i commented that they were weird ashhh, BLUD THEY WERE ACTUALLY WEIRD, they want p nd az to break up so "jaige" would come back 😭🙏🏼🙏🏼 people really need to mind their own business these days😭🙏🏼
Y'ALL I'M LAUGHING SI HARD RN, someone posted on Facebook about how they wish paige was straight so her and jalen could be together 😭😭🙏🏼🙏🏼 and how they were happy jalen md hailey broke up😭😭 ppl these days are so effing weird 😭😭
☆ ━ author’s note: lol fun fact this was actually written last year so excuse how bad the writing is
IT'S HALLOWEEN, and Paige is drunk.
Not, like, dangerously drunk. Not falling-over, can't-walk-straight, gotta-call-it-a-night drunk. Just loose, warm in the face, her arm slung a little too comfortably around your shoulder drunk. She's been sipping on some concoction Amari made her and stealing swigs from the Tito's bottle that Nika has been quite literally just carrying around all night, and it's hitting her good now—the alcohol, the music, the thick haze of sweat and cheap perfume and way too many bodies crammed into the old frat house.
The place is packed, crammed in a way where everyone's essentially elbow-to-elbow, breathing down each other's necks. There's a fog machine running full blast in the living room, string lights flickering white and orange overhead, and the frat president of Phi Delt has been standing on the kitchen table, pouring people shots all night.
Somewhere in the middle of it all is her and you. You're both dressed up as Subway Surfers, wearing jeans and beanies. Paige is in an oversized denim jacket, you're in a cropped white tank. You've each got fake spray paint bottles tucked into your waistbands, and Paige has been pretending to spray people with hers since she got here.
You look so good tonight that Paige has been struggling—but has managed to (mostly)—keep her hands to herself for hours. Which is impressive, even for her.
But now, she leans into you, pressing her face into the side of your neck, mouth hovering close to your ear. "You're so hot, dude," she mumbles. "Makin' me feel insane."
You laugh, squinting at her, nose scrunched up from the smoke machine blowing directly in your face. "You're so drunk."
Paige nods. "I’m right."
You roll your eyes, but she feels your fingers slip around her waist all the same, anchoring her a little closer. She can feel the curve of your hip against hers, your breath warm on her jaw.
Around you, the rest of the team is scattered across the house. Ice is dressed like Catwoman, full black bodysuit and all, but with white Nike dunks instead of heels. Azzi's a unicorn, wearing a headband with a horn and a rainbow skirt. Predictably, Ash is a cowgirl, sporting a hat, boots, and a flannel. KK's in a football uniform and Paige keeps seeing her chest bump people in the hallway. Nika said she wasn't dressing up and then showed up in Harry Potter robes and a stick she found on the sidewalk as a wand.
Paige loses you pretty quickly. One minute, you're pressed up against her side, laughing at something Nika said about a guy in a banana costume, and the next, Aaliyah and Aubrey are dragging Paige by the hand toward the dining room table where someone set up beer pong.
"Come on, Subway Surfer," Lili teases, tugging her through the crowd. "You owe me after bailing last time."
"I ain’t bail," Paige argues, but her words are mushy and dumb around the edges. She's definitely way drunker than she thought. "You started without me."
Aubrey grins, tossing her a ping pong ball. "No excuses now."
So, she plays. And loses—badly. Because she can barely focus on the cups and because Aubrey's good at everything and also because, if she's honest, Paige kind of forgets the rules halfway through and just starts downing whatever cup is the closest.
Somewhere in the middle of her third round, she glances around and realizes you're gone. Not gone gone, like vanished or anything, but definitely not in the room. Not sipping in the corner anymore. Not perched on the couch with KK or Ice like you were earlier. Not in her immediate orbit, which suddenly feels very wrong.
She blinks, frowns. "Where'd she go?" she mumbles, mostly to herself.
"Bathroom?" Aaliyah offers, setting up another rack of cups.
But Paige is already distracted. Already scanning the room again, brain fuzzy and slow and a little too warm. She feels like she needs water. Or food. Or just her arms around you.
And then—finally—she sees you.
You're coming in from the backyard, cheeks flushed pink and hair mussed from the breeze, trailed closely by Nika who's holding up her pen proudly. The two of you are giggling about something, bumping shoulders, and Paige watches you for a second—the way your mouth curls around a grin, the way you stumble slightly and catch yourself with a hand on the wall—and her chest does this stupid little flutter.
When you spot her, the two of you making eye contact, you beeline straight across the room with a smile that could probably make Paige drop dead if she wasn't already weak in the knees from the five cups of beer she just chugged.
You press yourself into her side like you did earlier, and whisper in her ear through a giggle, "’M so crossed."
Nika sidles up behind you, holding her pen toward Paige. "I think she hit this one too many times," she says proudly, snorting a little.
"I was peer pressured," you say, completely unserious, lips still curved and eyes all glassy. "By a Croatian."
Paige stares at you, unable to stop herself. Your pupils are blown, you smell like weed and your perfume, and your cheek is resting against her shoulder in a way that makes her stomach flutter and roll no matter that you've done it a million times before tonight.
"Shit," she breathes, not even trying to hold back her grin. She slips an arm around your waist, palm flat against the curve of your hip. "You're gon' be done soon."
You nod, unbothered. "I know. But it's okay."
"She also just told me she wants Taco Bell," Nika says with a shrug. "So, good luck with that."
You snort into Paige's neck. "I do want Taco Bell."
Paige lets her head fall back for a second, laughing. She's sweating a little, maybe. Or just flushed. Either way, she pulls you into her tighter and your hand goes to her chest, playing with the edge of her jacket drawstring. Nika mutters something about leaving you two alone before she dies of a contact high, and Paige flips her off halfheartedly as she walks away.
You've been quiet for a moment, just staring stupidly up at Paige like she's some sort of elaborate piece of art. She cups your face loosely with her free hand, thumb brushing your jaw. "You're so high."
"You're so drunk," you respond, laughing a little. The thought of alcohol must spark something in you, because then you perk up, asking excitedly, "Can we take a shot?"
Paige is swaying a little, her head spinning in that slow, dizzy way that makes it hard to tell if she's floating or just leaning into you too hard. And yet, even knowing she probably doesn't need another, her smile widens at the idea of more alcohol and she nods, pulling you towards the table with the drinks.
It's tequila that Paige finds, and she pours just enough into two solo cups, handing one to you. