the consequences. You don’t get to tell me how I’m doing that wrong.”
There’s a glint in Gabby’s eyes. Hard, like diamonds.
“She told me about Abu Dhabi.”
Paige freezes. For a body so in motion, she sure can slam on the breaks.
“So she told you how she fucked me and then blindsided me,” Paige snaps, irritated that she doesn’t have the upper hand. Hell, she doesn’t even have equal footing.
“Told me all of it,” Gabby continues, so cool and even. “What you said.”
“What Azzi did in Abu Dhabi fucked me up,” Paige says, her voice carefully calm. “As I’m sure you can imagine.”
Gabby shrugs, like she’s not moved by the argument. And fine, she’s probably right not to be swayed. Because if Azzi did tell her everything then Paige certainly came out looking like mud on the bottom of her boot. What she said to Azzi was inexcusable. You don’t say the kind of things that Paige said to the woman you love, no matter the circumstances.
“Fucked her up too,” Gabby shares, and Paige can’t help but wince. Hurting Azzi will always be the worst thing she’s done.
“I apologized.”
“And she accepted.”
“We’re moving on.”
“Sure.”
Just statements. Little facts that don’t give any kind of accurate representation about the state of the relationship between Paige and Azzi in the time between Abu Dhabi and today; days upon days when she couldn’t do anything but revisit memory row, second and third and fourth guessing every important interaction she and Azzi ever had.
“I’m trying,” she admits, opening herself for scrutiny. Inviting Gabby’s judgement. “I’m trying so hard to be good to her. To be good for her. And it’s so fucking hard when I’m in the goddman dark.”
If Gabby’s got anything to say in response, she doesn’t get the chance.
“PAIGE.”
It’s Jana, calling down the hallway. She appears a moment later, poking her head into the kitchen. She seems to read the tension in the room and then shrug like she doesn’t care. “Azzi wants you.”
Paige nods, and follows after her. She tells herself it’s not running away.
—-------
Azzi: 3:01:...the idea of gen-eds, in quotation marks. They’re general education for a reason and the more universities specialize, the more it becomes apparent that we’re absolutely failing as a society. To flourish is to evolve and through evolution a key component is adaptability. We’re just ridding ourselves as a human race of that ability. I swear the…
—-------
Gabby’s words linger with Paige. They play in her brain over and over again, a strain of music that she just can't excise.
You being good to her?
It’s part guilt and part longing. Paige wants so badly to be good to Azzi, to be the kind person she always imagined herself to be. But all her actions during the first part of the season — since she found out about Azzi leaving Mercedes, really— point to someone different. Someone young. Inexperience masquerading as confidence with a touch of arrogance.
More than a touch, really.
She sweats in the gym, a post-day workout that’s probably inadvisable. But she can’t quiet her mind and the need to move is humming in her veins. Driving a car’s not an option, not really. Not as fast as she wants to go.
Seeing Gabby again is fucking her up. Because Gabby’s a reminder of everything that’s different. She’s a walking, talking, yapping reminder of all the ways that Paige and Azzi aren’t what they used to be.
She puts the set of dumbbells she’s been curling back on the rack and sits on the bench to take a breather. Really, she should quit. She should go and take a shower, get herself ready for bed. Do some meditation and some stretching and prepare for her race.
Instead, she pulls her phone out. Opens up her photos app, scrolls up and up and up, until she gets to the pictures from December. From the end of last season. There’s a picture of Nika, drinking a cup of Qahwah when they had breakfast on the Friday morning before the Bahrain race. And before that, in Suzuka; a photo of Azzi in front of Nagoya Castle. She’s looking up at the structure, a curious look on her face. Paige probably took the photo while Azzi was yapping about the history of the castle, spitting facts from the travel brochure. She’d noticed Paige taking a photo, because the next picture is her hand, reaching out to turn Paige away.
She swipes back, letting the photo of Azzi staring up at the castle settle in the center of the screen.
Paige stares until it goes dark.
—--
There’s final work being done to the car.
Adjustments, double checks, triple checks. Paige sits on a tool cabinet, rolling a washer along her knuckles. She’s looking at the car but she’s not seeing it. Not really. Her mind is on the track, on the curves, the turns, the acceleration and the straight line speed.
“You look like a serial killer,” Jana comments. She’s entering data at a computer, standing just a few feet away.
“I’m concentrating.”
“On how you’re gonna kill someone?”
“Would you talk to Alyssa Thomas like this?”
Jana only laughs. “Please. She’s more of a serial killer than you are.”
That’s fair.
Paige sighs, thumping her head against the wall and trying to find a way to sit with the electricity that’s started humming through her body. Race day, race day, race day.
Starting on pole is great, is ideal, is everything that a driver wants. She’s starting first at Monza. It still doesn’t feel real, sometimes. It won’t, probably, until she does it all again next year. Repetition ruins enjoyment, or whatever the phrase is.
The Mclarens are coming for them. Paige can tell. It’s in Phee’s steely gaze on the paddock, in the lock of her jaw as she walks. Nothing bad, nothing that would sour the air between them. But Phee’s a competitor. A world champion.
She doesn’t like being showed up by a rookie.
Paige is going to need to have her elbows out. It’s fine. She’s bony.
—-
They all suffer through the driver’s parade. The Tifosi are out in force, massive swaths of red sections and a roar that accompanies the swell of color. They cheer for their gods; for Kah and Julie, for the prancing horse, for the cars that have won them championships.
There are big pockets of black, of the gold bull; Paige and Soni sit on the back of the convertible and wave, feeding on the energy.
There’s something different about racing in Italy; it feels like more. Paige won in Imola and she wants to win in Monza, and everything that happens off the track matters less and less as the minutes tick away.
She sits through strategy briefings, through the last minute data readouts. Diana gives a pep talk, Dorka gives instructions. The pit crew boss gives advice.
All of it washes over Paige. Part of her brain takes it in, incorporates it into what she needs in her foot and between her hands, but she doesn’t break concentration.
In her driver’s room, she kneels, just in a sports bra and her boxers. Her weight rests on her heels, her hands resting lightly on her thighs, palms facing up. It’s not prayer, what she does. Sometimes. But not always. Not today.
Because she’s feeling a lot. Too much. They aren’t early in the season anymore; things feel different now. It’s less about having something to prove and more about showing what she can do.
The door opens and Nika slips inside, though Paige doesn’t open her eyes. A hundred things are probably calling for Nika’s attention, for her focus. But she’s here, with Paige.
“We gonna talk about it?”
Surprised, she looks over. “About what?”
“About how you’re fourteen points back from championship leader and Caitlin Clark is starting at the back of the grid today.”
It’s in her mind. How could it not be? She has the opportunity to take the lead in the championship today. A clean race would do it.
“Let’s focus on finishing today in one piece,” she says, deflecting. Winning a world championship isn’t something she can focus on today. It’s all about Monza.
“We got this, Twin.”
We got this.
—-------
Azzi: 41 seconds: Did I ever tell you about my first F1 race? I swear to god, Paige, it felt like the world had changed.
—-------
A different driver emerges from the ready room.
Still Paige, still her. But another version of herself. Someone who only cares about being in the car.
There’s the pageantry of the anthem and the nonsense statement about diversity — nonsense because all this sport cares about is money, about winning. And then Paige is standing in the garage with DiJonai getting ready to walk out.
Gabby’s in the garage, nestled amongst the celebrities and the other onlookers; Paige sees her but doesn’t dive any deeper. She can’t.
She’s got a race to win.
As she climbs into the car and the formation lap begins — with her right in front — she doesn’t look at the crowd. Only the pavement. Only the circuit.
They’re in the Ferrari temple and what Paige wants to do feels like desecration. Her foot is itching, her hands are twitching. As she waits on the starting line she shakes her hands, wiggles her feet. She let’s the ants out and pulls herself together.
4. 3. 2. 1.
It’s not a great start. It’s good, but not great. With Soni behind her she’d be able to fly into first but it’s Phee who’s in second, so Paige has to cut the racing line off and dart to take the front. She manages the swing and then she’s roaring out ahead, the orange of Phee’s McLaren a blur in her mirrors.
“Hold steady, Paige.”
Nika’s a cucumber, keeping Paige steady. She talks her through the chicanes, through defense, through the tyre degradation. She keeps first place and pits first to stop Phee from an undertake; it’s a sub-two second stop, and Paige gets released into a beautiful spot.
“Beautiful stop everyone, thank you,” she says into the radio.
The rest is on her.
It’s hard, because it’s always hard. Nothing comes easy in this sport. Everything is earned.
But when Paige crosses the line first, adding twenty-five points to her name and taking first place from Caitlin Clark in the driver’s championship, the relief is quick.
“That’s a win for Lamborghini and a lead for you, Paige Bueckers,” Nika says on the radio.
“Well done, Paige. Great drive. Let’s celebrate,” Diana says.
When Paige pulls to a stop and jumps out of the car, it crashes down upon her. She grits her teeth against the tears, against the onslaught of emotion. But she runs into Nika’s arms and buries her face — helmet and all — in her best friend’s neck.
“Championship leader, twin.”
“Fuck, we’re really here, twin.”
She turns to receive Soni, who started and finished third, and then she goes to weigh and take her shit off.
While she’s waiting, after she downs most of a bottle of water, she squats down, her head ducked and turned away from the camera. She wants to remember this moment, this feeling. Even if it all goes away after next race. Even if it never comes back. She’s leading the championship.
Paige stands up when Nastya starts to interview Soni, and finishes the bottle of water, immediately grabbing for the next one. As she looks at the team all assembled her eyes search for and find Azzi.
She’s standing at the barrier with Gabby by her side, arms draped over and elbows perched on the edge. They’re talking to each other, some kind of conversation that doesn’t require eye contact – because they’re both looking at Paige.
Paige doesn’t know what kind of expression Gabby has on her face, what she’s thinking; if she’s glaring daggers or looking at Paige like she’s not worthy, if Gabby hates her for the terrible things Paige said or if she thinks that Paige didn’t fight hard enough for Azzi. Paige can’t see any of that because all she sees is Azzi.
Their eyes lock and the rest of the world falls away.
She’s here because of Azzi. In first place, at Lamborghini, in Formula 1. And while Paige is the one who gets all the credit, she would never have made it without her. Azzi helped her in a million different ways. Taught her, supported her, led her.
Planned her races.
Her strategy.
At the end of the day, Paige is just the tool.
—----
Media after the race is a blur. People keep asking Paige what it feels like to be leading the championship, to be the first rookie to lead the championship. She says the same soundbites over and over, because staying on message with the media is easy.
A state of gratitude. Focusing on where her feet are. On repeat.
There’s more sponsor appearances — pictures are taken, autographs signed — but then she’s released to the strategy meeting, and the room gives her a standing round of applause as she enters.
“Please stop,” she begs. “We’re still in first as a team, that’s all that matters.”
Her eyes rove over the occupants, and immediately find what’s missing.
“Where’s Azzi,” she asks Nika, her brows pulled together.
“Gabby’s leaving,” Nika says, gesturing in the direction of the paddock exit. “Azzi went to walk her. Just now.”
Paige doesn’t give it much thought. “I’ll be right back,” she says, leaving Nika and the rest of the room behind as she beelines out of the maze of the garage tunnels and makes her way to the paddock.
She jogs though, ducking people wishing her well and calling congratulations, until she reaches the designated lot that the staff can use to catch the team rideshare or pick up private rides.
“Hey,” she calls, as she approaches.
Azzi and Gabby are standing next to one of the private car charters, likely booked to take Gabby to the Milan airport. Gabby has one hand on the open rear passenger door, but they both turn as Paige reaches them.
“I um…”
She pauses, not sure of what she should say. She just ran all the way out here like an idiot; she’s still in her racing overalls, for fuck’s sake. Unzipped and looking cool, obviously, but still kind of an idiot.
And she doesn’t even know what to say.
But then Gabby steps away from the car, moves away from Azzi. She clasps Paige’s hand between their chests and reaches out with her other arm to hug Paige.
“Don’t let me be wrong about you, Bueckers,” she says in Paige’s ear, her voice low and melodic.
Gratitude floods Paige’s system, the relief coursing through her at an astonishing rate. She needed this, needed it from Gabby. And she might be wrong — she might be so wrong — but Paige chooses to believe that Gabby’s rooting for her, and for a reason. And that gives her hope.
“Be safe,” she says, knocking their temples together.
Then Gabby pulls away. She tugs Azzi into one more hug and kisses her forehead, before setting her backpack in the car and sliding in. Paige watches Azzi shut the door and step back, their shoulders brushing as they watch the car pull away and start the drive to the circuit entrance.
“She’ll be okay,” Paige says, turning to look at Azzi in profile. Azzi’s not crying because she’s not like that, but her eyes are dark as they follow the car.
“I know.”
She turns toward Paige, the late afternoon sun reflecting off her hair. Paige would swear she can see rainbows in the way the strands gleam.
“First place in the Driver’s Championship,” Azzi says. “I hope you feel proud.”
They aren’t eye to eye, exactly. Azzi’s an inch or two shorter, so Paige just has to tip her face down the barest bit for eye contact. She bites her lip, emotion threatening to make another appearance.
She’s moving before she can think it through, before she can second guess or ask permission. Paige hugs Azzi, wrapping her arms around the woman she loves, the woman she’s loved for so long.
Azzi freezes, her limbs seemingly locked up for a moment, but then she melts into the embrace. Her hands come up Paige’s back and press to her tightly, right under the bra line; Paige is wearing the turtleneck of the fireproofs so she can’t feel the touch of Azzi’s skin to hers but the heat soaks in. More than the engine, more than the weather, more than the fire that always seems to be blazing inside.
I did it for you, she wants to say.
“Thank you,” she whispers into Azzi’s temple.
It’s an acceptable hug to have in public, an understandable exchange for the two of them to have in full view of everyone who could possibly be watching.
“Thank you,” she whispers again, the smell of Azzi’s curly shampoo filling her nostrils. The faint scent of motor oil’s there too. Paige is so at peace she feels lightheaded for a moment.
Azzi doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move to put distance between them. “You don’t need to thank me for anything,” she says. “You did it.”
But Paige knows the truth.
They hold each other for another five, seven, ten seconds.
“We should get back to the debrief,” Azzi says, taking a step back. Her hands slide away slowly.
“Yeah,” Paige agrees. She also takes a step back, deliberately putting space between them. Not too much.
contains: age gap (mid 30s and early 20s), professior!paige, student!azzi, academic praise, slight jealousy, academic weapon!azzi, sexual content, paige lowkey has a staring problem
author's note: hi i was lowkey #scared to post this originally but #yolo. please remember this is purely fictional, the conversations are silly and stupid and completely unrealistic! i do not condone this behavior! also i know nothing about college (yet) so the "educational" talk is straight outta my ass, sorry. hope at least one person finds enjoyment in this! also this probably has so many mistakes please ignore i'm too lazy to give this a thorough proofread.
contains: college!pazzi, researcher!paige, participant!azzi, psychology student setting, obsessive behavior, unethical research practices, boundary violations, unhealthy attachment, morallygray!paige, sexual content
word count: 9.3k
masterlist
A/N: alright, here’s chapter 3. sorry if there’s typos, i proofread it pretty fast so i could upload it for you all tonight. i would love to hear your thoughts after you read it, whether that be in DMs, the comments, or through an ask! enjoy :)
CHAPTER THREE: Access Granted
Participant 220456 exhibited stable baseline readings, such as moderate reactivity to reunion stimulus— elevated, but not extreme response to betrayal, and respiratory variability that was within the expected range. Average.
Paige watched the live feed scroll across her monitor from the corner of her eye while she annotated some prior files. The lab lights hummed softly overhead. The air in the lab always smelled faintly metallic, like recycled ventilation and static.
220456 shifted in the participant chair across the room from her with the sensors still attached, and his eyes were trained on the stimulus screen.
Her fingers moved automatically across the keyboard. She did not need to lean forward to interpret the graph spikes anymore, because she could feel patterns before they formed.
A small vibration of her phone against her thigh broke the rhythm. She did not check it immediately.
Participant 220456’s betrayal spike crested predictably. He inhaled sharply with minor jaw tension. Paige marked it, then her phone vibrated again.
Her pulse shifted, not dramatically, but enough to register. She slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew the device, then angled it discreetly toward her lap.
azzifudd: I’ve read that article you sent me 4 times.
Paige’s breath stalled. Four times? And, this was initiation on Azzi’s part. Not a response, not just compliance, but return engagement.
Her eyes moved over the message again to ensure accuracy. Four times. A warmth spread outward from the center of her chest, both precise and controlled, but unmistakable. Reinforcement. Bond stability increasing, Paige thought to herself.
She lifted her gaze briefly to the participant screen. 220456’s graph flattened back toward baseline. Average. She looked back down at her phone to send Azzi a reply.
pbsbaseline: that suggests either intellectual curiosity or resistance to integration.
azzifudd: lmao see this is what I mean
azzifudd: who talks like that
azzifudd: you’re so intense
Paige swallowed as she read. Intense.
The word landed somewhere lower than it should have. This wasn’t an insult, nor was it a dismissal. This was teasing. Her skin felt warmer under her shirt.
pbsbaseline: precision is efficient.
pbsbaseline: did you disagree with the findings?
azzifudd: I didn’t disagree. I just don’t know if I like how accurately it fits.
Paige’s spine straightened. “You don’t like being legible,” she murmured under her breath.
pbsbaseline: you prefer to be perceived as adaptable rather than patterned.
Participant 220456 shifted again over at the computer table, and let out a cough. Paige did not look over. Her eyes stayed on her phone screen.
azzifudd: okay wait
azzifudd: how do you DO that
azzifudd: I didn’t even say that
Paige’s lips parted slightly as she leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. Correct.
pbsbaseline: you didn’t need to.
A small tremor ran through her fingers, not from nerves, but from stimulation. She imagined Azzi reading the message and pausing to process it. She thought about the way her eyebrows likely knit slightly when she was thinking. Paige pictured it vividly.
Participant 220456’s session then concluded with a soft audio chime. Paige stood, composed herself, and began detaching the sensors from his wrists. “Thank you for your participation,” she said evenly. “Your research credit will be visible on your account by tonight.”
He mumbled something about it being interesting, and she went back to her laptop to log his data without enthusiasm.
As soon as the lab door shut behind him, she sat back down and reopened the DM thread fully.
azzifudd: okay miss psychoanalysis
azzifudd: tell me something else you’ve concluded about me
The teasing should have irritated Paige, but instead, heat pooled low in her abdomen. Challenge accepted.
pbsbaseline: you don’t like disappointing people.
pbsbaseline: even when they deserve it.
The typing bubble vanished, returned, and then vanished again. Paige’s pulse ticked harder against her throat.
azzifudd: …that’s rude
azzifudd: and unfortunately accurate
Paige leaned back further in her chair. She felt validation settle into her like a locked mechanism clicking into place.
pbsbaseline: it’s not a flaw.
pbsbaseline: it’s a regulation strategy.
azzifudd: see
azzifudd: this is why I read that article four times
azzifudd: you say things and I have to figure out if you’re insulting me or fixing me
Fixing. Paige’s fingers stilled. She did not like that word. She wasn’t fixing Azzi, because there was nothing to fix about such perfection. She was just… refining. Modeling and understanding.
pbsbaseline: neither.
pbsbaseline: i am just observing.
azzifudd: why attachment though?
azzifudd: like of all things you could study
azzifudd: why that
The question lingered. This was Azzi’s attempt at a personal inquiry. Paige felt the shift immediately, and it was subtle, but significant. Azzi wasn’t asking about data, she was asking about her.
Paige did not answer right away. She first minimized the participant file and reopened 220175 — Priority Subject unconsciously. The graphs, notes, and images all started to pop up, and her focus sharpened.
Why attachment?
Because attachment predicts behavior.
Because attachment explains deviation.
Because attachment determines proximity tolerance.
Because attachment determines who leaves.
She did not type any of that.
pbsbaseline: attachment governs response under stress.
pbsbaseline: it predicts relational behavior with high reliability.
It was true, it just wasn’t complete.
azzifudd: that’s the textbook answer
azzifudd: I meant why do you care about it
Paige’s eyes narrowed at this screen. Personal self-disclosure required, she thought to herself. Unnecessary. She chose to redirect.
pbsbaseline: most people misinterpret their own patterns.
Almost. Paige felt the corner of her mouth lift slightly.
pbsbaseline: it was.
There was a long pause, long enough that Paige reopened the lab file and pretended to skim Participant 220456’s summary again.
azzifudd: okay
azzifudd: what if we continue this conversation somewhere that’s not Instagram
azzifudd: and maybe not accidentally this time
The words seemed to brighten on the screen. Azzi was suggesting chosen contact, not engineered proximity. This was an invitation. Paige’s pulse accelerated in a clean and sharp spike. This was not coincidence, not scheduled interference, and not inferred timing. Azzi was selecting her.
A feeling of reinforcement surged through her system, both steady and controlled, but deeper than before.
She stared at the message long enough to memorize its phrasing. Not accidentally this time.
pbsbaseline: specify location and time.
azzifudd: coffee tomorrow?
azzifudd: 3pm?
azzifudd: you can analyze my drink order in person
Paige’s throat tightened. Azzi was teasing, but she had no idea— none at all— of what that did to Paige internally. In person, planned, and sustained.
pbsbaseline: acceptable.
pbsbaseline: I won’t need to analyze your drink order.
azzifudd: oh yeah?
azzifudd: what am I getting then
Paige didn’t even hesitate.
pbsbaseline: something caffeinated but not bitter.
pbsbaseline: you don’t like harshness unless you choose it.
azzifudd: you’re ridiculous
azzifudd: see you tomorrow at 3
That message ended the exchange, but Paige stared at the thread until the screen dimmed. Then, she locked her phone and placed it face down on the desk. Her chest felt tight, but not uncomfortable. More focused.
Chosen contact. The difference was structural. Engineered proximity relied on pattern inference, but this relied on mutual selection. Her attachment circuitry adjusted accordingly.
Priority Subject? No, something else now. Something more.
She turned back to Participant 220456’s file and typed:
Data integrity: intact.
She had some work to finish, but her mind had already shifted to 3pm tomorrow. And for the first time, she was not calculating how to be present. She was anticipating it.
—
Hartwell’s campus had a coffee shop tucked into the corner of the humanities quad that was half glass, half brick, and had ivy curling lazily along one wall.
The Lantern Room.
It was quieter than the main student café. It had warm lights, mismatched wooden tables, and constantly played soft instrumental music low from the speakers. The air smelled like espresso and toasted sugar.
Paige arrived at 2:52 p.m. She chose a table against the wall— strategic angle. Clear sightline to the entrance, minimal foot traffic, and controlled variables.
She placed her phone face down beside her cup, which was black coffee, of course, no additions, and folded her hands loosely in front of her.
At 2:59, the door chimed, and Azzi stepped inside. Paige’s focus narrowed on to her immediately.
Azzi was wearing a cropped hoodie and loose jeans, with her hair pulled back— but not tightly. A few strands escaped at her temples. She scanned the room briefly before her eyes landed on Paige. Her face changed. It was subtle, but Paige saw it. Paige saw everything. Recognition → warmth → a small lift at the corner of her mouth that didn’t fully form into a grin yet.
Micro-sequence duration: less than two seconds, Paige mentally logged.
Paige stood, and Azzi walked toward her with open energy and relaxed shoulders. “You’re early,” Azzi said.
“Three p.m. was the agreed time. Early arrival reduces unpredictability,” Paige responded.
Azzi laughed softly. “There she is.”
They stood awkwardly for a half-second. This was the moment where most people defaulted to a hug, but Paige did not move forward, and Azzi noticed. Instead of forcing it, she just gestured towards the employee behind the counter.
“I’m gonna go order,” Azzi said, then turned to walk away. Paige registered the choice. Azzi had respect for boundary. Paige’s desire intensified accordingly.
“You got plain black,” Azzi said once she was back, and nodded toward Paige’s cup.
“Yes,” Paige said flatly.
Azzi pressed her lips together. “That’s so on brand for you.”
Paige didn’t ask what she meant by that. “You ordered something with foam.”
Azzi blinked. “You didn’t see me order.”
“You don’t prefer bitterness without buffer.”
Azzi shook her head and smiled as she set her oat milk latte down. “You’re impossible.”
Paige didn’t respond. She was too busy watching the way Azzi wrapped both hands around the cup before taking a sip. Heat-seeking behavior. Self-soothing under mild anticipatory stress.
“You look… different here,” Azzi said after a moment.
Paige tilted her head. “Clarify.”
“Less lab. More… person.”
Paige absorbed that without a reaction, and Azzi leaned back slightly in her chair. Paige mirrored the movement unconsciously. Azzi noticed that too, and a flicker of amusement formed in her eyes.
“So,” Azzi said, stirring her drink even though it didn’t need stirring, “is this uncomfortable for you?”
“Uncomfortable?”
“Being somewhere that isn’t controlled.”
Paige held her gaze steadily. “This is controlled,” she said. “You chose the time and the location. Environmental variables are minimal.”
Azzi stared at her for a second. Then laughed again, more softly this time. “I meant like… socially.”
Paige paused. Her instinct was to redirect, but instead, she said, “I prefer structured interaction.”
“That checks out.”
“But I agreed to this.”
Azzi’s eyes softened. “I know.”
There was something different in her tone now. It was less teasing and more genuine. Paige felt it land, and they held eye contact longer than necessary. Paige didn’t feel the need to look away first, which was new.
“You know,” Azzi said quietly as she traced her finger along the rim of her cup, “you were right about something.”
Paige did not interrupt. Azzi continued, her gaze dropping briefly to the table before returning. “I was in this… thing last year. Not like—” She waved her hand vaguely. “Not super official, but we were close.”
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and Paige immediately cataloged it.
“She hated conflict,” Azzi went on. “Or said she did. But really she just… avoided it. So I would smooth everything over. Always, even when I was upset.”
Betrayal stimulus containment curve. There it is, Paige thought to herself.
“I thought if I stayed steady enough,” Azzi said with a quieter voice now, “she wouldn’t leave.”
Paige felt the air shift. Azzi hadn’t meant to go this far. It was visible in the way her shoulders drew in slightly after the admission, as if she was bracing for judgment.
Paige leaned forward, just a fraction. “You equated stability with security,” she said, and Azzi’s eyes flicked up.
“You overcompensated for her inconsistency. You didn’t lose her because you weren’t steady enough,” Paige continued evenly. “You lost her because she relied on you to regulate what she refused to regulate herself.”
Azzi went very still, and her fingers stopped tracing the cup. The noise of the coffee shop blurred at the edges, and Paige watched the micro-expressions cascade across Azzi’s face in real time: surprise, recognition, and then… relief.
“You didn’t need to be more,” Paige said. “You were already compensating.”
Azzi swallowed, but she didn’t speak immediately. Her eyes were locked on Paige’s now, like she was searching for something. “That’s…” she started, then stopped. Paige held steady.
“That’s exactly what it felt like,” Azzi finished.
There it was. Azzi felt deeply seen. Paige hadn’t required any overexplanation.
Azzi’s shoulders lowered, as tension she hadn’t consciously noticed released. She smiled, but it wasn’t her wide public smile. It was smaller and softer.
“You do this thing,” she said quietly, “where you just… say the thing. The exact thing.”
Paige felt pride bloom under her ribs. Not arrogance, but precision satisfaction. She had calibrated correctly.
“I observe,” she replied.
Azzi shook her head faintly. “It doesn’t feel like just observing.”
Paige did not answer that, because it wasn’t.
A silence settled between them. Not awkward, but thick. Then, Azzi’s foot moved under the table and brushed lightly against Paige’s ankle.
Paige stilled, but the contact lingered. Azzi didn’t retract. Instead, her foot slid slowly upward along Paige’s shin, both deliberate and exploratory, like she was testing something.
Paige’s breath caught. Historically, she did not like unexpected physical touch. It overwhelmed and distracted her. Surprisingly, this did not. This sharpened her.
Her body reacted before she processed it. She felt warmth pool low, and her pulse accelerated. Her skin was hyperaware of every inch of contact. Paige did not pull away.
Azzi watched her carefully in a non-aggressive way. Instead, she looked curious.
Paige’s jaw tightened slightly, and she kept her hands remained folded on the table, outwardly composed. Underneath, sensation climbed higher. Her mind flickered briefly as she cataloged the data— compliance without resistance. Proximity tolerance: sustained.
But then, it dissolved almost immediately into something thicker. Something she categorized as need.
Azzi tilted her head slightly. “You okay?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” The word came out lower than usual.
Azzi’s lips parted just a fraction, but she didn’t move her foot, and neither did Paige. Heat layered beneath the conversation now, subtly but undeniably.
“You’re not as unreadable as you think,” Azzi murmured.
Paige’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”
“You look proud when you get something right.”
Paige’s throat tightened. She hadn’t known that. She didn’t ever analyze herself, only others.
Azzi’s foot then pressed just a little firmer against her shin. “And I like that,” Azzi added.
Like, Paige repeated mentally. The word landed heavier than intense had. She felt it everywhere at once, the pride, heat, and desire threading together until they were indistinguishable.
She wanted— nope. She needed to recalibrate and maintain control. But still, she did not move her leg away, nor did she break eye contact.
Across the small wooden table in The Lantern Room, chosen contact had shifted into something else entirely. This was not engineered and it was most definitely not accidental. It was mutual.
And Paige, who was steady, composed, and obsessively precise, felt the pull deepen into something she could no longer pretend was purely observational.
—
The lab was quiet in the late afternoon the next day. The fluorescent lights were steady, and the air hummied faintly through the vents. Room 314C felt contained in a way the outside world never did. Predictable and ordered with its clean lines and labeled drawers.
Paige sat at her desk with her laptop open. Not the public dataset, but the private one.
Eye contact sustained during interpretive feedback.
Observable somatic relaxation following cognitive reframing.
Physical contact initiated by subject (lower extremity)
Duration: sustained.
No withdrawal upon non-response.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She could still feel it, that slow glide of Azzi’s foot against her shin. Specifically, the warmth and the pressure.
In the past, unexpected touch had felt abrasive to her. It was like too much information at once. She would always become overwhelmed. This hadn’t felt that way, though. This had narrowed the world to a single point of contact.
She flexed her hand on the desk and replayed the sensation with uncomfortable clarity.
Did Azzi notice?
The way Paige held herself. The way she spoke, both direct and stripped of cushioning. The way she didn’t default to small talk or soften statements.
Did she notice that Paige moved differently through social space?
That conversations felt like equations to her. That she preferred fluorescent quiet to crowded warmth.
Paige stared at the blinking cursor. Does Azzi perceive deviation?
She did not mind being different, but she minded being misread.
Her jaw tightened faintly. Azzi had not recoiled, she had leaned in. The thought sent a low and steady heat through her chest. Her phone then vibrated against the desk, and she glanced at it.
azzifudd: are you in your lab rn
pbsbaseline: yes.
azzifudd: do you have a participant
pbsbaseline: no.
azzifudd: okay
azzifudd: I’m coming by
Azzi had given no explanation, and did not formally request. She just stated that she was coming. Paige stared at the message longer than necessary. This was more chosen contact. Physical space immersion.
Her gaze lifted slowly to the door of 314C, the same door that she had posed in front of for the grant article. This was her space. She felt like she owned it. Her heartbeat ticked faster, but not from anxiety, just anticipation.
Five minutes later, there was a soft knock. Paige stood immediately and opened the door.
Azzi leaned casually against the frame for half a second before straightening when she saw her. “It really is just you in here,” she stated as she glanced past Paige.
“Yes.”
Azzi then stepped inside, and the shift was immediate. Her energy moved differently here, kind of soft, almost reverent. She glanced at the equipment, the participant chair, and the monitor screens.
“This is really cool,” she said quietly.
Paige felt something tighten in her chest. Something like pride.
314C wasn’t large. There was a table with a computer on it, which was the participant setup, and the sensors were coiled neatly in labeled containers. A whiteboard was positioned against the wall and filled with formula fragments and predictive models.
Azzi approached the participant chair. “This is where I sat.”
“Yes.”
Azzi ran her hand lightly along the armrest, and Paige watched the movement with acute focus.
“This is your favorite place on campus, isn’t it?” Azzi asked.
Paige didn’t answer immediately. “Yes,” she said finally.
Azzi smiled, both small and knowing. “I can tell.”
Paige stepped closer to her laptop again. She opened the primary dataset file, with the rows of participant numbers, anonymized graphs, and clean formatting. She angled the laptop slightly so Azzi could see it. “This is the aggregate data,” she said. “All participants.”
Azzi leaned beside her to look, very closely. Almost too close, to the point where their shoulders nearly touched. Paige felt the proximity like static.
“So that’s mine?” Azzi asked, pointing vaguely at one graph cluster.
“No,” Paige said. “That’s everyone’s. I also code everyone’s separately.”
That was accurate. Paige did not tell a lie, she just left out some detail.
Azzi hummed thoughtfully. “You really built all this?”
“Yes.”
Azzi glanced at her sideways. “That’s kind of insane.”
“It’s methodical.”
Azzi laughed softly as they moved into the hallway together. The walls held framed research posters, attachment studies, behavioral mapping diagrams, and cognitive processing models. Azzi drifted slowly along it and brushed her fingers lightly against the frames.
“This one’s yours?” she asked, stopping in front of a poster with Paige’s name listed beneath the title.
“Yes.”
Azzi leaned in closer to read, and Paige watched her mouth move silently over the words. Azzi’s hair fell forward slightly, and the hallway felt narrower suddenly.
They then continued down to the copier room, which was both small and functional. Scanner glass reflected the overhead light, and the low mechanical smell of toner filled the air.
Azzi stepped inside first, and she ran her hand across the top of the copier before tapping the buttons curiously. “You basically live here,” she said.
“I have told you I prefer predictable systems.”
Azzi turned to face her. “And people?”
Paige held her gaze. “People are variable.”
Azzi smiled faintly. “I’m not that unpredictable.”
Paige stepped closer to her before fully deciding to. “You were at first,” she said quietly. Azzi tilted her head, looking intrigued. The distance between them shrank.
The wall behind Azzi was lined with laminated data posters. For a fraction of a second, Paige’s mind detached from the present.
She imagined—
Her own back against the wall and Azzi’s hands braced beside her shoulders, that warm breath close enough to disrupt Paige’s composure.
Or maybe— Azzi bent slightly over the copier glass, laughing and unaware with Paige’s hand firm at her waist. Control transferred.
The images flashed vividly and intrusively, and wetness pooled in her boxers so suddenly it almost disoriented her.
She felt physical and possessive. She wanted to see how Azzi would respond to restraint, pressure, and deliberate closeness.
Her pulse thundered once as Azzi’s voice registered in her ears. “Paige?” She called out. The sound of her name snapped her back into focus.
Azzi was watching her carefully. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” Paige replied evenly.
Azzi’s eyes flicked over her face as if searching for something. Not suspicion, but concern. There was more engagement.
“You zone out when you’re thinking,” Azzi said.
“I don’t zone out.”
“You do.”
A small smile tugged at Azzi’s mouth. “And I kind of love it.”
Love. Paige knew she didn’t mean that literal— probably, but she still felt the word strike somewhere deep and unprotected.
She straightened slightly. “You’re interested in my environment,” she observed.
“Yeah,” Azzi said easily. “It matters to you, so it matters to me.”
The simplicity of that statement unsettled Paige more than the fantasies had. It was not strategic, it was genuine. Paige studied her face to search for irony, but found none. Azzi was here because she wanted to be. Not to be analyzed, not to be measured, but just to be with her.
Paige’s desire sharpened again, but was layered now with something more dangerous. Something she logged as exclusivity.
She wanted Azzi in 314C more often. She wanted this space— her space— to become shared. She wanted to associate comfort with her, and to align safety with proximity.
Azzi brushed past her lightly to exit the copier room. The contact was brief, but deliberate. Paige’s body reacted immediately, and she felt another flare of heat she could not suppress.
She followed Azzi back toward 314C, steady on the surface, but felt obsessive underneath.
The lab door stood open. The door to her domain, and now Azzi was inside of it.
—
Azzi didn’t realize that she was smiling until someone passed her on the quad and smiled back.
She adjusted her backpack on her shoulder and kept walking toward her dorm, with the late afternoon light slanting gold across Hartwell’s brick pathways. Azzi liked the way campus felt at this hour. Most classes were over at this point and campus would start to clear out. It felt like everything was exhaling.
Her brain, however, was not. Instead, it was replaying— Paige standing in the doorway of 314C, with one hand still on the handle like she hadn’t fully decided to let her in. The silver placard on the wall catching the light. The way Paige’s posture had shifted, almost imperceptibly when Azzi stepped inside. It had seemed like Paige was territorial of her space, but not unwelcoming. It felt more… selective.
Azzi’s cheeks warmed again at the memory. She’d felt it immediately that she wasn’t just walking into a room, but more being allowed into something. Paige didn’t strike her as someone who handed out access casually.
The lab hadn’t felt sterile the way it felt when Azzi was there as a participant in Paige’s study. It had felt curated this time. Every drawer was labeled, every cable was coiled neatly, and the whiteboard was filled with sharp and clean handwriting. It had felt like Paige’s brain externalized, and Paige had let her wander.
Paige had let her touch the armrest of the participant chair, let her lean over the laptop to look at the data, and let her ask question after question without any irritation.
Azzi had also noticed the way Paige had watched her move through the room. Not lazily, and not in a distracted way, either. More intently, like she was mapping her in real time.
That thought should have unsettled her, but it didn’t. A lot of things about Paige should’ve unsettled her, but none of them did. They just made her pulse kick.
There was something about the way Paige looked at her, steady, unflinching, and unhurried. No stammering, no tonal shifts, just that same even, measured, and controlled cadence. It was almost disarming.
Most people performed subtle fluctuations when they were nervous or trying to impress someone. Paige didn’t seem to perform at all. Her voice stayed level whether she was explaining statistical models or telling Azzi she was unpredictable.
I’m not that unpredictable.
You were at first.
Azzi exhaled slowly at the memory. That moment had done something to her. Something in the way Paige said it hadn’t felt like a tease. It had felt observational, precise, and accurate.
Azzi then cut across the grass instead of sticking to the sidewalk, and replayed the copier room moment in sharper detail. She had asked if Paige was okay, and there had been a split second where Paige looked far away.
She wasn’t disassociating, and she didn’t seem distracted. It was more like she was calculating— like her mind ran deeper tracks than most people’s.
You zone out when you’re thinking.
I don’t zone out.
You do.
Azzi huffed softly to herself. She liked that about Paige, the bluntness and the refusal to cushion. It felt honest.
And the way Paige had said, You’re interested in my environment.
Not in an accusatory way, just natural curiosity. Azzi pressed her lips together and felt heat rise up her neck again.
She’d meant what she said. It mattered to Paige, so it mattered to her.
A realization settled in Azzi’s chest. She hadn’t cared about anyone’s “environment” in a long time. Not since last year.
The breakup had been messy in a quiet way. There wasn’t any screaming or a dramatic final scene, just erosion. The girl who Azzi had been talking to had said she was “too much.” Too expressive, too quick to attach, and too open.
So, since then, Azzi had tried to scale herself back. She had tried to be less. Safer. She hadn’t let herself feel any flicker of crush energy in months, because she hadn’t wanted to be the one leaning forward again. And yet, Paige.
Azzi laughed under her breath and shook her head. It wasn’t like Paige was exactly… smooth. She was awkward, and direct to the point when it was almost jarring. She didn’t soften her edges, and sometimes her eye contact felt almost surgical.
Not to mention, she analyzed everything. Literally everything. Azzi had caught it at the café, too— the way Paige’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long after she’d said something vulnerable. Not in a judgmental way, but like she was assessing the situation.
Azzi had felt dissected in that moment, but not in a bad way. She felt studied, like someone was actually trying to understand the structure of her.
Azzi kicked a loose pebble off the path as she thought to herself— Does Paige do that with everyone?
Paige was a researcher. Attachment theory was her entire academic focus, so it made sense that she observed people and broke them down into patterns and tendencies.
Azzi imagined Paige doing the same thing to random students on the quad— predicting their behaviors and categorizing their expressions.
The idea made her smile. That’s just how she is, she told herself. She’s dedicated and focused. It wasn’t personal, except… it didn’t feel general, either.
When Paige looked at her, it didn’t feel like a blanket study of humanity. It felt kind of targeted.
She replayed the moment by the posters and the way Paige had stepped closer without seeming to realize she was doing it. The air between them had thickened then, and there had been something there. Not just academic curiosity, but something heavier.
Azzi slowed down near her dorm entrance with her heart beating a little faster. Is she interested in me? Not academically, and not as a participant, but in me.
She tried to catalog the evidence the way Paige might.
The DM initiation had escalated quickly into coffee.
Paige had remembered details from their first conversation with unsettling precision.
She had responded perfectly when Azzi mentioned her ex. Not with generic reassurance, but exact phrasing.
And today… she let her into the lab.
That last one felt especially significant. Paige didn’t seem like someone who let unimportant people just wander through her sanctuary.
Azzi’s fingers brushed her own arm absentmindedly as she recalled the way she’d nudged past Paige in the copier room. She could still feel the faint heat that had radiated off her.
Paige hadn’t pulled away, but she hadn’t leaned in, either. She’d just… stayed still and present. The memory made Azzi’s skin prickle in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
The thing was, she didn’t feel scared. If anything, she felt chosen, like Paige had selected her out of a crowd, filtered her through whatever internal algorithm she used, and decided she was worth proximity. Something about that was deeply flattering.
Azzi then pushed open the dorm door and stepped inside. The cool air brushed her flushed face.
She didn’t feel watched or unsafe, she just felt… wanted. The intensity in Paige’s gaze didn’t read as hunger to her. It read as focus, commitment, and intentionality— and after a year of someone slowly losing interest, of watching texts get shorter and calls get rarer, intentionality felt intoxicating.
What would it be like to date someone like Paige? Someone who thought before she spoke, who remembered everything, and who seemed almost incapable of half-heartedness.
Azzi paused outside her door with her hand hovering over the handle. Would Paige even know how to flirt? The mere thought made her grin.
She pulled out her phone and opened their DMs.
azzifudd: you didn’t tell me that copier room is kind of a vibe
azzifudd: educationally speaking, obviously
She hit send before she could overthink it, and inside her chest, something warm unfurled.
She wasn’t oblivious to the way Paige studied her. She noticed it, but she didn’t interpret it as predatory. Instead, she interpreted it as care and fascination— and if she was being honest with herself, she liked being fascinating to someone.
Even if she didn’t fully understand the depth of it. Even if she couldn’t see the layers beneath the surface. All she knew was, when Paige looked at her, she felt singular, and right now, that was enough.
—
The shower at Paige’s apartment had even water pressure, and she liked that.
That was predictable, but it carried some unpredictability. For example, the left knob always needed a sharper turn, and the temperature always ran slightly hotter than the marking suggested. These were variables she had mapped the first night she moved in.
Steam filled the small bathroom and fogged the mirror, softening the edges of the tile. She stood under the spray with her eyes closed and replayed.
Azzi’s shoulder brushing hers in the lab— light, but deliberate, her laugh echoing off the hallway walls, and the way she’d moved through 314C like she belonged there. Like she’d been invited.
Paige tilted her head back and let the water run down her throat. Azzi had not asked for permission to exist in that space, she had just simply existed, both confident and curious. In Paige’s lab. The memory sent something dark and electric through her.
Her hand started to slide down her own stomach slowly, her fingertips trailing through water and heat. She paused just above her cunt— that had been buzzing low and constant since the copier room.
She didn’t do this often, because she just didn’t feel the need to. Physical urges were typically distant for Paige. They felt like background noise she could compartmentalize and manage, but tonight, the sensation wasn’t in the background. It was insistent.
She pressed her palm flat against her abdomen and inhaled sharply as Azzi’s voice threaded through her mind again.
It matters to you. So it matters to me.
Paige’s jaw tightened, and the warmth between her legs deepened, feeling both heavy and undeniable.
She lowered her hand further and let her fingers slide through her folds. Her free hand shot out to brace against the tile wall as she began rubbing tight and deliberate circles against her clit— fast, controlled, and purposeful.
When Paige touched herself, it was typically efficient and functional. She would build sensation, reach the necessary peak, recover, and move on. No indulgence or narrative were necessary.
But right now, her eyes were squeezed shut, and that gave her mind the permission it needed to drift somewhere she usually refused to let it go.
Paige disliked hypotheticals unless they were data-related. Speculation without empirical grounding felt wasteful— and yet, her brain betrayed her.
Azzi straddling her lap while Paige spoke about attachment theory with clinical certainty.
Azzi’s mouth at her neck as she explained the similarities between their majors, and the compatibility that was implied.
Azzi’s hand sliding up her thigh while Paige pointed out response graphs, calmly articulating why hers was the most statistically interesting.
The images weren’t chaotic, they were structured and sequential. They were intimate in a way that felt terrifyingly plausible.
Paige bit down on her lip to suppress the sound threatening to escape as her hips pressed forward into her own touch. She didn’t need more. She didn’t need to slow down or deepen the stimulation. This was enough to get her there, more than enough.
Her orgasm hit her fast and hard, the climax ripping through her with startling force. Her hand on the wall slipped, and her fingers scraped uselessly at the tile. Her knees weakened but held.
She bowed forward with her forehead pressing against the cool ceramic as she sucked in sharp breaths, her lungs struggling to regulate the spike in her pulse.
Water continued to pour over her shoulders, and for several seconds, she didn’t move. Instead, she cataloged her body processes.
Heart rate elevated. Muscle tremor present. Respiration uneven but stabilizing.
Her eyes opened slowly as the pleasure receded, but something else remained.
Not shame— Paige did not moralize desire. Not confusion— the stimuli-response pathway had been clear.
What lingered instead was intensity. Her climax had not felt abstract, but targeted. She had not imagined a generic body, but instead, Azzi.
This was new for her. The fact that the pleasure had amplified when the scenarios involved intellectual proximity, shared space, and a shared focus.
Her brain replayed one of the imagined images again, but slower this time. Azzi leaning into her as she explained data, her mouth brushing her skin, and all of her attention fixed on Paige and Paige only.
It hadn’t just been about sex. It had been about access. About Azzi choosing her space, touching her environment, and listening. The orgasm had fused desire with ownership.
Attachment deepens with repeated contact.
Her body had just reinforced that hypothesis. Neural pathways were strengthened by association, and reward response was linked to subject-specific imagery.
Her system was now calibrating around Azzi. Pleasure now had a face and a voice, when it never had before.
Paige turned off the shower, and silence filled the bathroom, both thick and private. As she reached for her towel, one thought crystallized with unsettling clarity: she did not want this response diffused across variables, she wanted it anchored to one.
—
The bathroom felt cooler when Paige stepped out. The steam thinned around her shoulders as she toweled off, her movements precise and efficient as always. She didn’t linger in the mirror, and definitely didn’t examine the flush that was still high on her cheekbones.
She dressed in soft sleep shorts and an oversized Hartwell Psychology Department tee, both routine and controlled, but something inside her felt less contained.
She turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into her bedroom. It was 11:42 p.m. She moved to her desk without hesitation, sat down, and opened her laptop, where the folder hierarchy appeared instantly. She did not have to search for the file she was looking for, because it was always right there, under Recently Viewed.
220175 — Priority Subject
The file opened, but she didn’t type anything. She didn’t add a single note, she just stared.
The main dashboard displayed timestamps, behavioral charts, and categorized observations. Beneath that, was the private archive, the images and screenshots Paige had curated to match the response curves from Azzi’s participation in her study.
Her cursor hovered over one of the images, then she clicked, and the selfie filled the screen.
Azzi, smiling wide, with her cheek pressed against another girl’s— dark hair, hazel-ish eyes. Paige had not yet identified who she was.
The file name read: IMG_azzifudd_021.
Paige zoomed in on it, specifically on Azzi’s face. She let her vision scan across the softness at the corners of her eyes, and the relaxed openness of her mouth.
Then, she shifted the frame to the other girl. Her hand rested casually on Azzi’s shoulder, portraying something familiar and possessive.
Paige’s lip caught between her teeth, and a sharp and unfamiliar irritation sparked in her chest. Who is she?
She opened up another tab and pulled up Azzi’s Instagram page. She had posted a story with this same girl earlier this morning— a photo of the girl with a coffee in hand.
Posted 15 hours ago—
Text typed near the bottom of the image: “my person 🤍”
Paige’s fingers curled slowly against the desk. Her person. The phrase echoed unpleasantly.
Attachment deepens with repeated contact.
She had written that same sentence in her abstract when she applied for the Psychology Lab grant— cited properly and empirically supported. Proximity increases bond salience. Consistency increases emotional reliance. Repeated contact.
Paige leaned back slightly in her chair with her eyes never leaving the screen. Azzi had come to her lab without being prompted. She had initiated the DM earlier, and asked about the study— about her. The engagement metrics were rising.
She pulled up the post that included the selfie of Azzi and the unnamed girl. Azzi didn’t usually tag anyone in her posts, so she would have to investigate another way. She opened up the comments, and her eyes scanned over them.
Most of them were fairly normal. Nothing eye-catching. Some emojis, surface-level compliments, but then—
caroline.ducharme: my pretty girl
Paige’s eyes immediately narrowed. Azzi hadn’t mentioned Caroline directly to her yet, but Paige could tell that their relationship— whatever level it may be— was strong.
After Paige did a bit more scrolling through Azzi’s account and analyzed each and every comment posted by Caroline, she went back to the data file and inserted a few more notes under the selfie image.
Frequency of interaction: high.
Comment history: familiar tone, inside jokes and pet names commonly used
Her jaw tightened, then she zoomed in on the image again. This time, she isolated the space between their shoulders. They were too close. Like, unnecessarily close. She imagined replacing Caroline’s hand with her own, and imagined Azzi turning her head slightly to smile at her instead.
Attachment deepens with repeated contact. Paige kept repeating that sentence over and over in her head.
Attachment deepens with repeated contact, so she would become the repeated contact. Not Caroline, and not anyone else who thought they had baseline access.
Azzi had chosen her today. She had entered her space, asked questions, and opened up. Those were not random behaviors, they were signals, and signals required responses.
Her gaze traced Azzi’s face on the screen—slow, reverent, and hungry. She felt desire, yes, but layered beneath it was something harder. Possessiveness.
Paige realized that since Azzi had participated in her lab study, she had invested intellectual and emotional resources. Paige had given her time, energy, and observation. Investment created expectation.
Azzi had engaged with her, and that engagement meant something, like… progression.
Paige’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, because she was tempted to document the feeling, to reduce it to language and control it. She ultimately decided against it. Instead, she whispered softly to the empty room:
“I’m your safest variable.”
The words felt true, because Paige was safer than unpredictable friends and past partners who left. Paige would not erode or drift. She would remain constant. A constant contact, and a constant presence.
She zoomed out slightly and restored the full selfie, her eyes lighting up as Azzi’s smile filled the screen again. Caroline, though, blurred into the edge of the frame.
Paige’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. Repeated contact… yeah, she could engineer that. She didn’t see it as manipulation, but rather, optimization.
She closed the image but kept the file open as she stared at the dashboard header:
220175 — Priority Subject
Her obsession had shifted tonight. It was no longer just fascination and desire. It had now calcified into something directional.
She didn’t simply want Azzi, she wanted primary position, and in Paige’s world, primary position was not left to chance.
—
The next day, 314C was quiet again. The lights were steady, and the air vent hummed at the same low frequency Paige had grown accustomed to since the beginning of the semester.
She stood on her toes to reach the top corner of the whiteboard, and wrote in careful block letters:
220462 — Tues 2:30
220471 — Tues 3:45
220489 — Wed 2:15
Each number was evenly spaced, and each time was aligned precisely beneath the last.
She capped the marker, then stepped back to assess. Everything was balanced and predictable. That’s how she kept things in the lab.
Her routine after this would be simple:
1: Save the updated scheduling spreadsheet.
2: Power down the secondary monitor.
3: Sanitize the participant sensors.
4: Turn off the overhead lights.
5: Lock the door.
She always completed them in that order. Her phone then vibrated in her pocket, but she didn’t check it immediately. She finished aligning the eraser tray first, then pulled her phone out.
azzifudd: you on campus?
azzifudd: i’m at the library studying. come join me?
azzifudd: it’s too lonely in here
Paige’s gaze lingered on the last message.
Too lonely in here.
Azzi had initiated again. This wasn’t lab-related, or research-related, it was just… her.
Paige glanced at the whiteboard once more.
She knew she should finish the routine. She needed to power down the monitor and log the updated IDs.
pbsbaseline: which floor
She didn’t shut down the monitor or wipe the sensors. She didn’t even look back at the board. She just grabbed her bag, turned off the main lights, and left 314C without completing the sequence.
Her brain registered the incompletion, and it left a faint itch beneath her skin, but it was overridden by something stronger— repeated contact.
—
The third floor of the library smelled faintly like paper and old carpet. Paige spotted Azzi immediately at a corner table tucked near a window with her laptop open, highlighter uncapped, and one earbud dangling from her collar.
Azzi looked up at the exact moment Paige approached, and her face lit in a way that felt unfiltered. “There you are,” she said, smiling.
Paige sat across from her, and then she mirrored Azzi’s setup. She opened her laptop and then slid her backpack next to Azzi’s on the floor by the table leg.
For a few minutes, they worked in parallel silence. Their keyboards clicked and their textbook pages turned, but then Azzi sighed dramatically and leaned back in her chair.
“Okay. I need to vent.”
Paige’s eyes snapped up. “Proceed,” she said evenly.
Azzi huffed out a small laugh. “You always sound like you’re granting access to classified information.”
Paige finally met her eyes. “You requested to vent. I’m confirming clearance.”
She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. “My Molecular Bio group project? It’s a disaster. I’ve done, like, eighty percent of the work.”
Paige stilled. “Clarify.”
“There are two other people in my group. They keep saying they’ll handle sections, and then they just… don’t. So I end up doing it because I don’t want our grade to tank.”
“Have you confronted them?”
Azzi shook her head immediately. “No. I mean— I’ve hinted at it, but I don’t like conflict. I’d rather just fix it.”
Paige studied her face carefully. She had slight tension at the jaw, and some micro-tightening around the eyes. This wasn’t anger, but… resignation. “You consistently absorb other people’s responsibilities,” Paige said.
Azzi blinked. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I guess I do.”
Paige’s voice remained steady and uninflected. “You deserve people who respond to you consistently.”
The words landed between them, and Azzi’s posture shifted before she leaned in closer.
Paige continued. “Group dynamics should not require unilateral compensation. If you are repeatedly over-functioning, the imbalance becomes reinforced.”
Azzi let out a soft breath. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”
Paige tilted her head slightly. “Some people just don’t understand your processing style.”
Azzi’s eyes narrowed just a fraction curiously. “My processing style?”
“You are proactive,” Paige said. “And future-oriented. When others delay, it creates cognitive friction for you. You resolve it by taking control.”
Azzi stared at her. “That’s… uncomfortably accurate.”
Paige didn’t smile, because she didn’t need to. She wasn’t much of a smiler. She instead, held that unwavering eye contact. “You are not unreasonable for wanting reliability.”
Azzi’s shoulders dropped and some of the tension drained visibly. “I didn’t even realize that’s what I wanted,” she said softly. “Reliability.”
Paige felt satisfaction at that response. She had pinpointed it— what Azzi needed to hear, again.
Across the table, Azzi’s gaze shifted into something less animated now, and more grounded. Like she felt seen.
“You make me feel less crazy,” Azzi admitted.
Paige absorbed that carefully. “You are not erratic,” she replied. “Your expectations are coherent.”
Azzi smiled, but it wasn’t the bright and public smile from the quad. It was something smaller and more private. “Thank you,” she said.
Paige felt something settle deep in her chest. Not joy, no, and not affection in the traditional sense. It was importance, and… centrality.
Azzi had come to her because she felt lonely. She had vented to her about frustration, and accepted her interpretation as the truth. This was the progression Paige had identified as necessary last night.
They returned to their laptops after that, but the energy at the table had shifted.
Azzi’s knee brushed lightly against the underside of the table once, then stayed there. Not accidental, not overt, but present.
After a few minutes, Azzi glanced up again. “Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?”
“Yes.”
“I think I get scared that if I confront people, they’ll leave.”
Paige’s fingers paused over her keyboard. Abandonment anxiety, she thought to herself. She logged the phrase internally. “You maintain connection by minimizing disruption,” Paige said.
Azzi swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You do not need to earn stability,” Paige said quietly.
Azzi’s eyes flickered, and something fragile passed through her expression. “Why do you always know exactly what to say?” she asked.
Paige held her gaze. “Pattern recognition.”
Azzi laughed softly, but her eyes were still searching. “It doesn’t feel like just that.”
Paige didn’t respond. Across the table, Azzi closed her laptop halfway. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I didn’t want to sit here alone while I was spiraling.”
Azzi smiled again, that same private one. “And I appreciate it.”
Paige felt the word settle like a claim. Appreciated, needed, and consulted. Inside, Paige felt something more structural forming.
Azzi was beginning to route distress through her. She was starting to seek her interpretation and rely on her. It wasn’t isolation, not yet, but it was positioning.
As Azzi reopened her laptop and resumed working, calmer and steadier now— Paige experienced a quiet and internal certainty. Attachment deepens with repeated contact. She was going to make sure she remained the most consistent contact available.
Across the table, Azzi looked up once more and caught her staring. Instead of looking away, Paige held the gaze, and Azzi didn’t flinch, she just smiled— and Paige felt, with unsettling clarity, that the center was shifting.
Toward her.
—
Two nights later, Azzi was flat on her back in bed with the lamp off and her phone illuminating her face in a soft light.
Her roommate was already asleep in the other bedroom, and the dorm hummed quietly. Pipes ticked, and someone laughed faintly down the hall.
Azzi’s screen glowed with one open thread:
pbsbaseline
They had been talking for forty-three minutes. Not flirting, not exactly, because something adjacent to it.
azzifudd: okay but answer honestly
azzifudd: if you had to pick one personality trait that predicts long-term compatibility what would it be
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately, disappeared, then reappeared again. Azzi smiled into her pillow, because she liked that about Paige— the visible processing and deliberation.
pbsbaseline: emotional regulation
azzifudd: BORING
pbsbaseline: statistically robust
Azzi bit her lip as that feeling of warmth spread through her chest.
azzifudd: elaborate, dr. baseline
There was a longer pause this time. Azzi imagined Paige right now, maybe sitting at her desk with her posture straight and her expression neutral, analyzing the question like it was a grant proposal instead of a late-night text.
pbsbaseline: relationships deteriorate when one or both parties escalate or deescalate unpredictably
pbsbaseline: consistency stabilizes attachment systems
Azzi rolled onto her side and tucked the phone closer to her face. Consistency stabilizes attachment systems. That was such a Paige answer. Clinical and precise, and yet— there was something strangely comforting about it.
azzifudd: so you’re saying I need to date someone boring and emotionally stable
pbsbaseline: i am saying volatility feels exciting, but erodes trust
Azzi stared at that one longer than she expected to. Volatility feels exciting, but erodes trust. Her last relationship flashed briefly in her mind. The highs, the unpredictable dips, and the constant guessing.
azzifudd: hypothetically
azzifudd: what if someone is stable but still interesting
pbsbaseline: that would be optimal
Azzi pressed her face into her pillow to muffle a ridiculous grin. Optimal. Who even says that? Paige does, and for some reason, it made Azzi’s stomach flip.
Her phone then buzzed with another notification at the top of her screen.
Caroline: play me back in cup pong 🙄
Azzi glanced at it and smiled. She pressed her thumb down on it, then swiped it away without opening the thread.
She’d text her back in a minute, she was just mid-conversation right now, and this felt… important.
azzifudd: what do you think makes someone interesting
There was a longer pause now, long enough that Azzi’s mind started to wander, imagining Paige rereading the question, then parsing subtext.
pbsbaseline: specificity
azzifudd: that’s not a personality trait
pbsbaseline: it is to me
azzifudd: explain
pbsbaseline: most people speak in generalities
pbsbaseline: when someone is specific about what they think or feel, it indicates self-awareness
Azzi swallowed. Specific, like when she’d told Paige she gets scared to confront people because she thinks they’ll leave. Paige had been specific back.
You maintain connection by minimizing disruption.
azzifudd: so if I’m specific rn
azzifudd: and I say I like how your brain works
azzifudd: does that count
The typing bubble popped up, vanished, came back, then disappeared again. Azzi could practically see Paige sitting very still and calculating.
pbsbaseline: that is specific
That was it. No emoji and no reciprocal compliment, just that, and somehow, it made Azzi laugh softly into the dark.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered to her screen. Her phone then buzzed again and a message notification appeared at the top.
Caroline: hello???
Azzi knew she needed to answer. Caroline would absolutely have commentary on this entire exchange. She’d want screenshots, and then she would tease her about Paige’s use of the word optimal.
Azzi opened Caroline’s thread and quickly played her back in cup pong.
Azzi: ha, I win
Azzi: again
Azzi: I will call u tomorrow
She then flipped back to Paige’s chat, because she wanted to stay there, in that quiet, analytical, and slightly charged space.
azzifudd: okay your turn
azzifudd: what makes someone interesting to you
pbsbaseline: responsiveness
azzifudd: define
pbsbaseline: when you reach for someone and they actually reach back
The words were simple, but they didn’t feel academic. They felt… deliberate. She stared at them and her heart pounded lightly against her ribs.
When you reach for someone and they actually reach back.
She thought about the coffee shop, the lab, the library, and about tonight. She had reached, and Paige had responded— quickly, and consistently.
azzifudd: I think you do that
pbsbaseline: I am consistent
Azzi laughed quietly. “You are,” she murmured to her quiet room, and for the first time in a long time, consistency didn’t sound boring. It sounded safe.
Her phone buzzed again and Caroline’s name flashed at the top of her screen once more. Azzi didn’t open it. She’d respond tomorrow. Caroline wasn’t going anywhere.
This thing with Paige— it felt newer, more fragile, and more electric.
She rolled onto her stomach and kicked her feet lightly against the mattress— an unconscious and giddy movement that she hadn’t made since high school crushes.
Paige wasn’t flirting in the traditional sense. She wasn’t calling her pretty, sending winking emojis, or any playful teases, but every response felt like attention. Focused and undivided attention. Azzi felt chosen, like Paige had evaluated the entire world carefully and still kept deciding to answer her— to show up and respond.
And without realizing it, Azzi was beginning to do the same. Prioritizing the thread, letting other notifications wait, and routing her thoughts to Paige first.
She typed one last message before sleep started tugging at her eyes.
azzifudd: goodnight, consistent girl
pbsbaseline: night. remember, less screen time before bed leads to better sleep quality.
Azzi scoffed, then pressed her phone to her chest and smiled into the dark. She didn’t see the leverage forming, or feel the slow shift of gravity. To her, this was simple. She had a crush, and it was growing.
She placed her phone on her bedside table, then closed her eyes. Off-campus, someone else had been watching the same exact thread with a very different understanding of what consistency meant.
ok so i never post on here but ive been lurking on the tags for a while and i wanna say that i think everyone should go read Break Our Ice , its figure skater!azzi and hockey player!paige and its soooo well written. i never see ppl talking about it but its genuinely one of my fav fics.
The office was too quiet after Paige left. It wasn't a peaceful quiet, nor the professional quiet of a day's work completed. It was a charged quiet, a heavy, humming silence that vibrated with the memory of what had just transpired. Dr.Fudd remained seated in her chair, her gaze fixed on the empty one beside her, the chair she had deliberately placed too close. The space still seemed to hold a phantom warmth, or perhaps that was just projection, a dangerous, unprofessional thing she could not afford. She did not like projection. Projection meant blurred lines. Blurred lines meant compromised judgment. And she did not compromise judgment.
She stood abruptly, the scrape of her chair against the floor a sharp, disruptive sound in the stillness. She moved the guest chair back to its original place against the far wall, a measured two feet of distance. Measurable. Safe. There. Order restored. Except it wasn't. Her hands were steady, her breathing had normalized, her posture was composed. If anyone walked in right now, they would see exactly what they expected to see, a competent, controlled prison psychologist in her natural habitat. What they wouldn't see was the moment. The almost. The split second where she had not moved. That was the problem. It wasn't that Paige leaned in. It wasn't even that she tested the boundary. It was that Azzi had closed her eyes. That was the crack. And she could not afford cracks.
Azzi hadn't grown up wanting to "save" anyone. That was a naive notion for romance novels, not for a life built on logic and evidence. She grew up in a house where emotions were academic exercises to be dissected and debated. Her mother, a brilliant cardiologist, believed in measurable outcomes, in the predictable rhythm of a heart, not its unpredictable longings. Her father, a formidable law professor, believed in moral argument, in the clean, sharp lines of right and wrong. Dinner conversations were debates, intellectual sparring matches where the winner was the one with the most compelling argument. Pain was analyzed. Crying was inefficient. Vulnerability was a flaw in the system to be identified and corrected.
When Azzi was sixteen, her cousin Laila was arrested. A simple case of shoplifting spiraled, a chain reaction of poor choices and panicked decisions that turned into assault, which turned into probation, which ultimately turned into incarceration. Everyone said the same thing, a chorus of judgment and disappointment. "She threw her life away." Azzi didn't buy it. She visited Laila once in juvenile detention, a place of gray walls and despairing eyes. She sat across from her in a plastic chair bolted to concrete, a sterile, impersonal barrier between them. Laila didn't look evil. She looked tired. Scared. Alone. "What happened?" Azzi had asked, her voice soft. Laila just shrugged, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "No one was listening anyway."
That sentence lodged in Azzi's chest like a splinter, a tiny, sharp point of pain she could never dislodge. No one was listening. Not the teachers who had labeled her a problem. Not the judge who had seen her as a statistic. Not the family who preferred disappointment to involvement. Laila overdosed two years later. Accidental, they said. Azzi never believed in accidents after that. She went into psychology not because she was naive, but because she was furious. Furious at systems that labeled without investigating, at the ease with which people were discarded, at the profound, soul-crushing loneliness of being unheard.
Private practice came first, a world of polished offices and sanitized problems. Anxiety. Marital disputes. Corporate burnout. It bored her. The harm was subtle, wrapped in expensive clothes and polite language. It was a lie, and she had always preferred raw truth. Then she took a temporary contract at a juvenile detention facility. The first week she watched a seventeen-year-old girl, a child really, break a chair over another inmate's back. The staff called her a monster, a lost cause. Azzi read the file. Repeated foster placements. Three documented assaults. Two sealed reports of sexual abuse. Monster was a convenient word, a label that allowed them to wash their hands of her. Azzi stayed. From there, she moved to maximum security, to places like Wentworth. Because prisons didn't hide what they were. Prisons were honest. Violence wasn't disguised as civility. Power wasn't wrapped in corporate jargon. It was raw. And Azzi preferred raw truth to pretty lies.
She had rules. Iron rules. No physical contact beyond a professional, necessary handshake. No personal disclosure beyond clinically useful fragments designed to build rapport. No sessions outside designated, secure spaces. Never believe you are special to a patient. Never confuse attention with attachment. She wrote them after Elena. Elena had been her first love, a whirlwind of soft hands, storm-colored eyes, and a poet's soul with a cruel streak disguised as freedom. Azzi had fallen fast, deep, entirely. Elena left without warning. No goodbye. No explanation. Just absence, a void where a person used to be. Azzi learned two things from that. One, vulnerability without structure is chaos. Two, people leave. So she built structure. Boundaries became architecture. Architecture became safety. And she never blurred it again. Until Paige.
Paige Bueckers did not behave like other inmates. She didn't charm in the obvious way, didn't plead or sob or seduce with softness. She studied. She observed. She pushed exactly where the structure flexed, testing its limits with a precision that was unnerving. Most inmates tested authority to dominate. Paige tested it to understand it. That was different. That was dangerous. In their first session, Azzi had recognized intelligence. In the second, she recognized restraint. By the third, she recognized something worse. She enjoyed sparring with her. That should not have been true. Therapy was not meant to feel like chess. It was not meant to feel like tension coiled under the surface. It was certainly not meant to feel electric. But when Paige leaned in, when her voice dropped low and steady and asked, "Are you as real as you seem?" Azzi hadn't seen a predator. She had seen curiosity. And that unsettled her more than aggression ever could. Because aggression she could treat. Curiosity required response. And she had responded. She had closed her eyes. Just for a second. That second was everything.
It wasn't attraction that scared her. She was comfortable with her sexuality, had been for years. It wasn't even desire. Desire could be compartmentalized, filed away in a neat, labeled box in the back of her mind. It was the shift in power dynamic that terrified her. For the first time in her career, she felt aware of herself inside a session. Aware of how close her knee was to Paige's. Aware of the warmth between them. Aware of her own breath. Therapists are trained to notice the client's body language, not their own. Paige made her notice her own. That was unacceptable. Because if she became self-conscious, she lost neutrality. If she lost neutrality, she lost authority. And if she lost authority inside Wentworth, she was finished.
Azzi walked to her window and looked out over the yard. Women moved in clusters below, power shifting invisibly between them like currents in an ocean. Paige stood near the wall, a solitary figure of stillness. Even from a distance, Azzi could recognize the control, the gravitational pull. Leadership didn't always look loud. Sometimes it looked like silence that everyone watched. Paige had influence. And influence complicated treatment. Because if Azzi wasn't careful, she wouldn't just be treating an inmate. She'd be protecting a power structure. And that blurred ethics fast. She pressed her fingers to her temple, a dull ache starting to form. This was why therapists avoided emotional entanglement. Not because of scandal. But because attachment altered perception. And perception was everything in this place.
Did she believe Paige ordered the stabbing? Her clinical assessment said no. Too messy. Too public. Too reactive. Paige preferred surgical moves, quiet and devastating. But the fact that she wanted to defend her automatically, that her first instinct was to build a fortress of logic around her, that bothered her. Was it analysis? Or was it bias? She replayed the hallway argument in her mind. Paige's voice sharp, laced with a pain that was raw and real. "You looked at me and saw a killer. Just like everyone else." That wasn't manipulation. That was hurt. Azzi recognized authentic hurt. She also recognized when she wanted to soothe it. And that impulse, to soothe, was not clinical. It was personal. That was new. That was dangerous.
Paige wasn't the first inmate to flirt. She wasn't the first to test a boundary. She was the first to make Azzi hesitate. The first to make her curious in return. The first to make her ask herself, briefly, what would it feel like without the bars. That thought alone was enough to make her step back physically in the next session. She would not let imagination infect reality. This was prison. She was staff. Paige was an inmate. End of story. And yet. When Paige smiled, not the smirk, not the weaponized one, but the rare, genuine one that reached her eyes and transformed her face, Azzi felt something tighten in her chest. Hope. And hope, she knew from experience, was the most destabilizing force of all.
She moved the chair back again. Another inch. Distance measured. Reinforced. She would correct course. No more shared vulnerability beyond necessity. No more proximity. No more charged silence. She would treat Paige like every other patient. Structured. Neutral. Contained. If Paige wanted war, she could manage that. If Paige wanted redemption, she could guide that. But she would not become part of the story. She had learned that lesson once, and she had survived it by building walls. She was not going to let one inmate, no matter how sharp, no matter how magnetic, dismantle architecture it had taken her a decade to construct. Even if, deep down, in a place she refused to acknowledge, she already knew the foundation had shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to feel it. And that was the part she could not admit to anyone. Especially herself.
***
The unit went quiet when KK walked back in. It wasn't a dramatic entrance. There was no yelling, no threats, no posturing. She just walked through the door, her steps slower now, a careful, measured gait that spoke of the stitched and bandaged wound hidden beneath her shirt. But her eyes were clearer than they'd been in weeks, the fog of rage and impulsive violence replaced by a chilling, calculating clarity. She wasn't humiliated. She was reborn, sharpened by the experience, honed into a more dangerous weapon.
Paige didn't look up from the table where she was sitting with Aaliyah, her attention seemingly focused on the grimy, scarred surface. That was deliberate. A calculated dismissal. A statement that KK was no longer a threat worth her time. KK noticed. Good.
Later, in the yard, under the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, KK didn't approach Paige. That would be too obvious, too expected. She approached Nika. Nika was alone at the weights, her movements smooth and powerful as she worked through her set, her focus absolute. KK stepped into her shadow, a sudden, unwelcome presence.
"You're wasted with her," KK said calmly, her voice a low, conversational murmur that was more menacing than a shout.
Nika didn't look up, her muscles tensing slightly as she completed another rep. "Careful," she replied, her voice a low growl of warning.
KK leaned against the weight rack, her posture deceptively casual, a predator feigning indifference. "You think she didn't know Kayleigh was circling me? You think she didn't see it coming?"
"She didn't," Nika said evenly, her voice flat, finally setting the weight down with a heavy clang.
KK smiled, a slow, cruel curve of her lips. "That's cute. That you actually believe that."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken threats.
"She let it happen," KK continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Didn't stop it. Didn't warn me. She just stood there and watched. Is that leadership to you? Is that the kind of person you want to follow?"
Now Nika looked at her, her eyes cold and hard as steel. "You attacked first. You went after Sarah's hands. You crossed the line."
KK shrugged, a gesture of dismissive contempt. "And now she's got a rep she didn't earn. A reputation built on someone else's blood. She's a fucking legend now, and she didn't lift a finger."
Nika just stared at her, her face a mask of stoic indifference, but Paige could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes from across the yard. She saw the way KK's words were landing, like tiny, poisonous darts, finding the cracks in Nika's loyalty.
"Reps matter," KK said softly, her voice a sibilant hiss. "Especially when parole boards read incident reports. They see a pattern. They see association. They see guilt by proximity. You align yourself with someone everyone already believes is capable of murder... what does that make you?"
That landed. Nika didn't react outwardly, not a single muscle twitched, but Paige knew her. She knew she had filed it away, turned it over in her mind, a seed of doubt planted in the fertile ground of her ambition.
KK stepped back, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "Think about it," she said. "Think about what you're throwing away for a ghost." She walked away before Nika could answer, her mission accomplished.
Across the yard, Paige saw the entire interaction. She saw every word, every gesture, every subtle shift in Nika's posture. And she didn't like it. Not one fucking bit. She felt a cold, hard knot of anger tighten in her gut, a familiar, unwelcome feeling. She was watching everything, her mind a whirlwind of calculations and strategies. She saw KK's game, a slow, insidious poison designed to isolate her, to turn her allies against her. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning. This was a war of whispers, and KK was playing to win.
Later that night, after count, after the lights had been dimmed to a low, sleepy glow, Paige lay on her bunk, staring at the ceiling, the conversation playing over and over in her mind. She heard the soft scrape of a boot on the concrete floor. Nika. She didn't sit up. She didn't speak. She just waited.
Nika leaned against the frame of Paige's cell, her silhouette a dark, imposing shape against the dim light of the block. "KK came to see me today," she said, her voice a low, quiet murmur.
Paige finally turned her head, her eyes a glint in the darkness. "I saw," she said, her voice flat.
"She's trying to get in my head," Nika continued. "Talking about parole boards and reputations."
Paige was silent, her body a coiled spring of tension. "And?"
"And it's bullshit," Nika said, her voice firm, unwavering. "All of it. She's scared. She knows she lost, and now she's trying to claw her way back by turning us against each other. It's a desperate, pathetic move from a desperate, pathetic bitch."
Paige felt a wave of relief wash over her, so potent it almost made her weak. She sat up, her feet swinging over the edge of the bunk. "You're not wrong," she said, her voice a low, rough murmur.
The dim light of the cell block cast long shadows, making Nika's silhouette seem even more formidable as she leaned against the doorframe. Her words hung in the air, a solid, unbreakable promise. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, her voice a solemn vow. "When I first got here, we didn't get along but that didn't stop you from not letting anybody fuck with me. And for that I'll always have ya back. That's not something I forget. KK can talk all the shit she wants. It doesn't change the facts. We're a team. You and me. And Aaliyah. And Sarah. That's our crew. That's our family now."
Paige looked at her, the hard lines of her face softening for just a moment, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. It was a fragile thing, but it was real. "You're a good person, Nika."
Nika snorted, a soft, humorless sound in the quiet of the block. "You're a pain in my ass," she replied, a flicker of her old, wry humor returning, a welcome warmth in the coldness of their world. "But you're my pain in the ass. And I'll burn this whole fucking place down before I let anyone take that away."
Paige nodded, the fleeting smile gone, replaced by a cold, steely resolve that settled over her features like a mask. The relief she felt was a fleeting warmth, quickly extinguished by the icy fire of her purpose. "Good," she said, her voice a low, dangerous murmur. "Because I think it's time we stopped playing defense."
Nika smiled, a slow, dangerous grin that was all teeth and no warmth, a predator's promise. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Paige swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, her feet landing softly on the concrete floor. She stood, her movements fluid and silent, a predator in her own right. She crossed the small space of her cell, stopping just inches from Nika, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "KK wants to play games? Fine. Let's play. She wants to turn my crew against me? Let's show her what happens when you corner a wolf pack."
Nika's grin widened, her eyes gleaming with a feral light in the dimness. "What's the plan?"
Paige's eyes were dark, her mind already racing, connecting the dots, seeing the angles, the weaknesses, the opportunities. "KK's power comes from fear," she said, her voice a low, steady hum. "She thinks she's the biggest, baddest thing in here. We take that away. We take her reputation, her respect, her entire fucking empire, piece by piece."
"And how do we do that?" Nika asked, her voice a low, eager growl.
"We start with her crew," Paige said, her voice cold and calculating. "They're loyal because they're scared. We show them there's a bigger, badder thing to be scared of. We show them there's a new power in Wentworth. And we show them that crossing us is a mistake they won't live to regret."
Nika nodded, her expression grim and determined. "And what about KK?"
Paige's smile was a slow, chilling thing, a promise of retribution. "She gets the message," she said. "Loud and clear."
The two women stood there in the darkness, a silent, unspoken pact passing between them. It was a declaration of war, a promise of violence, and a vow of loyalty, all wrapped up in the quiet, oppressive stillness of the cell block. The game had changed. And they were ready to play.
***
It happens two nights later. A routine shakedown. Nothing unusual. The ai in the block is thick with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the restless energy of women who know their privacy is about to be violated but are powerless to stop it. Officers move with a practiced, almost bored efficiency, their heavy boots a rhythmic, percussive beat on the concrete floor. They open lockers, flip through books, run rough hands over mattresses, a familiar, dehumanizing ritual.
Until Officer Jackson stops atPaige's cell. He's a big, burly man with a face like a slab of concrete and eyes that are small and piggy. "Out," he orders, his voice a flat, emotionless command.
Paige steps into the corridor calmly, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her expression a mask of bored indifference. She leans against the wall opposite her cell, her gaze sweeping the block, a silent, watchful predator.
Two officers enter her cell, their movements jerky and aggressive. One of them, a younger officer with a nervous, twitchy energy, flips her mattress, the dull thud echoing in the sudden silence. The other, a woman with a hard, cynical face, checks her books, her fingers rifling through the pages with a dismissive air. They open her locker, their hands rummaging through her meager possessions, a small, pathetic collection of contraband and keepsakes. The..
"Governor!" Jackson's tone shifts, a sudden, sharp urgency that cuts through the monotony of the shakedown.
Daley arrives seconds later, her heels clicking a sharp, frantic rhythm on the floor, her presence a sudden, oppressive weight. Officer Clark steps out of the cell, his face pale, his hand held out like he's holding a venomous snake. He's holding a sharpened metal shard, crudely honed to a vicious point, wrapped in a stained, dirty cloth. An improvised blade. A dark, crusty residue is visible on the edge. Blood.
The unit goes silent. The low hum of conversation dies, the restless energy stills, replaced by a collective, held breath. Every eye is on the weapon, then on Paige.
Daley turns slowly toward Paige, her face a mask of cold, triumphant fury. "You want to explain this?" she asks, her voice a low, dangerous purr.
Paige's face doesn't change. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of fear. Just a cool, dismissive calm. "That ain't mine," she says, her voice flat, even.
"It was under your mattress," Daley says, her voice rising with a righteous, prosecutorial glee.
Paige looks at Nika across the block, a quick, almost imperceptible glance. Just a flicker. A silent question. Nika's jaw tightens, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrified understanding.
Daley steps closer, her voice a low, triumphant hiss. "You were just interrogated over a stabbing. You were just in my office, claiming your innocence. And now this."
"And you didn't have anything then," Paige replies evenly, her voice a low, steady counterpoint to Daley's rising fury. "So you planted something. That's cute."
Paige scans the block, her eyes sharp, calculating, looking for the lie, for the traitor. Someone planted it. But who? Her gaze lands on KK's cell, a few doors down. KK watches from the shadows, her expression neutral, unreadable. But there's a flicker of something in her eyes, a deep, cold satisfaction. A smug, triumphant glow. And behind her, almost hidden in the gloom, one of her crew, a wiry, nervous woman named Maria, shifts her weight, her eyes darting away from Paige's, a telltale sign of guilt. Maria. The one with the cleaning detail. The one with access to every cell. The one who owed KK a favor.
Daley turns to the officers, her voice a sharp, commanding bark. "Isolation."
The word echoes, a death knell in the silent block.
Azzi hears about it within the hour. She's in her office, trying to focus on a stack of paperwork, but her mind keeps drifting back to Paige, to the charged silence of their last session. A guard knocks on her door, his face grim. "Doctor Fudd. You need to come to the isolation wing. It's Bueckers. There's been an... incident."
Azzi's heart sinks. She follows the guard down the long, sterile corridors, her mind racing. When she arrives, she finds Paige being processed, her hands being cuffed behind her back. Paige's face is a mask of cold, hard fury, her eyes burning with a righteous, unadulterated rage.
"What the hell happened?" Azzi asks, her voice sharp, demanding.
"Found a shiv in her cell," Officer Jackson says, his voice a flat, unemotional report. "Blood on it. Governor's orders. Straight to isolation."
Azzi turns to Paige, her eyes searching her face. "Paige," she says, her voice a low, urgent plea. "Tell me it's not true."
Paige looks at her, her eyes a swirling vortex of anger and betrayal. "You think I'm that fucking stupid?" she snarls, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "You think I'd keep a bloody shiv under my mattress after you told me to be smart? After I promised you I'd handle it? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I don't know what to think," Azzi says, her voice a desperate, honest admission. "I need you to tell me what happened."
"KK happened," Paige says, her voice a low, furious hiss. "She's playing me. She's playing you. She's playing everyone. And you're all falling for it."
Azzi looks at her, a storm of conflicting emotions churning inside her. She wants to believe her. She wants to trust her. But the evidence... the blood... the weapon...
"I need to see the evidence," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm command.
Jackson leads her to a small, sterile room where the weapon is laid out on a metal tray. It's exactly as described. A sharpened piece of metal, wrapped in a cloth. The blood on the edge is dark, dried, a damning piece of evidence.
"This is a setup," Azzi says, her voice a low, certain growl. "This is too perfect. Too convenient."
"The Governor doesn't think so," Jackson says, his voice a flat, unemotional counterpoint.
"The Governor is a fool," Azzi snaps, her voice rising with a sudden, volatile fury. "She's so blinded by her hatred for Paige that she can't see what's right in front of her face. This is a frame job. A classic, fucking frame job."
She turns to Paige, her eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire. "I'm going to get you out of this," she says, her voice a low, solemn vow. "I swear to god, I'm going to get you out of this."
Paige looks at her, her anger softening slightly, replaced by a flicker of something else. Hope. A fragile, dangerous thing. "You better," she says, her voice a low, rough murmur. "Because if I go down for this, I'm taking everyone with me."
The officers lead Paige away, her footsteps echoing down the long, empty corridor. Azzi stands there for a long time, her mind racing, her heart aching. She knows, with a certainty that both terrifies and infuriates her, that Paige is innocent. And she knows, with a chilling certainty, that she's the only one who can prove it.
***
Paige isn't in her usual chair. She's in restraints. The session has been moved to a small, sterile observation room, a box of concrete and one-way glass designed for high-risk inmates. The air is cold, smelling of bleach and desperation. Paige sits at a metal table, her wrists and ankles cuffed to a heavy chair bolted to the floor, the chains a constant, clanking reminder of her new reality. She looks smaller like this, diminished, but the fire in her eyes is undiminished, burning with a cold, hard fury.
Azzi enters the small monitored room, her movements stiff, her expression a carefully constructed mask of clinical detachment. She doesn't sit close this time. She keeps her distance, choosing a chair on the other side of the table, a deliberate, physical barrier between them. Intentional. Paige notices immediately, her eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of hurt quickly masked by a familiar, defiant anger.
"They find what they were looking for?" Azzi asks, her voice a flat, professional inquiry, a stark contrast to the charged intimacy of their last session.
Paige scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound. "You tell me. You're the one who seems to have all the answers."
Azzi holds her gaze, her own eyes steady, searching for any sign of deception, any crack in the facade. "Did you have it?"
"No," Paige says, her voice a low, firm denial, a simple, unshakeable declaration of innocence.
A pause hangs in the air, thick with unspoken accusations and doubts. Azzi studies her face carefully, her expression a mask of clinical assessment, but her mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She wants to believe her. She needs to believe her. But the evidence...
"You understand how this looks," Azzi says, her voice a low, cautious murmur.
Paige's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in her cheek. "Do you?" she asks, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Do you understand how it looks when the one person who claimed to believe in me suddenly pulls back the second things get complicated?"
The air shifts, the tension between them thickening, becoming a heavy, oppressive weight. Not explosive. Not yet. Just heavy, suffocating.
"You asked me to believe you," Paige continues, her voice rising with a barely suppressed fury. "You asked me to trust you. And then you stepped back. You put your chair on the other side of the room. You looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was a monster."
"That's not fair," Azzi says, her voice a weak, defensive protest.
"Isn't it?" Paige shoots back, her eyes blazing with a righteous, betrayed anger. "You tell me what's fair about being framed for a crime you didn't commit. You tell me what's fair about having your so-called ally question you the second the pressure's on."
Azzi doesn't rise to it, her training kicking in, her professional persona a suit of armor she desperately needs. "That weapon had blood on it," she says, her voice a low, clinical statement of fact.
"And?" Paige replies, her voice dripping with contempt.
"And if it ties back to KK, if the blood is hers, it strengthens your defense," Azzi says, her voice a low, reasoned argument, a desperate attempt to find a logical path through the emotional minefield.
"It won't," Paige says, her voice a flat, certain declaration. "KK's smarter than that. She's not going to leave a trail that easy to follow."
"How do you know?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, suspicious probe.
Because Paige knows who did it. She saw the flicker of guilt in Maria's eyes, the nervous shift of her weight. She knows it was one of KK's crew, a pawn in her twisted game. She doesn't say that. She can't. Not yet. Instead she says: "I'm not sloppy."
Azzi registers that, the phrase echoing in her mind. Same phrase as before. Surgical. Not messy. It's a small, insignificant detail, but it's a crack in the wall of doubt, a sliver of light in the darkness.
Silence stretches between them, a long, uncomfortable pause filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Azzi shifts in her chair, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, but Paige notices. She notices everything. She's farther back. Distance reinforced.
"You leaned in last session," Azzi says quietly, her voice a low, hesitant murmur, a confession and an accusation all at once.
Paige's eyes flicker, a flash of surprise quickly masked by a guarded, defensive anger. "And you didn't move."
"I should have," Azzi says, her voice a low, regretful admission. "That was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. A moment of... unprofessionalism."
That lands harder than an accusation. It's a rejection. A denial of the connection, of the electricity that arced between them. Paige swallows it, a bitter pill of rejection, her anger softening slightly, replaced by a profound, aching sense of loss.
"That's not what this is," Azzi continues, her voice a low, desperate attempt to regain control of the session, of herself. "This isn't about proximity. Or control. Or testing boundaries. This is about you. About your future. About whether you want to get out of this place or not."
Paige studies her, her eyes a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions. "You pulled your chair back," she says, her voice a low, quiet accusation.
"Yes," Azzi admits, her voice a low, reluctant confession.
"Because you don't trust me," Paige says, her voice a low, hurt murmur.
"Because I trust myself," Azzi replies, her voice a low, firm declaration. "And because I know what happens when I let my guard down. When I let myself get too close. It doesn't end well. For anyone."
That hits. Hard. The room goes still, the air thick with the weight of Azzi's confession, a glimpse of the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide. Paige leans back against the restraint chain, the cold metal a stark reminder of her reality. A cold, bitter smile touches her lips.
"You're scared," she says, her voice a low, triumphant murmur.
Azzi doesn't deny it. She just sits there, her eyes locked on Paige's, a silent, trembling admission of her own fear.
"Good," Paige murmurs, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "You should be."
The session ends there. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Not dramatic, but unresolved. And colder than before. The air between them is thick with unspoken words and broken promises, a chasm of mistrust and regret that seems impossible to cross. And as Paige is led away, her chains clanking a mournful, rhythmic beat, Azzi is left alone in the sterile, silent room, a prisoner of her own fear.
***
Azzi doesn't storm into Daley's office demanding justice. That's emotional, messy, and ultimately ineffective. Instead, she approaches the problem with the cold, detached precision of a surgeon. She spends hours in her office, the only light from her desk lamp casting long shadows across the scattered files and crime scene photos. She reviews the timeline, her mind a whirlwind of calculations and connections.
The laundry attack, the chaos, the blackout. The medical transfer, the initial assessment of KK's wounds. The lockdown duration, a full forty-eight hours of rigid, controlled confinement. The cell searches, a routine shakedown that was anything but. She notices something small, almost insignificant, a detail that everyone else had missed.
The weapon found under Paige's mattress had dried blood, yes, but it was a specific kind of dried. The edges were tacky, not flaking. The color was a dark, reddish-brown, but not the deep, almost black crust of blood that had been sitting for days. KK was stabbed in the yard, in public, in broad daylight.
The weapon in Paige's cell had been wiped but not fully cleaned, a lazy, half-assed attempt to hide the evidence. If Paige ordered the hit, if she was the mastermind everyone believed her to be, why keep a bloodied blade in her own cell during a lockdown she knew was coming? Why not dispose of it immediately? It was too sloppy. Too reckless. Not her style.
Azzi brings this to Daley clinically, her folder of notes and timelines a silent, unarguable testament to her diligence. She finds Daley behind her desk, a fortress of polished oak and simmering resentment. Daley looks annoyed before Azzi even speaks, her lips already pursed in a tight, disapproving line.
"You're here about your pet inmate," Daley says, her voice a low, sarcastic jab, a clear attempt to put Azzi on the defensive.
Azzi ignores the jab, her expression a mask of calm, professional focus. "I'm here about a potential miscarriage of justice," she says, her voice a low, even tone. "The blade was found forty-eight hours after the stabbing."
"Yes," Daley says, her voice a dismissive drone, already bored with the conversation.
"The blood was partially dried but not oxidized enough to match that timeline," Azzi continues, her voice a low, insistent murmur, a calm, logical argument in the face of Daley's simmering impatience.
Daley narrows her eyes, her gaze a sharp, skeptical probe. "You're speculating, Doctor. You're playing detective, and it's not a good look for you."
"No," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm rebuttal. "I'm suggesting a forensic review. A simple blood analysis to determine the exact age of the sample. It's a standard procedure in any legitimate investigation."
Daley hesitates, her annoyance warring with a flicker of professional curiosity. Forensics in prison cases are expensive. Political. Embarrassing if wrong. It's a can of worms she's not sure she wants to open.
Azzi presses once more, her voice a low, persuasive murmur, a calculated appeal to Daley's ego. "Think about it, Governor. If Paige ordered it, she wouldn't keep evidence during a lockdown she knew was coming. It's illogical. It's not her M.O. She's smarter than that. You know that. I know that. Deep down, you know that."
Daley hates that. She hates the calm, logical certainty in Azzi's voice. She hates the fact that Azzi is right. Because it's logical. And Paige being innocent means someone manipulated internal security, someone planted evidence under the nose of the guards, someone made a fool out of her. It makes her look incompetent. Weak.
"Fine," Daley says, her voice a low, reluctant concession. "Order the review. But if it comes back as Paige's, or if it matches the timeline, I'm holding you responsible. I'll have your license, Doctor. I'll make sure you never work in this state again."
Azzi just nods, her expression a mask of calm, professional confidence. "Fair enough," she says, her voice a low, steady murmur. "But I'm right. And when I am, we're going to have a much bigger problem than one inmate with a shiv. We're going to have a conspiracy."
Daley looks at her, a long, silent appraisal. She sees the fire in Azzi's eyes, the unwavering belief, and for a moment, she's not just looking at a psychiatrist. She's looking at an ally. A formidable, dangerous ally.
"Just get it done, Azzi," Daley says, her voice a low, weary sigh, a flicker of something that might almost be respect in her eyes. "And keep me out of the shit."
Azzi nods, a small, triumphant smile touching her lips. "You got it, Governor," she says, her voice a low, confident purr. And as she turns and walks out of the office, she knows she's just won the first battle in a war she's determined to win.
***
The wait was a slow, agonizing crawl of time, each hour stretching into an eternity of uncertainty. Azzi found herself checking her email compulsively, a nervous habit she thought she had long since conquered. Then, the report arrived. A sterile, unemotional PDF from the state forensics lab, its findings a stark, black-and-white declaration that would change everything.
The blood on the weapon did NOT match KK. It matched someone else, a woman named Jenkins, who had been involved in a minor yard fight weeks prior. It was old residue, dried and flaking, a ghost of a past conflict. The blade had been planted with recycled blood, a clumsy, amateurish attempt to make it look connected to KK without the forensic consistency to back it up. It was a frame job. A sloppy, transparent, insulting frame job.
Daley is furious. Not at Paige. At the audacity. At the sheer, unmitigated gall of someone to manipulate her prison, to make a fool out of her, to play her for a fool right under her nose. She paces her office, a caged animal of rage and indignation, her heels a sharp, furious rhythm on the polished floor. She feels a cold, hard knot of anger in her gut, a burning desire to find the person responsible and make them pay, to make an example out of them that would be remembered for years to come.
In the interrogation room, Paige sits calmly again, the restraints gone, a small, symbolic victory, but the heavy weight of suspicion still hangs in the air. She's back in the usual chair, the metal table a familiar, cold presence between her and the world. She's been in isolation for two days, a solitary confinement that had given her nothing but time to think, to plan, to simmer in a cold, calculated rage.
Daley enters the room, her face a mask of cold, controlled fury. She doesn't sit. She just tosses the lab report onto the table, the papers skidding across the metal surface and stopping right in front of Paige. "Blood doesn't match KK," she says, her voice a low, dangerous growl.
Paige doesn't react. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of relief. She just looks at the report, her expression a mask of bored indifference. "Shame," she says flatly, her voice a low, sarcastic murmur. "I was so looking forward to the conviction."
Daley leans in, her hands flat on the table, her face just inches from Paige's, her eyes burning with a furious, interrogative intensity. "You want to tell me who's trying to frame you?" she asks, her voice a low, threatening hiss. "Because I swear to god, Paige, if you know something and you're not telling me, I'll find a way to make you talk. I'll bury you so deep they'll forget you ever existed."
Paige meets her eyes, her gaze a calm, steady challenge in the face of Daley's raging fury. "If I knew that, Governor… we wouldn't be having this conversation," she says, her voice a low, even murmur. "Because I would have already handled it. And you would have found the body."
Which is technically true. She has her suspicions. She knows it was Maria. She knows KK was behind it. But she doesn't have proof. Not yet. And she's not about to give Daley a half-baked theory that will only get dismissed as inmate drama. She's playing a long game now. A game of chess, not checkers.
Daley studies her, her eyes a sharp, analytical probe, searching for any sign of deception, any crack in the facade. "You're either very innocent," she says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur, a reluctant concession to the possibility of Paige's innocence. "Or very dangerous."
Paige doesn't blink. She just stares back, her expression a mask of calm, unreadable confidence.
Daley hates not knowing which. She hates the ambiguity, the uncertainty, the feeling that she's being played, that she's a pawn in a game she doesn't fully understand. She's used to being in control, to being the one with all the answers. But with Paige, she's always one step behind, always guessing, always questioning.
"You're a fucking mystery, you know that?" Daley says, her voice a low, frustrated growl, a reluctant admission of her own inability to categorize, to control.
"And you're a fucking bully," Paige replies, her voice a low, dangerous purr, a bold, defiant challenge. "But we all have our flaws."
Daley's eyes narrow, a flicker of anger in their depths, but she doesn't rise to the bait. She just stares at Paige, a long, silent appraisal, a battle of wills playing out in the sterile, oppressive silence of the interrogation room. She knows Paige is hiding something. She knows she's not telling her the whole story. But she also knows she's telling the truth about the frame job. And that's a problem. Because it means there's a snake in her garden, a traitor in her midst. And she has no idea who it is, or how deep the conspiracy goes.
"Get her out of here," Daley says to the guards, her voice a low, weary sigh, a wave of her hand dismissing them both. "Put her back in her unit. But keep an eye on her. A close eye."
Paige stands, a slow, deliberate movement, and walks out of the room, her head held high, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She's won this round. But she knows the war is far from over. And as she walks down the long, sterile corridor, she's already thinking about her next move.
***
When it came down to it the governor realized Kayleigh didn't act alone. And KK, for all her bluster and bravado, didn't plant the blade. The real architect of this whole, sordid affair was someone else entirely. Someone they never saw coming. A guard. Officer Jackson. The big, burly man with the face like a slab of concrete and the piggy eyes, the one who had found the weapon with such theatrical, self-important urgency.
His motive wasn't loyalty, or revenge, or even ideology. It was colder, more pragmatic, more cynical than that. Chaos increases overtime. Lockdowns mean hazard pay. Extended shifts mean more money, more power, more leverage.
He had been playing a long game, a silent, invisible puppet master pulling the strings from the shadows. He was the one who had tipped off Kayleigh weeks ago, a casual, overheard comment about KK's latest score, a whispered suggestion that an opportunity for revenge was presenting itself.
He had encouraged the tension, stoking the fires of their feud with a carefully placed word here, a knowing glance there, a master of subtle manipulation. Then, when the time was right, he had planted the blade, a crude but effective device to keep the internal war going, to ensure the chaos, and the overtime, continued to flow. He had underestimated one thing.
He had underestimated Azzi's attention to detail, her relentless, almost obsessive pursuit of the truth, her refusal to accept the easy, obvious answer.
Daley, now fueled by a righteous, personal fury, uncovers the discrepancies in the security footage. She spends hours in her office, her eyes glued to the grainy, black-and-white images, a detective in her own kingdom. She sees it. Jackson "logged" cell checks during times when the cameras clearly show him elsewhere, lingering in a supply closet, having a quiet word with Kayleigh in a deserted corridor, his movements a subtle, damning dance of deception. He's suspended quietly, a swift, silent execution of his career. No public announcement. No fanfare. Just a quiet, discreet removal, a necessary sacrifice to maintain the illusion of control. Prison politics. A dirty, messy business.
The news spreads unofficially, a low, insidious whisper that crawls through the vents and the shadows of the yard. Paige is cleared. Not loudly. Not with a formal announcement or a public apology. But enough.
The whisper changes tone. It shifts from suspicion and fear to a grudging, almost awestruck respect. "She didn't do it." "They tried to frame her." "A guard did it." "She kept quiet and still came out clean." That is power. Real power. Not the loud, brutish power of a bully like KK, but the quiet, unshakeable power of a survivor, of a strategist, of someone who can endure the fire and walk out unscathed.
Because she didn't retaliate. She didn't panic. She didn't rage. She just sat. And she survived. She played the long game, and she won.
Nika approaches her that evening, her steps hesitant, her expression a mixture of awe and apology. "You knew it wasn't solid," she says, her voice a low, respectful murmur. "You knew it was a setup."
"I knew it was sloppy," Paige replies, her voice a low, calm murmur, a quiet statement of fact. "I knew it didn't fit. It wasn't my style. It wasn't anyone's style who actually wanted to get away with it. It was too loud. Too messy. Too desperate."
Nika nods once, a slow, deliberate gesture of understanding, of renewed loyalty. Loyalty restored. Not just to Paige, but to her methods, to her mind, to her unshakeable belief in her own innocence.
KK watches from across the yard, her face a mask of cold, hard fury. This changes the board. Her carefully constructed plan, her subtle campaign of psychological warfare, has just been blown to pieces. Paige now looks untouchable. A myth. A legend. A woman who can survive a frame job by a guard, who can endure isolation and suspicion and emerge not just unbroken, but stronger. She's no longer just a rival. She's an icon. And that's a much harder thing to fight.
***
Dr. fud doesn't gloat. It's not her style. It's Paige's first session back in her office after being cleared, the air still thick with the memory of accusations and isolation. This time, Azzi makes sure the chairs have enough space between them. Same as in the isolation room. But the energy is different. Not charged with suspicion, but heavy with something else, something unspoken and unresolved.
"The blood didn't match," Azzi says, her voice a low, quiet statement of fact, a simple declaration of the truth they both now share.
Paige watches her carefully, her eyes a sharp, analytical probe, searching for any sign of pity, any hint of condescension. "I know."
"You were right," Azzi says, her voice a low, reluctant admission, a concession she doesn't give easily.
A pause hangs in the air, a long, silent moment of shared understanding.
"I wasn't wrong," Paige corrects, her voice a low, firm murmur, a subtle but important distinction.
Azzi almost smiles. A flicker of amusement, of grudging respect, touches her lips, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. Almost. "I pushed you," she admits, her voice a low, honest confession. "I needed to be sure. I needed to know for myself, not just take your word for it."
"And now you are?" Paige asks, her voice a low, challenging purr, a test.
"Yes," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm declaration, a vow.
That's heavy. Because it's earned. Not just given, but fought for, proven through the fire of doubt and the crucible of suspicion.
Paige studies her, her gaze a long, searching look. "You went to bat for me," she says, her voice a low, quiet murmur, a statement of fact, not a question.
"I went to bat for evidence," Azzi replies, her voice a low, clinical correction, a desperate attempt to maintain her professional distance.
Paige tilts her head, a slow, deliberate movement, a predator's curious gesture. "That's not what I heard," she says, her voice a low, teasing purr, a challenge to Azzi's carefully constructed facade.
Silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Azzi doesn't deny it. But she doesn't confirm it either. That restraint. That professional, maddening restraint. That's what makes Paige snap.
She gets up, her movements fluid and silent, a slow, deliberate prowl across the small space of the office. She leans her hands on the edge of Azzi's chair, her body a warm, imposing presence, leaning in, invading Azzi's personal space, a deliberate, provocative act.
"Can we talk about how you're wearing that new shade of lipstick today?" Paige says, her voice a low, husky murmur, a sudden, unexpected shift in the conversation. She smirks, a slow, confident curve of her lips. "It suits you, by the way," she adds on, her voice a low, appreciative purr.
Azzi raises her eyebrows, her expression a mask of blank, professional surprise, staring at Paige's unreadable face.
"How does it taste?" Paige says, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, her eyes dropping to Azzi's lips, a bold, unapologetic challenge.
Azzi squirms in her chair, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, a physical betrayal of her composure. She shakes her head, a small, frantic gesture. "Paige," she says, her voice a low, warning hiss, a desperate plea for sanity.
"Or about how you cross your legs when I come closer," Paige says, her voice a low, observational murmur, a slow, deliberate dissection of Azzi's every move. "Or about why you smile when I walk into the room," she adds on, her voice a low, teasing purr, a playful, yet deeply insightful observation.
"And I know that smile," Paige says, looking Azzi in the eyes, her gaze a deep, intense probe. "And I know what it means," she says, her voice a low, confident declaration.
"You tryna to threaten me?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, defensive challenge, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.
"Why you say that?" Paige asks, her voice a low, innocent murmur, a mock display of confusion.
"Because you're trying to intimidate me," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm declaration, a statement of fact. "And I don't like it. I don't respect it," she adds on, her voice a low, steady rebuttal.
Paige sucks her teeth, a sharp, dismissive sound, and walks back to her chair, plopping down with a frustrated, restless energy. "I'm bored, Azzi," she says, her voice a low, frustrated growl. "I'm sick of everyone and I'm sick of myself."
"I hate it here," Paige says, her voice a low, raw murmur, a sudden, vulnerable confession, a crack in the facade of her tough, unbreakable persona.
"I know," Azzi says, her voice a low, soft, sympathetic murmur, a quiet acknowledgment of Paige's pain.
Paige looks at her, her eyes a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions. "Do you?" she asks, her voice a low, challenging purr. "Do you really know what it's like to be trapped in this place? To be constantly watched, constantly judged, constantly suspected? To have every move you make, every word you say, analyzed and dissected? To be a specimen in a fucking zoo?"
Azzi doesn't answer. She just sits there, her expression a mask of calm, professional empathy, but her eyes are a storm of conflicting emotions.
"You don't," Paige says, her voice a low, certain declaration. "You can't. You're on the other side of the glass. You're the one with the keys. You're the one with the power."
"That's not true," Azzi says, her voice a low, defensive protest. "I'm here to help you. I'm on your side."
"Are you?" Paige asks, her voice a low, skeptical murmur. "Or are you just here to study me? To analyze me? To use me for your research? To add me to your list of case studies?"
"That's not fair," Azzi says, her voice a low, hurt whisper.
"Isn't it?" Paige shoots back, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "You want to know about me, about my life, about my pain. But you don't want to share anything about yourself. You want me to be an open book, but you're a fucking fortress. You want me to trust you, but you don't trust me. That's not a partnership. That's a fucking interrogation."
"I do trust you," Azzi says, her voice a low, desperate protest.
"Then prove it," Paige says, her voice a low, challenging purr, a bold, unapologetic demand. "Tell me something real. Something about you. Something that isn't in your file. Something that scares you. Something that makes you human."
Azzi looks at her, a long, silent battle of wills playing out between them. She sees the challenge in Paige's eyes, the desperate need to connect, to find something real, something human she can relate to. And she knows, with a sudden, startling clarity, that this isn't just a game. This is a plea.
"I'm scared of heights," Azzi says, her voice a low, quiet murmur, a small, vulnerable confession.
Azzi looks at her, her eyes a deep, intense pool of conflicting emotions. She takes a deep breath, a slow, deliberate act of courage, and decides to take a leap of faith. "I'm scared of ending up alone," she says, her voice a low, raw murmur, a confession so deep, so personal, it leaves her feeling exposed, vulnerable.
Paige looks at her, her expression a mask of surprised, respectful silence. She sees the truth in Azzi's eyes, the raw, unvarnished vulnerability, and it disarms her completely.
"I'm scared of that too," Paige says, her voice a low, quiet murmur, a confession of her own, a shared moment of raw, unfiltered honesty.
The room is silent, the air thick with the weight of their shared confessions, two very different worlds colliding in the quiet space of the office. And in that moment, something shifts. A wall comes down. A bridge is built. And for the first time since they met, they're not just a doctor and a patient. They're just two women, scared and alone, finding a moment of connection in the most unlikely of places.
Paige stands up, her movements slow and deliberate, and walks back to Azzi's chair. She doesn't lean in this time. She doesn't invade her space. She just stands there, a quiet, respectful presence. "You know," she says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur, "for a prison psychiatrist, you're not half bad."
Azzi looks up at her, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "And for a framed inmate, you're not half bad either," she replies, her voice a low, teasing purr, a flicker of her old, wry humor returning.
Paige laughs, a real, genuine laugh this time, a warm, rich sound that fills the small office with a sudden, unexpected joy. "I'll take that," she says, her voice a low, happy murmur.
"You should," Azzi says, her voice a low, confident purr. "It's a high compliment coming from me."
Paige looks at her, her eyes a deep, intense pool of conflicting emotions. She sees the smile in Azzi's eyes, the warmth, the genuine affection, and she feels a pull, a magnetic, undeniable attraction that is both terrifying and exhilarating. "You know," she says, her voice a low, husky murmur, a slow, deliberate shift in the conversation, "you're even more beautiful when you're not trying to be a fortress."
Azzi's smile fades, replaced by a look of surprised, vulnerable uncertainty. "Paige," she says, her voice a low, warning hiss, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.
"What?" Paige asks, her voice a low, innocent murmur, a mock display of confusion. "Can't I give a compliment? It's not against the rules, is it?"
"It's... complicated," Azzi says, her voice a low, frustrated murmur, a desperate attempt to find the right words, to navigate the treacherous waters of their complicated relationship.
"Everything's complicated," Paige says, her voice a low, philosophical murmur, a slow, deliberate shrug. "That doesn't mean we can't enjoy the moments that aren't."
She leans in, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes locked on Azzi's, a silent, unspoken question hanging in the air between them. "Can we?" she asks, her voice a low, husky whisper, a bold, unapologetic plea.
Azzi looks at her, a long, silent battle of wills playing out in her eyes. She sees the challenge in Paige's gaze, the desperate need for connection, the raw, unfiltered desire. And she knows, with a sudden, startling clarity, that she wants to say yes. She wants to cross that line, to shatter that boundary, to indulge in the forbidden fruit of their mutual attraction.
But she can't. She's the doctor. She's the one with the power, with the responsibility. She's the one who has to maintain the boundaries, to protect them both from the consequences of their actions.
"I can't," Azzi says, her voice a low, regretful whisper, a painful, necessary rejection.
Paige nods, a slow, deliberate gesture of understanding, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "I know," she says, her voice a low, quiet murmur. "But I had to ask."
"I know," Azzi says, her voice a low, sympathetic murmur, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared desire, their mutual frustration.
Paige looks at her, a slow, sad smile touching her lips. "You know," she says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur, "I think I'm starting to like you, Doctor Fudd. And that's a problem."
"Why?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, curious murmur.
"Because I'm not supposed to like you," Paige says, her voice a low, honest confession. "I'm supposed to hate you. I'm supposed to see you as the enemy. But I don't. I see you as... something else. Something more."
"And what's that?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, hesitant whisper.
"I don't know," Paige says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "But I'm looking forward to finding out."
She turns and walks out of the office, her steps a slow, deliberate retreat, leaving Azzi alone in the quiet, sterile room, a prisoner of her own desire, a victim of her own heart. And as she sits there, a single tear tracing a slow path down her cheek, she knows, with a certainty that both terrifies and exhilarates her, that nothing will ever be the same again.
Summary: Paige wishes it were just a front, just something she needed to do to save face. But she’s part driver; it’s a concrete section of who she is. Right next to the need for speed, the craving to be a winner at all costs.
Authors Note: This begins a new arc for our friends. I’m grateful to everyone who is reading this story; I hope you enjoy it. I also want to say a big thank you to the people who take so much time to brainstorm, proofread, chat, and give feedback to me as I work on Hot Lap. Especially @nellstark and @buffalo1221.
From “A Beginners Guide to F1 Slang”: ‘Dirty air’ is created by the odd vortices of air spinning off the back of a leading car and reducing the efficient airflow over the wings of the following one, giving it a performance disadvantage by reducing downforce. Clean air is when a car is out on its own, with a nice, undisturbed airflow passing over its wings, providing good downforce.
Hot Lap Chapter 8: Zandvoort
The first time Paige hears someone else talk about Azzi Fudd, she’s fourteen years old. She’s in her room, in the house, with the view that looks into the Oak Tree. The same Oak she’d nearly broken her wrist climbing down two months ago when she wanted to go to a party and Geno said hell no.
It ended up being fine. Paige was grounded for a week, but she’d gotten to kiss Tara, so really it was all good.
Tara isn’t her girlfriend or anything, but she’s sweet and fun to hang out with. And she’s a good kisser.
She’s laying on the bed, tossing a football up and down because it’s an easy repetitive motion while she texts back and forth with Tara. The girl is cute but literally terrible at geometry, and they have a test coming up.
“Alright, welcome to another episode of Dirty Air.”
Paige consumes as much content about Formula 1 as possible - because she loves everything about motorsport and because she’s walking the up ramp to the start of her career. She’s about to start on the national carting circuit, now that she’s finally aging into F4. It means bigger opportunities, better tracks, more exposure. It’s a platform for Paige to finally get onto the scene.
“We’re Syd and TP.”
It’s not impossible that she could end up in F1 one day. It’s her goal, her dream, and now she’s taking more and more steps that will actually put her on the path to make that a possibility. Far fetched, sure. But possible.
She loves the chatter about it. Formula 1 is getting more and more popular in the US, and there’s a boom of content. Podcasts and blogs and so much more. None of the kids at school are that into it — neither is Tara — but it’s still what Paige eats, sleeps, and breathes. Even more so than she always did before.
The Dirty Air podcast is one of the best. She thinks the hosts are hilarious and they actually know their shit about racing. But they also like to gossip. So it’s the best of both worlds, really. She always listens when it drops on Tuesdays.
“Listen bro, I was at Mercedes the other day —”
“—Humble brag—” TP interrupts Syd.
“One hundred percent,” Syd laughs. “I will brag all day every day. I was also at McLaren last week, do you remember? No but for real, I was at Mercedes to do our interview for today with Mercedes Chief Strategy Engineer Maya Moore, which we had a great fucking conversation let me tell you.”
Paige blinks. She always pays special attention to anything about Mercedes.
“I can’t wait,” TP laughs. “I just can’t wait. She’s such a legend.”
“Total legend,” Syd agrees. “We talked about her experience at Alpine and winning the world championships there with Elena Delle Donne, what the transition has been like now that she’s at Mercedes. I think what makes her so good and I’ve thought this for a while now, but talking with her really confirmed it; she really thinks like a driver. And we talk about that so stay tuned for the second half of today’s show.”
Sweet, Paige loves those kinds of interviews.
“Who else did you meet at Mercedes? Sue Bird hanging around?”
Syd laughs. “Bro, I fucking wish! Nah, didn’t see Team Principal Sue. Everyone’s favorite, right? Nah, we just walked around the engineering floors and I got to see a bit of the public parts of the factory.”
“That’s dope,” TP drawls, and Paige can’t help but smile. TP is hilarious. “Who else did you meet? Anyone cool?”
“Neither of the drivers, though I got to meet some of the F2 prospects.”
“They’ve always got a great young talent coming up at Mercedes, gotta respect that attention to the pipeline.”
“Thousand percent,” Syd agrees. “You know, oh my god, I do have to say, I met this really smart girl. Her name is Azzi. She’s the Fellow for this year.”
Paige is instantly on alert. She blinks at the ceiling.
“Alright,” TP hypes. “Do you think it’s like, the most competitive internship in the world?”
“They’d have thrown my application right out, that’s all I’ll say,” Syd says, laughing. “But like for real, all those folks are geniuses.”
Her heart is beating just a little faster. What a surprising thing to happen on a Tuesday. Paige holds the football still, all her attention on what her headphones are delivering.
“Did she give you any inside scoop? She writes their blog, right? I would say that I agree with so many of her assessments. Like I don’t know what the editing process is over there or how much she writes herself, but like. Spot on, girl.”
“No, she writes all of it,” Syd says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s something we were talking about with Maya, and she’s like wicked smart, bro. Like crazy smart. I was like give me a hot take they won’t let you put on the internet.”
“What’d she say?”
Paige appreciates TP; she is also extremely interested in learning this.
“We were just going over the strategy from the last race and talking about how hard those racing lines were with the wind. Yo, let me tell you. This girl says she doesn’t think there’s ever a reason to abandon the racing line. She says if you’re good enough, you can always find it and keep it.”
“I mean, that’s bold for an engineer.”
“So bold, right? But she backs it up, man. Let me tell you.”
“Did Maya give you any dirt on the Ferrari mishap?”
“No, girl, I was like, trying to pick up crumbs.”
That’s all they say before they move on to all the other subjects. Paige pauses the podcast and runs slider back a minute. She closes her eyes and listens to the full intro to that part of the conversation again.
Damn. Azzi Fudd. Again and again she comes up.
She’s so sharp. Her tweets are so smart. Paige doesn’t have any idea who she is, really, or what she looks like or anything about her personally. She exists in this space where Paige feels like she kinda knows her but actually, doesn’t at all. It’s strange.
It feels different than the way people are with celebrities, like athletes or personalities. Paige doesn’t know how, couldn’t list the differential. It just feels different.
The podcast continues to play. Paige keeps half an ear on it as she reads a text from Tara, as she responds, as she eventually succumbs to the need to do her algebra homework. But she goes back, later, before bed. Listens to it again.
There’s never a reason to abandon the racing line. If you’re good enough, you can always find it and keep it.
It’s not that Paige writes it in her notes app, or includes it as one of her mantras. But it slips inside; in her brain, in her foot, in the way she grips the gearshift. It’s there.
August 29 - 31: Zandvoort: Netherlands: Dutch Grand Prix
Amsterdam has always been one of Paige’s favorite cities. She likes the canals and the prevalence of stroop waffles, the dismal weather and the food scene.
“You know, it’s wild — I’ve never had Indonesian food,” DiJonai remarks as they walk by another restaurant.
“Colonization,” Paige supplies, adjusting the lay of her pink jacket; she doesn’t even need Azzi to be physically present to ensure her opinions are represented. “The Dutch East India Company ruined a lot of the world.”
“Figures,” DiJonai mutters.
“Indonesian food’s delicious,” Paige adds.
They continue walking the cobblestone streets alongside the canal. Paige’s stomach rumbles with hunger at the sharp smell of fresh frites being fried.
“That’s where Phee and KMac are staying,” she says, nodding toward the fancy mansion across the canal. “The Waldorf Astoria.”
“Yeah, I definitely see why you chose to sleep in a trailer instead of a five star luxurious mansion,” DiJonai deadpans.
“I mean, Phee and KMac are both World Champions. Plus, it’s a nice trailer,” Paige argues, but she knows it falls on deaf ears. Nobody understands her preference for the motorhome. Paige is chronically misunderstood.
And even after the break —- maybe even because of it — after the villas and experiencing the luxury of what her name can buy and get gifted, Paige hasn’t changed her mind. If anything, she’s doubling down. She may have affluence now, but she’ll do everything she can to cling to normalcy. A life without an abundance of money is all she ever knew.
“Left up here,” she murmurs, glancing at her phone.
They’re on their way to an investor dinner, this time with some billionaire Italian tech titan Diana wooed last year. Paige doesn’t understand why Diana — a billionaire — needs to recruit other billionaires to fund Team Lamborghini when she could write the check herself and not have to deal with other people’s nonsense. But that must be why Diana is a billionaire and Paige is not.
Capitalist systems are about keeping money centralized, she can hear Azzi saying. That’s the myth of the free market.
Sue Bird sent Azzi to an investor dinner exactly one time and never repeated the mistake.
At least Paige has DiJonai with her. That’s another great part about being an F1 driver; she doesn’t have to take her medicine and suffer alone if she doesn’t want to.
“What a drive in Budapest, Paige. Masterful.”
Fernando Barzetti is broad shouldered and tall; he wears a custom suit and hand stitched leather shoes. He gives Paige the absolute ick. All the Lamborghini merchandise — the cars, the shirts, Paige — bear his company’s stupid yellow logo.
“Thanks,” Paige says, enough of her mouth moving to imply a smile. She doesn’t want to revisit Budapest with these people; soul sucking money grabbers. But this is what she’s been brought in for; to let them sidle up and get close to the raw power.
“You must have been so disappointed,” Barzetti’s wife, Catriona, says. She’s at least fifteen years his junior, if Paige were to hazard a guess and be generous. “But what amazing teamwork! I always thought of it as such an individual sport until I met Fernando. He’s absolutely mad about racing,” she adds with a laugh.
“What Italian man isn’t,” Fernando booms, and laughter breaks out from their group almost on cue.
“Best sport in the world,” Paige says, because Catriona is still looking her way. “But I guess I’m biased.”
There’s a look in Catriona’s eyes that makes Paige simultaneously feel good about herself and a tad bit nervous.
Eventually, the pre-dinner drinks transition into actual dinner. Paige and DiJonai have been split up since Paige is the main attraction and DiJonai is basically the lion tamer. Disgust bubbles in Paige’s belly but one shake of DiJonai’s head keeps her from making a scene. She wonders if it were the same for DiJonai when she was with Delle Donne. If it made Elena as out of sorts as it makes Paige, to be separated.
Diana’s there too, of course. She’s seated directly across the table from Paige, outfitted in her usual black blazer. Her eyes don’t linger, but Paige can feel the weight of her attention, knows she’s on display. Or onstage.
“Wine, miss?”
She shakes her head at the waiter. “Sparking water, thanks.”
Next to Diana, the Italian billionaire orders another scotch. His wife orders a white wine, her eyes flicking to Paige every few seconds. But Paige ignores the looks and keeps an ear on the conversation that the man is carrying on with Diana, even as she does her duty and engages in chit chat with some of the other rich assholes seated at the table.
“...bad business, really. The euro’s losing weight every day to the yen. Fucking unacceptable.”
All of it is an eye roll.
Paige hasn’t had a moment alone with Diana since arriving in the Netherlands and it's making her anxious. She wants a read on the dynamic, needs an opportunity to try and see what card Diana’s going to play next.
Because Paige understands enough about life in Formula 1 — the money, the power, the game — to know she can’t outsmart or outmaneuver her Team Principal. Best she can do is to try and win a hand now and then to show that she can hold her own.
How successful she’ll be at that is anyone’s guess.
Diana’s telling a story about her summer break; she and Penny did not go to the moon as Paige jokingly hypothesized back in Budapest.
They took the kids to Antarctica.
“What about you, Paige? How was Sardinia?”
“Healing,” Paige says with a grin, playing Diana’s game. She may be a rookie but she’s still a pro. She’s still got nerves of steel. “It was good to relax.”
“You needed it,” Diana chirps, faux-kindly.
It’s a show. It’s all a show.
“Our Paige here was racing with a broken rib in Budapest,” Diana says to the folks who can hear them. Their immediate table mates all make sounds of shock and concern, a layered chord of spurious sympathy. Barzetti the billionaire nods his head in commendation.
“Tough girl,” he approves. “Do what it takes to win, right?”
Sadistic fuck.
His wife leans forward, the already low cut of her dress forced to push the laws of physics in restraining her implanted breasts.
“That must have been so painful,” she all but coos.
She’s blonde, like Paige, but the hue is so bright it verges on neon. A beacon, a distraction; the diamonds at her neck sit heavy. Everything about her seems fake. Paige is willing to bet her cunt is like plastic. Smooth and dry. She has an inexplicable urge to squeeze this woman’s lip, to see if filler pops out like edamame from its shell.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Paige says, instead of giving into her urges. “I wanted to race.”
“Too damn bad about your record at the Hungaroring,” this motherfucking billionaire grouses. Half his scotch is already gone. “Set me back a bit because of it,” he announces with a laugh, like Paige’s sole purpose in life is to pad this man’s pockets.
“But a win for the team,” Diana deflects with a smile. Her eyes are focused on Paige; her thumb and middle finger spin her wine glass slowly. She’s got expensive taste, Diana.
“Spirito Toro,” Paige holds her glass a few inches above the table in mock salute. The bubbles in her water crackle and pop at the movement.
“Hear, hear,” the billionaire echoes, his voice booming. “Spirito Toro. A win’s a win.”
Diana taps her glass to his but she salutes Paige before she takes a sip, her eyes gleaming in the low light of the restaurant’s attempt at setting the mood.
Dinner takes fucking forever. Paige ignores her nutritionist’s advice and orders the fillet, rare and expensive; she’s desperate for the taste of blood. She talks about the history of Amsterdam with the couple sitting next to her and the safari that the man on Diana’s other side recently went on. She wants to vomit when the talk turns to the upcoming French elections, and excuses herself to the bathroom before the dessert course is served.
But she stops at the restaurant bar on her way back, well out of sight from the private dining room.
“Two shots of tequila,” she requests. “Whatever your best blanco is.”
She’s breaking her own rules for race weekend, but she needs fortification or she’ll never make it through this godforsaken dinner.
“Make that four,” Diana says, materializing and stepping into the pocket of space next to Paige. She doesn’t look over as she drums her long fingers on the marble bar top.
Paige steels herself; she mentally pours cement into her spine and slows her breathing. She clears her mind, pushes away any thoughts of Azzi or what happened in Budapest. She needs all the focus she can have around this woman.
“You need to get better at this,” Diana says, her voice low but conversational. It’s not a reprimand. If anything, it sounds like an amused observation. Like she’s giving feedback to a child.
“If you wanted people charmed, you should have asked for Soni,” Paige replies, mild and unbothered. She doesn’t have her sights set on management. Fuck this noise.
“You think you’re cute?” There’s delighted gratification in Diana’s tone; she loves this. Paige can tell.
But being a driver means you have to be good at the game. And Paige is the best. On and off track.
“You tell me,” she drawls in response. “You’d know better.”
Diana does laugh at that. “He’s disgusting,” she agrees, like she’s responding to a comment. “But he’s a necessary evil.”
“You hurting for money?” Paige glances over lazily.
“I’m looking at the future,” Diana corrects, and Paige thinks there’s a strain of honesty woven deep into that statement. “It can’t be all about the now.”
The bartender pours their shots from a beautiful bottle of Clase Azul, the warm lights of the bar reflecting on the white ceramic. He provides each of them with their own bowl of lime wedges. The shot glasses are ice cold in her fingers.
“To Zandvoort,” Diana offers.
The ting as their glasses clink is satisfying, and the tequila’s so smooth it barely burns. She casts about for some kind of small talk.
“You see any penguins, in Antarctica?”
“Yeah,” Diana says, nonchalantly. “We slept on a glacier one night. Little guys got curious in the morning. The kids loved it.”
What is this woman’s life?
“So. How was Pompeii?”
Pompeii, Diana’s asking. Not Sardinia.
“Old,” Paige bites out. Fuck, she’s out of her depth. Every time she thinks she can play this game and at least be a good matchup, Diana puts her on her ass.
“Never one for ancient ruins myself,” Diana muses, her tone slightly mocking. “I’d rather look ahead than dwell in the past.”
Paige can only watch with the sinking feeling of being overtaken on track, as Diana tosses back the second shot and pulls out her wallet to lay three hundred-dollar bills on the bar.
“Don’t fuck the wife,” she adds, stealing Paige’s second shot glass and smoothly downing it as well. She leaves Paige at the bar without another word.
“Jesus Christ,” Paige mutters, signaling to the bartender. “Yeah I need two more, please.”
She’s in over her fucking head.
—--
After three weeks apart and an ocean of angst brimming between them, Paige’s first time seeing Azzi at Zandvoort is massively anticlimactic, given that they’re seated across the table from each other in a strategy session in a room full of engineers.
It’s Paige’s own fault, since she was late getting to the paddock gym and DiJonai was unimpressed. Nai made Paige spend an extra ten minutes running at peak speed, so Paige had to rush through a shower and doesn’t slide into her chair in the strategy session until two minutes past the hour.
It means she doesn’t have the time to properly spiral about it in advance, to plan and pre-plan and overplan. She doesn’t have the opportunity to get herself set. To make sure she can back up the promise she made in her voice note.
“Okay, let’s talk through the tyre report,” Azzi says, acknowledging Paige with a distracted nod. It’s probably the best that Paige could have hoped for. It’s a relief, at least, that she’s not pissed about the lateness; hopefully the way Paige is sweating and red faced because she ran from the motorhome indicates her commitment. “Pirelli went very soft for the tyre line this weekend. The C2, C3, and C4. Jana?”
Jana, Queen of the Nile and of bullshit, opens her binder with a decided thwack. “Yup, yup, people. Pirelli fucking sucks, these tyres are total shit-”
“Jana,” Azzi sighs, rubbing at her temple, “focus.”
“Right. Sorry, boss. So the C4’s are gonna degrade fast, like super fast, like faster than KK when she sees a spider-”
“Fuck you, Jana-”
“You screamed like a little boy, this morning-”
“The tyres,” Azzi interjects, bringing them both back to the point.
Paige loves the Lamborghini girls — the engineers that Diana has brought on and empowered in the garage and on the strategy teams. They’re young and bright and wickedly smart but they’re also fun in the way that the brains at Mercedes weren’t.
“Indeed,” Jana says, nodding sagely. “So. Pirelli is saying twenty laps, but like, no way-”
“I think they could go twenty,” KK argues.
“Bro, are you blind?” Jana scoffs. “Look at these temp degradation graphs-”
“Yeah but these are CYA numbers-”
“What are CYA numbers?” Paige interrupts. There are a thousand acronyms in aerodynamic engineering; she can’t place that one in relation to tyre degradation times.
“Cover your ass,” Azzi supplies dryly. Her tone implies this is not the first time she’s had to explain it to someone.
“Love it,” Paige grins. “Absolutely,” she agrees. “Fuck Pirelli.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” KK and Jana chorus in unison, and then immediately high five each other.
“Jinx,” KK shouts.
Paige adores the two of them. This is definitely what Azzi’s personal hell looks like.
As Jana and KK’s “conversation” devolves into something else, and Kelis and Gandy jump in, Paige takes the opportunity to look across the table.
And Azzi — who looks inexplicably tired even though the entire sport of motor racing has been on a literal three week break — stares back at Paige helplessly. A touch of humor hangs about the corners of her mouth, and she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Paige bites back a smile, helpless to fight her enjoyment at seeing Azzi navigate the personal dynamics of her team. Leadership didn’t come easily to Azzi, but Paige thinks she’s found her way.
One meeting turns into two, turns into three, turns into the FIA mandatory press conference.
Which.
Paige hasn’t had a chance to get her head ‘round how to act with Azzi so she certainly has no fucking idea what to do if she runs into Sabrina. But some god out there blesses Paige, because Sabrina’s not in her press group. Instead, Kah and Cam are seated on the couch when Paige arrives.
“Hey!” Cameron’s smile is enormous as she greets Paige.
Paige leans in to dap them both up, already mentally calculating what the vibe will be. Cam has a sunny disposition most of the time, and Kah will say everything as efficiently and dispassionately as possible. It’s as good a mix as Paige could hope for; it’s easy to take the middle ground.
“How was Sardinia? I saw Kate and Soni earlier, they said it was awesome. Did you have fun?”
God bless Cam, who never has a bad word to say about anyone and can make any situation better. Paige can’t handle that kind of sunshine all of the time, but she’s genuinely fond of the bubbly statuesque blonde who has a hilariously aggressive case of roadrage. Kah, of course, ignores both of them as Paige recaps the trip with enthusiasm and asks about Cam’s break.
“I went home for a bit — home stretch of wedding prep and all that.” Cam’s engaged to some finance guy who still lives in California; Paige has met him a few times and he’s nice enough, but they run out of conversation topics in about three minutes flat.
“Still planning to say ‘I do’?” Paige jokes. Cam has the insane idea that she can gather everyone for her nuptials in December, like any of them will want to be around each other once the season ends in Abu Dhabi.
“Angela Davis says marriage is about domination. It reinforces the economic and social subordination of women,” Kah offers, as if that’s in any way helpful, looping into their conversation in the most depressing way.
“You been talking to Azzi again,” Paige sighs.
“She sent some new recs,” is all Kah offers on that subject. She and Azzi often had their heads together, though they refused to call their trading of suggestions and titles and subsequent conversations a book club.
“I mean, yes, obviously, historically marriage has been an institution that has trapped women — especially Black women,” Cam sputters, “but Ben and I have a foundation very based in equality. And equity.”
“She’s baiting you,” Paige sighs, waving off Kah’s comments, because sure enough, Kah is grinning at Cam like a cat that caught a canary.
“Girl should know what she’s getting into,” Kah objects, her hands up, transforming into the picture of innocence.
“Like you have any idea what she’s getting into,” Paige rolls her eyes.
“I don’t know that “getting into” it is the right mindset,” Cam tries to interject. But she’s too sweet when she’s not in a car, so it doesn’t do much to re-center the conversation.
“I know more than you,” Kah laughs at Paige. “Miss twenty-year old phenom.”
“I’m twenty-four—”
“Still a fuckin’ youngin,” Kah says, her face unimpressed. “You’re too young to get married,” Kah tells Cam, who looks genuinely distressed at the way the conversation has diverted. “You should fuck more people. Live a little. Break some hearts.”
“This is not helpful advice,” Cam says.
“Be more like Paige,” Kah adds, threading whatever needle she thinks is going to sew the discussion together.
It’s Kah, so they aren’t arguing, it’s just her spitting what she believes are facts and trying to stir the pot. She’s got her own goddamn ledger for how the world works and a different kind of math to add it all up.
“I hesitate to ask.” Cameron’s confusion is apparent, but Paige’s bullshit meter is starting to ding.
“Ignore her—”
“She spent her break with Nastya,” Kah says, and Paige wonders what the actual punishment would be for leaping across the couch and punching her. She makes money now, she can afford a steep fine.
“I did not spend my break with Nastya—”
“You saw Nastya over break?”
“No - well, yes, but—”
“Girl I know we’re on the same internet,” Kah admonishes Cam. “You need to reprogram your algorithm.”
One of the F1 media coordinators appears then, with microphones for each of them; Paige breathes a sigh of relief. She’s never been so glad to take questions from the press before. She shoots Kah one last dirty look before turning to fully face the press corps and pasting her public smile on.
“Paige, how are you feeling about the Budapest results now that you’ve had some distance?”
So the press questions are equally asinine.
Paige reminds herself that she’d still choose the media over Kah’s mind reader bullshit. She tries to form her face into a genial smile. “Same as I felt when you asked three weeks ago, Tom. It was the most successful outcome for our team. That’s all that’s important.”
And really, it’s the truth.
Paige wanted that win — of course she did. She’s an F1 driver and the Hungaroring has delivered her victories before. But she’s proud of their strategy execution, of their teamwork, of her own actions. There’s no use in soaking in the discontent.
The bomb from Diana is different. It’s wounded her; an open, festering sore that Paige feels with each breath she takes. But even with the pain, with the infection that’s setting in, Paige is glad she knows. It feels even more self sacrificing, really, to be so resentful and still determined to keep her new promise. And Paige is nothing if not a martyr inside her own head.
“You’re sitting in second place in the Driver’s Championship, just six points behind Caitlin. Given the difference, and what a win would have done for you in the standings, did Diana say anything to you about the outcome?”
The world is obsessed with team dynamics, with the inner workings of the F1 network. There aren’t enough drivers to provide endless speculation so personalities become even more important. The F1 media are always hungry for division and alliances.
And everyone knows Diana Taurasi is a personality.
But so is Paige.
“She told me good job on not fucking up,” Paige shares with a sly grin.
Everyone laughs. Even Kah, who grins and nods at Paige, proud.
“Keep on pressing, rookie.”
—--
Paige and Nika get some time to put their heads together that afternoon; they huddle in a quiet corner of the garage out of direct sight from CD, who’s been looking for Paige. They aren’t exactly whispering but they’re not trying to invite others into their conversation, even though Paige can see Jana lurking around — likely trying to get through her task lists before Azzi wanders through.
She’s sitting cross legged on top of a tool cabinet; Azurá, the head of engineering in the garage, is always yelling at her about it but Paige has been sitting on tool cabinets for most of her life, she’s not going to change her ways now.
“I think the modeling is wrong.”
She squints at the readouts in her hands, tipping her head as if that will make the projection arcs make more sense. Everyone’s always surprised at how good she is with modeling, with the math of it all, but Kathy taught high school physics and Geno made sure Paige started learning the day she moved into the house. Kathy sat with her at the kitchen table every night, patiently grounding Paige in kinematics, Newton’s Laws, friction — even while Paige was learning basic geometry in the local elementary school.
“It’s not,” Nika replies without even looking over. She’s messing around with the calculations on lap times and the write up from the weather team back at the factory.
Paige turns the pages to see the arcs from a different angle. “It’s too fucking gloomy about traction.”
“Don’t be a baby.” Nika doesn’t even look over.
“It completely ignores my instinct to go fast and assumes I’ll wait too long to get back on the throttle. Tell them to rerun it with a more aggressive pickup.”
“No.”
“Twin,” Paige whines.
“Go play in the simulator if you don’t believe it,” Nika suggests. “So you can see for yourself.”
Paige will not. She studies the briefing binder in her hands, glancing down to see the charts that are attached for each figure. Velocity, air quality, engine data.
“Oh for god's sake,” Nika laughs. “It’s literally showing you that earlier throttle is going to cost you more on the next corner than you’ll be able to gain at the turn and then you’ll be fucked down the straight.”
Easy for Nika to say. She’s not the one that’s got the most powerful engine built for a human to drive humming between her thighs.
Paige loves it, obviously.
“I still think the modeling is wrong.” It’s not and Paige knows it but she feels like being a baby and she’s not going to ask Nika for coddling.
Nika sighs and hoists herself onto the cabinet next to Paige. “You’re right about it being conservative and how it’ll feel okay, but that’s in clean air. Those rear temps are gonna spike,” she reminds Paige. “It’s going to be too late for you to adjust on the correction. The factory folks have been saying all week that the dirty air is going to hurt more than anyone thinks it will.”
She pauses, eyes scanning over the charts. “You could move off the racing line if you get into trouble,” she suggests slyly. “Just a quarter car width.”
Outrageous.
Paige snorts. “You gonna present that idea to Azzi, then?”
“No way, that’s fun for you to do on your own,” Nika laughs.
“Azzi’ll kill you,” Jana supplies unhelpfully from where she’s digging through a packing crate, clearly chewing bubble gum and eavesdropping. Paige glowers at her as Nika chuckles lowly.
“She won’t,” Nika teases.
Jana snorts. “Duh, because Paige is too scared to try it.”
The audacity. Those are fighting words. Paige glares at her, mouth open in outrage.
“I am not scared of Azzi.”
KK enters the garage, likely coming from one of the engineering rooms judging by the stack of blue binders in her arms.
“Yo KK,” Jana bellows. “Paige says she’s not scared of Azzi.”
KK bursts into laughter, like Jana’s told a particularly hilarious joke and not merely lied through her teeth. She’s really abusing her excellent combination of beauty and brains.
“Aww, delusion be with you now and forever, my friend,” KK says with a bow of her head, winking at Paige.
“Y’all are the fucking worst,” Paige complains. “I’m not scared of Azzi.”
“Sure you aren’t,” Nika murmurs.
“Oh like you aren’t scared of her?”
Nika shrugs, unbothered by the implication. “Azzi’s my boss. I’m allowed.”
“Yeah. Yeah!” Jana agrees. She’s gone through the crate and her brow is furrowed as she consults the checklist on the clipboard in her hand. There are a hundred lines with checkboxes and she’s only halfway through the list. “It’s normal to be scared of your boss,” she adds.
“But Azzi’s not scary,” Paige admonishes them. And it’s true. Azzi isn’t scary. She’s brilliant and efficient and lovely.
“You hurt your head in addition to your ribs in Mexico City, girly pop?” KK wanders over and deposits the binders into Paige’s lap. Doesn’t even ask if she can put them all there.
“Bro,” Jana adds, surveying Paige like she’s particularly dim. “Azzi’s terrifying.”
“She’s not!”
Jana and KK exchange looks with Nika who only smiles.
“Then why are you scared of her?” KK asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Bro, like I said, I’m not,” Paige defends herself.
She watches as Jana curls her lip and raises her eyebrows at Nika. “Was it always like this? How did you deal?”
“Worse, probably,” Nika supplies. “But Azzi wasn’t calling her races back then, so, you know,” she waves her hand, “different dynamics.”
It’s super cool that they’re just talking about her shambles of a love life. Just right in the open, no respect for her at all. Paige takes a deep breath and remembers that she has no reason to get agitated or out of shape.
The sigh Jana lets out implies she’s been suffering for years instead of a measly eight months. If she really wants to know how hard it could be for her, she should talk to Kiah Stokes at Mercedes. Paige smiles just reminiscing about it.
Jana reaches for her water bottle and chugs a few gulps; Paige would be truly shocked if it contained actual water instead of an energy drink.
“Ok, since you’re stupid,” Jana allows, “I’ll explain. We are scared of Azzi because she’s the smartest person on any team at Formula 1. She’s so sharp and she thinks ten steps ahead and you can’t bullshit her and she’s brilliant. AND she’s an incredible leader. And beautiful.”
Jana holds her hand over her heart and looks away dreamily. “The way she invests her time and energy. I want to be her when I grow up. And it makes disappointing her all the worse.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t—”
“You,” Jana overrides her, coming back to the moment and pointing her long finger in Paige’s face, “are scared of Azzi because you’re in love with her.”
The garage goes silent around Paige; her brain puts everything on mute. The number of people who can just say it out loud seems to be increasing at an alarming rate.
And the folks who can say it are getting farther and farther in proximity from people Paige either trusts or has some stronger connection to, for better or worse. It feels different coming from Jana. From someone that Paige likes and respects, but who falls neatly into the category of coworker or colleague.
The reality of that hits her squarely in the chest, even if she doesn’t understand why it feels so impactful. Everyone knows. Paige is aware of that. She is.
That’s why Sophie said what she did.
Why Diana can twist Paige up.
But people don’t talk about Paige’s reaction time being prodigious for nothing.
“Nah, bro,” Paige laughs, infusing just enough bravado into her voice that it’ll hopefully detract from the way she feels cracked open for everyone to see. “I’m not scared of Azzi.”
It works, but the snort that KK lets out is insulting. She doesn’t even try to stifle it. Paige sees Jana unsuccessfully try to bite back a grin.
Beside her, Nika bites her lip.
Outrage.
“What?” Paige looks over at her in betrayal. She doesn’t know why she expected differently. Loyalty means nothing these days. Friends can stab you in the back without a second thought. Eh tu, Nika?
“Oh come on, Twin,” Nika appeals, like rationality is something that could come to Paige.
“I can’t believe this,” she protests. “I’m not scared of her.”
“Okay,” Jana says, easy as anything. She and KK exchange another look.
Paige has a bad feeling about it. Her spidey senses are tingling.
“Prove it then,” KK says. “I’ll bet you five hundred euros that you can’t defy Azzi.”
Fuck. Paige really should have seen that one coming.
—--
She’s sitting in the simulation room just before dinner, running a full session with the team at the factory in her ear.
“Push harder on throttle this lap at Turn 5.”
The words are quiet through the comms, even though Paige doesn’t have any of the audio enabled for car noise or crowd.
“Okay,” she hears halfway through the lap, “lift at Turn 12.”
Simulation sessions like this are helpful. Paige doesn’t mind doing it in the sim, even if it’s annoying. It gives the engineers the data they want to play with, and she’d much rather follow their never ending directions and deal with their constant nitpicking it in the simulator than have to do it in the actual car.
Twenty minutes later, the team head at the factory in Sant'Agata calls an end to the session. He thanks Paige for being such a good sport, and she does one more lap in peace and quiet, just to get a run on qualifying simulation.
Soni’s waiting for her turn on the sim when Paige gets out; she’s holding an iced coffee that’s almost gone, the cubes clink together as she takes one last suck of the straw.
“Yo,” Soni greets. They were stuck in the same meetings for most of the day.
“I think dealing with bullshit is an acquired skill,” Paige says.
“For sure,” Soni agrees. “One that atrophied during break.” She pauses, tips her head a little bit. “Heard you found yourself in a pickle.”
Paige rolls her eyes. “Glad to know it’s made its way around.”
“It didn’t,” Soni assures her, as if that’s the problem. “I think it came through our private grapevine.”
Nika to Georgia to Soni, then.
“Have fun,” Paige says, nodding towards the simulator. She leaves Soni there and wanders through the administrative hallways. She’s got half a destination in mind, and it materializes when she pops her head into the main engineering room.
Azzi’s pouring over the schematics for the fuel pump with the girls from the factory team who brought the new parts over. They’re crowded around the table on all sides, their heads close together as they talk and point. Azzi’s got a red felt-tipped pen in her hand, making notes on the enlarged copy paper; the cap is held between her teeth.
“Hey,” Paige announces herself. “I just finished with the sim team.”
Azzi narrows her eyes, no doubt expecting a barrage of requests that she’s absolutely not going to grant — a lower ride height and fuel usage for practice sessions, just to name a few — so Paige smiles in what she hopes to be a convincing manner. Judging from Azzi’s expression, she’s largely unsuccessful.
“Do you have a second to talk about lap windows?”
It’s always satisfying to surprise Azzi; she blinks a few times, recalibrating. “Sure.”
She gives a series of instructions to the people around the table and stands up, her bones audibly cracking. Azzi does a little stretch with her arms and Paige resists the urge to lecture her about poor posture. The urge to run a hand down her spine and press.
“What’s up?”
They walk out of the conference room and Paige immediately decides to steer them toward the hospitality suite, her heart hammering like Thor himself. This is their first time alone since Budapest. She can feel the memory of that simmering between them, luxuriates in feeling her body soften all over and inside too. Circumstances can vary, can change the dynamic between them, but Paige loves being the object of Azzi’s attention. That hasn’t changed in all the time they’ve known each other and it certainly doesn’t seem like it’ll change any time soon.
“I’ve been thinking about the tyre compounds,” she admits, centering her thoughts on things that Azzi will actually want to engage about. And shit that they genuinely need to talk about.
“It’s going to be rough,” Azzi agrees. “Thermal degradation, not just wear and tear. Like being in the desert.”
Jana may be a dramatic busybody but she’s not wrong about Pirelli being fuckheads most of the time. Paige knows it’s true and so does Azzi, even if she won’t publicly admit it.
“You think pushing early is going to cost us more than we can gain?”
Azzi frowns. Paige imagines that she can see her brain working; fast like a racing engine, her thoughts and calculations moving like the pistons inside the cylinders. She’s brilliant, of course, but Paige always has to remind herself — and remind other people — that Azzi’s not a machine. She’s a human, a person; she needs rest and nutrients and sunshine just like every other person.
“I think the thermal degradation is going to be worse than they think it will be,” Azzi admits.
The hospitality suite has a nice set up going for the afternoon; pastries, fruits, little parfaits. Paige snags a muffin for herself and puts a danish and a yogurt in Azzi’s hands out of habit; as expected, Azzi’s too deep in thought about tyre wear to even notice.
“Really? Like we’ll have trouble with the compounds sliding?” She asks it around a bite of her muffin, then grabs two bottles of water with one hand and leads Azzi out of the suite.
“The C4’s are going to give us hell in Sector 2,” Azzi answers. Her brain’s already on the track, Paige can tell.
“You want to run opposite to whatever Soni’s going to do?”
The teams do that, sometimes, just to hedge their bets. They’ll run their drivers on different strategies to cover all the bases. That’s never been Azzi’s thing — she’d rather make proactive decisions based on data than to throw noodles at the wall to see what’ll stick — but Azzi’s not the lead strategist for Team Lamborghini. She’s just in charge of Paige.
“No,” Azzi shakes her head. “I want to make a plan and execute. I think we can make pace and protect tyres. It’ll be work for sure, but let’s see what can be done.”
We. We. We.
It feels like we, when she and Azzi can talk like this. Maybe Budapest did more to repair them than Paige even realized. Even if learning that Azzi sought out Diana to join Team Lamborghini threatened even more damage to their relationship.
But Paige has emotionally grown — at least a little bit — and she made a promise to Azzi that she intends to keep. Because the conversation with Lili stays in her head; Azzi’s her favorite person, and it’s time that Paige actually showed her that.
“Let’s touch base after FP2,” Azzi says. She’s already got the danish hanging half out of her mouth, scrolling through the unread messages on her tablet, flagging things for follow up like she’ll ever go back to respond.
“For sure,” Paige agrees. They’ve entered the garage, the hive abuzz with activity. In the far corner, Nika’s typing on the computer and barking instructions at her assigned minion. “Thank you,” Paige adds, quietly, sensing her window narrowing. “For Budapest.”
Azzi freezes. She’s not looking in Paige’s direction so there’s no opportunity to read anything her eyes are saying.
For a moment, Paige worries Azzi’s going to say something stupid, like don’t worry about it, or, worse, it was nothing. And that would be tough for Paige to take because she does worry about it and it wasn’t nothing.
But to Paige’s surprise, Azzi doesn’t say anything. She nods, though — a jerky little bobble of her head — and to anyone else it might not be enough, might not suffice. But Paige takes the gesture to be everything.
She takes it as Azzi acknowledging how important what happened in Budapest was to Paige. She might not be ready to talk about it, or even to look Paige in the fucking eye, but it’s there between them.
And Paige wants to say thank you for the acknowledgement so she does the kindest thing she can think of and changes the fucking subject.
“Has strat team talked about doing double stacks at all this weekend?”
Paige hasn’t had to double stack before, because F2 and F3 teams only have one driver. Given the lap times and pit stop windows at Zandvoort it’s not an uncommon occurrence to bring both cars in together for a pit stop.
“It’s come up,” Azzi confirms, “but nothing decided. I always feel like it’s risky. Too much can go wrong.”
“Can we do a trial run during FP1? I haven’t had to do it before, and I want a go at being the second car.”
“Of course,” Azzi agrees. “Already on the agenda for the strat-ops meeting this afternoon.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Paige wants to ask about the voice memos, about Azzi’s break. She can’t think of a chill way to do it so she might as well just be obvious.
“You have a good break?” She says it as casually as she can. It’s probably not that casual. Not if the glance Azzi tosses her is any indication.
“Yeah,” Azzi shrugs. “It was fine. How about you? Italy, right?”
“Sardinia,” Paige murmurs. “With Nika and Soni and Georgia. And the Haas girls.”
She wonders what Azzi would say about Veronica and Kate — a relationship not explicitly against any rules but taboo all the same.. And Paige intentionally leaves out the part about Alessandra. Because why invite displeasure? They’re talking so nicely.
“It was really good,” she says instead. “Got to relax. Rest the rib. Lamborghini let me have the Huracán EVO Spyder,” she adds, and of course that catches Azzi’s interest, just like Paige knew it would. Her eyes light up.
“For real? Oh that must have been sick,” Azzi enthuses, finally perked up. “How’d she sound?”
“Gorgeous,” Paige smiles, nerding out. “Drove like nothing else, too. The throttle whine was unreal and the acceleration actually felt like a track car.”
“You get to do some good driving?”
“Some, they had hills and I was on my own the second week so I took her out a bunch. Rib was feeling way better by then,” she mentions, just in case Azzi decides to go full Hulk again about the rib recovery. She’s unpredictable like that.
But Azzi clearly doesn’t give a shit about Paige’s rib now that she’s been presented with new information about a high performance car.
“Did they keep the rear steering?”
“Yeah, I could really feel it at lower speeds—turn-in’s sharper than you’d expect for a convertible.”
“What about the horsepower?”
God, Azzi’s such a gearhead. Paige doesn’t get wet about that at all.
Paige shrugs. “Same power as the coupe—naturally aspirated V10, 630.”
Azzi smiles, a genuine grin that lights up her face. Paige’s stomach flutters at being the person to put that expression there.
“That sounds amazing,” Azzi says; there’s a look in her eyes like maybe she’s also thinking that if things were different, she’d have been riding shotgun with Paige in the Spyder.
She’d be riding Paige’s fingers is what she’d be riding.
“You get up to speed?”
“Nah,” Paige admits, regret lacing her tone. “Tapped out at 144 kph. Didn’t wanna become an international headline.”
“For the best,” Azzi agrees.
The vibe is so nice that Paige is reluctant to walk away and leave their conversation. Being around Azzi like this feels like pouring Gorilla Glue over the cracks in her heart. The new ones and some of the old ones.
“Diana went to Antarctica,” she offers, desperate to keep engaging. “They like, slept on an iceberg or some shit. With penguins.”
Azzi shakes her head in disbelief. “Rich people,” she complains with a roll of her eyes.
Yeah. Page agrees with that.
“I’ve got to meet Dorka and Caroline,” Azzi sighs. Paige wonders if she’s imagining the reluctance she hears in Azzi’s voice. Maybe she’s projecting.
“Cool,” she says, starting to turn away, like she already has a destination in mind. She doesn’t. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you,” Azzi echoes.
Paige forces herself to walk forward. She meanders through the garage until Azzi’s out of sight.
“Smooth,” Jana comments, from where she’s standing at the counter highlighting different data readouts in one of the tyre binders.
“Shut the fuck up,” Paige growls.
“The little bitches room is that way,” KK points with a snicker. “I accept Revolut and Venmo, by the way. Whichever you prefer. I’m accommodating like that.”
“But if it’s Venmo you need to do the conversion first,” Jana instructs. “The dollar’s still low against the euro.”
Paige glares and stalks off without another word, ignoring the high five that KK and Jana exchange.
The engineers at Mercedes would never.
—---
3:22
…It’s wild to be here again. For F1. I remember our first time at Zandvoort. The internet was so shitty in the hotel and your mom kept calling because your brother got his nose pierced. It was like full on Fudd family chaos. And Sabrina’s rears were sliding all over the place and you were in such a mood. God, all I remember about my first year in F3 is being so fucking nervous, I was like bricking it every single weekend. And then Stef got that bug bite on her cheek, and me and the engineers on the F3 team thought we were so hilarious because….
—--
Free Practice 1 is scheduled to start at ten on Friday morning.
Paige is clear on the plan, on the data sets and lap windows the strat ops team wants. She and DiJonai make their way from the driver room to the garage, talking quietly on their walk about the recovery session that Paige is booked into; she’ll go into the city tonight and come back to the track to sleep.
“See how your body feels after this,” Nai advises. “Then we can decide about adding cryo. Might make FP3 and Qualifying go easier tomorrow.”
Paige nods, sure that a cryo session would feel good and still dragging her heels about committing. But she needs to; even though they did a lot of work in St. Moritz, she doesn’t feel quite back to form. The rib injury really fucked up her plans for summer break training.
As Nai helps with the helmet and Nika comes over to strap Paige into the car, KK runs over and steps into their pocket of space as well.
“Azzi says we’re gonna do double stack after the first tyre change,” she shares, extending a hand to help Paige. “We’ll wait for a good window and pull you in. Soni will be in front.”
“Good,” Paige nods. “Who’s calling?” She swings a leg over the side of the car and slides into the cockpit. It’s like being inside a glove, like the car is moulded around her.
“Jana’s gonna call,” KK grins, clearly proud of her friend.
Paige nods, also impressed. Calling a double stack is a great opportunity for Jana, even if Paige is annoyed as fuck with her — and with KK — over their stupid observations.
“I’ll try not to fuck it up for Jana,” she says with a smile.
Then Nika’s the only one she can see, bent in close to mess with the safety harness. She arches an eyebrow at Paige as her fingers dance across the straps, tugging and testing to make sure there’s no give.
“You remember the first time we raced here?”
Nika smiles. She has gum in her mouth, she always does; an oral fixation almost worse than Paige’s.
Her hair had been shorter, their first time in the Netherlands. The result of a bad haircut given to her by some cousin that was in cosmetology school. Paige’s hair had been box blonde because paying for professionally dyed hair had still been laughably out of the budget. They’d hardly known each other then — it had only been a few weeks into the F3 season.
“I remember you vomming in the bushes outside the paddock,” Nika teases.
“Interesting. I remember you having a sneezing fit and getting snot on your shirt,” Paige recalls.
But what she remembers most, what stands out from that first time at Zandvoort, is how connected she felt to Nika. It had been Zandvoort where Paige first understood just how important Nika was going to be to her.
“Have a good run,” Nika rumbles, and the statement feels more like a prayer, the way it always does.
Paige salutes her, then looks forward, ready to be guided into traffic.
—--
The bet isn’t front of mind while Paige is in the car.
It’s not gone from her brain, but it’s not where her concentration is. Not with Nika yapping in her ear about tyre temps and dirty air readouts, and everyone and their fucking mother trying to get a flying lap in for no good reason so early in Free Practice 1.
“Ease up and coast,” Nika instructs.
Paige follows direction. She’s not going to defy orders just because of the bet. That would be stupid. She’s got to wait for the right moment, for the right gap. Because Paige may be a lot of things, but a bad driver isn’t one of them; she’s not going to make a dumb choice just to keep five hundred euros. If she’s going to go against orders, or go against what Azzi wants her to do, she’s going to do it when it’s worth doing. When she actually disagrees.
“Great, Paige. We’re going to box next lap. Try and pick up pace just a little bit. We want you in a five second window behind Soni.”
“Copy.”
The double stack goes beautifully. Paige gets in good position and follows Soni into the pit lane, cruising in behind her for new tyres right as she’s released. Nika and Azzi are at the pit wall, turned around in their chairs to watch. Paige only really sees them as she’s coming into the pit and sliding in behind Soni.
“Oh that was great,” she crows into the radio as she exits. “Well done everyone. Thanks for the trial run.”
She’s got one under her belt, at least, if they need to do it on Sunday. Paige is comfortable in the car; she could have done it spur of the moment if it was needed in a race, but she feels better for having a dry run.
Practice makes perfect her father used to say, when she would go home for a week or two as a pre-teen and not want to do her reflex exercises.
But she did them. She always ended up doing them.
Paige knows how to prepare.
—--
Preparation only takes someone so far, she learns.
Because Paige walks into the strategy room later that day, after Free Practice 2, taking pride in her laps. She came in first — though it doesn’t really matter or mean anything from a practice session — and it’s got her feeling good.
“Yo,” she calls to Azzi, a smile already blooming on her face. “I gotta question for you.”
Azzi looks up and her face is pre-annoyed.
Pre-annoyed with Paige specifically. It’s a look that Paige is intimately familiar with, after so many years devoted to her favorite pastime of rage baiting Azzi.
“Are you involved in whatever stupid bet is going on?” Azzi asks, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what it's about but I assume Jana and KK are involved.”
“No,” Paige lies, scrambling for nonchalance.
“Okay then,” Azzi nods. She looks down at the schematic, for a moment, and then back up at Paige.
She can’t let it go. Paige is fucked.
“How dumb is it?” Azzi asks.
“Don’t know what you mean,” Paige pretends cluelessness.
“Very dumb, then,” Azzi surmises.
“Extremely,” Paige sighs, put upon.
She almost feels bad, given that it’s clear Jana and KK tread upon Azzi’s last strings of patience on a regular basis. Paige truly wishes she didn’t have such an urge to encourage them.
Alas, she can only be herself.
“What was it you wanted?” Azzi’s already distracted again, her nose buried in the schematic.
“The tyres felt good,” Paige improvises. “Just wanted to tell you that.”
“Good,” Azzi mutters. “I think we can push in FP3 tomorrow. I’ll talk to Dorka about compound strategy across teams.” She makes a note on her tablet, as if she’ll ever be able to find it again.
Paige can see Kelis writing down the same thing on her own tablet; she meets Paige’s gaze and then looks back down.
Once, back in Brackley, Azzi complained about her phone being slow. Paige had a theory it was user error and when she stole Azzi’s phone to check, it turned out Azzi had every app — every single one on her phone — open and hadn’t updated it in years.
“Cool.”
Paige doesn’t run away, but it’s a near thing.
—--
She’s fucking about with a quick run of Blitz on Fortnite, taking satisfaction in ruthlessly killing pre-teens, when Nai pops her head in.
“Yo, don’t you have your drivers meeting?”
“On it,” Paige assures her. “Leaving in two minutes.”
“Yeah, that’s when the meeting starts.”
So she runs down the paddock and ends up catching Kate. The Haas garage is all the way at the end because they were the worst team last season, though with Kate and Veronica on board now they’re steadily making gains. But it means that Kate and Veronica are either late or leaving for any obligations earlier than anyone else would.
“Cathy’s on one this week,” Kate warns as they take the stairs to the admin offices at the circuit.
“Just my fucking luck,” Paige grumbles.
And sure enough, the meeting has already started and Cathy glares at them as they walk in.
“I’m so sorry we’re taking valuable time from your day,” she calls to them as they take their seats. “But please do try to be on time.”
“Sorry,” Paige tips her head in deference. Mock apologies have gotten her through worse than this.
She slips into the seat in front of Soni and turns around to shoot her a dirty look.
“I told you I was leaving and you said ‘gotta merc this kid first’,” Soni reminds her in a whisper, her face the picture of innocence. She had her hair done over break so it falls in long gorgeous waves and it’s given her a big head. Literally and figuratively.
“Blatantly untrue,” Paige accuses under her breath.
Soni kicks the bottom of Paige’s chair twice and Paige reaches back to slap her ankle. Except she misses and gets Cam “Daddy Long Legs” Brink instead, and the surprise of it makes Cameron accidentally knock over Aliyah’s water tumbler, which gets Marina’s backpack wet and that gets Marina yapping at Sophie with misappropriated blame — though nobody is going to correct her — and then, of course, Sabrina turns around to tell Sophie to shut the hell up.
Cathy continues to glare at Paige, as if any of it is Paige’s actual fault.
It is.
KMac sighs something about goddamn rookies and Veronica goes in on that with another I’m not a fucking rookie comment and the entire meeting gets derailed for a few minutes.
“Did all of you lose your brains over the summer break?” Cathy snaps.
Everyone blames Paige.
—--
Paige wakes up on Saturday to Soni letting herself into the motorhome and jumping on the bed. She’s gotten really fucking bold in their friendship; Paige misses when everyone thought she was a hotshot and didn’t have any friends.
“Why,” Paige groans.
“Guess what I heard,” Soni says, uncaring that she’s just woken Paige up with her bony fucking knees. She’s holding two iced coffees but Paige knows better than to assume one is for her.
“I don’t care.” But she rolls onto her back anyway. “What if I were naked.”
Soni’s eyes flick down, taking in Paige in her sports bra. “You kind of are naked.” She doesn’t sound impressed.
“I could be more naked. I could have had a girl in here. Or been getting myself right.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s a possibility. Far fetched, but possible.”
Paige throws one of the pillows at her. Soni ducks it without any effort.
“Marist isn’t making you come right,” Paige says, referencing Soni’s boyfriend. “You should still be in bed.”
“It’s like seven-fifteen,” Soni says. “And he’s not here this weekend, he’s back in season,” Soni reminds her. She frowns. “I think I need to order a new vibrator.”
“How did we get here,” Paige wonders, staring at the ceiling. But she pulls one of the remaining pillows behind her head to prop herself up just a little bit.
“I was at the coffee cart,” Soni says, “the good one.”
“Which one is the good one?”
“The one at the end of the paddock, down by Haas. So you have to really want the good coffee to walk all the way down there.
“Why would they put the good coffee all the way at the end?”
“To separate the espresso enthusiasts from the sad girls who need caramel in their caffeine to love themselves.”
Paige hasn’t even looked at her phone yet. She wonders if there’s an emergency, if there’s some new piece of news that’s hit the world before she even had the opportunity to open her eyes. That’s how it happened in Abu Dhabi. It’s made her a little jumpy every single race weekend since then.
So she looks at Soni with expectation, one knee pulled up to make herself more comfortable. She’s never had this kind of intimate early morning interaction with someone she’s not fucking, except maybe Nika. Soni’s literally in her bed.
“What’s up.”
“Sue Bird and Diana Taurasi had a fight.”
Paige stills. The pulse sounds extra loud in her ears, all of a sudden.
“Start at the beginning.”
“It happened at the paddock,” Soni says. “Late. After the driver's briefing. I heard Katie Lou and Tiffany Hayes talking about it. They didn’t see me though. Well, they did see me but I had my airpods in but I was only pretending to listen to music.”
Katie Lou is Sabrina’s Nika. Of course, nobody’s like Nika, but Katie Lou fulfills the same role and does the comms for Sabrina during a race. She did it for the driver before Sabrina, too. And Tiffany Hayes is an engineer in the Mercedes garage. She’s a little nuts, though Paige tries not to think uncharitably about her. Unique is the world Azzi always used.
Unhinged is what Paige would have gone with.
“Like fight-fight or their usual weirdo rich person banter.”
“Fight-fight,” Soni confirms. “Like bad enough that apparently Sue left the paddock and didn’t go to the Mercedes sponsor dinner last night. That’s how pissed she was.”
“They get along really well,” Paige says, confused. Because it’s true; Sue and Diana have always been friends. They’re competitors, sure, but they have an undercurrent of friendly banter. They’ve vacationed a few times in St. Tropez together, with their families. They’re such good friends, in fact, that when Paige got face to face with Sue after declining the Mercedes F1 offer, Sue had just laughed and said to go see DT, she’s expecting you.
“Yeah, well, they didn’t get along last night. Apparently voices were raised. It was about Azzi.”
Paige’s blood freezes.
“Nobody knows what about Azzi, though,” Soni adds, sensing that Paige has been lost to the swell of her emotions. “It seems like everything was mostly fine during the day – they would have both been in the Executive Sports Briefing yesterday morning. But then I don’t know. Something happened last night.”
“Azzi’s a big bargaining chip for Diana,” Paige says. She doesn’t get nervous on track, and she doesn’t let people bully her or bait her off the tar, but she also doesn’t fuck around with people talking about Azzi.
“Yeah. Her biggest bargaining chip, probably,” Soni agrees. “Also, rumors are everywhere that Sophie’s losing the seat at Red Bull too,” she adds, “but who gives a fuck about that. I’ll throw a party. I bet everyone would chip in. Cam says that Jewell makes really good guacamole.”
If there’s one single, solitary thing that Paige hates more than Azzi coming to Lamborghini and ruining all their plans for a happy life, it’s that by doing so she’s put herself squarely in the crosshairs of a pissing match between team principals. Which is a dangerous place to be. Especially for someone like Azzi, who’s never been adept at or interested in playing political games.
“How sure are you?”
Soni hesitates. “I went to Sabrina,” she admits. “Because I wanted to know. And she wouldn’t say anything. Which kinda says to me…”
“That it’s definitely the truth,” Paige finishes for her, and Soni nods.
“And Sabrina was pissed,” Soni tells her, voice lowering a little bit even though they’re the only two people in the motor home, given that she’s perched in Paige’s bed and Paige is only wearing boxers and a sports bra. “Like so fucking furious, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her that angry.”
“Azzi spent her break with Sabrina,” Paige blurts, because keeping it in doesn’t feel like it’s possible.
There’s part of her that feels badly — she hasn’t even had this conversation with Nika, with her Twin — but it’s not like Paige found out through any secret channels. It was on an Instragram carousel, for fucks sake.
“Or part of her break,” she allows. “I don’t know the details.”
Soni narrows her eyes. “They friends like that? I hadn’t realized.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it.
“No. They aren’t. They weren’t.”
Maybe they’re best friends now. Maybe Azzi left Mercedes so she could be with Sabrina because they were secretly in love and spent all that time pining for each other under Paige’s nose. Maybe the sky is neon green and Haas will win the championship this year.
Too bad Paige has never met another human as heterosexual as Sabrina Ionescu. The love triangle idea would have legs if not for that.
“Get up,” Soni directs. She hands Paige the second iced coffee and stands up. “We have strat in forty-five and you can grow some ovaries and ask Azzi what the fuck is going on.”
She’s so mean, Paige is such a saint for putting up with such treatment. First from the girls in the garage — including Nika — and now from Soni.
“I don’t even like coffee,” Paige reminds her, as she does often.
“I know,” Soni says, soothingly. “I’m trying to help you become a better person.”
—--
The garage is already bustling when Paige and Soni enter from the paddock. Engineers and engineering assistants are scurrying around, clipboards and headsets and tablets abound. She and Soni split up — Paige grabs their tablets and Soni goes for the updated logistics binders — and they both walk into the conference room with their haul, exchanging a binder for a tablet.
Azzi is already seated, talking quietly with Caroline and Dorka, but she glances up as Paige and Soni walk in, sliding an agenda across the table silently.
She looks…fine. Not at ease, because it’s a race weekend and Paige can’t imagine a world where Azzi has any kind of happy-go-lucky attitude when they have to compete, but she certainly doesn’t look twisted into knots or like she’s got any additional worries than normal. Maybe she did see Gabby over the break. Gabby always had a way of re-centering Azzi.
“We waiting for Diana?” Soni asks it nonchalantly, as it becomes apparent that the rest of the engineers are gathered.
“No, she’s caught in meetings,” Dorka says, casual as can be. Like it’s a normal occurrence for Diana to miss the Saturday morning strategy session. “Alright, people, let’s get started. We’re running different strategies for FP3 this morning. Caroline, then Azzi. And then Azurá has some updates from the factory team.”
The strategy for Free Practice 3 isn’t all that interesting; go fast, check the fuel load on turns, figure out how the car can do in dirty air when people are going a little faster. Paige listens well and writes down anything that feels of high importance, but mostly she just lets the information wash over her.
“Paige, any discomfort yet? If we need to do any kind of padding again we absolutely can.”
She looks up at Dorka’s question. “No. No discomfort.”
“You sure?” Dorka’s asking like she’s checking boxes off; beside her, Azzi looks amused. She knows the truth.
“Yup.”
“Alright, keep us in the loop on this,” Dorka says. “We want to make sure we aren’t sending you into a relapse on anything.”
“Paige would rather have her rib amputated than have padding in the seat again,” Soni says, unhelpfully.
“We’ll keep that in mind for Suzuka,” Dorka mutters. Paige makes a mental note that Dorka will not be an ally when the time comes. From the way Azzi’s looking down at her notepad and smiling to herself, she’s clearly clocked the same thing as well, only the opposite.
“What’s the differential in dirty air on tyres?” Paige hasn’t seen any data that has given such indications and she’s been looking through the binder readouts since the meeting started.
“We won’t have that until after qualifying,” Dorka says, and she holds a hand up as both Paige and Soni begin to complain. “One of the sensors was malfunctioning yesterday so that’s why it’s not included in your data readouts. I cannot measure the difference myself with a thermometer so this is where we are. If you have additional concerns, I suggest you take them up with Diana yourselves during your one-on-ones.”
Soni looks genuinely annoyed, and Paige feels similarly. “So what’s the plan to mitigate during qualifying without the data?”
Dorka looks up, her eyebrow arched. “I guess you’ll just have to drive fast. Okay. That’s all for today.”
“I’ll… talk to Georgia,” Soni says very quietly as she and Paige gather their things. “She always has an ear to the ground.”
“If she comes to me I reserve the right to put her in a headlock,” Paige warns Soni.
The two of them don’t have much time to linger; they’re sent to get ready for FP3. Paige stretches first, by herself, and then again with DiJonai to incorporate resistance. They talk casually about recovery and what Paige needs to do at night to prepare, but all in all she feels pretty good.
“How’s your rib today?”
Paige isn’t impressed. “Was there a meeting? Everyone seems to be wondering.”
DiJonai shrugs. “Might be that people are worried about you because they, you know, care? Or they could be protecting their millions of dollars in investments.”
“So what am I to you, then,” Paige asks. “An investment?”
“You’re a pain in my ass,” DiJonai responds, ever sweet.
But after she gets Paige stretched and into the race suit she takes the water bottle and goes to fill it with some ice water, telling Paige they’ll meet up in the garage.
It leaves Paige alone in the hallway for a brief moment, until Azzi comes around the corner. Also by herself.
Paige is blessed by God herself. Absolutely favored.
“KK and Jana are deciding how to split some kind of prize pot and figuring out what they want to spend the money on,” Azzi says, her voice airy as she tosses the information at Paige like it’s a grenade and she wants to see how Paige’s body will react.
“Damn they’re bold,” Paige mutters. “How are the youth so confident?”
“KK’s your age,” Azzi reminds her.
“My confidence comes from my abilities on the track. KK’s comes from being born of pure chaos.”
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to tell me what this is about? I know you’re involved. They’re obviously involved — I’m sure they’re the origin point, actually. You know I’m going to find out anyway, probably.”
It’s not a long hallway, so they’ve realistically only got another ten seconds until they’re in the garage. The cacophony is already starting to permeate.
Paige just shrugs. “Eh. Chances are high you get distracted by a data sequencing model,” she says. And it’s meant as a cute little line but it’s also ninety-nine percent accurate, which is higher than the data sequencing models allege to be.
“I’m laser focused on this,” Azzi warns her.
“Better not let Diana find that out.” They’re engaging in what Paige might call banter, if she were to put a name to it, and the ease of slipping into old patterns feels so comfortable.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” Azzi sounds surprised. Like she does assume — correctly, probably — that she could get Paige to tell her anything.
“Ask KK and Jana,” Paige says with a smile.
She almost pushes to ask if Azzi knows what Diana and Sue were fighting about, but Azzi’s smiling and the moment feels too nice to ruin.
Because she looks so, so beautiful, in the morning light. Her curls are freshly washed and they’re springy, not frizzy, even though they’re pulled into a high topknot. Her Jordan’s are, as always, on her feet — it’s qualifying day, after all — and she’s in the three-quarter length leggings which show the curve of her calves. She missed a spot shaving on her shin, and the short hairs there catch the light in the rare sunspot that’s above them. It’s perpetually grey in the Netherlands, so Paige doesn’t know why the Dutch included skylights in their hallways around the racetrack paddock.
Paige lets herself imagine for one quick moment, what Azzi would look like in the mysterious purple dress. The shape wasn’t visible on the hanger, but it was long and slinky. Probably didn’t have back; Paige would take a lot of pleasure in kissing down Azzi’s spine.
“You like the Lamborghini girls,” Azzi says, her voice fond; it’s not an accusation but it falls somewhere past the vicinity of an observation.
“I like that they drive you crazy,” Paige says honestly, allowing the grin to take over her whole face. They must look like loons, smiling at each other as they walk into the garage.
Past Azzi, Paige can see Diana standing on the pit wall talking with Nika and Georgia, as well as a few other engineers.
“Have a good FP3,” Azzi says, leaving Paige by the door.
“You too,” Paige says, too quiet for Azzi to hear as she walks away.
—--
There are no revelations that come out about the fight between Diana and Sue or anything regarding Azzi. Soni comes up with a blank and Georgia isn’t able to pick up any gossip on the paddock — which means it really is kind of a secret. Azzi’s demeanor doesn’t change at all. In fact, she’s so pleased with Paige’s runs in FP3 that Azzi begins the debrief with a smile.
Heaven.
Diana is somewhat scarce but that isn’t all that uncommon; team principals have a lot of fucking bullshit to deal with. So Paige bides her time and makes it through the rest of the morning. She tells DiJonai to let her know if there’s any weird chatter about the paddock and she tells Nika what happened in between bites of bitterballen that she takes from the hospitality suite and eats quickly so DiJonai doesn’t see.
DiJonai does see and she promises Paige retribution in Monaco after the race. Whatever. Paige will sweat off the calories in the car on Sunday.
The main meeting space is full of people coming and going when Paige wanders by an hour after qualifying. She’s still in her overalls, though they’re unzipped to the waist, a Nike branded towel slung across her neck to help collect the sweat and the Lamborghini hat on backwards.
“Good job,” Diana says as she walks down the hall. She’s wearing boots with heels and it gives her a few inches on Paige, which feels disconcerting. “P2 is better than we were hoping for this weekend.”
“Thanks,” Paige says, but she’s half distracted by the tablet in her hand. “The upgrades McLaren’s bringing are going to make it difficult out there.” She tips the screen to show the comparison graphs to Diana.
“Do what you can do,” Diana shrugs. “We’re bringing a bigger aero tweak to Monza next week, we’ll close whatever gap opens up there.”
“Monza?” Paige raises her eyebrows. Given everything, she assumed any big changes would wait for North and South America.
It’s the first moment they’ve had alone since the dinner. The one-on-one that she usually has with Diana prior to qualifying got kicked because of a tyre pressure issue on Soni’s car, so it wasn’t the usual afternoon of saying how she feels or where her head is.
If Diana’s feeling agitated, or if she has any lingering frustration after the fight, Paige can’t read it on her. She seems a little tighter than usual, maybe, but nothing that someone would be able to pick up on if they weren’t looking for it. Like Paige is looking for it.
“We’re leading the Constructors’ Championship, Paige. I’m not looking to bring home second place this year. We’ll bring upgrades to keep ourselves ahead.”
“I’m feeling good about tomorrow,” Paige says. “I know this isn’t our strong circuit, but I’m ready to work.”
Diana nods, curtly. And then she’s off, leaving Paige in a cloud of money and the lingering scent of a power war.
—--
“Maybe they fought about the pipeline,” Nika suggests that night, when they’re gathered for dinner with the other girls.
Paige doesn’t love Azzi or what happened being the topics of conversation, but she’s quickly learned that nothing can keep Soni or Nika from hashing everything out like a scripted procedural show.
“Diana doesn’t care about the pipeline,” Georgia disagrees. “FIA haven’t even granted Lamborghini an F2 team. What could they be arguing about with that?”
They’re seated at the picnic table set up between Soni and Paige’s motorhomes. With the sun about to set, the temperature has come down a little; it’s pleasant enough to sit outside and enjoy the evening.
“It wasn’t about the pipeline,” Paige says. “Georgia’s right, Diana doesn’t give a shit about F2. Not until the this team has won.”
“And we will win,” Soni says. She and Paige tip the tops of their waterbottles toward each other. Nika and Georgia roll their eyes in unison.
“Spirito Toro blah blah blah,” Nika sighs. “This is a mystery and I want to know the answer.”
“What could they be fighting about yesterday,” Paige wonders aloud, though her voice is so low it’s really just muttering to herself. “Like, this weekend of all times.”
“First weekend back from break,” Soni supplies.
“If something came up in the Team Execs meeting why would they have fought at night about it?”
Georgia’s not wrong. The timing is odd. Paige frowns.
There are a thousand things that could have happened. Paige isn’t self-centered enough to think that she and Azzi dominate Diana or Sue’s thoughts at all moments of the day; both of them are trying to win, trying to lead teams to win a championship where millions of dollars are on the line.
But to fight over Azzi. Yesterday. Today. That’s the wrench in the plan.
“And we don’t feel like we can just ask Azzi about it,” Georgia adds, a statement more than a question.
Paige shakes her head. Sharp. Deliberate.
“No. Things are…” she bows her head, rubs at the back of her neck. “Things are…good this weekend. With us. Between us.”
She doesn’t say anything about the audio notes, because that feels incredibly private. All of it feels private, really. Paige would have preferred to suffer in silence about all of it, to keep herself hardened to the outside world.
But Georgia looks earnest. And Soni looks emotional. And Nika looks like she always does, but Nika doesn’t wear her emotions on her face.
They care. And that matters to Paige.
“I don’t want to rock the boat with Azzi,” she adds. “And we’re not gonna solve this, so let’s move on.”
All of them nod, and Georgia immediately perks up. “I know it’s bad karma, you don’t need to tell me, but I’m bloody thrilled with all these rumors about Sophie.”
Soni snorts. “God it would be great to not have to deal with her bullshit.”
The conversation devolves from there, as everyone rushes in to give their two cents. And there’s a lot to talk about because it’s the topic of the weekend; Red Bull has been meeting with young drivers and all the chatter on the internet is about Sophie fighting for her seat.
Paige has no opinion on the matter. Even though everyone is entitled to their own unique personal opinion.
—--
Race days are serious.
It’s not rainy but it’s grey; Paige checks the weather that was updated in the internal app, relieved that there’s such a low chance of rain. She slips out of bed, yawning as she stretches. She has her routine, the things that she needs to do to feel prepared.
And Paige wants to win. She always wants to win.
She wakes differently than she did yesterday. Yesterday brought thoughts and concerns. Revelations that answered nothing and created more questions.
That’s not today.
She’s methodical in her preparation, as she always is.
She takes out the diamond studs in her ears, attaching the backs to the post. They’re simple, the kind of jewelry that Paige can wear all the time - a gift from Azzi when she won her first F2 championship. She places them in their own little pocket of her jewelry case, next to the gold ring from Nika – their first championship together, back in F3 — and across from the other two pieces; an antique sapphire ring with gold detailing and a delicate little charm bracelet.
Paige showers, brushing and pulling her hair into a braid, and pulls on her clothing the same way. She doesn’t put lotion on her face because it’ll sweat out in the car and drip into her eyes, but she does smear chapstick across her lips and take a moment to meditate.
It’s not superstition, it’s habit. It’s hard work put into practice. It’s just how she does it.
By the time DiJonai knocks on the door, Paige feels well settled. She’s got a good read of the car this weekend, she’s feeling comfortable. The strategy sessions have gone well, implementation has been successful. Zandvoort might not be the circuit most aligned with Lamborghini’s car model, but they’ve had good pace. Good enough pace that Paige qualified P2. It’s not pole position, but it’s second on a weekend nobody thought would be as much of a success.
“You ready?”
DiJonai looks similarly focused. She’s suited up in the Lamborghini polo, a pair of aviators atop her head as she focuses on making sure Paige’s hydration bottle is prepared.
“I’m ready.”
—--
But it’s not all serious, it’s not every moment that needs to be. Paige brings pastries for the engineering girls —- arranged by the hospitality suite — but it’s a radical enough act to inspire adoration.
“Damn. You really gotta death wish,” Jana says, chewing a cherry danish. “Eating so close to the garage.”
“If Azurá catches us, I’m a hundred percent throwing you under the bus,” Kelis says, her eyes wide. She reaches in for a blueberry scone.
“Chill. Azurá loves Paige,” Nika lies. She’s got her little espresso cup, content with a liquid breakfast. She probably already ate a tree’s worth of bananas; Nika will tell anyone who’ll listen that Potassium is the secret to health.
“I’ll take the heat,” Paige promises. She arches an eyebrow at KK, a come hither glance that would make lesser lesbians pant.
“I don’t want your suck-up pastries,” KK says with a scoff. “You’re in this.”
“I got no second intentions,” Paige promises, a snake smile on her face. “I always pay my bets. And my debts. But I’m not going to need it.”
Kelis looks back and forth between them, eyes the size of saucers. She was an intern last year; the same kind of fellowship that Azzi had at Mercedes back in the day. Apparently Azzi took a liking to her and plucked her from the program, re-mapping Kelis’ entire career path with what probably amounted to barely more than an email.
“I can’t be here,” Kelis announces. “I can’t lie for shit, and Azzi’s digging around.”
She goes off, comes back, takes the pistachio donut, then re-exits.
“It’s cool that she’s in love with Azzi and not you,” Jana comments. She’s unashamedly drinking a Monster to wash down the danish.
“Chill, she’s sweet,” Paige says. “And everyone should be in love with Azzi,” she admits with a smile.
“You really are the most lovesick idiot in the world,” Jana says, aghast. “I can’t believe I thought you were cool.”
Paige laughs though the spike of discomfort. “I am cool. I’m just also this, I guess,” she says honestly. “It’s a dichotomy. I got layers.”
“A regular onion,” Nika mutters.
They talk for a bit since Paige doesn’t have obligations for another ten minutes, but they’re interrupted by — surprise, surprise — Azzi walking by.
“What is that smell it’s like sugar — Jana!”
Azzi’s face is aghast. She groans and closes her eyes, like that’s going to erase the picture right in front of her.
Jana holds her hands up, the shoulders of her polo stiff as she does. “Yo, it was Paige.”
Fucking traitor. She’s got cherry jelly all over her thumb.
“Raspberry tartlet?” Paige offers the platter to Azzi with the sweetest smile she can manage.
“There is a ten million dollar car beyond that wall,” Azzi lectures them. “A crumb could cause catastrophic damage to the engine and more importantly, Azurá would kill you. And then me. And then you again.”
But Azzi smiles as she takes the proffered cookie. Paige asked the kitchen to make them specially. She didn’t mention to them that Mercedes used to have them in rotation.
“I’m not going to save your asses if you’re caught,” Azzi says. She surveys the group of them with suspicion, clearly thinking about the bet that she “doesn’t know about” and nobody will cop to. She narrows her eyes in concentration, sweeping over each of them for a second. When she can’t locate a weak link, she harrumphs and wanders off.
Jana sighs. She glances at Paige and a wicked smile curls across her lips.
“I guess it’s nice to know that Azzi’s scared of someone too. You aren’t alone, Paige.”
“Bro, it’s raceday. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to treat me with respect.”
“Being aggressively right with your elders is showing respect.”
Paige is going to enjoy taking five hundred euros from these two. She’s absolutely going to collect on it. And she’ll do something like host a happy hour for everyone but the two of them.
—--
She obviously loses the bet.
The race goes about as well as any of them could have hoped. Good start, good pace, good pit stops.
But it’s hard. It’s really hard.
Paige is slipping all over the place in the dirty air. Keeping the racing line means she’s doing her absolute best to control the tires, and it’s a slog. She doesn’t have the brainpower to divert to thinking about the bet, but its presence is there, in the back of her mind. Thrumming under her skin.
She can move off the racing line and it’ll earn her a little bit of a breather on the turns. She’ll lose an iota of pace and it wouldn’t make a difference in the long run, probably. But she doesn’t. She can’t bring herself to do it.
In an easy moment — because eventually Caitlin gets a good enough lead and Paige is ordered to let her go, thereby clearing the air — she wonders what other drivers would do in the same situation. Not the bet, not the situation of gambling for Paige’s dignity, but generally.
Sabrina would do precisely what she wanted. She would make the decision look like something she was committed to, it wouldn’t be a mumbled apology. I’m focused on keeping position, she’d say. Not on losing two tenths. We can discuss in debrief.
And it’s not just because she’s a veteran, a world champion. That’s the easy out, the obvious give.
Because Soni would say no as well, Paige thinks. She’d say it sweetly and she’d be a little apologetic, but she’d do it. I’m struggling with grip. I’m moving the racing line for a few laps. Help me manage pace between turns.
But everyone knows Azzi wouldn’t like that. Would never give up two tenths just to make things a little easier. The racing line is the racing line.
What people don’t know but Paige does, is that Azzi privately thinks holding the racing line is really the mark of how good a driver is. If you can hold it, if you can streamline your race and make your time spikes as consistent as possible, she’s got just a little more respect.
It’s worked into the strategy as efficiency, officially, but Paige knows it’s more than just doing things by the book. More than about following the map.
And she can’t move off the racing line.
Paige started second and she ends P2, because even though McLaren have pace, they fuck up Marina’s pit stop and didn’t have good qualifying laps. Caitlin takes P1, which means the gap between them widens to fourteen points. Thankfully, Soni breezes through in P3, and Sophie ends just outside the top ten, which means she doesn’t take any points home for Red Bull. The chatter about her seat will only increase over the next week.
Paige and Soni stand nicely for the anthem, then douse each other in champagne. She shakes it out of her hair like a wet dog, her skin already sticky. On top for the day, Caitlin is all robotic smiles, and the Red Bull team celebrates below — but P1 when your second driver doesn’t even make the points isn’t enough of a boost for your team. Red Bull adds twenty-five points to their standing in the Constructors’ Championship, but Lamborghini adds thirty-three, keeping them in first place and widening the gap with McLaren.
After the ceremony, after press and a quick shower and sponsor obligations, Paige pops into the engineering debrief.
“Tyres were shit,” she says, and Jana raises her eyebrows in satisfaction. They fistbump in silence. “I lost traction on the front left too quickly.”
“Same for me,” Soni chimes. “But without dirty air I had a much easier time in Sector 2.”
“I really couldn’t say,” Paige laughs. It’s not dry or sarcastic, but it’s an acknowledgement. “Dirty air made it hard to combat understeer.”
There’s a brief moment that KK’s eyes flick up and meet Paige’s across the table. Jana very specifically doesn’t look up from her lap output chart.
They all know what happened. Paige had the opportunity to evade dirty air by sliding off the racing line and she didn’t take it. And at least five people sitting at the table know why.
—--
The masseuse is finishing up when Nika pops in. She’s being flown to Sant'Agata tonight so she can be at the factory bright and early tomorrow; with no week off between races, there’s no time to be wasted.
“Feeling okay? Rough ride out there.”
Paige shrugs. “Tired,” she admits. “Coming back from vacation, I guess.”
Nika snorts. “It’s not an office job.”
“Nah, it’s way better,” Paige agrees.
The best thing about Nika is she always knows what Paige needs. She doesn’t give platitudes or try to hype Paige up. The events of the day, of the weekend, they’re seeping into Paige’s bones. She’s got to wake up with them tomorrow, crystalized into the marrow of her bones. Heavy.
“You drove a good race,” Nika says. “A lot of things went well this weekend.”
“I know. Thanks.” Paige reaches for the fist bump and Nika doesn’t leave her hanging. “Safe flight,” Paige says, because that’s what they started saying early in their time together and it became their thing.
“You too. Heading with Caitlin?”
“Nah, catching with Phee tonight.”
And then Nika’s gone and Paige is left to her own devices. She packs her bag, her movements slow. The private airstrips get busy, this time of night. All the money leaves right after the race, if they aren’t staying for celebration. For P2 and P3 Lamborghini isn’t throwing any kind of rager, so Paige is still heading out tonight but has to wait; Phee says they got bumped down the airfield queue.
Paige has almost forty-five minutes to kill before she and Phee are scheduled for their car to the airstrip, and she opts to kill the time outside.
She does the conversion on 500 euro to dollars — Jana’s right, the dollar fucking sucks, capitalist pigs ruling the world — and then sends the money via Venmo. They’re going to America soon anyway, might as well start thinking in USD.
It’s a strange feeling of personal failure, because she knows all she had to do was move off the racing line. She just chose not to. Because she hated the idea of disappointing Azzi, of going against what she’d want her to do just on principle.
It makes her feel more pathetic than she’s been in a few days.
It’s dusk out, which is nice. Paige pops her headphones in and picks a post-race playlist she curated specifically for this kind of mood. Where not winning the race still means winning the day; an uneasy sort of success. Music helps a little, and she wanders about with medium pace, not making eye contact with anyone she passes, or lingering to chat.
Mac Miller features heavily; enough pep and beat to feel like celebration but not enough hype to feel like a winner. Paige skips some songs and repeats others, curating the music to match her mood, working to adjust her mood to match the music.
She rounds the corner to the pick-up lot and sees Azzi sitting on a bench, one knee hiked up. She’s got a duffle bag at her foot, a backpack at her side, and a cigarette dangling between her fingers, her phone lit up as she tries to type with just the thumb on her other hand.
“Hey.”
Azzi looks over, surprised. She’s still wearing the polo and her leggings. She hasn’t showered or shed her skin the way Paige has. She doesn’t look comfortable. Certainly not cozy.
There are people around them, waiting a few feet away here and there, talking in small groups or on their phones as they wait for the team-organized rideshares. Paige nods at a few of them, but she takes the few extra steps to get nearer to Azzi, to sit on the bench beside her.
Watching Azzi take a drag isn’t nice. She holds the cigarette to the side with the hand farthest from Paige, like maybe removing it from Paige’s line of sight will have an impact on how she reacts.
Paige closes her eyes and breathes out the urge to ask why and say please stop. She feels annoyed for a half second, that Azzi spent so many years smoking joints and that stupid bowl that she named Bilbo Baggins because she always loved The Hobbit and she thought the pun was funny. Maybe if she hadn’t been such a pothead switching to cigarettes wouldn’t have been easy. Paige glances over, sees Azzi scratching at the knee of the nylon-spandex blend of her leggings. Azzi doesn’t look over.
So it’s out there; Paige sighs.
“Who told you?”
“Kelis, obviously.”
Paige chuckles. “You’re abusing her crush on you.”
She gives Paige a side look, her eyes probing. Bracing for impact, probably.
Because they both know Paige hates losing. But Paige has made and broken promises to herself too many times in the last year to fail at another round of self improvement. She just sighs, long and deep, and kicks her foot against the one Azzi has on the ground.
“It’s okay.” Paige rolls her neck. “I’m okay.”
“It was an easy bet,” Azzi says, like she can’t help herself.
“Yeah,” she shrugs, unapologetic. “I shouldn’t have made it.”
“You’re not scared of me.” There’s surety in Azzi’s voice. She’s not looking for answers, or probing on assumptions.
“No,” Paige responds quietly. She links her fingers together, rests them across her stomach. Tries to form her lips into a smile. “But maybe I should be.”
Maybe it would be easier, she means.
Azzi ignores the personal flotation device that Paige has thrown.
“You know I think posturing and the showmanship of drivers is asinine,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And I know there’s a whole part to what you do that I don’t have insight into. Because I don’t care,” she adds, like she wants to be especially clear about that.
Paige snorts. “Yeah, I know.”
Azzi’s never given a shit about the personas the drivers adopt, about the way they all have to be top dog and flaunt their power and ability.
And Paige wishes it were just a front, just something she needed to do to save face. But she’s part driver; it’s a concrete section of who she is. Right next to the need for speed, the craving to be a winner at all costs. Losing has never been easy to take. Losing by choice makes it all the worse.
“But I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t think less of you. We’d hardly lose more than a few tenths and you’d have had traction, if you’d just told me about this stupid bet I’d have told you to do what you needed to do to win it—”
“Azzi,” Paige cuts her off. She looks over, waits for the beat it takes Azzi to meet her gaze. “I’m a big girl. I made my decisions.”
It feels like the moment elongates as the words settle between them; it’s not rushed, not the frenzied pace that everything else is during a race weekend. The air is rich with implication, with history, with all that happened before. Azzi doesn’t ask why Paige made the decisions she did.
“You drove really well today,” is what Azzi says, finally. She takes another drag of the cigarette.
Paige wants to ask if the cigarettes are an all the time thing. If Azzi lets herself have one a day, or if it’s more; is it a pack every few days? Every day? She doesn’t ask, though, because if the answer isn’t one that feels palatable then it’ll make it harder to stick to her intentions.
“Thank you.” The moment feels like it's too full, and Paige doesn’t want to end on any kind of note that feels unfinished, so she nods her head toward one of the sprinter vans that pulls into the roundabout; there’s a sign in the window that says ALPINE. “You waiting on a team ride?”
Azzi shakes her head. “I’m flying with Diana. We have a call with the factory team about the upgrades they’re bringing next weekend.”
Does Azzi know what the fight was about, between Diana and Sue? Does Azzi even know about the fight? Two questions on the tip of her tongue and a hundred more tucked into the recesses of her mouth, the base of her brain, the dip of her spine. Paige wants to know all of it and she wants it now.
Will they talk about more than the upgrades coming to the car on the plane ride? There’s a lot that brims between them, between Azzi and Diana; just because Paige doesn’t know the depth of it all doesn’t make it a secret.
Just makes it none of her business.
It takes everything that she has in her to stand up, to introduce space between them. All she wants is to sit next to Azzi, to curl into her. Azzi used to debrief with her after every race; she’d get the data readouts from Stef in F3, and then from Stewie when Paige moved up to F2. Azzi would sit with Paige on the plane ride back or at night on the Monday after a race and go over everything together. It became Paige’s favorite way to wind down from a race weekend.
She can’t believe she ever took Azzi’s time for granted.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says. One step. Two.
“I’ll see you in Monza,” Azzi replies, in lieu of saying goodbye.
The days after the alliance in the cafe settled into a tense, watchful calm. Paige and Nika moved through their routines with a new, shared awareness, a silent communication passing between them across the yard and in the chow hall. KK, however, was a ghost. She and her crew kept their distance, their smug smiles replaced by sullen, watchful glares. It was the quiet before the storm, and Paige could feel the electricity in the air, a low-grade hum of impending violence.
The storm broke during afternoon work detail. A section of the prison's old laundry room needed to be reorganized, a tedious, mind-numbing task of sorting and stacking musty linens. It was a perfect place for an ambush. The room was large, cluttered with industrial-sized washers and dryers that rumbled and clanked, providing a constant cover of noise. Shelves towered to the ceiling, creating narrow, maze-like aisles and blind corners. It was a chaos generator, and KK knew it.
Paige was working with Nika and Aaliyah, their movements efficient as they folded sheets from a large cart. Sarah was there too, relegated to light duty, folding small towels on a low table, her bandaged hands moving slowly but deliberately. They were talking, their guard down for just a second, when the power to the entire wing cut out. The room was plunged into sudden, thick darkness, the rumbling of the machines dying into a deafening silence.
"Stay put," Nika's voice cut through the dark, sharp and commanding.
But it was too late. The emergency lights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows, and the room was no longer empty. KK and her crew had emerged from the aisles, blocking the exit. They weren't holding dumbbells this time. They were armed with metal pipes from a maintenance cart, their faces grim and determined. This wasn't a collection mission; it was a hit.
"Surprise, bitch," KK sneered, her eyes locked on Paige. "Thought you and your new friends could just take over? This is my prison."
Paige's heart hammered in her chest, but her face was a mask of cold fury. She grabbed a heavy metal laundry basket, holding it like a shield. Nika and Aaliyah immediately back-to-back with her, forming a triangle of defense.
"You're making a big mistake, KK," Nika warned, her voice low and dangerous.
"The only mistake I made was not doing this sooner," KK snarled, and with a flick of her wrist, her crew attacked.
It was chaos. The narrow aisles made it impossible to fight as a group. Aaliyah was a whirlwind, taking down two of KK's crew with brutal efficiency, but she was forced back into a corner, her movements restricted by the shelving. Nika was a blur of calculated strikes, but she was outnumbered, two of KK's girls working together to drive her back towards the humming dryers.
Paige was face-to-face with KK, the metal pipes clanging as they parried and struck. KK was strong, fueled by a jealous rage, and she was fighting dirty. She landed a glancing blow off Paige's shoulder, sending a jolt of pain down her arm. Paige stumbled back, and KK saw her opening. She lunged, her pipe raised for a final, devastating blow.
But Paige wasn't alone. Sarah, seeing Paige in trouble, launched herself from her chair, grabbing a heavy bag of detergent and swinging it with all her might. It caught KK in the side of the head, sending her stumbling. It was a desperate, brave move, but it left Sarah vulnerable. One of KK's crew, seeing an easy target, turned and lunged at her, grabbing her by her injured hands.
Sarah screamed, a raw, agonized cry of pain that cut through the clang of the fight.
"Sarah!" Paige roared, a white-hot rage flooding her senses. She forgot about KK, forgot about the fight, her only thought getting to Sarah. She moved to lunge forward, but the other two were on her, grabbing her arms, pinning her against a machine. She was trapped. She watched in horror as the girl advanced on Sarah, who was writhing on the floor, clutching her hands.
Suddenly, the main door to the laundry room slammed open. Dr. Fudd stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock at the scene before her. She wasn't supposed to be here, but a guard had mentioned the work detail, and something, a gut feeling she couldn't explain, had drawn her to check on it.
"Stop!" she yelled, her voice ringing with an authority that surprised even herself. "Guards! This is a direct order! Stand down!"
For a moment, no one moved. They were all frozen in a tableau of violence, the doctor in her crisp office clothes an impossible apparition in the grimy, chaotic world of the laundry room.
KK, seeing her chance to escape, didn't hesitate. "Let's go!" she screamed, and she and her crew scrambled, dropping their pipes and fleeing through a side door, disappearing into the shadows of the prison.
The room was suddenly, eerily quiet, the only sound Sarah's pained sobs. Paige broke free from the loosened grip of her attackers, rushing to Sarah's side and gently taking her into her arms. "I got you, Rah," she whispered, her voice thick with a fury so cold it was almost calm. "I got you."
Dr. Fudd ran over, kneeling beside them. "Is she okay? What happened?"
Paige looked up, and her eyes were like ice. "They went after her hands," she said, her voice low and deadly. "They knew. They fucking knew."
Dr. Fudd looked from Sarah's bandaged, now-re-injured hands to the cold, hard fury in Paige's eyes. She saw the promise of retribution there, a vow that would not be broken. This wasn't about territory anymore. This wasn't about respect. This was personal. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this was just the beginning. Paige was going to burn this whole place down to get her revenge, and Dr. Fudd was the only one who might be able to stop her.
The pipes hit the floor before the guards did. The clang echoed against concrete and metal, sharp and accusing, a final, discordant note in a symphony of violence. KK and her crew had vanished through the side exit seconds earlier, swallowed by the maze of corridors just as the heavy boots of officers thundered down the hall, their shouts growing louder with each step.
"On the ground! Now!" The order came too late to matter, a hollow command in a room already stripped of its control.
Nika stood frozen near the dryers, her chest rising and falling in hard, sharp bursts, her eyes still hunting the shadows for an enemy that was already gone. Aaliyah leaned against a metal shelving unit, one hand pressed to her side, blood trickling from a split in her lip, a dark crimson stain against her skin. The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting the entire room in a sickly, pulsating amber glow that made the scene feel like something from a nightmare.
And on the floor, Sarah. Curled in on herself, a small, broken shape. The sound she was making wasn't screaming anymore. It was smaller than that. A ragged, hitching gasp that was somehow worse, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore through the heavy silence.
Paige dropped to her knees beside her before anyone could stop her, the concrete floor unforgiving through her thin pants. "I got you," she said, her voice low. Steady. Too steady. "I got you, Rah."
Sarah's hands were already swelling beneath the soaked gauze, the pristine white bandages torn and ragged where they'd been grabbed and twisted. A terrifying, angry red seeped through, staining the cotton, a vivid testament to the cruelty of the attack.
"They went for my hands," Sarah rasped, her voice a thin, reedy whisper of pain.
Paige's jaw tightened so hard a muscle jumped in her temple, a frantic, desperate pulse. "I know."
Dr. Fudd was beside them seconds later, her breath slightly uneven from the run down the hall, her professional composure a fragile shield against the raw brutality of the scene. She didn't look at Paige first. She looked at Sarah, her gaze softening with a clinical empathy. "Let me see," she said gently, her voice a balm in the harshness of the room.
Paige hesitated. Just a second. A flicker of territorial resistance, a primal instinct to protect what was hers. Then she shifted back, just enough, giving Azzi access to the damage.
Azzi peeled the gauze back carefully, her movements precise and practiced. The skin beneath was a mottled canvas of angry blisters and fresh abrasions, the old burns now inflamed and torn, a hundred times worse than before. Sarah sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, her body tensing against the renewed agony.
"We need medical," Azzi said immediately, her voice shedding its softness, becoming firm and commanding. "Now."
Two officers moved forward with a stretcher, the clatter of its metal legs a grating intrusion. One of them, a young officer with a face still rounding into manhood, put a firm hand on Paige's shoulder. "Back up."
Paige didn't move. She didn't even seem to hear him, her entire being focused on the wounded girl in front of her.
"Back up, Bueckers," the officer repeated, his voice tightening with impatience.
Paige's eyes lifted slowly, a deliberate, chilling motion. They weren't wild. They weren't frantic. They were cold. Empty. Like the surface of a frozen lake. "Take your hand off me," she said, her voice quiet, but it carried the weight of a threat that made the officer's own hand falter.
He hesitated, his training warring with a sudden, primal fear.
Azzi stood, placing herself between Paige and the officer. "It's fine," she said quietly, her tone a carefully measured calm. "Let her walk with her."
The officer looked between them, from the doctor's steady gaze to the terrifying stillness of the inmate before him.
Governor Daley's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. "What the hell happened in my laundry room?" She strode in, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete, each step a punctuation mark of her authority. Her eyes swept the damage, a quick, cataloguing assessment: pipes on the floor, blood on the concrete, scattered linens, inmates shaken but alive. Her gaze landed, inevitably, on Paige kneeling beside Sarah. Of course.
"Another day, another demonstration of your leadership, Bueckers," Daley said, her voice dripping with a cool, dismissive sarcasm.
Paige didn't look up. She didn't take the bait. Her focus was absolute.
"They cut the power," Nika said flatly from across the room, her voice a low growl. "It was premeditated."
Daley ignored her completely, her eyes still fixed on Paige. "Lock this wing down," she ordered, her voice ringing with power. "Full confinement. I want names. I want statements. And I want whoever planned this in isolation by nightfall."
Two officers carefully lifted Sarah onto the stretcher. She whimpered, a small, helpless sound of pain that she tried to swallow, her body rigid with the effort of not crying out.
Paige stood slowly, her movements fluid and coiled, like a predator preparing to strike. "I'm going with her."
"No, you're not," Daley replied immediately, her voice final.
Paige stepped forward anyway, a single, defiant step. An officer moved instantly to block her path, his body a wall of uniform and muscle. The hallway felt smaller suddenly. Tight. The air thick, charged with the unspoken violence.
Azzi watched the shift happen in Paige's body, the subtle but terrifying transformation: the coiling of her muscles, the shortening of her breath, the way her eyes seemed to darken, losing all light. It was the calm before the explosion.
"Governor," Azzi said, her voice even and clear, cutting through the tension. "She'll escalate if you separate them right now. Sarah needs her calm. This needs to be calm."
Daley's eyes flicked to her, annoyed at the challenge, at the interruption of her authority. "She doesn't dictate my procedure."
"No," Azzi agreed, holding the Governor's gaze without flinching. "But you do dictate outcomes. And the outcome you're heading towards is a violent incident in this hallway. Is that what you want?"
A beat. A tense, silent standoff. Daley studied Paige, who was standing unnaturally still now. No yelling. No threats. Just a chilling, focused calculation. That was worse. That was a promise.
"Two minutes," Daley snapped, her voice tight with reluctant concession. "Then she goes back to her unit. Lockdown."
Paige didn't thank her. She didn't even acknowledge the Governor. She simply stepped beside the stretcher, her presence a silent, protective shield, and walked with it down the long, sterile corridor. Azzi followed at a distance, a silent observer to the grim procession.
Halfway there, Sarah's hand, limp and swollen, slipped off the side of the stretcher, dangling precariously over the edge. Reflex. Instinct. Azzi moved first, reaching out to gently adjust it, to place it back on the stretcher's surface. Paige moved at the same time, her own hand coming up to perform the exact same act of care. Their hands almost collided over Sarah's wrist, a near miss in the cold, fluorescent light.
They both stopped. Paused. A breath suspended between them, a moment of shared, unspoken purpose in the midst of the chaos. Azzi pulled back first, a subtle withdrawal, re-establishing the professional boundary. Rule intact.
Paige noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked to Azzi's for just a second, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before she returned her gaze to Sarah.
They reached the medical wing. As the double doors swung open and officers guided the stretcher inside, Paige leaned down close to Sarah's ear, her lips just brushing the skin. "This isn't over," she whispered. Not loud. Not emotional. A promise. A vow.
Azzi heard it. She was close enough to catch the words, to feel the cold, absolute certainty in them. And for the first time since she arrived at Wentworth, she felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach, a dread that had nothing to do with the violence she had just witnessed. This wasn't a territory dispute anymore. This wasn't about respect or business. This was war.
In the stark, sterile brightness of the medical wing, Sarah lay under the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights, her jaw tight as the nurse carefully cut away what was left of her bandages with a pair of blunt-tipped scissors. The damage was worse this time. So much worse. Blisters had ruptured, weeping a clear, serous fluid. Skin was torn in places, revealing the raw, pink tissue beneath. An angry, mottled red swelling was spreading across both hands, crawling up her wrists like a malevolent vine.
"Possible nerve involvement," the nurse muttered to another staff member over her shoulder, her voice a low, professional murmur that was somehow more terrifying than a shout.
Paige stood against the far wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a posture of rigid self-control. If she moved, she might break something. Or someone. She could feel the rage thrumming under her skin, a hot, violent current threatening to burst its banks. She focused on the cracks in the ceiling, the pattern of the tiles, anything to keep from looking at Sarah's hands, at the evidence of her failure.
Azzi stood on the other side of the room, observing both of them. She saw Paige's rigid posture, the barely contained fury, and she saw Sarah's pale, strained face, the pain etched around her eyes. She was a mediator in a warzone, her own heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
"Will she regain full function?" Paige asked, her voice flat, devoid of any inflection, as if she were asking about the weather.
The nurse hesitated, her eyes flicking to Paige's imposing figure against the wall. "It's too early to say with certainty. We'll have to wait for the swelling to go down, see how the nerves respond."
That was not the answer Paige wanted. It wasn't a yes. It was a maybe. A maybe was a death sentence.
Sarah caught Paige's eye, her own gaze pleading. "Don't," she whispered, her voice thin and reedy.
Paige stepped closer, her movements stiff, unnatural. "Don't what?"
"Don't make this bigger," Sarah said, her voice stronger now, a desperate command. "This is what she wants. For you to lose control."
Paige's jaw flexed, a muscle jumping in her cheek. "They made it bigger when they touched you, Rah. They crossed the line."
"And you'll cross it right back if you're not careful," Sarah shot back, her voice gaining a sliver of its old fire. "This isn't just about you and me anymore, P. This is about all of us. About Nika, about Aaliyah. About the deal you made with that doctor."
Azzi stepped in gently, her voice a soft intervention in the rising tension. "Paige." Her voice wasn't commanding. It was grounding. An anchor in the storm.
Paige looked at her, her eyes blazing, her breathing shallow, her pupils blown wide with a feral, predatory light. "You don't get to tell me to calm down," Paige said quietly, her voice a low, dangerous hum.
"I'm not," Azzi replied, her gaze steady, unwavering. She didn't flinch under the intensity of Paige's stare. "I'm asking you to choose. Choose your revenge, or choose your future. Choose the war, or choose the parole board. You can't have both. Not anymore."
A long, heavy silence settled over the room, thick with unspoken words and conflicting desires. Paige looked back at Sarah, at the pain and fear in her eyes, and then at Azzi, at the calm, challenging certainty in hers. The war in her own heart was written all over her face.
"Lockdown ends," she said softly, almost to herself, a decision solidifying in her mind. "Then we handle it."
Azzi heard that. Not revenge. Handle. Different. Still dangerous. But it was a crack. A sliver of reason in the wall of fury.
"Handling it doesn't mean burning the whole place down, Paige," Azzi pressed, her voice soft but firm. "It means being smart. It means using your head, not just your fists. It means thinking about Sarah, about what she needs right now. She needs you to be smart."
Paige's eyes narrowed, a flicker of her old defiance returning. "And what do you know about what she needs? What do you know about any of this? You stand there with your notepad and your calm voice, telling me to choose. You don't know the choices I've had to make."
"Then show me," Azzi said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Let me in. Let me help you. That's why I'm here. That's the deal."
Paige stared at her, a long, searching look. She saw the sincerity there, the unwavering belief in a possibility she herself had long since abandoned. She looked back at Sarah, who was watching her, a silent plea in her eyes. Finally, she nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion. "Fine," she said, the word torn from her. "We'll handle it. Your way. For now."
Azzi let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, a small, imperceptible relaxation of her shoulders. It wasn't a victory, not by a long shot. But it was a start. It was a choice. And in Wentworth, a choice was everything.
Behind them, the high, piercing wail of alarms began to sound down the corridor. Lockdown. And Paige Bueckers, standing alone in the hallway as the medical doors swung shut, did not look like a woman who had lost. She looked like someone who had just decided something. She looked like a storm that had finally found its direction.
The lights shifte, from the harsh, clinical white to a deep, warning amber that bathed the entire block in a sickly, pulsating glow. The announcement rolled through the speakers in a flat, automated tone, devoid of emotion, a machine's voice dictating their fate. "Unit lockdown. All inmates return to designated cells immediately."
The corridors filled with the sound of boots and keys, a rhythmic, percussive symphony of control. Doors slammed, one after another, the metallic clang a final, definitive punctuation mark. Paige walked back to her unit without resistance, her steps measured, her back straight. That unsettled everyone more than if she'd fought. A fight was predictable. This quiet, coiled stillness was not.
Nika fell into step beside her, a silent, supportive shadow, but she didn't speak until they were two doors away from Paige's cell, their voices low murmurs against the backdrop of the lockdown. "You're too calm," Nika muttered, her eyes scanning Paige's profile, looking for a crack, a sign.
Paige didn't look at her, her gaze fixed on the door to her cell, her own personal fortress. "I'm thinking."
"That's worse," Nika said, a grim certainty in her voice.
A guard, a burly man with a face like worn leather, shoved Paige lightly toward her cell. "Inside."
Paige stepped in without a word. The door clanged shut behind her, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of the block. Across the way, in other cells, whispers began almost instantly, a low, sibilant hum of speculation and fear. "She's going to retaliate." "KK's dead this time." "Rah's hands are finished, I heard the nurse say..."
Paige sat on the edge of her bunk, her posture unnervingly still. Not pacing. Not punching the concrete walls in a fit of rage. Not strategizing out loud, her voice a low murmur of plans and counter-plans. Just sitting. Her hands rested on her thighs, her fingers curled slightly, but relaxed. She was a statue carved from ice, and Nika watched from across the block, a growing sense of unease settling in her gut. That silence meant something was forming. And when Paige Bueckers formed something, it didn't miss.
***
Governor Daley stood behind her imposing oak desk like a general reviewing a battlefield strewn with casualties. Security reports, medical updates, and inmate profiles were scattered across its polished surface, a chaotic mosaic of the previous day's violence. The air in her office was thick with the scent of expensive coffee and barely suppressed fury. Dr. Fudd stood opposite her, perfectly still, a calm island in a sea of turmoil.
"This is escalation, Daley snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. She picked up a glossy photo of the laundry room, pipes on the floor, a smear of blood on the concrete. "Metal pipes? A coordinated blackout? This wasn't a spontaneous brawl. This was an ambush."
"Yes," Azzi replied, her voice even and measured, a stark contrast to the Governor's barely contained rage. "Which means this was planned. Deliberately."
"And Bueckers is at the center of it," Daley stated, her eyes narrowing as she tossed the photo back onto the desk. It slid across the polished wood and stopped at the edge. "It always comes back to her."
"No," Azzi said, her tone firm but respectful. "She was the target. There's a difference. The target of the attack, and the target of the setup. KK wanted to neutralize her, to make her look weak in front of the entire population."
Daley's eyes sharpened, her gaze piercing, trying to find the crack in Azzi's composure. "You're getting attached, Doctor. I can hear it in your voice. You're making excuses for her."
"I'm assessing accurately," Azzi countered, taking a small step forward. "Paige Bueckers is many things. She's impulsive, violent, and has a complete disregard for authority. But she's not stupid. A planned, multi-person attack with a blackout? That's messy. That's loud. That's not her style. Her style is personal. Direct. This had KK's fingerprints all over it, brute force and a complete lack of subtlety."
Daley walked around her desk, her heels clicking sharply on the floor, closing the distance between them. She stopped just a few feet from Azzi, her presence a physical force. "You want her stable? Fine. You want your little experiment to work? Fine. But I'm telling you now, if she retaliates for this, if she so much as looks at one of KK's crew sideways, I will bury her in isolation so deep they'll forget she exists. I'll make an example out of her."
"And if you isolate her now," Azzi countered, her voice rising slightly with a conviction that surprised even herself, "you guarantee retaliation. You'll be proving to her, and to everyone else in this prison, that the system is rigged. That there's no justice, only punishment. You'll be taking away the one thing she's holding onto, the possibility of a fair shot. You'll be pushing her directly into the corner you claim you want to avoid."
Daley stared at her, a long, silent appraisal. The office was quiet, the only sound the hum of the air conditioning. "You think she listens to you?" Daley finally asked, her voice a low, skeptical murmur. "You think a few counseling sessions have given you some kind of magical hold over her?"
Azzi paused, choosing her words with the care of a bomb disposal expert. "Not yet," she admitted, a flicker of vulnerability in her honesty. "But she's starting to. She's starting to see that there's another way. She stood in that medical wing and she chose. She chose to handle it smart, not just hard. That's progress. That's a foundation."
Daley scoffed, a short, dismissive sound. "A foundation built on sand. You're a fool if you think you can tame her, Doctor. She won't be your project. She'll be your mistake. And when she inevitably blows up in your face, I won't just be burying her. I'll be burying your career right alongside her."
Azzi didn't flinch. She met Daley's hard, cynical gaze with one of her own, one that was filled not with naivete, but with a stubborn, unwavering belief. "With all due respect, Governor, you see a problem to be managed. I see a person to be understood. You see a mistake waiting to happen. I see potential waiting to be unlocked. Paige Bueckers is in this prison because she made terrible choices, yes. But she's also a product of a system that failed her long before she ever got here. She's a survivor. She's resilient. And she's loyal to a fault. Those aren't just character flaws. They're strengths. They're the very things that can save her, if someone is willing to show her how to use them."
Daley stared at her, her expression unreadable. She saw the fire in Azzi's eyes, the unwavering conviction, and for a moment, she wasn't looking at a psychiatrist. She was looking at a rival. A believer.
"Fine," Daley said, turning away and walking back to her desk, the conversation clearly over in her mind. "You have your leash. But it's a short one. And when she chokes on it, don't come crying to me."
Azzi stood her ground for a moment longer, her heart pounding in her chest. She had won the battle, but she knew the war was far from over. She had bought Paige time, a precious, fragile commodity. And now, she had to make sure Paige didn't waste it.
***
The amber lights of lockdown had been a constant, oppressive presence for forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours of stale air, of whispers crawling through the vents, of the relentless, low-grade hum of confinement. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they flickered off, replaced by the harsh, unforgiving white of a normal day. The announcement was brief, impersonal. "Lockdown concluded. Inmates may proceed to scheduled activities."
The first thing Paige did was go to medical.
She didn't run. She didn't shove anyone out of her way. She walked with a purpose that was a physical force, a current in the stream of inmates shuffling towards the chow hall. Nika and Aaliyah fell in behind her, a silent, formidable escort. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their presence was a statement, a promise of solidarity that was more powerful than any words.
The medical wing was quiet, the antiseptic smell a familiar assault on her senses. A nurse at the desk looked up, her expression weary but professional. She saw Paige, saw the two flanking her, and a flicker of something, fear, maybe, or just weary resignation cross her face.
"Sarah Strong," Paige said, her voice flat. It wasn't a question.
The nurse nodded, gesturing down the hall. "Room three. She's awake."
Paige pushed the door open without knocking. Sarah was propped up in bed, looking smaller than she ever had, her hands swaddled in fresh, thick white bandages that seemed to swallow her whole. The skin of her face was pale, almost translucent, and there were dark, bruised-looking shadows under her eyes. But when she saw Paige, a faint, tired smile touched her lips.
"Hey, P," she whispered, her voice raspy.
Paige was at her side in two long strides, her movements losing their rigid tension, replaced by a gentle, careful grace. She didn't touch the bandaged hands. She just stood there, her eyes drinking in the sight of her friend, alive. "Hey, Rah," she said, her own voice softer than it had been in days. "How you feeling?"
"Like I wrestled a washing machine and lost," Sarah said, a ghost of her usual humor in her voice. "They're keeping me doped up. Feels like I'm floating."
"Good," Paige said, a genuine flicker of relief in her chest. "You deserve to float for a while."
She pulled up a chair, the metal scraping softly against the linoleum floor. Nika and Aaliyah remained near the door, silent sentinels, giving them space but making their presence known.
"Did they talk to you?" Paige asked, her voice dropping lower. "The guards?"
Sarah nodded, her gaze drifting to the window. "Yeah. Came in this morning. Asked me what happened. I told them the lights went out and KK's crew jumped us. That's all they're getting from me."
Paige nodded slowly. "Good. Don't give them anything else. Let them do their jobs."
"You been good?" Sarah asked, her eyes searching Paige's face. "Stayed out of trouble?"
Paige's jaw tightened, just for a second. "I've been thinking," she said, which wasn't an answer, but was the truth.
"Thinking's good," Sarah said, a knowing look in her eyes. "Better than swinging. What did you and the doctor talk about?"
Paige looked away, towards the wall, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features. "She made me choose," she admitted, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.
"Choose what?"
"Revenge," Paige said, her voice flat. "Or getting out of here."
Sarah was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the steady beep of a monitor in the next room. "And what'd you choose?"
Paige looked back at her, her eyes clear, a new, hard-won clarity in their depths. "I'm choosing you, Rah," she said, her voice a low, steady vow. "I'm choosing to get you out of here. I'm choosing to get me out of here. The rest... the rest can wait."
A single tear escaped from the corner of Sarah's eye, tracing a slow path through the fine lines of her fatigue. She couldn't wipe it away, and the helplessness of it was a fresh, sharp pain. Paige saw it, and without a word, she reached out with a gentle finger and wiped the tear away herself.
"Don't you go getting soft on me now, Bueckers," Sarah whispered, a watery smile on her face.
Paige managed a small, genuine smile in return. "Never," she said. "But I'm done letting that bitch dictate my life. We're gonna handle this. And we're gonna do it smart."
She sat there for a long time, just watching Sarah breathe, a steady, reassuring rhythm. The rage was still there, a cold, hard knot deep inside her, but it was contained now. Banked. It wasn't a wild fire anymore. It was a forge, and she was going to use its heat to build something new. Something stronger. And for the first time in a long time, she knew exactly what she was going to do.
***
The yard had the uneasy quiet of a prison pretending everything was normal. Lockdown had lifted twenty-four hours ago. Too fast. Too neat. It felt like a bandage slapped over a festering wound, a superficial fix that did nothing to address the rot underneath. Women clustered in small groups, their conversations muted, their eyes constantly scanning, darting from face to face. Guards paced the perimeter with tighter rotations, their hands resting closer to their batons, their knuckles white. The air carried tension like static before a lightning strike, a heavy, oppressive weight that made it hard to breathe.
The visit to medical had been a necessary ritual. Paige, Nika, and Aaliyah had walked together, a silent, united front, their presence a clear message to anyone who might be watching. They had sat with Sarah for the allotted thirty minutes, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic and Sarah's quiet, pained breaths. They spoke for a while until Sarah’s meds started to kick in, she was doped up on painkillers, her eyes glassy, but she was lucid enough to squeeze Paige's hand with her good one, a weak but firm gesture of solidarity. "Be smart, P," she had whispered, her voice a thin thread. "Don't let them win." Paige had just nodded, her promise a heavy, unspoken weight in the room. Now, back in the open air of the yard, that promise felt like a lead lining in her gut.
Paige leaned against the outer wall of the yard, the rough concrete a solid, grounding presence at her back. Her arms were folded, her posture deceptively relaxed, but every fiber of her being was alert, a coiled spring ready to release. Nika stood ten feet away, ostensibly doing bicep curls with a pair of dumbbells, but her eyes, hidden behind a curtain of sweat-dampened hair, kept flicking towards Paige, a silent, watchful guardian.
Across the yard, KK laughed too loudly, a sharp, grating sound that cut through the hushed murmurs. She was trying to reclaim her space, to project an image of unshaken confidence. Two of her crew flanked her, their postures a little less certain than before, their eyes darting nervously, but loyal enough to play their parts. KK's eyes flicked toward Paige once, twice, a deliberate, challenging gesture.
Paige didn't look back. She didn't even flinch. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, on the high, imposing walls that surrounded them, a world away. That bothered KK more than open hostility, more than a returned glare. It was a dismissal, a statement of utter irrelevance, and it was eating KK alive.
"See?" KK said to her crew, gesturing casually with a chin lift. "She ain't doing shit. Scared little bitch."
She pushed off from the bench and crossed toward the center of the yard, her swagger a little too forced, her shoulders a little too tight. She was putting on a show, and everyone was watching.
And that's when it happened. Not from Paige's direction. Not from Nika's. It came from behind the bleachers, a blind spot everyone forgot about until it was too late.
Kayleigh Heckel stepped out. Kayleigh, quiet, overlooked, a ghost in the system who was doing a long stretch for aggravated assault. She had been there for years, a background character in the endless drama of prison life. But KK had forgotten her. Everyone had forgotten her. Kayleigh hadn't. She had lost product when KK hijacked a supply route months back. Lost protection. Lost face. Lost the small, fragile economy she had built to survive her sentence. She had lost everything.
The movement was fast. Not flashy. A simple, brutal economy of motion. A sharpened toothbrush, melted down and honed to a vicious point, held low, concealed in the palm of her hand. She moved with a purpose that was chilling in its directness, a straight line towards KK's exposed side.
KK didn't even register it at first. She was too busy preening, too focused on her audience. Then her breath caught in her throat, a sharp, hitching gasp. Her hand dropped to her side, a reflexive gesture of confusion. When she pulled it back, it was slick, dark, and wet.
"Oh" she started to say, the sound a pathetic, dying thing. She staggered, her legs turning to water beneath her.
The yard exploded. "Code Black! Code Black in the yard!" a guard screamed into his radio, his voice high with panic.
Guards rushed forward, a sea of blue uniforms converging on the epicenter of the violence. KK dropped to her knees, her face a mask of shock and dawning horror, rage and pain mixing in a terrifying cocktail.
Kayleigh didn't run. She stood there, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with a mixture of terror and triumphant release. "You thought I forgot?" she spat, her voice a raw, guttural snarl. "You cost me everything. Everything!"
Two officers tackled her to the ground, their bodies a brutal, efficient takedown. KK collapsed fully now, clutching her side, a low, animalistic moan escaping her lips.
Paige pushed off the wall slowly. Not running. Not reacting. Just watching. Her face was a mask of unreadable calm, her eyes taking in every detail, every movement, every consequence.
Nika stepped beside her, her voice a low, confidential murmur. "You didn't order that."
Paige's eyes never left the scene, the chaos, the blood. "No."
"You going to claim it?" Nika pressed, her gaze sharp, analytical.
A beat of silence, a long, considering moment as the paramedics rushed in with a stretcher. Paige tilted her head slightly, a gesture of cold, clinical assessment. "Why would I take credit for something so sloppy?" she said, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "No finesse. No message. Just... messy."
KK was lifted onto the stretcher, pale and sweating, but conscious. Her eyes scanned the yard wildly, a frantic, desperate search for an enemy, for an explanation. They landed on Paige, a final, desperate plea for understanding, for an answer.
For one long second, Paige held her gaze. Her expression was unreadable, a blank wall of indifference.
KK tried to speak, to form a word, a name, but all that came out was a bubble of bright, red blood that spilled over her lips, a grotesque parody of a final word. She was carried out, a broken, bleeding thing.
The yard fell into a shaken hush, the silence heavier than before. Guards began herding inmates back towards their units, their voices sharp and commanding.
Nika watched Paige carefully, a new respect dawning in her eyes. "You're smiling," she observed, a note of disbelief in her voice.
Paige's mouth flattened instantly, the fleeting expression erased before it could fully form. "I'm thinking," she said, her voice low. "I'm thinking that sometimes, the problem solves itself."
***
The medical bay smelled like antiseptic and iron, a sterile scent that did little to mask the metallic tang of blood lingering in the air. KK lay pale against the thin, starched pillow, an oxygen line hooked beneath her nose, a hissing counterpoint to her shallow breaths. The stab wound had missed anything vital by inches, a sloppy, desperate angle that had been a lucky outcome for her. She wasn't grateful. She was furious, a cold, simmering rage that burned in her eyes and tightened the lines around her mouth.
Governor Daley stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture a study in impatient authority. "Who did it?" she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the hiss of the oxygen machine.
KK's jaw tightened, a small, stubborn movement. "You already know."
"Humor me," Daley said, her voice dangerously soft.
KK's eyes burned with a feverish intensity. "Bueckers."
Daley didn't react, her expression a blank, unreadable mask. "Witnesses say Kayleigh Heckel."
KK scoffed weakly, a dry, rasping sound that made her wince in pain. "Kayleigh doesn't have the balls to move without protection. She's a ghost. Someone gave her the nudge. Someone gave her the weapon."
Daley stepped closer, her shadow falling over KK's prone form. "Are you saying Paige ordered it?"
KK's lips curled into a sneer, a grotesque parody of a smile. "She didn't have to."
A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken accusation.
"Everyone knows what happens when you cross her," KK continued, her voice a low, venomous hiss. "You don't need an order. You just need a reason. And she gave everyone a reason when she let me get away with what I did to Sarah. It was a sign of weakness. Kayleigh just... collected."
Daley studied her, her mind working, connecting the dots. That was the problem. Even if Paige didn't do it, her reputation made it believable. Her legend was so powerful, so pervasive, that it had a life of its own, a force of nature that could be wielded by others. She had created a monster, whether she had intended to or not.
***
The interview room was a box of concrete and steel, designed for intimidation. A metal table, scarred and dented, sat in the center. A camera in the corner, its single red light a blinking, unblinking eye, recorded everything. One chair was bolted to the floor, a permanent fixture for the accused. Paige sat calmly, her back straight, her hands resting loosely on the cold, metal surface. She looked like she was there for a business meeting, not an interrogation.
Daley paced slowly, her heels clicking a sharp, rhythmic pattern on the concrete floor. "KK was stabbed."
"I heard," Paige said, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion.
"By someone with a previous conflict," Daley continued, her pacing never ceasing. "Kayleigh Heckel. A woman who, according to her file, is not known for taking initiative."
Paige nodded once, a slow, deliberate gesture. "Sounds accurate."
Daley stopped in front of her, leaning forward, her hands flat on the table, invading Paige's space. "You expect me to believe this wasn't retaliation? That it's just a coincidence that your biggest rival gets taken out the day after she attacks your friend?"
Paige looked up, her gaze clear and steady, meeting Daley's angry glare without a flicker of fear. "You expect me to control every woman in this prison? To be responsible for their grudges? That's a lot of power for an inmate, Governor."
Daley leaned down slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She says you ordered it. That you gave Kayleigh the green light."
Paige's expression didn't shift. It was like watching a stone face the wind. "She says a lot of things. Most of them are lies."
"Did you?" Daley pressed, her eyes boring into Paige's, searching for any sign of deception, any crack in the facade.
Silence. Paige didn't rush to answer. She let the silence stretch, filling the small room with a tension so thick it was almost palpable. "No."
Daley watched her carefully, her gaze a physical weight. "You're quiet lately. No fights. No smart mouth in the yard. It's... suspicious."
"I'm tired," Paige said, her voice a low murmur. "It's been a long week."
"That's not what I meant," Daley countered, her voice sharp.
Another beat of silence. Paige's voice lowered even further, a soft, almost intimate tone that was more disarming than a shout. "You want to know what I think?"
Daley didn't answer, but she didn't move away either.
"I think KK made too many enemies," Paige said, her eyes holding Daley's. "She stepped on toes. She took things that weren't hers. She burned bridges. She was playing a game she didn't know how to win. It was only a matter of time before someone collected on the debt she owed. It just wasn't me."
Daley straightened up, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "If I find even a whisper that you orchestrated this, even a hint that you were involved, I'll make sure you never see the light of day again."
"You won't," Paige said, her voice not cocky, but controlled, a quiet statement of absolute certainty.
Daley hated that. Hated the calm, the control, the unshakeable self-assurance.
Later, Daley stood by her office window, looking down at the yard below, a chessboard of moving pieces. Azzi entered quietly, closing the door behind her.
"KK survived," Daley said without turning, her voice flat.
"I know," Azzi replied.
"She's blaming Paige," Daley said, her voice laced with a weary cynicism.
"Of course she is," Azzi said, her tone matter-of-fact.
Daley turned now, her eyes sharp and questioning. "Tell me something, Doctor. Do you think she did it?"
Azzi didn't answer immediately. She took a moment, considering her words, weighing the implications. "I think Paige understands optics," she said finally, her voice thoughtful.
"That's not what I asked," Daley pressed, her gaze unwavering.
"I don't believe she ordered it," Azzi said, her voice firm, clear, and unequivocal.
Daley's eyebrow lifted in a gesture of mild surprise. "Why?"
"Because it was messy," Azzi said simply. "It was public. It was an emotional act, not a strategic one. Paige is many things, but she is not messy. Her revenge, when she chooses to take it, is surgical. Personal. This was a tantrum with a weapon. It's not her style."
Daley studied her carefully, her expression a complex mix of skepticism and grudging respect. "You're either perceptive," she said, a pause hanging in the air between them, "or compromised."
Azzi held her ground, her gaze steady and clear. "I'm neither. I'm doing my job."
Daley smiled thinly, a cold, humorless expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Make sure that stays true, Doctor. For both your sakes."
***
The hallway was a long, sterile canyon of concrete and steel, the scent of disinfectant hanging thick in the air. Paige was mopping the floors, the rhythmic slosh and drag of the mop in the bucket a mindless, meditative task. She moved with a practiced efficiency, the gray water swallowing up the scuffs and dirt, her movements a stark contrast to the turmoil churning just beneath the surface of her skin.
Dr. Fudd walked by, her heels clicking a sharp, professional rhythm on the polished floor. She stopped beside Paige, a curious look on her face. "Thought you were in the kitchen," Dr. Fudd said, her voice a calm interruption to the monotonous sloshing.
Paige didn't look up, just continued her methodical strokes, a small, wry smile playing on her lips. "I like to mop shit too," she replied, her voice a low, casual murmur. "Helps me keep it real."
"Heard KK got moved to medical after being stabbed in the chest," Dr. Fudd said, her tone shifting, becoming more deliberate, a test.
Paige scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound, and rolled her eyes, finally stopping her work to look up at the doctor. "What you think I did that shit?"
"What's your point, Azzi?" Paige asked, her voice dropping, a challenge in her eyes.
"No point," Dr. Fudd started to reply, but Paige cut her off, her voice rising with a sudden, volatile fury.
"Are you fucking serious?" she snapped, her grip tightening on the mop handle until her knuckles were white. "You want honesty, and then you come at me with that bullshit? You're accusing me?"
"I'm not," Azzi started to say, her voice a placating attempt to calm the storm.
"Bullshit you are," Paige shot back, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Don't fucking lie to me. Not you."
Dr. Fudd stepped closer, closing the distance between them, her gaze unwavering. "I was worried about you, that's all."
"Worried?" Paige laughed, a short, sharp, bitter sound. "Worried that I went and stabbed KK? Is that what you think of me?"
"No," Dr. Fudd said, her voice soft but firm. "Worried that you got pushed too far. Worried that you were going to be blamed for something you didn't do."
"You need to stay the fuck away from me," Paige said, her voice a low, warning hiss, turning away from her, the mop handle a barrier between them.
"Okay," Dr. Fudd said, backing up, her hands raised in a gesture of surrender. But she didn't leave. She just stood there, her eyes fixed on Paige's rigid back.
Paige felt her gaze, a physical weight, and she turned back around, her anger a hot, suffocating blanket. Dr. Fudd looked her in the eyes, her own expression a mixture of regret and sincerity. "I'm sorry," she said, the words hanging in the tense air between them.
"You can shove that sorry up your fucking ass," Paige said, her voice cold, sharp, and final.
Dr. Fudd just stood there for a moment longer, a flicker of hurt in her eyes before she masked it, turning and walking away, her heels clicking a retreat down the long, empty hallway.
Paige watched her go, the anger slowly draining out of her, leaving behind a hollow, aching void. She stood there for a long time, the mop dripping onto the clean floor, a small, steady puddle forming at her feet. She felt bad after the fact, a wave of regret washing over her, cold and sharp. She hadn't meant to say that. Not really. But the words had come out, fueled by a week of fear, of helplessness, of the crushing weight of being constantly suspected, constantly judged. And now, she had just pushed away the one person who had actually tried to believe her. The one person who had seen past the monster, even for a second. And the realization of what she had just done was a pain far worse than any physical blow.
***
The day after the fight with Dr. Fudd felt heavier than a lockdown, the air thick with a suffocating unspoken tension. Paige had a session with her, one she certainly wasn't looking forward to, especially after their fight in the hallway. Every step towards the administrative wing felt like a march to her own execution, the familiar walls of the prison feeling like they were closing in, not just on her, but on the fragile, complicated thing she had started to build with the doctor. She reached the familiar wooden door, her hand hovering for a moment before she knocked, the sound sharp and impatient, betraying the nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin.
"Come in," Dr. Fudd's voice called out, calm and composed, as if yesterday's explosive confrontation had never happened.
Paige pushed the door open and stepped inside, her movements stiff. She didn't flop into her usual chair today. She sat, her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a posture of rigid self-defense. She was a fortress, and the gates were closed.
Dr. Fudd was behind her desk, but instead of staying there, she stood and walked around, pulling up the chair that was usually reserved for guests or colleagues. She placed it directly beside Paige, close enough that their knees were almost touching, a move that was both intimate and disarming. She sat, turning to face Paige, her expression unreadable.
"So," Dr. Fudd began, her voice casual, almost conversational. "How the fuck are you doing?"
Paige's head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. The casual profanity, the direct echo of her own language, thrown back at her with such a nonchalant air, was so unexpected it disarmed her completely. She stared at Dr. Fudd, searching her face for any sign of sarcasm or anger, anything to show she was mad about there argument yesterday but found none. Just a calm, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her defenses.
"Anything you wanna talk about?" Dr. Fudd asked, her voice softening slightly, a gentle invitation.
"You start off," Paige replied, her voice tight, shrugging her shoulder in a gesture of defiance. "I've had enough of talking about me."
"Well, we're here to talk about you, Paige," Dr. Fudd replied, her tone firm but not unkind.
"No," Paige said, her voice low and sharp, cutting through the doctor's placid tone. "We're here because you broke the trust. You stood there and accused me, after everything. After you said you believed me. So you don't get to act like we're just gonna talk about me today. That's not how this works."
Dr. Fudd let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. "You're right," she said, her voice quiet, a genuine concession. "I have acknowledged that I compromised that. I was wrong. I let my own fear, my own concern for you, get twisted into an accusation. It was a mistake, and I am sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix it," Paige shot back, her voice still tight with anger. "Sorry doesn't take back the fact that you looked at me and saw a killer. Just like everyone else."
"I know," Dr. Fudd said, her voice soft but firm. "And we can't sit here and focus on that. You're right. It's done. It's over. But we can't ignore it either.
Trust is a two-way street, Azzi. You know all about me, or at least you think you do. So why don't you tell me some things about you? Fair's fair."
Paige's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, a flicker of her old, mischievous self returning. "I want dirt," she said, her voice a low, purring challenge. "Give me the good stuff. The skeletons in your closet."
Dr. Fudd let out a nervous chuckle, a sound that was both genuine and flustered. "I can't give you dirt, you know that," she said, a slight flush creeping up her neck. "There's a whole host of reasons that therapists shouldn't bring their personal lives into a session. It's unethical, it's unprofessional, it's a violation of about a hundred different codes of conduct."
"So you're just a wall I talk to and get nothing back?" Paige replied, her voice dripping with a theatrical disappointment. "That's not a partnership. That's a sermon."
"Were you and KK close?" Dr. Fudd asked, changing the subject with a swift, strategic pivot. "Or on good terms, at one point? Was she someone who betrayed your trust?"
Paige ignored the question, her gaze drifting to the window, to the sliver of sky visible beyond the bars. She wasn't going to talk about KK. Not today.
"When was your first time with a woman?" Paige asked instead, her voice sudden, direct, and completely unexpected.
Dr. Fudd coughed, a sharp, startled sound, then let out a laugh, a mix of shock and amusement. "Okay," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Why did you change the subject?"
Paige stared her in the eyes, her playful smirk gone, replaced by a serious, intense look that was both challenging and deeply curious. "When?" she asked again, her voice a low, insistent demand.
"Paige, why did you change the subject?" Dr. Fudd asked again, her voice a little firmer, trying to regain control of the session.
"I know you're a lesbian," Paige stated, her voice a flat, confident declaration. "It's obvious. The way you carry yourself, the way you look at things. So answer my question."
"Answer mine," Dr. Fudd shot back, her own voice rising slightly, a flicker of her own frustration showing through. "Why is it so important for you to know about my personal life? What does it have to do with you?"
"Yup," Paige said happily, a wide, triumphant smile breaking across her face. "You didn't deny it. So, when was it?"
Dr. Fudd stared at her, a long, silent battle of wills playing out between them. She could see the challenge in Paige's eyes, the desperate need to know, to find a crack in her professional facade, to find something real, something human she could connect with. And she knew, with a sudden, startling clarity, that this wasn't just a game. This was a plea.
"It was in college," Dr. Fudd said finally, her voice quiet, a concession. "My sophomore year. Her name was Elena. She was a poet, and she had eyes the color of the sky after a storm. We used to sneak into the library after hours and read to each other in the stacks. It was... quiet. And beautiful."
Paige was silent, her smile gone, her expression one of rapt attention. She was listening, really listening, her walls down for the first time since she had walked into the room.
"She broke my heart," Dr. Fudd continued, her voice a little softer, a little more vulnerable. "She graduated and left without saying goodbye. I didn't see it coming. It was the first time I had ever really let myself be vulnerable with someone, and it... it hurt. A lot."
Paige looked down at her hands, her own story of betrayal and pain reflected in Dr. Fudd's. She understood that feeling. The gut-wrenching pain of being left behind, of being not enough.
"So now you know," Dr. Fudd said, her voice a little stronger, a little more composed. "Your turn. Tell me about your first time."
Paige looked up, a slow, sad smile touching her lips. "It was in the back of a stolen car," she said, her voice a low, rough murmur. "Her name was Jessica. She had a laugh like breaking glass and a heart full of trouble. We were fifteen, and we thought we were invincible. It wasn't quiet. And it wasn't beautiful. It was fast, and desperate, and over in five minutes. And I never saw her again."
The room was silent, the air thick with the shared weight of their stories, two very different worlds colliding in the quiet space of the office.
"Why did you become a therapist?" Paige asked, her voice soft, a genuine question. "Why would you choose to listen to people like me all day?"
"Because I believe in redemption," Dr. Fudd replied, her voice clear and strong. "Because I believe that no one is beyond saving. And because I know what it's like to be lost, to feel like you're screaming in a room full of people and no one can hear you. I want to be the person who hears."
Paige stared at her, a long, searching look. She saw the sincerity in Dr. Fudd's eyes, the unwavering belief, and it scared her. It scared her because it made her want to believe it too.
"You're a real idealist, aren't you, Azzi?" Paige said, her voice a low, rough murmur, a flicker of her old, cynical self returning.
"Someone has to be," Dr. Fudd replied, a small, sad smile touching her lips.
Paige leaned in closer, the space between them shrinking until there was almost nothing left. She could feel the warmth of Dr. Fudd's body, could smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo. Her eyes dropped to Dr. Fudd's lips, and she felt a pull, a magnetic, undeniable attraction that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"What are you doing, Paige?" Dr. Fudd whispered, her voice a shaky breath, but she didn't pull away.
"Seeing if you're as real as you seem," Paige replied, her voice a low, husky murmur. She leaned in a little closer, her lips just a breath away from Dr. Fudd's, so close she could feel the soft puff of air from the doctor's parted lips. "Are you?"
Dr. Fudd didn't answer. She didn't move. She didn't pull away. She just sat there, her eyes closed, her breath held in her chest, a silent, trembling surrender to the moment, to the undeniable electricity that arced between them. Paige could feel the rapid, fluttering beat of Dr. Fudd's heart, or maybe it was her own, a frantic drum against her ribs. The air was thick, heavy with unspoken words and forbidden desires. This was the line, the one she wasn't supposed to cross, the one Dr. Fudd wasn't supposed to let her near. And yet, here they were, hovering on the edge, balanced on a knife's blade of professional ruin and raw, undeniable need. Paige didn't kiss her. She just stayed there, a breath away, a silent, powerful question hanging in the air between them, a test, a promise, and a threat all at once. And in that moment, Paige knew she had her. She knew she had broken through the wall, had found the real person hiding behind the professional facade. And she knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, that nothing would ever be the same again.
So this is how it feels (to fall in love with you)
Chapter 3 - The Pazzi Bridgerton Au in which: Azzi deals with the aftermath of emotions following the ball and dancing with Paige.
W/C: 13.6k | masterlist
Note: Hi, I am back as promised. As always, please send me anons and leave feedback. It's my favourite part of writing on here. Enjoy!
-
Azzi opened her eyes to a harmony of birdsong and a veil of morning sun. For one brief moment, she allowed her senses to be washed with the silky peace that enveloped her room. One brief moment, and then the memories flooded her mind. Flashes of blue eyes, cream skin and steady hands filtered through with each groggy blink.
And with each passing second, the panic rose.
Oh lord, she had danced with Paige.
It wasn’t the prospect of dancing with her that particularly ignited the feeling of dread that now steadily coursed under her skin. Moreso the fact that Azzi hadn’t wanted it to stop. The fact that she simply couldn’t shake the memories away, the way she kept thinking of it, of her. It was the temptation. The way Azzi had been enraptured, tangled in the blonde woman that had held her, the way she had pressed her hand supple against the curve of her waist in a way that stirred dizziness in her head.
What was she supposed to do with herself, and the unsolicited pleasure that last night had brought? Azzi liked to be prepared, a woman who was fond of planning, of knowing exactly how each thing worked. This was unfamiliar territory for her, the way in which Paige had seemingly infiltrated into the backs of her eyelids and sank into her skin.
What was she to do now? How was she supposed to go on, pretending as if she wasn’t humming with a new pent-up sensation? All nausea and reverence and guilt?
These were the nature of Azzi’s thoughts as she rose from her bed and prepared herself for the day. It was a silent affair, as Zana slipped her into her day dress and pinned her hair up just so, the spiraling emotions only growing more rambunctious as Azzi turned them over in her mind, one after another.
An interruption came in the form of a sharp rap to her door. A maid peeped her head in meekly, and Azzi tried to shake herself out of her reverie.
“Yes?”
“Lady Caroline is here to see you, Ma’am.”
Oh, that was right. They had made plans to roam the square together, then make their way down to the shipyards and harbor. It was a hobby of theirs, spending time at the various trading hubs and markets that flourished by the port, in search of some rare artefact from a travelling salesperson. the excitement may also have a little to do with the handsome tradesmen and dockhands, though that was mainly Carol’s area of interest. They were commoners of course, and Carol would never consider one as a serious suitor, but everyone had their indulgences. Who was Azzi to admonish her for it? Besides, it certainly provided an easy entertainment.
“Send her in please, Helena.” Azzi all but sighed, as Zana finished the final touches on Azzi’s curls, fastening a final studded pin in place.
Caroline burst into the room rather boisterously, a contagious sort of cheerfulness brimming from her cheeks. Azzi couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her friend’s clear enthusiasm.
“Azzi, oh Azzi please, we must hurry up! Father said the traders arrived at first light this morning, we must leave immediately if we are to find anything valuable left at all!”
Azzi shook her head as she grabbed her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You simply want to ogle at those poor, hardworking men Carol.”
“Well, I can hardly help how my eyes wander when they lug around those heavy carts!” Caroline retorted cheekily as she linked her arm around Azzi’s.
They started off together side by side, and Azzi let her mind ease for a moment, let it drift to far simpler matters such as her best friend’s penchant for particularly rugged men.
-
When the two ladies arrived at the town square, it had been already bustling with life despite the early hours of the day. There were gentlemen milling around in suits, top hats, walking sticks in hand. Attending to whatever business it was they were preoccupied with. There were a few other ladies also, though none of note, sitting with each other with their parasols and nibbling on confectionary in the lush green courtyards nearby. The imperial college stood tall and large to the left of the main square, a new and elegant building with white brick columns that beckoned fresh academics in with pride. A group of young gentlemen leant along these columns, puffing smoke and laughing amongst each other.
The sight caught Azzi’s eye.
It had been such a long time since she had visited her family’s patroned institution, having been so engrossed in her own dilemmas as of late. The visits always provided her with a fresh breeze of excitement, and always some intriguing topic to ponder afterwards. she had almost forgotten such a feeling, until now.
“Carol, please let us go visit the college and view a lecture. Please! It will be all over within two winks and then I swear to you, we can go to the quay markets and buy whatever it is you fancy.”
Caroline only laughed at her friend’s unnecessary pleading, knowing Azzi only too well. She must have accounted for this brief interruption to their schedule when she had rushed them both out earlier. “I had been anticipating that you would ask,” she grinned. “Fine, only one quick lecture, so long as I don’t fall right asleep. You know this sort of thing goes right over my head.”
Azzi beamed at her friend gratefully, as they set off towards the college doors.
It was an uncommon sight, to see young women of any social background attending an educational lecture in the Imperial College, but Azzi Fudd was as some may call it, an exception to the rule.
With the entire building dedicated to the ‘Fudd’ name in honor of her father’s financial contribution to the college’s construction, it had been difficult for anyone to dissuade Azzi from visiting as she pleased. Many knew of Lord Fudd’s unconventional approach to raising his daughter after his late wife had passed, and his encouragement in Azzi to seek comfort in learning the arts, science or politics had become something that most had to adjust to in the earlier years.
Now however, it was rare for one to bat an eye at the unusually educated young lady.
When Azzi had reached an age where most girls gave up on formal education for ladies’ finishing classes, her father had allowed her to continue in her passions, sprouting her ongoing love of literature and sociology. It was under this jurisdiction that Azzi had been granted access to sit in on lectures at the imperial college from time to time, so long as she didn’t make it a consistent habit or let it overshadow her womanly occupancies.
No one bat an eye as Azzi and Caroline waltzed into the building, following a group of young men along the stone corridor until they reached a grand theatre. It was a room that was graced with a high ceiling and stained-glass windows, almost church-like in architecture. There were tiers of seating across the back half of the room, although they were often reserved for full time male students that attended the college.
Azzi and Carol stood at the back, as throngs of men took their seats before the lecture began.
It never mattered to Azzi, as to what topic was being discussed. She simply reveled in the lively atmosphere on exhibition as the professor conducted the room as if he were on stage. With her mind adequately challenged and her countenance tempered, Azzi was otherwise glad to be strung out of her misery today. She glanced over at Caroline, who seemed more interested in the colors of the stained glass being refracted in light than the proceedings itself.
Dear Caroline and her everlasting patience.
Once the lecture had concluded and the crowd piled out once more onto the street, the girls made their way towards the port. The quay-markets had been erected and were brimming with busybodies already. These markets were not the same sort that the higher classes had access to in the town square, but rather they were a smaller affair of hard-working commoners and merchants that returned from long distances by boat. They often produced things of exotic nature and so attracted the rogue gentleman or adventurous lady that thrilled in delving into different territory. The famous dressmaker of the town Madame Fontaine, coveted by the aristocratic women for her exquisite tastes and keen eye, also frequented this particular marketplace when in need of bespoke fabrics and silks.
It was therefore a generally safe enough place for high society to visit during the day. Though no one would make a habit of lingering for longer than necessary all the same.
Azzi’s mind was still riding the clouds, finally far away from anything worrisome, as the girls examined the several artefacts at a stall. There were several hand mirrors that had been exceptionally crafted, oriental teas and beautifully dyed scarfs. Naturally, Caroline’s choice of handymen were also on display as the worked by the pier not so far from them.
There was no harm in fantasizing if only briefly, of the things you should not, or could not have. Especially if it was all in good fun.
Azzi was in no position to chastise Caroline, at any rate.
Caroline had held a particularly bright and colorful scarf up to her neck for Azzi to examine when a familiar figure with a familiar gait caught Azzi’s eye from the crowd beyond.
What awful luck.
Paige filtered through the meandering pack of people, in a plain dress shirt and pants that were a light camel brown. She had dressed so simple, she ought to have blended right into the commoners around her. But somehow in Azzi’s eyes, she stuck out, a lilting snowdrop amongst primroses.
Naturally, Paige had noticed Azzi also, her hand already in a half raise of greeting. Azzi’s heart thudded in her chest and the sheer alarm from this morning returned with full force. Her spiraling thoughts caused her hands to become clammy, and the fringes of her vision blurred almost.
She was overwhelmed, and the idea of facing Paige, talking to her, recalling the last time they were together? That idea sent a bone chill shock down her spine. Not here, not like this.
Azzi simply had to get away from here.
She turned in haste to grip Caroline’s shoulders, steering them both away from the stalls and markets completely, trying her hardest to avoid the thick of the crowd.
“Azzi!”
Caroline exclaimed as she was dragged towards their carriage, head swiveling around to grasp a sense of what possibly could have caused Azzi to react in such a way. She must have noted something, as she jolted to a halt suddenly. Azzi wanted to strangle her dear friend right this moment. Could she not stall her curiosity just once? They were almost at the carriage.
“Azzi look, Paige is over there- “
Azzi shushed her erratically, tugging her along before all but shoving the poor girl into the carriage and slamming the door shut behind herself.
The two ladies sat in silence for a moment, the shock of what had just occurred still fresh in the air between them. Caroline, who sat opposite to Azzi, did her utmost to catch her eye meaningfully as the footman called the horses to order and they set off back to the house. Azzi only turned to look out the window, pointedly ignoring Caroline’s bewildered stares until she simply couldn’t bear the scrutiny any longer.
“Carol, I can feel your eyes on me.” she said, attention still on the bustling city beyond.
“What was that commotion back there Azzi? Did you and Paige have a falling out?”
Azzi finally forced herself to look at Caroline once more. “No, not at all. I didn’t even notice she was there. I simply grew tired of the standing and walking, and my stomach began rumbling in despair.”
The lie spilled out sweet through the crinkles of her nervous brows, and Caroline narrowed her own skeptically.
Luckily, she must have found it futile to argue with Azzi over such a matter, as she simply switched subjects to the excitable treasures she had purchased at the market instead.
Azzi was only delighted to entertain her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was aware that she had been acting irrationally regarding Paige, and that she was usually quite more composed in unexpected situations such as this.
Just another example of how much the taller woman had begun to affect her.
-
Azzi continued her contest of avoiding Paige throughout the next few days. She felt as if she were a recluse, unwilling to leave her house, or even sometimes her room, to ensure that she did not somehow find herself face to face with the peculiar blonde. she had taken to lying, as terrible as that sounded, about her health. She had caught a terrible chill while by the docklands and needed some rest and recuperation away from society and town for a little while.
The drastic measures may have seemed dramatic, until the day they were ultimately vindicated after all.
Paige had taken it upon herself to pay Azzi a visit regardless of the concocted stories of the Lady Fudd falling terribly ill. one would think that such a warning would be enough to keep every member of the town away, and yet, it seemed to have no effect on the peculiar woman. No mystery illness would be enough to fend off her efforts to meet with the younger lady.
The butler had turned Paige away twice already, before Azzi had to send John one afternoon, still unable to face her herself.
A thread of guilt was sewn with each lie and each avoidance, one that tied and squeezed on her heart terribly. It was a guilt that crawled over her skin like mites. It may have been enough, this guilt, to cause Azzi to give in to her pride and face the paler woman. However, there was an anxious tic in her brain all the same, overriding her panic and telling Azzi something dangerous.
One look and Paige would see everything.
One glance and it would be revealed, how easily she flocked to Paige’s attention, how she hung on every word the unique girl said. Paige affected Azzi in a way which was cagey, unforgiving. Paige would see how flustered Azzi was, how every time she thought of being next to her, close to her, her skin would smart red.
She would know how Azzi sometimes let her mind wander, allowed herself to want. Want to be so close she could run her nails along her crevices and swallow her whole, to sink her teeth into pale skin and sigh-
No, Azzi could not permit it. She could hardly indulge in it herself, and it would be damning if Paige were to find out.
So until she could remedy the situation, Azzi had decided to remove herself from public, and therefore Paige.
But unfortunately, her reprieve was short lived. She would have to reenter society eventually, and John suggested the races weekend to be the perfect opportunity. Azzi sighed and steeled herself.
-
The crowd had gathered in full abundance by the time Azzi and John arrived at the exposition area by the racetrack. The air was humming with the energy of a competition, and the town had made their appearances in a flourish of brightly colored dresses, brooches, flowers and hats that sprouted from ladies’ hair. The men wore top-hats and flowing coats, with gloved fingers that wrapped around cigars or money. The fog of pipe-smoke wafted through the area to mingle with the fresh air.
It was a bright summer’s day, and yet Azzi could hardly enjoy the lush and buzzing environment as she usually would.
Instead, her eyes grazed over the crowd as they approached, the pit of her stomach deepening in anxiousness. Her head was flipping over one single thought: Paige would surely be here.
Once the siblings entered the throng of racegoers, she detangled herself from John, who nodded at her before promptly striking up conversation with another man in a top hat that was lingering nearby, presumably a co-worker of her brother’s by association.
Azzi took her chance to meander through the crowd, as she understood it would be wise to refrain from loitering.
She chose instead to idle near the betting tables where various men waved their fists rambunctiously as they championed a different horse that would be participating in the upcoming races. The horses were paraded in front of them with proud owners calling out their names.
They carried tins and hats, all various levels of filled with cash as they competed for the attention of passing patrons. They shook and shouted as the called for sponsors, beckoning them forward with promises of reward and glory.
Azzi was enthralled by the chaos before her, the desperate clambering for a wealthy man’s money, so shamelessly in broad and hellish sunlight. Azzi had not been particularly fond of making wagers over the years, as the odds seemed always to lean towards her misfortune, but today she sidled up to a makeshift kiosk, caution set to the side for once.
She approached a rather aloof man, engrossed entirely in his own horse, as the brim of his upturned hat sat on the table laid out in front of him. Despite his disregard for the mayhem all around him, the hat was filled with notes, along with a few shiny coins peeking out from between.
The man lifted his head reluctantly to exchange pleasantries as Azzi approached, and she shuffled through her purse in search of money to spare. Her arm had been extended over the hat; the loose change merely having hit the bottom when-
“Ah, Highflyer. You chose well.”
The voice caused Azzi to bristle, the hairs on her arms spiking as the recognition slammed her skin.
The man thanked Azzi with a tip of his head and a wink, before turning his focus again to the horse.
Azzi turned around, resigning herself to her fate.
Paige stood before her, smirking, though if Azzi could have guessed, she would surmise that Paige seemed almost hesitant in her demeanor, her fingertips fluttering from where they drummed on her thigh, to scratching her nose, behind her ear, then back down to her legs once more.
Azzi felt as though she were a cat, ears up and pointed, hairs stood on edge. She swallowed her anxiety and tried instead, to swell her pride. Somehow, in between it all, her voice slipped up.
“Paige.” She nodded curtly, not quite a greeting, not quite as warm as Azzi usually extended towards her friends. She internally cursed her lineage for the absurdly laughable bad luck. She had been meaning to avoid Paige’s presence as much as possible, and somehow, here she appeared again. The universe must have found humor in vexing Lady Azzi it seemed.
“You chose well, but not exceptionally.” Paige continued easily, storming past the barricade of disinterest Azzi had put up between them. It grated on her.
“Whatever do you mean?” She queried, challenge in her voice, and Paige tilted her head at her, smirk still solidly in place. It was agitating, how unaffected she seemed by it all.
“Lightning over there?” She said pointing to a smallish black horse across the way. Azzi nodded. “He will win it all. I have this good feeling about him.”
“A good feeling?” Azzi asked her incredulously, because truly, what kind of decision-making is that? she was beginning to rethink her friend’s capabilities of running the inherited family business.
“Yes, a good feeling. Place a wager on him, you’ll see.” She nodded, with just the smallest amount of smugness.
Azzi’s ears burned. She could not partake in this foolery right now. Why was Paige acting as if everything was normal between them? As if she hadn’t blatantly been avoiding the other woman, as if they hadn’t... well… crossed a particular boundary at the ball! She had been avoiding Paige for this particular reason! What was she to say to her, how was she to act?
Paige looked on expectedly, an almost excited expression unmistakable on her face. The look made Azzi ache, which in turn only caused her even more confusion.
She remained silent, continued to eye Paige, who shifted from foot to foot as her confidence dwindled, and a clumsy sort of atmosphere dawning upon both of them. It felt so foreign, this obvious distance between them, and Azzi felt her throat prickle.
This cacophony of emotions left her no choice but to abandon this conversation, before it became any more uncomfortable, before anyone noticed that it had. Too many prying eyes to keep track of here.
“No, I think I shall stick with Highflyer. I like to stick to what I know.”
Paige rose an eyebrow.
Azzi tried for a smile, a sincere but small one at least, before brushing past the tall woman to find John once more.
it remained with her, branded behind her own eyelids and coiling into something uncomfortable as she trailed behind her brother.
Though she tried to ignore it, something about the way Paige’s smile dimmed and the avid note of hurt that flashed through her eyes before she nodded and stepped away from Azzi, alarmed her greatly. It remained with her, branded behind her own eyelids and coiling into something uncomfortable, long after she found her seat next to her brother in the stands, waving across to Caroline, then again to Sarah, each of whom had viewing boxes of their own.
Distraction came welcomed, the many men boasting their knowledge of horses and women being chaperoned or swept into the shade as the race started.
The race begun to a chorus of cheers and there was a thrill about it, no doubt, as Azzi sat forward in attentiveness, trying very hard to keep her composure where she would have been inclined to holler.
The horse that she had backed, Highflyer, was progressing along the race quite well, overtaking a couple of other steeds and now in a firm third position. But there were still some more laps to go, and the overall commotion did nothing to stir Azzi from her discomfort.
As the horses shrunk into the distance, Azzi found herself unable to focus on the race itself, the blur of browns and blacks that rounded the pitch. Instead, her attention kept flickering, towards a particular blonde that was seated a few rows further, the one that casually lounged back on her seat, making light amicable conversations with the men, and lady Beth, sitting beside her.
Many women had congregated under a makeshift canopy, atwitter with excitement, or perhaps from having drained their little cocktail glasses.
Many of the women had interlinked their arms around one another, an avid display of friendship, an ease of familiarity in their companion.
Nothing out of the ordinary, but the sight of it caused Azzi’s throat to close up.
The worm of guilt had eroded through her defenses and had begun eating away at her vocal cords, her voice a quiver now.
John cursed under his breath as the race reached its climax last lap.
Azzi’s mind swirled with her confliction. She had a tendency to organize her emotions, to fold them away in separate drawers in her mind. But unwillingly, they had become a jumbled, shaken mess after her dance with Paige. Even as she waded through them now, gnawing on her bottom lip, she couldn’t decipher what exactly it was she felt, and why at all she felt it.
It had been mere instinct to ignore it, to cower away from the thought of sifting through them.
Except.
Paige had looked so hurt.
And as truly unnatural as it were, Azzi could not help the guilt that crawled over her body now.
She had become taken with Paige, in whatever capacity that was, in such little time that she had known the woman.
That in itself was disarming, as there really was some truth in what the rumor mill pushed out: Lady Azzi Fudd was cold. Distant.
She picked her companions carefully, and her confidants even more cautiously.
She kept her circles closed, so how did this magnificently odd woman wriggle her way in so fast?
Azzi mused. Yes, she may be icy, but one could not deny that she bared her heart fearlessly to those she loved, those she trusted. She would rather put herself up for auction or face a chopping block than to hurt those she cared for.
That was fact.
In the end it was indeed Lightning that had won the race, and Paige had jumped up to embrace Lady Beth with such unbridled joy in her face, that Azzi was forced to look away.
She simply had to remedy this predicament.
-
Azzi often wished that social events could end once the main choice of entertainment had ceased. Unfortunately, this was never the case.
The ladies and lords of the town had gathered under a large open canopy, a glorified tent really, enjoying some refreshments and casual conversation to celebrate the occasion of the day. The horses and owners had left not long after the races had ended, but the elite must remain to suffer polite greetings and aching ankles.
Azzi shifted from foot to foot, limp at one of the many standing tables in the area, solemnly picking at the tiny sandwich bite that had been brought to her by one of the servers.
In her periphery she could see John, guzzling down some champagne. Sarah and Carol were nowhere in sight. To her left she was intensely aware of the tall lady with blonde hair, boasting her winnings to her companions around her. Paige had spotted her a while ago, both their eyes coming in brief contact before the blonde’s turned away. She did not beckon Azzi over, nor did she tilt her head in greeting.
No acknowledgement whatsoever.
The dismissal stung, but Azzi supposed it was warranted, considering the circumstances.
She waited one minute, maybe two, weighing in her options, before waltzing over to the group. Oh, she prayed she looked more at ease than she felt.
“Lady Azzi!” A woman with flowing auburn hair called.
“Lady Jane” Azzi greeted calmly, glancing over to where Paige stood for a moment.
Paige was smiling but remained silent.
Azzi continued. “How are you, Lady Jane? That race was thrilling was it not?“
“Oh marvelous, really. Did you know Lady Paige just collected on the winning horse?! We’ve been imploring her to tell us her secret. Maybe then next time we’d have better luck.” Lady Jane giggled.
Azzi stretched her lips up into a rakish smile. Well, what she hoped was a smile.
“Ah yes, she did indeed advise me to pool my own money into that tote. I really ought to have heeded her.”
The ladies chuckled harmlessly as Paige finally spoke up.
“Yes, I suppose you should have.”
That was all she was willing to share with Azzi, but that was all the opening the curly haired lady needed, in order to set her plan into action.
“Actually ladies, I do apologize. I simply must nab Lady Paige for a moment, we had been in the middle of discussing a matter before the races had begun, and I lost her in the hustle and bustle of it all.”
The ladies nodded politely and made themselves scarce.
Azzi turned to leave, motioning to Paige to join her.
Paige looked on with an inquisitive expression, before indeed following the brunette’s lead, out of the canopy and beyond, towards the fencing that surrounded it. The pair stopped by a patch of grass at the entrance gates, far enough that they would not be overheard by the party.
Azzi’s dress blew in the wind. The sun had begun to set as the day folded in on itself, the evening chill creeping into the air in its place. She turned to face the silent woman beside her. Paige’s hair had come loose from her pinnings, evidently from the force of her enthusiasm of the day’s events. Two golden locks framed her face perfectly, the blue of her irises somehow brighter in the fading light.
Azzi swallowed before beginning.
“Paige, allow me to apologize to you.”
The woman in question simply looked on, her pupils locked onto Azzi’s face while she spoke.
Oh, how Azzi wished the blonde would smile at her, even the usual teasing smirk would suffice. The rapt attention felt spotlighting, and Azzi had sudden stage fright. Still, she knew she must continue. She needed to get through to Paige that she was in actuality, sincere.
She grabbed Paige’s hands in her gloved ones, imploring.
“Please you must believe this. I did not mean to become so bitter towards you, or to hurt you. You have been nothing but wonderful to me, and I have cherished every moment I have spent with you thus far.”
Paige softened under her palms. Her expression shifted too, opening into something more familiar, lighter.
“Azzi, it’s alright-” She began, but Azzi only cut her off.
“No, I was cruelly harsh in avoiding you, I mean how rude? I was unreasonable, and I understand, that you are angry. I just wish for you to know that, well, I am sorry for how I treated you these past few days.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t really understand it myself why I acted so childishly...” She trailed off, before catching her own rambling.
Paige stood there ever patient, just observing.
“What I mean to say is, I was acting foolishly, and I misused your kindness towards me. I vow to you; I shall never do that again! I do regret it so very much. What a joy your friendship has been to me, and I do truly care for you.”
Oh my, what a spluttering mess she had made of herself. Paige must find her rather pathetic in such a position now.
Paige squeezed her hands and finally, finally, a sliver of a smile dawned on her face.
“I am not angry at you Azzi, though I must admit I was confused as to why you suddenly disliked me so.”
Azzi cut the woman off again with a shake of her head.
“No, I could never dislike you. I could never imagine it even. In fact, I have felt nothing but shame in how I have avoided you.”
“Please Paige, do forgive me? I have missed you terribly.”
The vulnerability of her admission caused Azzi to drop Paige’s hands and cross them over to hold her arms.
Paige dropped her head and shook it once, though the smile she had tried to hide peeked through for Azzi to catch.
“Of course I forgive you” she said as she looked back up, directly into Azzi’s eyes. The clarity in them stilled her, and Azzi couldn’t help but beam at the woman in front of her. For a breath in time, neither spoke, a softness falling over them both.
A gust of wind blew the pair out of their shared moment, the crisp air certainly catching on in the weaning rays of sun. Azzi let out a shiver.
“If we stay out here any longer, I really may fall ill from the chill.”
Paige laughed, then motioned towards the tent. “Come on princess, we ought to return to the party any way.”
Azzi rolled her eyes, relieved that Paige had resumed her incessant teasing.
“I’m no princess!” She exclaimed but fell into step with Paige as they trailed back towards the crowd.
Paige simply shrugged, grinning.
“Well, you had me fooled.”
-
That day at the races had only drawn the two even closer than before. The unexpected pair seemed to have woven their lives together, spending as much of their free time as possible in each other’s company. There became a thread that tugged at Azzi, at all times of day, pulling her mind to Paige at all hours. What she may be doing right now, or how she would make Azzi laugh if she were with her in this moment.
And so, the women grew to fit into each other’s daily routines, winding themselves into the gaps in each other’s schedules. It became foreign to Azzi to be absent from Paige’s side, to not spend her free time with the other woman. She did not dwell on the matter, did not question the fact that her cheeks hurt from smiling more often than not after excursions with the charming blonde.
She simply could not help herself from being drawn to her, and so on most days, she ended up at Lady Beth’s home, or arm in arm with Paige strolling in the summer heat, as she was right now.
Paige chuckled easily alongside her, patting the hand that Azzi had wrapped lightly around her bicep.
They passed by the park, the usual busy town quiet in the midday lull.
Azzi had shown up to Hartford House in a loose blue dress, white gloves, and a sunhat in place of a parasol. The door had opened to an expectant Paige, not at all surprised to be called on such short notice.
Azzi in her usual way had been utterly shocked when Paige offhandedly mentioned that she had never participated in an afternoon luncheon at the famous eatery in town before or tried the elegant array of treats they offered there. She demanded they visit, as it was only proper that Paige should taste the delightful selection of food and drink, and promptly tugged her companion to town in order to make a reservation for this afternoon.
The booking was not until the next hour, but Azzi was too restless to sit in anticipation. Why wait when she could simply spend more time idling with her dear friend instead?
And so, Paige without question shrugged on a simple coat, a tweed sort of look that matched her pants perfectly. The two had set out towards Eden Park to soak up some sunlight, bask in each other’s company before heading to the eatery.
“The poor birds!” Azzi laughed, shaking her head at the kid who had been terrorizing the pigeons that flocked near the entrance of Eden Park.
Paige chuckled easily alongside her, patting the hand that Azzi had wrapped lightly around her bicep.
They passed by the park, the usual busy town quiet in the midday lull, before setting off on course towards the eatery once more.
The rooms were elegant in the establishment, an old manor converted into several dining areas, filled with ornate vases that overflowed with greenery and blossoms. The high windows and high ceilings only added to the charm, brightening the room and elevating the shine of the gold embellishments that decorated each surface. The walls were painted bright, in various shades of reds, or blues or greens.
The workers glanced at Paige more than once as the two waited to be seated, but they did not dare raise their voice in question. Azzi for one, was glad, as she really did not intend to spoil her own mood along with others on this occasion. She often recently forgot that Paige was still regarded as somewhat peculiar to the majority of the townsfolk, and it infuriated her that there were people that refrained from looking beneath the surface. How could they not see what a true kind spirited person Paige was? The bias was staggering in itself.
Paige seemed to pay no mind to the unwanted attention however, which allowed Azzi to relax somewhat into the chair by the table they had been shown to and instead turned her focus to the menu card set in front of her.
The two ladies ordered several tasting plates and choice of confectionaries, a platter to be shared between them both.
“I really cannot believe that you had not tasted such divine cuisine before! I shall be complaining to Lady Beth” Azzi teased, relishing in the joy that was evident in Paige’s face as she ate. There was something so refreshing in seeing her dear friend enjoy something that Azzi was rather fond of.
Paige swallowed her food and tilted her head at her, before looking out the window. “Yes well, I suppose I was raised on more practical foods. Whatever was grown around our estate was enough, along with whatever we did not export. And I must say I’m quite partial to it... but I do admit this is quite delicious too.”
Azzi hummed in agreement, though her mind slipped up a little. Paige had been raised so incredibly different from the life Azzi had led and known thus far. She was undoubtedly wealthy, and of high enough status, yet she seemed to share a lot more similarities to the way the common folk lived.
The thought did not disturb Azzi, not at all in fact. It simply intrigued her, and she found that she always had to barricade her inner curiosity from jumping out when it came to matters such as these with Paige. She wanted to pellet her with questions, a borderline interrogation in her attempt to know more, understand more, unlock more of who Paige was. She seemed to only more respect the woman the more she learnt, and Azzi Fudd wanted to learn everything there was to know about the ever-mysterious newcomer.
Not maliciously, as she had done not so proudly in the past. No this was a separate situation. A different sort of thirst. She wanted to know every little thing about the woman, until she read like an old book with worn pages, each indentation familiar and comforting.
“Tell me more about growing up in Lantry Paige. It must have been an incredibly different environment to our town.” Azzi prompted.
Paige startled a little at the question. But she must have noticed Azzi’s eagerness because she let out a soft smile. She dove into details of her time by the countryside; how she had private tutoring, and a sort of boyish childhood, but no remedial ladies’ classes. She spent most afternoons outside, touring the various properties that her father owned and managed, learning the business from a young age. She spoke of her parents, how her father was her closest confidant, and how she never quite had the chance to meet her mother who tragically died during childbirth.
With each story Azzi found herself leaning forward, completely enraptured in the woman in front of her and her various tales. How incredibly different was she, to Azzi and all the other ladies that had grown up under the scrutiny of the town, of the stipulations brought on by society here. How entirely unique and spectacular.
She almost wondered if Paige was a mirage, or a siren, a temptress sent to enchant her. Whatever it was, Azzi had been captured with no want for escape.
-
The heat in the town had reached new heights as the weeks stretched on and Azzi only found it increasingly harder to maneuver in her graceful but extremely restrictive garments. So much so, that she had started feeling envious of Paige’s form fitting but flowy attire.
She mentioned so to the woman in question; having spent one warm afternoon in the drawing room of her own home, shooing bees out of the large open windows with Paige.
Paige had looked down at her, cerulean blue peeking out from the rims of her glasses, and uttered a phrase that only caused Azzi to shudder.
“I have an idea.”
Azzi had been reluctant to agree, but eventually stepped into her carriage with Paige, who had refused to tell her the location they were heading to, on the principle of ‘surprises.’
That was how the two found themselves by the bank of a lake approximately 30 minutes from the town. There were large fields that stretched for miles beyond, only converging into woods after that. It was an area that was completely deserted, presumably from the shear heat of the day. Azzi could not help but wonder if they were fools for not heeding the same precautions.
What on earth did Paige have planned?
To sit by the bank? On what? They had not brought a blanket. And that would do nothing to relieve the tightness and discomfort that Azzi currently felt in her mint green corset.
In fact, the simple act of sitting felt like an extremely strenuous task right now.
The climbing temperatures had caused the beginnings of a sheen across her skin, and Azzi felt her mood plummet.
Vexed, she turned to the clueless blonde, whose free-flowing dress shirt felt like a bullet of insult.
“This was a terrible idea. Let us turn back.” Azzi voiced, as diplomatically as possible. She was rarely ever truly annoyed with Paige, and she did not want to show her irritation.
Paige smiled like she had predicted Azzi would say that which only grated on the shorter girl even more.
“Don’t you want to hear my plans first?”
“Not particularly.” Azzi replied shortly, lips pressed together in thinly veiled anger. It was simmering, and Paige really ought to consider what she said next.
Paige approached Azzi then, walking in close and infiltrating her personal space to lightly graze her waist with her hand. It was reproach, and a silent consolation.
“Trust me.” She said gently, and really that was an unfairly strategic move because how could Azzi refuse after that?
She rolled her eyes and waved Paige away, as if to say: get on with it.
Poorly concealed anger turned into pure shock as Paige stepped back and began to remove her clothing, peeling off her trousers; one leg after another.
“Paige!” Azzi cried out incredulously. She swiveled her head, but there was no one in sight. They were well and truly alone.
“What are you doing!” She continued, alarmed all the same.
Paige stood before her in simple linen shorts, her blouse loose and almost falling off her shoulder. She looked undone, sinful. Azzi wanted to peel her eyes away, from the skin of her legs, her creamy white-collar bones.
She was sweating now, but for a completely different reason than the hot summer sun.
Paige laughed at her, the rude and shameless person she was, before diving right into the lake.
Azzi’s mouth was left gaping at that.
Paige resurfaced, dripping from her hair in lake water. If Paige looked sinful before, this was another realm, another hell entirely. Beads of water caught the light, illuminating her hair, her eyelashes, her upper lip. The dress shirt clung to her body as wickedly as the way Azzi’s eyes seemed to.
Azzi scrambled to look away, flushed from ear tip to nose.
“Whatever are you doing?!” She exclaimed once again.
Paige splashed the water around her, the ripples dancing across the surface with the motion.
“Come on, Princess. Get in.”
“What!” Azzi stared at her incredulously. She surely could not be serious.
“The water is warm and pleasant, I think you will find it most refreshing” she grinned, unperturbed.
Azzi spluttered. “What- I can’t possibly- “
“Do you not know how to swim?”
“Of course I know how to swim!” Azzi shouted. “At bathing houses not... lakes!”
Paige laughed at Azzi’s horrified face. She swam closer to the bank and laid her arms on the surface. She tilted her head up to look Azzi in the face. Azzi could make out the droplets of water that had collected on the other woman’s eyelashes. It was all terribly distracting really.
“I assure you it is completely safe” Paige whispered conspiringly.
Azzi shook her head “and what if somebody sees?”
“There is nobody else here.” Paige spoke with such certainty, that there really left no room to argue. Azzi could only lift her arms slightly and let them drop in exasperation.
She was a weak woman in the face of temptation it seemed, if this was all it took for her to sigh ‘oh, alright’ and begin to unfasten her gown.
Paige watched on, a fact that Azzi was keenly aware of as she slipped her gloves off, along with her light chiffon shawl. Her eyes glanced up and connected with Paige’s.
It was the other woman’s turn to swivel her head away, caught. She brushed the loose, wet hair from her eyes and pushed off the bank to swim back towards the center of the lake, allowing Azzi the chance to undress with a semblance of privacy.
Azzi peeled off the layerings of bright silk, muslin and linen underskirts until she was in a simple white slip. The fresh air hit her bronze skin all at once, fanning out across her arms and neck. Azzi breathed deeply in reprieve, relief.
She placed her clothes on a low hanging branch on the nearby tree, cautious not to sully the delicate material. She also picked up Paige’s clothes from where they had been discarded uncaringly by the shrubbery on the ground. Speckles of dirt had already caught on the cotton, and Azzi tutted fondly, as she shook the grime off and hung them on the branch next to her own.
She approached the edge of the lake with a sense of trepidation, and dipped a toe in.
Paige must have noticed her hesitation because she shouted: “hurry up!”
Azzi groaned, but as she was never one to be considered a fearful creature, she lifted her skirt up to her ankles and waded in.
Paige swam right up to where she was trudging through the water, a satisfied smirk gracing her face. Her eyes trailed over Azzi brazenly, following the column of her neck down a little further before flicking back up. At least she had the gall to look a bit sheepish, scratching behind her ear once she noted that she had been caught looking. Again.
Azzi did not know what to feel about that.
“You told me the water was warm!!” She accused, hoping the tone of her voice would distract from the tinted rouge that caressed her cheeks, and ears.
Paige only smiled lazily at her. “You will get used to it” she tossed out, before dipping her hands in the clear pool of water and splashing at Azzi.
Azzi shrieked, then retaliated immediately, always compelled by a competition.
By the time the pair came to a truce, quite some time later, they were both panting and well…: sopping wet. They breathed out airy chuckles at the state they found themselves in, and Azzi could not help the warmth that bloomed in her chest. What an exhilarating afternoon, doing something so childishly simple with the rogue lady in front of her.
The lady in question extended her arms out, and Azzi placed her own in them without question. Paige reeled her in slowly, both women silent between the sounds of their heavy breathing and the slosh of water around them. Their fingertips had pruned and wrinkled in their fun, but that did not cause the touch to affect Azzi any less.
Behind her eyes flashed the last time they had been so proximally close, the dance they shared in the candlelight at the ball. She had believed that it was an anomaly, the chorus of her heartbeat that night, the buzzing in her throat and the thrumming of her shaking hands. But now, once again, the feeling had crept back. She could not blame the champagne this time, nor the dim lit atmosphere that may have feigned intimacy.
Paige was still holding her hands, the silence between them comfortable as they took each other in. Paige’s hair was free flowing and dripping, clinging to her milky white neck in stark contrast. It was far darker when dampened, almost bordering on a light coffee brown. Her eyes shone, as they usually did, the hues of blue that changed under natural light. Her lips were slightly parted, pink and full and tempting.
Azzi’s throat had gone dry. She had lost the ability to think. To force her mind onto any other topic than Paige, Paige, Paige. Perhaps her friends and brother were right… she had indeed become consumed by the mysterious lady of the town.
And what position had she found herself because of it?
If this tension continued for even a few seconds longer, Azzi would be sure to forget herself.
She licked her lips, attempting to diffuse the silence. A truly terrible idea, as the motion caused Paige’s eyes to dart to her lips, to follow the movement. Azzi wanted to groan. She had to speak. Anything to break the silence.
“Thank you,” she started, voice hoarse. “I believe I have never had so much fun in my life.”
Paige’s eyes flickered with something, meeting with Azzi’s own. Then they softened just a fraction, and Azzi was close enough to see the little crinkles that formed by the corners.
“I am glad.” Paige replied, with a reverence that caused Azzi’s stomach to flip. They were so close, if anyone were to see them like this- Azzi did not want to think of what would occur.
But somehow that worry that would usually be all-consuming, simply faded to the background of her mind; her mind that was currently occupied with the fact that Paige was bringing her hand up to her lips, was pressing said lips against it softly. She suddenly understood the myriads of ladies that talked about fainting and swooning. Paige was so unusual, and so charming, that it was disorienting. Azzi could hardly tolerate it.
“You’re extraordinary.” She breathed and Paige laughed once in disbelief.
Azzi took offence. “I mean it!” She insisted, “you and your odd charm. You never fail to surprise me; I never know what outlandish thing you are going to say or do next!”
Paige shook her head, shaking with silent laughter. Azzi had pressed even closer in her efforts to convince Paige, though unaware of that fact. She reached over and placed the palms of her hands on either side of Paige’s face, resting on her cheekbones. Azzi restrained herself from pressing her fingertips in, to feel the flex of the skin there, the taut fit of her jaw beneath her thumb. She ripped her mind from the idea, back on what she wanted to say.
“You’re marvelous, Paige, and I am so incredibly lucky to bear witness to it.”
Paige’s face tinged pink, the same color as her lips.
“I was rather worried that you may tire from me soon enough” the taller lady admitted, “I felt you would become bored of me within a week and find amusement elsewhere.”
Azzi was horrified. “How could you say that? Paige you are far dearer to me than that.” Azzi searched those blue eyes. She dropped her hands to settle on Paige’s shoulders until she felt satisfied that the blonde believed her words.
“After all, I thought we were friends.”
She smiled softly at Paige, squeezing her shoulders in reassurance.
Paige smiled back, a mix of embarrassment and gratitude sketched across her face.
“We are.” She said definitively, and Azzi was satisfied with that answer.
Paige steered them back towards the edge of the lake, and Azzi followed willingly. The hours had slipped away quickly, and Azzi would have to return home soon.
She just prayed that when Zana took her clothes away to be cleaned tonight, she would not notice the scent of lake water that was sure to coat the slip dress and corset.
-
There were days when the two ladies simply reveled in each other’s company, not necessarily in conversation with one another, but just sharing space.
Azzi was a woman who had learned how to command a room by her presence from a young age. As the lady of the Fudd household, she held the responsibility to carry that name with a fierceness and dignity. And so, most of the town had known Azzi to be a keenly bold woman, never one to shy on the fringes of society events, but instead one who liked to share her aptitude of the arts, of the ladylike responsibilities that she had mastered in. She was the epitome of a graceful but forceful lady, with an eye for discernment. She was respected, a coveted and open member of the town for whomever sought her company.
That is all to say, Azzi was outgoing, and unafraid of attention. And yet, in her truest form, she was a quiet woman, who loved to read and enjoy nature more than anything else. She preferred the freshness of their countryside house as opposed to the busy town. She valued peace, even over gossip, a fact that would be sure to surprise the other ladies who had been in her midsts.
She portrayed herself as she always had to be: a magnetic bachelorette and a kind confidant, a popular name between the highest classes. And yet there were corners, edges of her being that remained unseen, unknown to so many.
So it was this she enjoyed most, when spending time with Paige; the ability to stretch out on the sofa and pour into the worlds in whatever book she had borrowed from the library at Hartford House, of course having received permission to rifle through whatever lay on the bookshelf. She wandered through many tales of anguish and delight, grappled with several philosophical ideologies, sitting across from where Paige worked at her desk, in the study.
Paige often had some business to attend to regarding Lantry, accounts that needed overseeing and letters that had to be written and sent. She worked quietly, intently, but always pausing for a break to ask after whatever book Azzi had been reading that day. Sometimes Azzi would read aloud to her, in the moments when Paige’s eyes would droop with tiredness. She would pat the seat next to her own, and allow Paige to curl towards her, almost touching, as she soothed the blonde girl’s frown with her words.
There were other days, like the one in this moment, where Azzi coaxed Paige out of the study, convinced her to take her business to the drawing room, where Azzi could practice and play pianoforte while she worked. It was an easy rhythm between them, not one that required many words at all.
It was soothing, it was peace.
Azzi had been working on perfecting one of the newer pieces she had learnt, a delicate composition by Liszt. Paige had taken a pause from where she sat reading a letter, still enclosed in her hand, to watch her play. She was wearing glasses, the kind she always wore while working, the ones Azzi secretly found to fit on her face in quite an agreeable manner. That is to say Azzi thought she looked saccharine and warm. The moment was beautiful, but brief, as the lady of the house - Lady Beth herself - burst into the room unannounced.
Azzi flinched at the sudden creak of the door, stalling her hands mid-tune. Paige looked as if she had been burst from a bubble, startled out of a daydream perhaps.
“Oh, lady Azzi, you have joined us again today!”
Azzi smiled amiably at the plump and cheery woman, bowing her head to address her.
“Good afternoon, Lady Beth. I hope you do not mind my playing.” She motioned to the pianoforte in front of her.
Lady Beth waved it off. “Of course not dear! No, no. I am simply surprised to see you here for the, what, third time this week I think it is?”
Azzi blinked.
Slightly awkward, Lady Beth continued. “I mean it is surprising to see such a vibrant young lady like yourself cooped up in here, and though I am sure Paige appreciates the company, you surely must yearn for a chance to promenade with the other ladies?”
“Oh, I do not mind much, Lady Beth,” Azzi assured. “I am perfectly content where I am.”
Paige chuckled, which earned a glare from the curly haired lady. Thankfully she was tactful enough to attempt to cover her amusement with a cough.
Unfortunately, she had garnered lady Beth’s attention, who started on her next.
“Paige you really out to do more with yourself. I know you are busy but as I have told you several times: society waits for no one! although if you insist on being stubborn, at least encourage lady Azzi.”
Azzi squinted.
“She has so many prospects, too many in fact, to be wasting her time galivanting with you… or whatever it is that you two do.”
Paige was admirably stifling another laugh, pressing her lips into a thin line while nodding to Lady Beth’s words.
This was not a common occurrence, and Azzi was taken aback by the brazenness in which Lady Beth spoke. Though it had been made clear that this was a conversation the (usually jolly) Lady of Hartford had many times with Paige before. She watched on in silence, unwilling to participate until she understood what exactly was at play here.
“You must not hold Lady Azzi back,” Lady Beth continued, almost admonishingly, “for I am not the only one to notice her absence about the town as of late.”
She regarded Azzi once again, stern as ever. “I don’t suppose you’re aware of what they have begun writing in the papers about you?”
Azzi raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t tend to concern myself with gossip columns ma’am.”
A lie. Azzi was only human, and naturally she indulged in a good scandal every now and then. She had even written to a column of the sort not too long ago. The truth was that she had been so occupied with spending time with Paige, along with her naturally busy course of evening societal events, that she hadn’t a moment to catch up with the current scandalous affairs.
A missight on her part, apparently.
Lady Beth bristled. “Well. You know my Paige. Ever so peculiar and stubborn in her ways. There have been rumors as to why you have chosen to lock yourself away with her day after day. They’re worried that she is influencing you. A Fudd, to be dissuaded from marriage, to become a spinster. How horrible! There is also hinting to well… some other distasteful business... which I assure you no one believes, but surely you must know that people are beginning to worry. They are beginning to whisper.”
Azzi must have eaten something rotten. That could be the only explanation for the ill feeling that erupted in her stomach at the words as Lady Beth spoke. She chewed on her lip as she grappled with the newfound information, the unwelcome knowledge that had been thrust in her lap.
But even more so, she was shocked by the disgust in Lady Beth’s voice. She had never been a formidable woman, and rarely ever showed that she had a backbone at all. But the way she spat out the last two sentences had been venomous, angry.
Azzi was a formidable woman. She was never deterred by the words or disdain of others. But something about the situation made her feel small. Uncomfortable. She felt as though she were a wriggling worm, above which a sole of a shoe threatened to fall, to crush her. The room seemed like it had shrunk by three sizes. She felt as if she were being stripped naked and on display.
She wanted to cry.
Paige, who had been silent throughout the entire monologue, cleared her throat. “Aunt B,” she began, reproach evident in her voice. But Lady Beth fixed her with a warning look. Paige opened her mouth to continue, but Lady Beth held up a hand to stall her in her tracks.
They battled silently, and Azzi could only count the seconds in her head.
Eventually, Lady Beth sighed. Conceded.
She looked at Azzi with less than kind eyes however and said one final thing before leaving the room swiftly.
“I cannot have this coming back on my name, Lady Azzi.”
That, Azzi supposed she could respect. Though she did feel that Lady Beth had lost all fondness towards her, had looked at her as if she were something sullied, she could understand the lady’s fears. She wasn’t a bold enough woman to stand up to the stringent nature of the town. She was the type that cowered, fell in line. This was probably as much confrontation as the woman could muster, and so she had said what she felt needed to be said.
And yet, irrationally, Azzi still wanted to cry. Lady Beth had become a kind figure in her life, and though she would never say she had been close with the woman, her kinship had been welcome. Now Azzi was sure she herself was not so welcome in this house. How unfortunate. And for what? It had not even been in Azzi’s control. Suppose this is what she earned, when she allowed herself to get comfortable. To get close. To feel…
Paige approached the bench at which Azzi was sitting at, staring forlornly at the keys where her hands still lay.
She sat next to Azzi, and the warmth of her closeness immediately brought Azzi a sense of relief. she melted into the touch.
The blonde rest her left hand on top of Azzi’s right one, a featherlight touch, coaxing and gentle, and a little hesitant all the same.
“Don’t pay her any mind” she whispered.
Azzi looked at Paige then, offered her a watery, grateful smile.
Paige’s consolation was kind, and comforting, but it did nothing to tear the worry out from where it had rooted.
Azzi had a feeling she would be limited in her visits to Hartford house from now on.
-
Spending more time at home had some benefits, Azzi supposed, if successfully recruiting Zana in her efforts to tease and bully her brother John was considered as one. They had taken turns in hiding various items of his; a pocket watch he was quite fond of, or a hat that he wore to work daily.
It caused John quite a lot of grief and so brought Azzi an enormous amount of joy; juvenile as it were. Yes, spending time with her family was truly one of Azzi’s most cherished joys, and though Zana was technically a ladies’ maid, she had been with the family since Azzi was but a child, and so Azzi looked to her as an elder sister almost.
Sarah had asked once, whether Azzi considered Zana a maternal figure, and Azzi had shaken her head vehemently. It was not out of any disrespect for the woman of course, it was just that Azzi had already had a mother. She may not be with them any longer, but she had been enough. Azzi did not seek nor need another.
Her father never remarried, and so the smallish family grew only closer with age. Oh, how she missed her father now, he had been gone for quite some time already.
It was a topic she brought up during dinner that night, confiding in John across the table as the servants cleared their plates for dessert. She secretly hoped it was a pie of sorts.
“John, have you heard any word from father? I do miss him very much.”
John nodded as he cleared his mouth on a napkin. “Yes, he writes that he yearns to see us both, and he thinks of you daily.” He rolled his eyes. Azzi grinned at him. It was well known that Lord Fudd had a particular fondness, or soft spot one could say, for his daughter.
“When is he to return?”
“He did not say. Though I believe it will be soon. They have almost settled matters by Chester House.“
This answer appeased Azzi a little. With her mind in a turmoil regarding a certain lady and her aunt, she wished for a distraction. The simplicity of family.
“Oh and also, Az,” john snapped her out of her thoughts, “Zana mentioned you will need a new wardrobe piece for the Ducharme’s ball next week. I have allocated her a sizeable sum, though I do not know how much these things cost… father usually allows you to handle such things. But you have been so busy I don’t believe you have yet found the time for this.”
He tilted his head at her conspiratory and winked.
“Zana said she has picked out fabric that she is sure you will be pleased with, so you must accompany her to the dressmakers tomorrow to get fitted in time for the ball.”
Azzi waved him off. “yes, yes, alright. I’ll surely be there bright and early.”
God how taxing it is to be a lady sometimes.
-
Madam Fontaine’s dress shop was the most renowned in town, known to carry the latest French fashion that every elegant lady of the town sought to clad herself with. On top of that, the owner and dressmaker was a particularly talented elderly woman, with a knack for precise hems, embroidery and stitching. The woman’s hands were magic it seemed, as she never failed to deliver perfection even amid the constant demands from the town’s richest families. Never once had she failed to finish altering a gown on time, nor had she ever compromised on quality. She was a trusted figure, all in all.
Azzi quite favored the businesswoman, for although she had aged considerably since Azzi had first greeted her as a child, she still carried herself with a sense of grace and a twinkle in her eye. She had a dry sense of humor which Azzi particularly appreciated, and though her dark tight curls had almost all filtered to grey, she still wore it in the most fashionable ways. Azzi had often been inspired, not simply by her hair but her fashion as well. she was a forward thinker and never let the town’s opinions nor her age diminish that.
She would always embellish Azzi’s clothing in some way; a unique style that incorporated her family crest or made room for a well-known heirloom to be displayed. She never spoke ill of her customers, at least not to the others, but never shied away from a controversial topic, often engaging Azzi in whatever news the current affairs brought about. She was patient with antsy mothers, and ever kind to the incorrigible crying babies.
As high demand as she were, she had a policy that had not budged for over 20 years. Every day at noon, she closed the shop for an hour to spend luncheon with her husband. so many years together and yet they did not tire of each other’s company. Azzi admired it, more than she liked to admit. She still did not understand exactly the excitement surrounding love and similar topics, but she supposed if anything, love ought to look something like this.
So indeed, as Azzi stepped foot into the marvelous boutique, as she greeted the dressmaker with a kiss on both cheeks, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat at home here.
The shop was large in itself, separated into different rooms. One for the rolls upon rolls of silks and other fabrics, a sensory delight to the eyes as they caught on vibrant colors and various exotic patterns. There were other rooms in which apprentices worked, for lower class gowns and daily attire. She had an office to herself, as she claimed she only trusted her own skills for the finest and most exquisite gowns, the type made for special occasions. Through the corridor towards the back, there were more rooms, each filled with ladies who were being fitted into their dresses, staring into mirrors as alteration measurements were taken.
Each room had been decorated, with paintings and souvenirs from Madam Fontaine’s travels mounted on the wall. the place was full and brimming with a life well lived. It was cozy yet not cramped. Even the reception table lay display to fun and fancy trinkets. Azzi breathed in the air as she was led into one of the fitting rooms.
Zana trailed in behind her, discussing the various fabrics she had sent to be sewn beforehand. Azzi stepped behind a folding screen as Zana helped her out of her current dress. She handed Azzi a robe to wear as she awaited the dresses in question.
Madame Fontaine returned after some time, several dresses in hand to display one by one. A light sweeping blue piece, with hand sewn beads and pearls that trailed towards the hem of the dress. A soft pink option that had been overlain with lace, with darker pink accents that shone through the underskirt. Finally, a vibrant lilac purple number, the bodice bejeweled with tiny crystals. Like the pink dress, the purple also had several darker underskirts that added a flair to the simple style.
Azzi admired each one, in awe of the craftsmanship. These were absolutely her colors, and Zana had chosen well. She told Zana just that, who smiled proudly in response.
And so, the more tedious part of the process began, as Azzi tried on each dress. One by one, each layer fitted on, measured to be exact, and any alterations needed were noted. Corsets were tightened and unfastened, or swapped for different styles so as to match whatever dress she wore.
Azzi squinted in the mirror each time, scrutinizing herself and her looks as Madame Fontaine and Zana waited on her approval. It was times like this she wished she had her mother to guide her. She could not truly know what looked good if she did not have a second opinion, and ideally one that was not being paid from her family’s pocket.
She had slipped out of the second gown, not dissatisfied but not entirely certain if it were right for the occasion. The Ducharme ball was certainly esteemed, and so her appearance required perfection. Not to mention the fact that she had been travelling into uncharted unfavorable territory, if what lady Beth had to say were to be believed. She needed to make a good impression. The right impression. And although that should come from character as opposed to looks, Azzi knew better than to dismiss fashion in such a manner. What she wore to that ball would matter, and she could not be the topic of another scandalous talking point, as rare as it were for her.
She splayed her fingers out on the bodice of her loosened corset as she gazed at herself in the mirror, regarding herself with an air of frustration.
Zana and Madame Fontaine had disappeared momentarily before this, attempting to find a glove, shawl or some other accessory that may please the Lady for the final dress that she had yet to try on. unbeknownst to either party, they had left the door more than a slip open, and Azzi was too preoccupied to notice as a draught creaked the door open just a fraction further.
She twisted around, this way and that, imagining the final dress on herself, willing that it would be the right one. She had been smoothening out her underskirts, when a rapt knock on the door startled her out of her musings.
Through the mirror she was surprised to see Paige, peeping in with a small grin. Her eyes widened, having not turned around yet, still looking through the glass of the mirror.
“Paige! I did not expect to see you here!”
In her delight, Azzi had forgotten to be embarrassed at the state of undress she was in. Paige had indeed seen her in less clothes that day by the lake not long ago, but this was a relatively different manner. They were in public here, in a way. Lady Beth’s voice echoed in her head.
Yet, she did not cower nor throw the other woman out. She beckoned her inside in fact, and Paige did not hesitate to accept the invitation.
“My dear aunt mentioned that she needed a couple of alterations this morning and invited me along. Though I do suspect she is secretly hoping I would suddenly develop a fondness for frocks and gowns.” Paige explained, not unkindly.
Azzi wrinkled her nose at the prospect of Paige being paraded around in a dress, imagining the discomfort of the woman she knew to value the freedom her trousers gave her. The action made Paige laugh, and the sound travelled like a melody. Azzi felt warm.
“I must admit however, I find this place very quaint and charming.” Paige turned her head as she took in the room. “Perhaps I should get my pants tailored here.”
Azzi nodded approvingly. “Oh yes Madame Fontaine is the best dressmaker and designer in the country if you ask me, the most talented I have known.” It was high praise, but not undue. Now that she were to think of it, the idea of Paige frequenting here to get her shirts and pants fitted seemed only right. The place was futuristic; a true reflection of the owner herself.
She couldn’t help but think that Madame Fontaine would adore Paige, would be excited rather than judgmental of her unique style.
“I have yet to meet her, but I am keen to believe it” Paige replied, as she stepped closer to Azzi. “You here to add to your own wardrobe I assume?”
Azzi sighed, a tad more forcefully than the situation probably required. “Yes, but unfortunately I have yet to try on one that truly works for the Ducharme ball next week.”
Paige looked to the pile of discarded dresses on a chair in the corner of the room, then to the lilac gown that hung untouched by the folding screen. She eyed the dress, then looked back at Azzi through the mirror.
“Try that final dress before you give up hope. I believe it might be the one.”
Azzi chewed her lip, unsure. Her confidence in this particular session had dwindled, and she no longer trusted her own judgement.
“Maybe it’s simply best to give up now and return with Caroline for her suggestions tomorrow.”
Paige shook her head. “Trust me, try it on.”
Well if she seemed so certain, Azzi supposed she could stuff her disappointment down one more time to try on the gown.
“Fine.” She relented, not without another sigh.
Paige waited. Azzi simply stared at her from the mirror. Surely Paige didn’t expect her to try on the gown this very second? She could hardly lace her own corset, maneuver her way to the dress and fit it on, then waddle her way back to the mirror herself.
Azzi watched as the realization dawned on the other woman in the room, endeared by the way she bowed her head and scratched her ear after the thought had clicked. “Right.” She muttered to herself, slightly abashed. Nevertheless, she shook it off, the ever-present confidence reemerging once more.
“Anything I can do to be of service?” she questioned, eager to aid Azzi in her current predicament.
Azzi was feeling generous, and so she nodded. “My corset?”
“Of course.”
It was only then that Azzi became aware, as Paige stepped close behind her back, the diminishing distance between herself with this enticing woman yet again. Paige once more, had taken over her senses, her personal space, and she could only revel in it.
She could hear Paige’s shallow breathing, but only barely over her own rising palpitations.
The fingers that brushed the fabric on her back as they fiddled with the satin string. The light scent of orange blossoms that enveloped her.
God they were so close, and Azzi allowed herself the indulgence of staring at Paige through the mirror as she worked, eyes tracing the wrinkles between her brows as she concentrated. She instructed Paige to pull the corset tighter, and chuckled when Paige did so with incredible delicacy, as if she were afraid to jar Azzi, afraid to cause her unease.
The tingly warm sensation that happened whenever Azzi was around Paige had returned, she noticed with affection.
When Paige was satisfied with the product of her labors she straightened up, but did not back away from the shorter woman.
Instead, she met Azzi’s watchful eyes with her own.
Then tentatively, she ghosted her hands around Azzi’s waist. Azzi’s breath stuttered. Her heart began its rampant drumming once more. Oh how unfairly affected was she by a single non-touch. It was teasing, it was cruel. She had no idea what to make of it.
Unable to bear the tension anymore, Azzi whipped around to face Paige, gasping by how close they came to be by the action.
Somehow, the pair had ended up closer than they ever had before, and Azzi would only have to tilt her head slightly forward for their noses to brush. The thought of that buzzed beneath her veins, tingled in her brain. Her legs felt almost weak, as the two searched each other’s faces, as their eyes flickered between lips and eyes.
Paige looked so incredibly beautiful, so entirely inviting, that Azzi couldn’t help but want. What it was she wanted, she did not know. Although when Paige’s eyes landed on her lips for the fourth time, she grasped onto an idea.
“How’d I do?” Paige murmured, barely a breath.
Azzi’s stomach was knotted, her heart hammering wildly. She wanted. Oh, she so wanted.
She wanted Paige. Closer than this, more than this.
Azzi tilted forward, slowly. She caught Paige’s eyes fluttering shut, before her own followed in suit.
Her lips brushed Paige’s, only slightly, but the sensation jolted within her body. Her mind slotted out and then back in within itself. She could feel the exhale of Paige’s breath hitting her bottom lip.
More.
She surged forward and captured Paige’s lips within her own.
‘God finally’, was the only running thought in her head, along with the now familiar hum of more, yes more.
Paige’s lips were soft, and tasted oh so sweet, and Azzi felt dizzy with the feeling of it all.
Paige’s hands scrambled for her waist as she pulled Azzi in eagerly, kissing her back with just as much enthusiasm. The thought would have made Azzi smile, if her lips weren’t so occupied. Her own hands wound their way up to Paige’s neck, then face, bracketing her mouth in between them.
It was everything, the way Paige kissed her, the way she gripped Azzi tightly as if she needed her as close, as badly, as Azzi needed her.
They broke apart all too soon, both of them breathing heavily. The air buzzed around them, crackling and alive. Azzi half wondered whether this was a cruel sort of dream.
Paige shook her head with a short smile of disbelief before she tilted down for more.
This time, her hands wandered, and Azzi flushed with a sudden wave of warmth, a hotness that spread throughout her body. All at once she deepened the embrace, kissing Paige feverishly.
This was what being truly contented felt like. She could live in this moment for eternity, it seemed.
Eventually Azzi retreated, with Paige chasing her lips before relenting. The two ladies gazed at each other for a moment, and Azzi traced her thumb along Paige’s cheekbone before dropping her hand and reluctantly stepping back. It was the very last thing she wanted to do, and oh how it ached her to do it, but Zana and Madame Fontaine had been gone for some time and would surely be returning within mere seconds.
Paige dropped her hands from Azzi’s waist, still watching her with glazed eyes and a look of wonder etched across her face.
Unable to help herself, Azzi leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of the pale woman’s mouth before stepping away to face the mirror and collect herself once more. The world had shifted beneath her feet, and she had to pick at a loose string on her skirt to still the tremor in her hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Paige, evidently struggling even more to return to reality, muttered confusedly. “For what?”
Azzi breathed a laugh. “The corset.”
That shook Paige out of her blissed state, and she winked. “Anytime for you, princess.”
Azzi rolled her eyes and began to shoo Paige away, who regretfully vacated the room, muttering something about how she must return to Lady Beth.
Now alone, Azzi stared at herself in the mirror with wild eyes. the reflection reminded her of an animal, ravenous. She breathed in deeply, and out ever so slowly.
A tiny curve stretched across her mouth. A curling smile. The victorious kind.
Even when Zana and Madame Fontaine returned, arms cluttered with several broaches, shawls and hair accessories, Azzi could not shake the small smile from her face.
She found that she did not quite want to.
-
Later that evening, when Azzi had returned to her room where a lilac dress sat in the corner, encased in a cream box and pink ribbon, she couldn’t help herself from running the pads of her fingertips over her lips.
If she closed her eyes, if she travelled back in her mind to the dressmaker’s shop; she could still feel Paige there.
The walk back to her cell that night felt like a funeral procession for her future. Each step was a lead weight, the echo of her own footsteps on the concrete a mocking countdown to a life sentence she hadn't officially been given. The verbal write-up felt like a brand seared onto her permanent record, a scarlet letter that screamed 'unrehabilitated.' Seven months. That's all she had left to wait, a light at the end of a tunnel she had been crawling through for four years, seven months. And now, that light had been extinguished. Not by a violent act, not by a failed escape, but by a single, petty word spat in a moment of frustration. "Dipshit." It was so pathetic, so small, and yet it had the power to shatter everything.
Officer Clark was dead to her. Not just an obstacle, not just an annoyance, but a ghost. A non-entity. In the complex ecosystem of the prison, where guards were alternately predators, business partners, or inconveniences to be managed, Clark had just become a void. A black hole of spite that had sucked away Paige's future.
When she finally reached her cell, the door slammed shut behind her with a final, metallic clang that sealed her fate. She didn't even bother to undress, just fell onto her bunk, staring up at the ceiling, her mind a relentless, spinning wheel of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys.' She replayed the moment in the slot, the lazy smirk on her own face, the casual taunt. If she had just kept her mouth shut. If she had just walked out quietly. If she hadn't let that smug, self-satisfied doctor get under her skin. The anger wasn't just at Clark; it was at herself. She had been careless. She had underestimated the enemy, and in here, that was a fatal mistake.
Sleep was a distant country she no longer had a visa for. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the parole board, their faces a gallery of disappointment. She saw Governor Daley's triumphant sneer. She saw the years stretching out ahead of her, an endless, gray corridor of sameness, of fights, of loneliness, of the slow erosion of her soul until there was nothing left but the shell of the woman she used to be. The rage was a cold fire in her gut, a familiar companion, but tonight it was different. It wasn't the hot, empowering fuel she was used to. It was a cold, suffocating blanket, and she was drowning in it. Everything was going bad for her, and for the first time in a long time, Paige Bueckers felt a sliver of something she hadn't felt in years: despair.
The predawn quiet of the prison was a different animal from the chaotic noise of the day. It was a heavy, expectant silence, broken only by the distant cough of an inmate or the rhythmic shuffle of a guard's boots down the hall. Paige was already awake,5am her eyes open in the dim gray light filtering through the small, barred window of her cell. Sleep had been a fragile, elusive thing, offering no real rest, only a brief respite from the constant calculations of survival.
She slipped out of her bunk, her movements fluid and silent, a practiced skill from years of navigating a world where noise could attract the wrong kind of attention. She needed the shower. Not just for the grime of yesterday's fight, but for the solitude. The shower block was the only place where you could be truly alone, a temporary kingdom of steam and echoing water where you could think, or, more importantly, not think.
She was the first one there. The air was still cool, the tiles slick and untouched. She turned the knob on the farthest shower, the one against the wall, and the pipes groaned before spitting out a torrent of hot water. She stepped under the spray, letting the heat seep into her muscles, loosening the knots of tension that had taken up permanent residence in her shoulders and back.
As the water beat down on her, her mind, unbidden, drifted to Dr. Fudd. It was irritating, like a song she couldn't get out of her head. The woman with the calm eyes and the unshakeable composure. The one who had looked at Governor Daley, a woman who inspired fear in the most hardened inmates, and hadn't flinched. Paige had seen plenty of shrinks in her time, all of them clipboard-carrying automatons who saw her as a case file, a collection of symptoms to be managed. Dr. Fudd was different. She saw something else. And she had acted.
She got her out of the slot. Paige replayed the conversation in her head, the way Dr. Fudd had laid out the terms, the way she had stood up to Daley. It wasn't an act of kindness, Paige knew that. It was a strategic move. A power play. Dr. Fudd wanted a patient, a project, and Paige was the ultimate challenge. But still… she had gotten her out. She had given her a chance to get back on the chessboard instead of being locked away in a box where she couldn't protect herself, couldn't protect her crew. It was a debt. An annoying, complicated debt that Paige now owed.
Paige stood under the spray, her forehead pressed against the cold, tiled wall, the water plastering her hair to her skull. She was bugging the fuck out. Every muscle in her body was coiled with a stress so profound it felt like a second skin. She thinks much rather had stayed in the slot. In there, the enemy was clear, the walls were predictable. Out here, the walls had eyes, and the enemy was everywhere.
Her supply was cut. KK was not backing down. Big Sarah was banged up, her hands useless, and the rest of her crew were too small, too green, to hold back a tidal wave like KK. She needed to handle KK, but the how of it was a blank wall in her mind. She slid down the slick tiles, sitting on the floor as the water beat down on her head, a relentless, punishing rhythm. She let out a raw, guttural scream of frustration, a sound swallowed by the hiss of the water and the echo of the tiled room. "Fuck, man!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "Fuck!"
She had to get to work. At the cafe. It was a joke, a pathetic irony, but it was a routine, and right now, routine was all she had. She shut off the water, toweled off with rough, impatient strokes, and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and a white tank top. She felt like showing off her tattoos today, a silent, visual 'fuck you' to the world that was trying to break her. The intricate ink snaked over her shoulders and arms, a story written in skin that she refused to let anyone read. She finished with the standard-issue prison uniform pants, the drab gray a stark contrast to the vibrant defiance of her torso.
She stopped at her cell first, tossing her towel onto her bunk with a careless flick of her wrist. The space felt empty without Sarah's reassuring presence. Then she headed to the cafe. The place was eerily quiet when she arrived, a fact that immediately set her teeth on edge. It was never quiet. She was alone in the main area, which was weird. She came out of the break room, tying the strings of a cheap, stained apron behind her back, when they appeared.
KK's three little amigas. They fanned out, blocking the exit, their faces smug and predatory. One of them, a wiry girl named Teresa, was holding a dumbbell, swinging it casually by her side. "KK's here to collect," the minion said, her voice a grating taunt.
Paige's eyes darted around the room, cataloging her options. There were none. It was a trap. She didn't hesitate. Her hand shot out, grabbing a heavy cast-iron fry pan from the rack. She swung it with all her might, a vicious, backhanded arc that caught the first person in her way squarely in the chest. The girl went down with a grunt, but the other two were on her instantly, grabbing her arms, trying to drag her down, to hold her for the beating they had planned.
Paige fought like a wildcat, kicking and thrashing, but it was three against one. She was losing her footing, her strength sapped by the sheer numbers.
Then, the door to the cafe slammed open with a bang that made them all jump. Nika Muhl strolled in, her expression a mask of cold fury. Aaliyah, her formidable sidekick, was right behind her. The dynamic shifted in an instant.
Nika moved like a phantom, grabbing one of the girls by the back of her hair and yanking her back so hard the girl screamed. She flung her across the room like a sack of laundry, where she crashed into a stack of plastic trays. Aaliyah, a blur of motion, grabbed the second one, pinning her arm behind her back and slamming her face down onto a table with a sickening thud.
In the chaos, Paige broke free. She scrambled up, grabbed a serrated steak knife from the counter, and was on Teresa in a flash, pressing the blade against the soft skin of her throat. "Stay the fuck away from me," Paige hissed, her voice low and lethal. "You understand?
Teresa's eyes were wide with terror. She whimpered, a pathetic sound.
"I don't hear you," Paige snapped, pressing the edge of the knife just a little deeper.
Teresa nodded frantically, a tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek.
Nika grabbed her girl by the collar, hauling her to her feet. "You heard her, right?" she said, her gaze flicking towards Paige, a silent question and answer passing between them. "Next time I catch you three around Paige, we're going to have a big fucking issue. You can tell KK that for me, too." She shoved the girl towards the door. "Get out."
The three amigas scrambled to their feet and retreated, their bravado gone, replaced by a primal fear.
The cafe was silent again, save for the sound of Paige's heavy breathing. Shit. That was wicked. If Nika and Aaliyah hadn't come in when they did, her ass would have been good as dead.
Nika walked over to Paige and held out her hand. "You good?"
Paige looked at her hand, then at her face. She saw no pity, no condescension. She saw a reflection of herself. She dapped her up, their knuckles connecting in a gesture of rough, mutual respect. "Yea, all good."
She was still skeptical about Nika from the first day she arrived, but the truth was undeniable. They were so alike it was almost scary. Paige noticed it now in the way Nika stood, the way she assessed a room, the way she fought with controlled fury. She didn't mind teaming up with her. She didn't trust her, of course not. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. But she had her back. And right now, that's all she could go on.
"KK's getting bold," Nika said, her voice low as she surveyed the wreckage of the cafe. "She's testing you. Testing all of us."
"She's testing me because she thinks I'm weak right now," Paige corrected, wiping a smear of blood from her lip with the back of her hand. "She sees Sarah's out and thinks my crew is fair game."
"She thinks wrong," Nika stated, a simple fact. "You can't take her on alone. Not with your crew scattered and Sarah out of commission."
Paige's jaw tightened. "I don't need a partner."
"Didn't say you did," Nika countered smoothly. "I'm saying you need an ally. Someone who can watch your back while you watch hers. KK's got numbers. We have brains. It's a better trade."
Paige looked at her, really looked at her. She saw the intelligence in her eyes, the strategic mind working behind the stoic facade. "What's in it for you?" Paige asked, echoing the question she'd posed to Dr. Fudd. "Why my fight?"
"Because her fight is my fight," Nika said simply. "She disrespected you in the yard. She burned Sarah's hands. She tried to jump you in here. It's not about you, Paige. It's about the order of things in this place. There's a line, and she crossed it. If we let her get away with it, we're all vulnerable. You, me, everyone."
Paige nodded slowly. It made sense. Cold, hard, prison logic. "So what are you proposing? A team?"
"A temporary alliance," Nika clarified. "We watch each other's backs. We pool our resources. We handle KK. Together. Once she's out of the picture, we go our separate ways. No hard feelings."
Paige considered it. It was a risk. Teaming up with someone as strong as Nika was like bringing two hurricanes together. It could destroy everything. Or it could level the playing field. She thought of KK's smug face, of Sarah's bandaged hands, of the feeling of the dumbbell swinging towards her head.
"Alright," Paige said, her voice firm. "We're a team. But you cross me, Muhl, and I'll forget we ever had this conversation."
"Fair enough," Nika replied, a flicker of a smile on her lips. "But you should know, Bueckers. I don't cross my partners."
Paige couldn't help but smirk. "Good to know."
The alliance was sealed in the wreckage of the cafe, a pact forged in blood and necessity. Paige still had a long way to go, but for the first time all day, she didn't feel like she was facing it all alone.
***
Dr. Fudd arrived at Wentworth at 9 a.m. sharp, the sterile scent of disinfectant a familiar morning greeting. Today, however, she wasn't headed straight for her office. She was on a mission. The injustice of the verbal write-up against Paige Bueckers had been gnawing at her since she'd heard about it from a passing orderly. It was a petty, vindictive move, and while she knew she shouldn't get involved in prison politics, it directly undermined her work. How could she convince Paige to trust the system when the system was so blatantly rigged against her?
Besides, she and Officer Clark had history. They weren't just colleagues; they were former rivals. Stephanie Clark had been the star point guard for Northwood High, a cocky, trash-talking leader who had sunk a last-second three-pointer to knock Azzi's team out of the state semifinals. The memory still stung, but it also gave her an in.
She found Clark's office down the administrative hall and knocked on the door.
"Come in!" a clipped, no-nonsense voice called out.
Azzi stepped inside. Clark was sitting behind her desk, filling out paperwork, her uniform crisp and her expression as severe as ever. "Hey, Stephanie. You got a minute to talk?"
Clark looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Not really, Azzi. I'm swamped."
"This will only take a minute," Azzi said, closing the door and taking a seat without being invited. "It's about Paige Bueckers. And the verbal abuse charge."
A flicker of something…triumph, maybe crossed Clark's face. "Go on."
"I was wondering if maybe you could reconsider," Azzi said, keeping her voice even and reasonable. "It seems excessive for what was essentially a minor outburst."
"What makes you think I would do that?" Stephanie asked, leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed defensively.
"Because I want to help her," Azzi stated plainly. "And in order for me to do that, I have to give her some confidence that she has potential to get out of here one day. A charge like this, especially one that blocks her parole eligibility, it's a death sentence to any progress I could hope to make."
Stephanie let out a short, humorless laugh. "Do you know how many people have tried to 'help' Paige Bueckers? Social workers, counselors, teachers... they all washed out. But maybe you're different. I have to admit, you've got more guts than the last shrink they sent in."
"I have confidence in my methods," Azzi replied smoothly. "And I believe she just needs the right mentor."
"I'll have to run that by the governor," Stephanie said, but her tone had lost some of its finality.
This was the opening Azzi was looking for. "And I'm sure you will," she said, leaning forward slightly. "But I was thinking... the Governor gave me the authority to run this new counseling program. It's my responsibility to ensure its success. The write-up came from you, from an interaction with my patient. Shouldn't it ultimately be my decision whether it's a barrier to her rehabilitation? I would think the Governor would want to give the program head some leeway in these matters."
Stephanie stared at her for a long time, her expression unreadable. The high school point guard was clearly running the plays in her head, weighing the risks and rewards. Finally, a slow smile spread across her face. "You always were a slick one, Fudd. Always knew how to work the angles." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Alright. Leave it to me. I'll... re-evaluate the context of the incident. I'll get back to you about Paige."
Azzi smiled, a genuine wave of relief washing over her. "Thanks, Steph."
As they walked out of the office together, the professional armor began to crack. "So, are you still playing any ball?" Azzi asked, falling into step beside her.
Stephanie snorted. "Are you kidding? The only running I do now is chasing down inmates who think they can outrun me. You?"
"Here and there," Azzi replied. "A pickup game at the Y on Saturdays. It keeps me sane."
"We should get a game in sometime," Stephanie offered, a hint of the old competitive fire in her eyes. "Remind you who the real queen of the court is."
Azzi laughed. "You'd need a wheelchair to keep up with me, Clark."
"In your dreams, Fudd," Stephanie shot back, but she was smiling. They chatted for a few more minutes about old teammates, about life outside the prison walls, a brief, normal conversation in the most abnormal of places. Then, with a nod, Stephanie went off toward the guard's locker room, and Azzi headed to her own office.
The relief she felt was quickly replaced by a familiar sense of determination. She sat down at her desk, pulled up Paige Bueckers' file on her computer, and began to read. She wanted to know every detail. Not just the charges and the sentence, but the reports from her time in juvie, the psychological evaluations from her first intake, the notes from every incident she'd ever been involved in. She cross-referenced dates, looked for patterns, for triggers. She wanted to understand the architecture of the woman, to see the blueprint behind the fortress.
***
Later that afternoon, a sharp knock echoed through Dr. Fudd's office door. Before she could even call out, it swung open, revealing Stephanie Clark leaning against the frame, a look of grudging concession on her face.
"Alright, Fudd," she said, her voice low. "I talked to the Governor. I'll drop the charge. But only if you keep the same agreement that got her out of the slot in the first place. Two sessions a week, minimum six months. She screws up once, the charge goes back on the record, and she's back in the slot. No questions asked."
A wave of relief washed over Azzi so potent it almost made her dizzy. "Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it."
"Don't thank me yet," Stephanie grumbled, pushing off the doorframe. "Now, let's go find your little project before she gets herself into another mess that I actually can't fix."
They found Paige in the prison library, a place of hushed whispers and the scent of old paper. She was seated at a secluded table in the back, her chair tilted back on two legs, her feet propped up on the edge of the table. Azzi spotted her first, and what she saw made her stop in her tracks. Paige's white tank top had ridden up, revealing her side, and she was tracing the lines of a large, intricate tattoo that snaked around her ribs. It was a phoenix, its wings spread, rising from stylized flames. Azzi hadn't even known she had tattoos. They had been hidden under long sleeves when they first met, and for some reason, Azzi was glad for that. It was one less thing to be distracted by. She quickly fixed her face, composing her professional mask just as Paige looked up and caught her eye.
A slow, knowing smirk played on Paige's lips. She immediately grabbed a book from the table, holding it up in front of her face and pretending to read. She didn't have time for Officer Clark's bullshit today, and she certainly didn't have time for the good doctor's probing gaze.
"Paige," Dr. Fudd said, her voice calm as she approached the table.
Paige lowered the book, but didn't put it down. "What do you want now?" she replied, looking Dr. Fudd directly in the eyes, the smirk never leaving her lips. She liked fucking with the doctor, for some reason she couldn't quite name. It was too easy, and the way the doctor's composure would flicker, just for a second, was a small victory in a world full of defeats.
"She's vouched for you," Stephanie said, stepping forward, her tone all business. "We both have. Don't make me regret it, Bueckers."
"Officer Clark has agreed to drop the charge," Dr. Fudd clarified, her gaze steady.
Paige's smirk faltered for just a moment before she caught herself. "Dr. Fudd seems to think you have potential," Stephanie continued, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Hope she's right."
"Well, Paige," Dr. Fudd said, ignoring the jibe. "You just have to attend our counseling sessions, and apologize to Officer Clark."
Paige tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. "Are you bullshitting me, Dr. Fudd?" she asked, her voice dangerously low. "Will I be able to go for my parole?"
"If you behave," Stephanie said, her voice firm.
Paige turned her full attention to Officer Clark, the shift in her focus so sudden it was almost physical. The playful defiance was gone, replaced by a chilling sincerity. "I'm sorry, Officer Clark," she said, her voice clear and steady. "It won't happen again."
Stephanie held her gaze for a long moment. "This is your last chance, Bueckers," she warned.
Paige got up, a slow, fluid motion. She turned to Dr. Fudd, and a real smile broke through her defenses. It was a brilliant, disarming thing, a flash of genuine warmth that was so contagious it made it incredibly hard for Dr. Fudd not to smile back. She failed miserably, a small, reluctant smile touching her own lips.
"I'll see you tomorrow at 11 o'clock, Dr. Fudd said, trying to regain her professional footing.
"Thanks, Azzi," Paige said, her voice a low purr, the smirk back in full force.
"Dr. Fudd," Azzi corrected, a little too quickly.
"Well, I prefer Azzi," Paige said, her eyes dancing with mischief.
Dr. Fudd just smiled awkwardly, a flush creeping up her neck. She turned and walked away before the conversation could get any worse, before she lost what little control she had left.
Paige watched her go, a deep sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. She could tell she was going to be getting under Dr. Fudd's skin, and she couldn't wait. This was a different kind of fight, a different kind of game. And for the first time in a long time, Paige Bueckers was looking forward to playing.
Soon it was time for lunch, so Paige went searching for Sarah. She wanted to check on her, see how her hands were healing. KK was a piece of shit, and she was going to get hers. Now that she had Nika on her side, she could see them becoming good partners, she couldn't lie. The thought was strange, a flicker of something other than pure self-interest, but it was there.
She found Sarah in the rec room, slumped on a worn-out couch, watching a crime show on the mounted TV. It was one of their things, a shared ritual they'd developed over countless afternoons. Paige sat down beside her, the couch cushions groaning in protest.
"How you feeling, Sarah?" Paige asked, her voice softer than it was with most people. "How's ya hands?"
Sarah let out a long, weary sigh, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Tired, P. Just tired." She gestured to her bandaged hands resting on her lap. "They hurt like a bitch, but the doc says I'll keep the fingers. Glad I'll be out of here soon, though."
Paige felt a pang in her chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Sarah confirmed, finally turning to look at her. "Of course I'm gonna miss you, you know that. But I'm done with all this bullshit. This life," she said, gesturing around the room, "it chews you up and spits you out. I got a niece I ain't even met. I'm ready to go be her auntie, not this."
Paige nodded, understanding completely. "I get it. I want out too. If I can keep my shit together for seven months, maybe I'll have that chance."
They got up and headed to the lunch line, their conversation a low murmur against the clatter of trays and chatter. Paige filled Sarah in on what happened in the kitchen with the three amigas, how Nika and Aaliyah had shown up out of nowhere. As she spoke, she saw the anger flare in Sarah's eyes, a protective fire that Paige knew all too well.
"They tried to jump you?" Sarah hissed, her hands clenching into useless, bandaged fists. "And I couldn't do a damn thing. P, you're like my big sister, and they tried to... I swear, when these hands are healed, KK's crew is gonna answer for it."
"I know, Rah," Paige said, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. "But we got it. For now."
When they walked into the lunch room, it was buzzing with energy, a chaotic symphony of shouts, laughter, and the clatter of cutlery. Her and Sarah joined the lunch line, the scent of mystery meat and boiled vegetables thick in the air. Paige had to go back to work later to do dinner service, a duty she was not fond of, but for now, she just needed to eat.
They grabbed their trays, piled high with grayish slop, and started looking for a place to sit. Sarah nudged her shoulder. "Look, P," she said, nodding her head towards a table in the far corner. Nika and Aaliyah were sitting there, and Nika was giving them a subtle wave, a clear invitation.
Sarah and Paige looked at each other, a silent question passing between them, before heading over. They joined them, the scrape of their trays on the table drawing the attention of the two women.
"Sarah, this is Nika and Aaliyah," Paige said, her tone businesslike. "Nika, Aaliyah, this is Sarah. My right hand."
"Or she was," Sarah said with a wry smile, holding up her bandaged hands. "Good to meet you. Thanks for looking out for my girl."
"Always," Aaliyah said, her voice a low rumble. "KK's been needing someone to put her in her place for a long time."
They all settled into an easy rhythm, properly introducing themselves, talking and getting to know each other. It wasn't a secret what they were all in for, different things but all stemming from the same life choices. But as soon as you walked through those gates, it was known what you were in for. The prison grapevine was faster than any internet. They all knew the unspoken rule, the one line you never crossed: if you harmed any kids or women, you were dead meat. It was a baseline of morality they all shared, a foundation for the strange alliances formed in this place.
Just as they were laughing at something Aaliyah said, the atmosphere in the lunch room shifted. KK and her crew walked in. They spotted all of them at the table, a unified front. KK's eyes narrowed, a flicker of calculation in them. For a moment, it looked like she was going to make a move, to start something. But then, she seemed to think better of it. With a jerk of her head, she decided to keep the peace and keep it pushing, leading her crew to a table on the other side of the room. It was a little suspicious, but maybe now that they looked like a real click, a united front, she was willing to move on. For now.
***
After lunch, they all headed to the yard, the afternoon sun baking the asphalt and concrete. They spread out, a loose-knit group claiming different pieces of the exercise equipment. Sarah found a bench in the shade, content to watch, while Nika and Aaliyah started in on the pull-up bars, their movements a synchronized display of strength. Paige was focused on her own world, a pair of dumbbells in her hands as she stood in front of the weight rack. The rhythmic burn in her biceps was a meditation, a way to channel the day's frustrations into something productive.
Suddenly, she felt a familiar prickle on the back of her neck. She glanced over and saw Dr. Fudd off to the side, talking to another inmate, a young girl who looked barely out of her teens. Paige could tell, even from a distance, that Dr. Fudd kept taking glances at her, quick, almost furtive looks between sentences. Paige looked down at her own arms, watching the muscles bunch and flex with each curl, the ink of her phoenix tattoo stretching and shifting with the movement. When she looked up again, Dr. Fudd was suddenly in her eyeline, standing a few feet away, a small, curious smile on her face.
"You have tattoos," Dr. Fudd observed, her eyes tracing the lines of ink on Paige's arms and shoulders. "Looks painful."
Paige stopped her mid-curl, holding the weight, and squinted at her. "Pleasure and pain, Azzi," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "Bet you can't wait to dig deep with me on that one."
"Oh, so you pained yourself for my benefit?" Dr. Fudd replied, her voice dry and amused, not missing a beat.
Paige's smirk widened. "I don't think so."
"Don't forget our session tomorrow," Dr. Fudd said, her tone shifting back to professional, though the smile remained.
"Counting down the hours," Paige said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She set the dumbbells down with a heavy clink and walked closer to Azzi, invading her personal space just enough to make it interesting. "Well, we need at least twelve sessions if you want it to look good for the parole board."
Paige leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "You're turning me on," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Then, just as quickly, she turned and started walking away, leaving Dr. Fudd standing there, momentarily speechless.
Dr. Fudd was on her heels in an instant. "I'd rather you be motivated than that," she said, her voice firm but flustered. "I want us to enjoy our time together, Paige. No games to be played. Don't think I'm going to go easy on you."
Paige stopped and turned around, a genuine laugh escaping her lips. "Damn, Azzi," she said, shaking her head in admiration. "You really know how to push a girl's buttons."
Dr. Fudd just shook her head, a small, helpless smile touching her lips despite her best efforts to remain stern. "See you tomorrow," she said, and walked away before Paige could say anything else.
Paige watched her go, a feeling of triumph coursing through her. She loved getting under the doctor's skin, loved seeing that flicker of composure crack. It was a new game, and Paige Bueckers was a master.
***
The knock on her office door was sharp, impatient, a perfect reflection of the woman on the other side. "Come in," Dr. Fudd called out, her pen poised over her notepad, her mind already prepping for the verbal chess match she knew was coming. The door swung open, and Paige Bueckers walked in, and for a moment, Dr. Fudd forgot every professional guideline she had ever been taught.
Paige wasn't wearing her usual long-sleeved uniform top. She had on a simple white tank top, and the tattoos Dr. Fudd had only glimpsed before were now on full display. They weren't just ink; they were a narrative. A sprawling phoenix rose from the flames on her ribs, its wings stretching across her back and over her shoulders. Intricate geometric patterns wove down her arms, intermingling with script and dates that were clearly significant. Dr. Fudd's eyes traced the lines before she could stop herself, a guilty flicker of appreciation for the artistry, for the story they told of pain and survival. She felt a flush of heat climb her neck and quickly forced her gaze to Paige's face, a silent reprimand for her unprofessional thoughts. This was her patient. A convicted felon. A woman who was, by all accounts, dangerous. And yet, the undeniable allure was there, a magnetic pull that both fascinated and unnerved her.
Paige didn't wait to be invited, she just flopped into the chair across from the desk, slumping down and draping one arm over the back, her legs spread wide in a posture of defiant ownership. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, a heavy sigh escaping her lips before she fixed her gaze on Dr. Fudd.
"I want to fucking kill her," Paige said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I can't stand the bitch. Is that honest enough for you, Az?"
Dr. Fudd leaned back in her own chair, a pen tapping lightly on her notepad, using the rhythmic motion to anchor herself. She didn't even flinch. "I can't put that in your parole board report."
"For you? For your little precious parole board?" Paige scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "KK fucked me over and Sarah, and that's how I feel." She shrugged her shoulders, leaning back even further, her hands folded over her stomach in a gesture of mock relaxation.
"I've heard the stories, Paige," Dr. Fudd said, her voice calm and steady. "About KK Arnold. You know she played you. So how does something like that make you feel?"
Paige just stared at her, her expression a blank wall.
"Come on," Dr. Fudd prompted gently. "Those walls won't talk back. I want to get into your head, Paige. I want to know everything."
Paige scoffed and rolled her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and slowly, deliberately, licked her lips. "Just my mind, Azzi" she said, her voice a low purr, the words a deliberate challenge.
Dr. Fudd decided not to entertain that particular path, not yet. She shifted gears smoothly, her mind racing to stay ahead of the curve. "Do you know how it feels to be top dog in here?" Paige asked, her voice losing its playful edge, becoming more serious.
Dr. Fudd shook her head. "No. Why don't you tell me?"
"It's all about surviving," Paige said. "Watching your back, making sure no one gets you, no one crosses you. You try to stay out of trouble, but it's hard. It is what it is." She leaned back again, her gaze direct. "I know what you're trying to do, Dr. Fudd. Poke at me, make me bite."
Dr. Fudd just smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. "I got more things to worry about than KK fucking Arnold," Paige said, a genuine smile finally gracing her face, a sight that was both disarming and captivating.
"Like what?" Dr. Fudd asked, her voice softer than she intended.
"Like getting the fuck away from this shitty hellhole," Paige replied. She slid her chair closer to the desk, the scrape of the metal legs loud in the quiet room. She finally took a look around the office, her eyes scanning the dark, wood-paneled walls. It was nice and secluded, no windows, a space that felt completely separate from the chaos of the prison. It was like they were somewhere else entirely. Paige looked back at Dr. Fudd, a slow, deliberate wink. "Nice office. No windows," she said, her voice dropping again. "I might enjoy coming here more often."
Paige smirked slightly, and Dr. Fudd huffed out a small, involuntary laugh, rolling her eyes. "Focus, Bueckers."
"Are you trying to distract me, or is this how you cope with vulnerability?" Dr. Fudd asked, her voice cutting through the haze, a desperate attempt to regain control of the session.
"Do you practice that calm voice, or does it only come out for me?" Paige shot back, her eyes glinting with challenge. "It throws me out of focus." She leaned in even closer, the scent of her soap and something uniquely Paige filling the space between them. "Honestly, I only got one thing on my mind," Paige smirked at Dr. Fudd, "and it's not revenge."
Dr. Fudd didn't know what to say to that. Paige was reckless with her flirting, like she didn't care about the consequences, like the very idea of a line was just a suggestion she could choose to ignore. It was disarming and infuriating all at once, and Dr. Fudd felt a dangerous thrill go through her.
"Okay," Dr. Fudd said, clearing her throat and sitting up straighter, trying to regain her composure. "Let's circle back to KK. The betrayal, the setup. How did that change the way you trust people in here?"
Paige's playful expression vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, hard mask. "It didn't," she said, her voice flat. "I never trusted anyone to begin with. She just proved I was right all along."
"But you trust Sarah," Dr. Fudd pointed out gently.
"That's different," Paige said, her jaw tight. "Sarah's family. You don't fuck with family. But business? Business is business. Everyone has a price. Everyone has an angle. KK's angle was saving her own skin. I respect the hustle, even if I hate her for it."
"So you don't feel betrayed? You just feel... outmaneuvered?"
"I feel like I should have seen it coming," Paige corrected, a flicker of anger in her eyes. "I got sloppy. I let my guard down. That's on me. Not her. Not KK. Me."
The self-blame was a wall, a fortress Dr. Fudd knew she couldn't breach with force. She had to find another way in. "Alright," Dr. Fudd said, making a note on her pad to hide the slight tremor in her hand. "We're out of time for today. But I want you to think about something. What would it take for you to trust someone again? Not just in here, but out there. What would that look like?"
Paige stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. She looked down at Dr. Fudd, a long, considering look that seemed to see right through her professional facade. "I'll let you know when I see it," she said, and with a final, unreadable smirk, she turned and walked out of the office, leaving Dr. Fudd alone with the scent of her perfume and the weight of her secrets. Dr. Fudd let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her heart pounding in her chest. This was going to be so much harder than she thought.
As the door clicked shut behind Paige Bueckers, Dr. Fudd let out a long, slow breath, the sound swallowed by the quiet of her office. She shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. She could feel trouble brewing, a storm gathering on the horizon, and its name was Paige Bueckers. But this wasn't the usual kind of trouble she was trained to handle. It wasn't prison trouble, not the predictable violence or the calculated power plays she could read in a file or deconstruct in a report. No, this was different. This was trouble for Dr. Fudd.
Paige was going to be a problem for her, a problem that went far beyond the scope of her professional duties. She felt it in the way her heart still hammered against her ribs, in the phantom warmth of Paige's proximity that lingered in the air. This was a dangerous, intoxicating kind of trouble, the kind that blurred lines and made her question her own carefully constructed boundaries. She had spent years building walls around herself, cultivating a professional distance that was as much a part of her as her own name. Paige hadn't just knocked on those walls; she had sauntered in, kicked her feet up, and was now redecorating the place with a smirk and a wink.
Dr. Fudd stared at her notepad, at the neat, tidy notes she had taken, and they felt like a lie. They didn't capture the challenge in Paige's eyes, the way her voice dropped when she was flirting, or the raw, unfiltered vulnerability that flashed through for just a second before being buried under layers of bravado. She was supposed to be helping Paige, guiding her towards rehabilitation and parole. But who was going to guide her? Who was going to help her navigate the treacherous waters of a patient who seemed determined to dismantle her, piece by piece, with nothing more than a well-placed lick of her lips and a knowing glance.
She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking in protest. She thought about the tattoos, the story they told of a life lived on the edge, of pain transformed into something beautiful and defiant. She thought about the way Paige's muscles flexed as she moved, a testament to a strength that was both physical and emotional. And she felt a pang of something she couldn't, wouldn't name. It was a mix of admiration, attraction, and a deep, unsettling fear. Fear that she was in over her head, that this wasn't a battle she could win, because Paige wasn't playing by the same rules. She was making up her own, and Dr. Fudd was terrified that she was starting to want to learn them.
***
Paige was practically giddy walking back to her cell, a light, buoyant feeling in her chest that was so foreign it was almost alarming. This was something new for her. She had spent years cultivating a carefully constructed persona, a mask of indifference and control that was her armor. She never flirted with guards or staff; it was reckless, a weakness that could be exploited. She wasn't reckless. But something about Azzi made her not give a fuck. It was like the doctor had reached inside her and flipped a switch she didn't even know existed, turning off all her usual caution and turning on a raw, unfiltered impulse.
Her mind replayed the session, the way Azzi's doe eyes would widen just a fraction before she could school her expression, the way her perfect brown skin seemed to glow under the soft office lighting, the way a few unruly curls had escaped her neat bun, framing her face in a way that was both professional and utterly captivating. Paige was fucked. She knew it with a certainty that should have terrified her. She had spent years surviving by keeping everyone at arm's length, by trusting no one, by finding her pleasure in fleeting, meaningless encounters that required no emotional investment. But this... this was different.
She never thought she would be looking forward to counseling sessions, but here she was, and she was already looking forward to the next one. Suddenly, twice a week wasn't enough. It felt like a starvation diet when she was starving for a full feast. She was dying to get to know Dr. Fudd, to peel back the layers of professional calm and see what was underneath. What made her tick? What made her choose this life? What did she look like when she wasn't playing the role of the unflappable psychiatrist? Paige wanted to know everything, every detail, every secret. It was a hunger, a craving that was more intense than any she had ever felt for drugs or power or revenge. And for the first time in a long time, Paige was looking forward to something other than her next move in the game. She was looking forward to her next session with Azzi.
I've been working on this one, inmate & doctor. A Wentworth Au. If you haven't watched the show you should!
Wentworth Correctional Centre runs on routine, pressure, and the unspoken rules that keep the place from burning down. Officers hold keys. Inmates hold power. Everyone holds secrets.
Paige Bueckers is the Top Dog, the one who keeps the trade moving and the violence contained, because order is profitable.
Dr. Azzi Fudd is the new Senior Psychologist, brought in to assess risk, reduce incidents, and document the truth no one wants written down.
Mandatory sessions are meant to keep the peace.
Instead, they’ll light the match.
Chapter One
The fluorescent lights of the processing wing hummed a tuneless, invasive song, the same one that had been drilling into her skull for 1,663 days. Paige Bueckers stood still, her shoulders squared, as the guard performed the morning headcount. Her posture was a carefully constructed monument of indifference, but beneath the surface of her skin, a current of restless energy pulsed. Four years, seven months. It was long enough to forget the taste of real coffee, short enough to still dream of it.
She hadn't gone down for being sloppy. Sloppy was for amateurs, for people who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Paige had been the architect of the entire kitchen. On the outside, she ran point for a mid-level operation that moved enough product to keep everyone comfortable and quiet. She wasn't the supplier; she was the enforcer, the distributor, the one who made sure money moved and mouths stayed shut. Her name wasn't on the ledger, but her fingerprints were all over the system.
The fall came fast, a deal that went sideways in a warehouse that smelled of bleach and desperation. A gunshot, a scream, and a choice. She could have flipped, named names, and cut a deal that might have seen her out in half the time. Instead, she stood in the interrogation room, looked the detective dead in the eye, and took the weight of the world onto her shoulders. Trafficking (Class A). Possession with intent to distribute. Assault causing grievous bodily harm. Obstruction of justice. She owned it all. Never once did she say another person's name.
That was the day she earned her sentence. It was also the day she earned her reputation.
Her first month inside was a study in silence. She didn't talk unless spoken to. She watched everything: the way the guards' eyes lingered, the subtle currency of contraband passing from hand to hand, the unspoken hierarchy that governed every inch of the prison. She learned who owed who, who was weak, and who was just good at hiding their strength.
The second month was about alignment. She identified the muscle, the lifers who had influence but lacked direction. She didn't challenge them; she offered them a better deal. A piece of a pie that was bigger and more stable than the scraps they were fighting over.
The third month, she made her move. The former Top Dog, a brutish woman named Jacs, ruled through fear and random violence. Her power was a loud, messy thing. Paige saw the flaw: Jacs' second-in-command was skimming, pocketing profits and blaming shortages on new arrivals. Paige didn't expose her with a speech. She simply arranged for a small package to be found in the woman's bunk during a random shakedown, a package that contained not only drugs but a detailed ledger of every cent she'd stolen from Jacs.
The fallout was spectacular. Jacs took care of her own, and the prison was rid of a cancer without Paige ever lifting a finger. The fight that crowned her wasn't loud or chaotic. It happened in the laundry room, a swift, brutal affair where Jacs, enraged and paranoid, tried to reassert her dominance. Paige didn't scream. She didn't threaten. She moved with a cold efficiency, ending the fight in three precise movements that left Jacs with a broken wrist and a shattered ego. There was no celebration. There was only the quiet understanding from every single woman in Wentworth that Paige Bueckers didn't need chaos to win. She was the calm at the center of the storm.
Now, she ran the prison her way. It was a business, and she was a CEO.
The drug trade..pills, weed, whatever managed to slip through the cracks.. was her domain. Distribution was clean and organized. There were no overdoses on her watch. It was bad for business, and worse, it drew the kind of attention she didn't want. Her rules were simple and absolute: no stealing from women who couldn't protect themselves, and never, under any circumstances, touch a kid's photo, letter, or ruin a phone call home. You broke Paige's rules, you answered to Paige. The punishment wasn't always a beating; sometimes it was isolation, the removal of privileges, a quiet, psychological dismantling that was far more effective.
She didn't flirt with the guards. Seduction was a temporary tool, easily broken. Information was permanent. She knew which officer had a gambling problem, which one was sleeping with another, which one hated her job just enough to look the other way when life was quieter. They looked the other way because Paige's order was better than the alternative.
In the yard, they whispered about her. "She's ice cold." "She'll back you if you're loyal." "Don't mistake her smile for mercy." What they didn't say, what they only understood in their gut, was that Paige remembered everything. She hated owing favors. And most of all, she didn't trust hope.
Hope was a liability. It was a crack in the armor. Her armor had been forged long before prison. She didn't talk about family, not because she didn't have one, but because she had lost them before the system ever got its hands on her. Her crime hadn't been about the money. It had been about survival and control… the two things she refused to ever let anyone else have over her again.
She was sitting in the workshop, the scent of sawdust filling her lungs, when a new memo was tacked to the community board. The word "Mandatory" was underlined in red. Next to it, a name: Dr. Azzi Fudd. Head of Psychological Services.
Paige's hands stilled on the piece of wood she was sanding. The quiet hum of the prison seemed to fade, replaced by the roaring in her ears. They were sending in a shrink. A professional with a degree in finding cracks. Someone whose entire job was to poke and prod at the very foundations she had built to survive.
A small, humorless smile touched Paige's lips as she read the memo. Mandatory. She let out a soft, dismissive scoff. Mandatory, my ass. Paige Bueckers would not be attending. She would be skipping. Let them try to make her.
Paige noticed a new fish, a young girl with wide, terrified eyes, was fumbling with a jigsaw two benches down. Her fear made her clumsy, the blade splintering the wood. A soft curse escaped her lips.
Paige didn't look up, but she was listening. She heard the heavy footsteps of Rita, a lifer who viewed fresh meat as her personal ATM. "Having a little trouble there, sweetie?" Rita's voice was slick with false sympathy. "That's a nice piece of pine. Be a shame if it got… damaged. Maybe I can help you out. For a small price, of course."
The girl froze. "I-I'm fine."
Rita leaned closer. "I don't think you are. In fact, I think you owe me for the wood you just wasted. We can work it out. My cell, after lockup."
The workshop went quiet. The other inmates suddenly found their tasks fascinating. They knew the rules. You didn't get involved in Rita's business.
Paige finished her stroke, set the sandpaper down with a soft click. The sound landed in the silence like a gavel. She wiped the dust from her project, her movements slow and deliberate. "Rita," Paige said, her voice calm and level. "That piece of timber you're leaning on? It's for my next commission. I'd appreciate it if you didn't get your grease stains on it."
Rita straightened up, her face a mask of indignation. "What did you say to me, Bueckers?"
Paige finally looked up, her gaze steady. "I said you're in my space. You're scaring the help. And you're bad for business." She gestured with her chin toward the new fish. "She makes something, she sells it. She makes money, she buys things. Things I supply. You scare her off, she curls up in her cell and produces nothing. That's bad for the economy. You understand economics, don't you, Rita?"
A muscle twitched in Rita's jaw. "This doesn't concern you."
"Everything that happens in my workshop concerns me," Paige stated, taking a step toward the girl and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "What's your name?"
"Ines."
"Ines," Paige repeated, her voice softening just a fraction. "Take a break. Go get some water. Come back in ten minutes and start a new piece."
The girl scrambled away without a backward glance.
Paige turned back to Rita. "We have rules here, Rita. You know them. You don't touch the ones who can't protect themselves. You don't shit where you eat. Now, are we going to have a problem, or are you going to go find something else to do?"
Rita stared, her chest heaving. She was bigger, stronger, but in the face of Paige's unshakeable calm, she looked like a child throwing a tantrum. The power wasn't in the threat of violence; it was in the absolute certainty that Paige would follow through, efficiently and without fuss, if she was forced to. With a final, venomous glare, Rita spat on the concrete floor and walked away.
The air in the room loosened. Paige picked up her sandpaper and went back to her piece of timber, her rhythm unbroken. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't thrown a punch. She had simply enforced the rules. Her rules.
The screech of the workshop bell cut through the air, signaling the end of the session and the move to the yard. As the women filed out, the raw, sterile air of the prison hallways gave way to the gritty, sun-baked atmosphere of the exercise yard. The tension from the workshop hadn't dissipated; it had followed them out, simmering under the afternoon sun.
Paige found her usual spot, leaning against the outer wall, her eyes scanning the yard. She saw Ines trying to make herself small near the bleachers, and she saw Rita, still smarting from her humiliation, heading straight for the girl with two of her lackeys in tow.
Before Paige could push off the wall, a new figure moved into the yard. Nika Muhl. She was new to Wentworth but not new to the system, transferred from a maximum-security facility upstate. She carried herself with a quiet intensity that was different from Rita's loud aggression. This was a woman who didn't need to announce her presence; she commanded it through sheer force of will.
Nika's eyes scanned the yard, cataloging faces, alliances, and weaknesses. Her gaze lingered on Paige for a moment, a flicker of recognition, or perhaps challenge, in her eyes. Paige met her stare without flinching, a silent acknowledgment of the new player in their carefully balanced ecosystem.
The standoff was interrupted by a commotion near the bleachers. Rita had cornered Ines, blocking her escape. "I told you we'd talk," Rita snarled, grabbing Ines's arm. "Nobody walks away from me."
Before Paige could take a single step, Nika was already in motion. She crossed the yard with long, purposeful strides, her expression unreadable. "Let her go," Nika said, her voice low and even.
Rita turned, surprised by the interruption. "This doesn't concern you, new fish."
"Everything concerns me until I decide it doesn't," Nika replied, stepping closer. "Now, I'm not going to ask again."
Rita's lackeys shifted uncomfortably. They could see what Rita couldn', that Nika was not a woman to be trifled with. Rita, however, was too proud to back down. "Or what?" Rita challenged.
Nika's response was swift and brutal. She moved like a predator, disarming Rita with a quick twist of her wrist and sending her to the ground with a sharp kick to the back of her knee. Before Rita's companions could react, Nika had them both pinned with cold, calculating efficiency.
The yard fell silent. Everyone watched as Nika helped Ines to her feet, her demeanor softening slightly. "Are you okay?"
Ines nodded, trembling.
Nika turned her attention to Rita, who was struggling to get up. "We have rules here. You don't touch the ones who can't protect themselves. You don't shit where you eat. Sound familiar?"
Paige pushed off the wall and walked toward them, her expression unreadable. She stopped in front of Nika, the two women standing face to face for the first time. "That's my line," Paige said, her voice dangerously quiet.
Nika met her gaze without hesitation. "Looks like we have something in common then."
The tension between them was palpable, a silent battle of wills playing out in front of the entire prison population. This was more than a dispute over territory or rules; it was a clash of two alphas, each unwilling to cede an inch of ground.
"Rules are rules," Nika continued, breaking the silence. "Unless you have a problem with how I enforce them."
Paige studied her for a long moment, weighing her options. She could assert her dominance, put Nika in her place, and reestablish the status quo. Or she could recognize a kindred spirit, someone who understood the delicate balance of power that kept their world from descending into chaos.
"The girl is off-limits," Paige finally said, her voice firm. "To everyone. Including you."
Nika's lips curved into a slight smile. "Fair enough. But if you won't protect them, I will."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Paige to contemplate the new reality of Wentworth. The balance of power had shifted in a single afternoon, and Paige knew that her reign as Top Dog was no longer uncontested. The beef with Nika Muhl had just begun, and Paige had a feeling it would be a long time before either of them could call this prison their own.
The next morning the clang of the weight plates was a rhythm Paige understood, a percussive counterpoint to the grunts of effort in the prison gym. She was under the bench, the cold steel of the barbell resting across her palms, the familiar ache in her shoulders a welcome distraction. She was pushing through her final set when the shadows fell over her, blocking the harsh overhead lights.
She didn't need to look up. The scent of cheap perfume and aggression was a signature. "You're late," KK's voice, sharp and entitled, cut through the air.
Paige finished her rep, racked the weight with a controlled clang, and sat up, wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "I'm not late. You're early. I told you a few days."
KK, flanked by her two most loyal enforcers, crossed her arms. The gym had gone quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own reps. "I don't do 'a few days.' I want it now. The weed I paid for."
"I don't have it yet," Paige said, her voice flat. "My connection is slow. You'll get it when you get it."
That's when they moved. One of the girls kicked the leg of the bench, throwing Paige off balance. The other one slammed a boot down on the bar, pinning it against Paige's throat. The steel bit into her skin, not hard enough to crush, but hard enough to be a promise. Paige's hands instinctively flew to the bar, her muscles tensing, but she didn't struggle. Not yet. She held KK's gaze, her own eyes burning with a cold fury.
"Let's try this again," KK purred, leaning down until her face was inches from Paige's. "Where. Is. My. Weed?"
Paige's mind raced. She was counting on the visit. Her girlfriend, Kim, was supposed to bring her cash today. It wasn't enough for the whole order, but it was enough for a down payment, enough to get KK off her back. "I've got money coming," she forced out, her voice strained against the pressure on her windpipe. "Later today. Just give me until tonight."
KK considered it, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. She lifted her chin, and the pressure on the bar eased. "Tonight, Bueckers. Or next time, we won't be talking." She and her crew sauntered away, leaving Paige gasping for air, a raw, red ring already forming around her neck.
She needed muscle. She needed Big Rah.
The consulting session was in full swing when Paige pushed the door open. A circle of women sat on cheap plastic chairs, sharing their feelings in a hushed, somber tone. And at the head of the circle, looking infuriatingly calm and professional, was the new doctor.
"You're late," the doctor said, her voice smooth as polished stone, not looking up from her notes. "We were just discussing accountability. Do you want to join us?"
Paige barely spared her a glance, her eyes already scanning the room for her target. "Na, I just need Sarah for a min."
She didn't wait for a response, striding into the room and pulling a tall, broad-shouldered woman to her feet. "Sarah. Outside."
Sarah, known to everyone as Big Rah, followed her into the hallway, her expression weary. "What's up, Paige? This better be good."
"It's not good," Paige said, her voice low and urgent. "KK's crew just ran down on me in the gym. Put a bar to my throat. I need help getting that weed, Rah. Now."
Big Rah held up her hands, and Paige saw why for the first time. They were wrapped in thick white gauze, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to them. "I'm on injury reserve, Paige," she said, her voice grim. "KK's girls boiled a pot of sugar water for me two days ago. I can't hold a fork, let alone a shiv. You're on your own with this one."
A cold dread washed over Paige. The struggle to be top dog was a constant uphill battle, and right now, she was slipping. "Bueckers to the visiting room," a guard's voice crackled over the intercom. "You have a visitor."
Shit. Her money. Just what she needed.
The visiting room was a sterile cage of noise and desperation. She saw Kim through the plexiglass, waving with a bright, clueless smile. Paige sat, the hard plastic chair digging into her back. They picked up the phones.
"You got the cash?" Paige asked, getting straight to the point.
Kim's smile faltered. "Only eighty. I'm sorry, baby, things are tight right now."
Paige let out a frustrated grunt that was more animal than human. Useless. This woman was useless. All she did was call, write letters, and show up with pocket money while Paige fought for her life in here. Paige snatched the thin envelope through the tiny slot, the bills inside feeling pathetic and light. She waved it dismissively. "Eighty ? You call this eighty dollars? I'll be good as dead."
She slammed the phone back into its cradle, ignoring Kim's hurt, confused expression through the glass. She stalked out of the visiting room, her mind a frantic scramble. Where the hell was her crew? Zaza and JJ had been MIA all day. She'd been looking for their asses since morning. Now she was on a mission she needed to gather her troops.
Paige was a storm brewing in a concrete hallway, her mission a singular, violent point of focus. She was so lost in the frantic calculus of her problem, where the weed would come from, who she could trust, who was about to get stabbed, that she didn't see the woman turning the corner until they collided. The impact was solid, sending a jolt through Paige's frame.
"Whoa, hey," a calm, steady voice said. It was the doctor from the group session. "We didn't get a chance to chat back there."
Paige took a step back, her patience frayed to a single thread. "Yea, I got it. I'm busy."
The doctor didn't flinch from Paige's abrasive energy. She just offered a small, knowing smile. "Your Paige Bueckers, aren't you?"
Paige’s jaw tightened. "Yea. And you are?"
"Dr. Fudd. And I've heard a lot about you."
A humorless laugh escaped Paige's lips. "Yeah, I'll bet. What's the short version? Don't turn your back on her?"
"I heard you're a survivor," Dr. Fudd said, her gaze direct and unnervingly clear. "Why don't you come and see me? My office. We can talk."
Paige crossed her arms, a defiant posture. "What's in it for me?"
"Well," Dr. Fudd said, her tone shifting, becoming strategic. "You're up for parole soon, aren't you? If you could show the board that you're attending regular counseling, that you're actively working on self-improvement... it would look very good to the suits on the board. It could be the difference between walking out and staying in."
Paige scoffed, but the seed was planted. "That would be a miracle."
"Why don't you come and talk about it?" Dr. Fudd pressed gently. "See if you can make one happen."
Just as the words left her mouth, the hallway filled with the familiar, unwelcome presence of KK and her crew. They fanned out, blocking the hall, their smiles sharp and predatory. The air grew thick with unspoken threats.
"Looking for someone, Bueckers?" KK sneered, her eyes flicking between Paige and the doctor.
Paige's gaze shot past them, searching for her muscle. She spotted Big Rah at the end of the hall, talking to a guard. "Sarah! Walk back with me to the unit," Paige called out, her voice tight.
Sarah looked over, her bandaged hands held up in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm not going back to the unit, Paige. I'm going to medical. Remember?" She gestured to her gauze-wrapped hands. "Burns."
A fresh wave of fury, hot and sharp, washed over Paige. KK had done that. Burned her own lieutenant's hands with a clothes iron for some perceived infraction. The disrespect was staggering. Paige just shook her head, a slow, dangerous movement. KK had to go. She was Top Dog, and KK was treating her and her crew like they were nothing. She needed to set shit straight, right now.
"You got a problem?" Dr. Fudd asked, her voice low and steady, her eyes on the tense standoff.
Paige didn't answer. She turned on her heel and stormed away, not towards her unit, but towards the prison library. The moment she stepped inside, a place usually reserved for quiet desperation, she snapped. She grabbed a heavy wooden chair and, with a guttural scream of pure rage, flung it across the room. It crashed against a metal bookshelf, sending a shower of paperback books skittering across the floor. She wasn't done. She swept her arm across a table, sending a stack of newspapers and a lamp flying.
Dr. Fudd was hot on her heels, stepping into the chaotic space without hesitation. "Hey, hey! Calm down," she said, her voice firm but not panicked.
"I'm not feeling calm right now!" Paige roared, her chest heaving. "I'm feeling pretty fucking angry!" She kicked a fallen chair, sending it skittering. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Alright, let's talk," Dr. Fudd said, holding her ground.
"I don't do talking!" Paige smacked a stack of books off a nearby table, the thud echoing in the room. "Talking is for people who have time! I don't have fucking time!"
"If you don't calm down, I'm going to have to call an officer," Dr. Fudd warned, her voice losing none of its composure.
"Then fucking do it!" Paige screamed, stepping into her personal space, her face inches from the doctor's. "Why are you fucking waiting for?"
"Why don't you tell me what the problem is, Paige?" Dr. Fudd asked, her eyes locked on Paige's, searching the storm. "This isn't achieving anything."
"You're all talk!" Azzi said.
"I prefer actions," Paige snarled, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Officer Jackson, a portly man with a perpetually bored expression, shuffled in. "Bueckers," he sighed, "give it up already."
"Paige, give it up," Dr. Fudd echoed, her voice softer now, almost pleading.
Just then, the imposing figure of Officer Clark, and the Governor, appeared in the doorway. "What the hell is going on in here?" she barked, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip.
"I'm slotting her, officer," Jackson said quickly.
Paige rolled her eyes. "Great. The fucking Governor. The big bad wolf whose only job is to fuck the women in this prison over. Shameful. You got a fucking job, don't you?" she sneered as Clark and another officer moved in to escort her.
As they were leading Paige away, Dr. Fudd stepped forward. "Governor Daley," she said, her voice professional and clear. "I need to speak with her."
"Absolutely not," Daley snapped, not even turning around. "She's a violent, convicted criminal. She is beyond help."
"I believe something else is going on," Dr. Fudd insisted. "And I need to understand where that aggression is coming from. Let me talk to her."
"Your opinion is irrelevant," the Governor sneered. "The Department might think you're the new savior, but in my prison, you're nothing."
"The Department doesn't think so," Dr. Fudd replied coolly. "How long will you be leaving her in there?"
"As long as I see fit," Daley replied, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes.
***
Dr. Fudd shook her head as the Governor walked away. She moved to the small, reinforced glass window of the slot, looking in at Paige, who was sitting on the edge of the thin bench, her head in her hands. Dr. Fudd smiled, a small, private curve of her lips. Paige looked up, her eyes finding the doctor's through the glass. A slow, defiant smirk spread across her face, a silent acknowledgment of the battle that had just begun.
Dr. Azzi Fudd was not an idealist. At twenty-nine, she already carried the weary posture of someone who had seen the worst of humanity and found it depressingly ordinary. Her title was Senior Prison Psychologist at Wentworth, but her specialty was a trifecta of despair: trauma, antisocial behavior, and institutionalized violence. She hadn't come to the concrete fortress to save souls or to rehabilitate the irredeemable. She had come because she was good at seeing people clearly..stripping away the performance to the raw, messy machinery underneath. Private practice had taught her a brutal lesson: most harm doesn't look dramatic. It looks functional. It looks polite. It looks managed. Wentworth, with its screaming fights and raw desperation, was, in its own twisted way, more honest.
Before the barred gates of Wentworth, Azzi had walked the halls of juvenile detention. She'd been assigned a girl everyone had already written off, a child labeled "incorrigible" for reasons that had more to do with her survival instincts than any inherent malice. For months, Azzi had chipped away at the fortress the girl had built around herself. In their final session, just before a routine transfer, the girl looked at Azzi with eyes that had seen too much and asked a single, devastating question: "If I was born different, would I still be bad?" The question had lodged itself in Azzi's chest like a shard of glass. Two weeks later, the girl was moved. Azzi read about her death in the paper six months after that. She requested a transfer the same day. She doesn't talk about the girl, but she carries her, a ghost that fuels her work and reminds her of the stakes.
To survive the emotional minefield of her job, Azzi operates on a strict set of personal commandments. No physical contact with patients. No favors, no matter how small. No secrets she can't legally and ethically document in a file. And most importantly, never, under any circumstances, believe she is special to a patient. To her, boundaries aren't restrictive rules; they are an act of mercy, a line of defense for both her and the women under her care. They create a predictable, safe space in a world designed to be anything but.
Which is precisely why Paige Bueckers is so dangerous. Because Paige doesn't test boundaries with loud demands or aggressive challenges. She studies them. She maps their contours, identifies their weak points, and waits. She doesn't try to break down the door; she learns how to pick the lock. And that, Azzi knows, is a threat of an entirely different order.
The slot was a tomb of concrete and steel, designed to break the strongest spirit. For Paige Bueckers, it was just a quieter, colder version of the world she already inhabited. But the image of Dr. Fudd’s face, calm and resolute through the reinforced glass, lingered. It was an irritant, a puzzle piece that didn't fit. Paige didn't ask for help. She didn't want it. And yet, something about the woman's unwavering gaze had drawn her in, a flicker of something she hadn't felt in years: curiosity.
Dr. Azzi Fudd stood in the sterile quiet of her own office, the file on Paige Bueckers open on her desk. She knew better. Every textbook, every supervisor, every cautionary tale screamed against getting too invested, against seeing a project where there was a person. She was supposed to maintain professional distance, to see the antisocial behaviors and the institutionalized violence, not the wounded soul behind them. But something about Paige’s raw, unfiltered defiance, the sheer force of will it took to fight the entire world and refuse to break, called to a part of Azzi she thought she'd buried after that girl in juvie. She was drawn to her. In what way, she didn't know, but she knew, with a certainty that unnerved her, that she wanted to help her.
With a resolve that felt both foolish and necessary, Azzi stood and headed towards Governor Daley's office. Daley was a feisty, nasty woman who ran her prison with an iron fist and a personal grudge against anyone who thought they knew better. Azzi was not a fan. But anything to help the inmates, to offer a sliver of hope where there was none, Azzi was all in. She reached the imposing door, took a steadying breath, and knocked.
"Come in!" Daley's voice barked, sharp and unwelcoming.
Azzi entered, closing the door softly behind her. Daley was behind her desk, a fortress of clutter and authority, her eyes already narrowed with suspicion. "Dr. Fudd. To what do I owe the displeasure? Did Bueckers scratch the paint in your precious library?"
"I'm here about Paige Bueckers," Azzi said, her voice calm and professional, ignoring the barb.
"Of course you are," Daley sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Let me guess. You think a hug and a chat will turn a rabid dog into a golden retriever. I've seen it a hundred times. You bleeding hearts all think you're the one who can save them."
"With all due respect, Governor, I don't believe in saving anyone," Azzi countered, stepping closer to the desk. "I believe in offering tools. Paige Bueckers is intelligent, strategic, and clearly under immense pressure. Slitting her in isolation is a punishment. It's not a solution. It will only reinforce the very behaviors we want to curb."
Daley let out a short, harsh laugh. "Oh, I see. You're an expert now. You've been here, what, a week? And you've already got the top dog in this prison figured out? Let me tell you something, Doctor. I've been running this facility for fifteen years. I've seen girls like Bueckers come and go. They're all the same. They're violent, manipulative, and they only understand one thing: force."
"And what has fifteen years of force gotten you?" Azzi shot back, her voice losing its soft edge, gaining a sharp, intellectual steel. "A perfectly managed revolving door of recidivism? A prison where the violence is just better hidden? Paige Bueckers is a leader. Whether we like it or not, other women follow her. Right now, she's leading them in a war against your authority. What if we could give her a different path to lead?". Force is all you have because you don’t know what to do with people when they don’t fear you.”
Daley leaned forward, her elbows on the desk, her eyes flashing. "A different path? You want to put a wolf in charge of the henhouse and hope it teaches the chickens how to sing? It's absurd. She belongs in that slot. She needs to learn that actions have consequences."
"She knows actions have consequences better than anyone!" Azzi's voice rose, fueled by a passion she hadn't realized was so close to the surface. "Her entire life has been a series of brutal consequences! She took a charge for someone else! She runs her 'business' with a set of rules designed to protect the most vulnerable! Is she violent? Yes. Is she dangerous? Absolutely. But she is not without a code. And that code is the only thing in here you can reason with. Putting her in the slot doesn't teach her anything. It just proves her right, that there is no system to trust, no one to turn to, and that her only option is to fight harder next time."
For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner. Daley stared at Azzi, her expression unreadable. Azzi held her gaze, refusing to back down. She saw a flicker of something in the Governor's eyes, not agreement, but calculation. She was weighing the risks.
Finally, Daley spoke, her voice low and grudging. "So what is your grand proposal, Doctor? You want me to just open the door and let her walk out? Give her a slap on the wrist and a lollipop?"
"No," Azzi said, her voice steady again, sensing a shift. "I want you to release her from the slot into my custody. I want you to enroll her in a mandatory, intensive counseling program. Two sessions a week, with me, for a minimum of six months. She misses one session, she acts out, she so much as looks at me wrong, she goes right back into that slot for the rest of her sentence. No exceptions. No second chances."
Daley tapped a pen on her desk, considering it. "And what makes you think she'll agree to that? She's not exactly the 'let's talk about our feelings' type."
"She will," Azzi said with a confidence she didn't entirely feel. "Because you'll make it the only alternative to the slot. And because, deep down, I think she's smart enough to know that a chance at parole, however small, is better than no chance at all."
Daley stared at her for another long, tense moment. She looked from Azzi's determined face to the file on her desk, as if weighing the mountain of paperwork against the glimmer of a new approach. With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of her fifteen years in charge, she threw her hands up in a gesture of reluctant surrender.
"Fine," she barked, pointing a finger at Azzi. "Fine! You get your little experiment. Six months. Two sessions a week. She steps one toe out of line, and she's back in that slot so fast her head will spin. And you, Doctor, you will be personally responsible for her. Every report, every incident, it all lands on your desk. And if this blows up in my face, I'll have your license so fast you'll be begging for a job scrubbing toilets. Am I clear?"
"Crystal," Azzi replied, a wave of relief washing over her, so potent it almost made her knees weak.
"Get out of my office," Daley snarled, turning her attention back to the paperwork on her desk, the dismissal absolute.
Azzi didn't need to be told twice. She turned and left, the click of the door closing behind her sounding like a victory bell. She had won. But as she walked back towards the slot, a new thought took hold. She hadn't just won an argument with the Governor. She had just tethered herself to Paige Bueckers. And she had a sinking, thrilling feeling that her life, and her heart, were about to get a whole lot more complicated.
With a newfound sense of purpose, Dr. Fudd walked away from the Governor's office, the taste of victory still sharp on her tongue. She found Officer Clark overseeing the inmate count in the main hall. "Officer Clark," Dr. Fudd said, her voice crisp and professional. "I've just spoken with Governor Daley. She's agreed to release Paige Bueckers from the slot into my custody for a specialized counseling program."
Clark raised a skeptical eyebrow, her weathered face a mask of disbelief. "She what? Daley actually agreed to let the rabid wolf out for playtime? Must be your lucky day, Doc."
"Just relay the order, please," Dr. Fudd said, her patience already wearing thin.
With a shrug that said 'your funeral,' Clark led the way down the stark, echoing corridor towards the isolation cells. Dr. Fudd followed, the sound of their footsteps the only noise in the suffocating silence. Clark stopped in front of the heavy steel door, rattling the keys in the lock. The mechanism groaned as it turned, and the door swung open with a low, metallic creak.
The scene inside was not what Dr. Fudd expected. Paige Bueckers wasn't pacing like a caged animal or curled in a ball of despair. She was lying on the thin, miserable mattress, hands behind her head, one leg bent casually at the knee. A lazy, confident smirk was plastered on her face, as if she were lounging on a five-star hotel bed rather than a concrete slab.
Dr. Fudd had to physically stop herself from rolling her eyes. *So mature*, she thought. *This girl is a walking, talking middle finger to authority.*
Paige's eyes, sharp and amused, landed on Dr. Fudd. "Well, well," she drawled, her voice a low, husky purr. "Breakfast in bed was an hour ago. You're late."
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, never breaking eye contact. "Good morning, Dr. Fudd."
"I've got good news," Dr. Fudd said, keeping her voice level, refusing to be drawn into the game.
Paige's smirk widened into a full-blown, mischievous grin. "What?" she asked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. "You're not wearing any underwear?"
Dr. Fudd felt a hot flush climb her neck, but she stamped it down. "The Governor has agreed to release you to me."
Paige's playful expression vanished, replaced by a wall of cool indifference. She flopped back onto the mattress. "I'm happy here, thanks. The quiet is... refreshing."
"The Governor wants you out, Bueckers," Dr. Fudd stated, her voice firm.
Paige shot up again, her eyes flashing with suspicion. "At what price?" she demanded. "There's always a price with people like her."
"Two sessions with me a week, for six months," Dr. Fudd relayed, watching her carefully.
"I want to stay," Paige insisted, her jaw set stubbornly. "She only wants me out so she can get to me. It's a setup."
"It's an offer, Paige," Dr. Fudd said, her voice softening slightly. "Take it or leave it."
Officer Clark, who had been leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, finally lost her patience. "Oh, for God's sake," she muttered, striding into the cell. "Come on." She grabbed Paige by the arm, yanking her off the bed with surprising strength.
"Hey! Unhand me, you dipshit!" Paige squawked, a comical display of indignation.
As Clark dragged her towards the door, Paige managed to twist in her grip. She shot one last look back at Dr. Fudd, a look that was pure, unadulterated challenge. And then, she sent a slow, deliberate wink, a silent promise of the trouble to come.
Dr. Fudd just shook her head, a small, involuntary smile playing on her lips despite her best efforts to remain professional. As Paige was hauled out into the hallway, still protesting theatrically, Dr. Fudd stood alone in the empty cell. The air still crackled with her energy. *What on earth have I gotten myself into?* she wondered, a feeling of dread and a terrifying thrill warring inside her. This was going to be the longest six months of her life.
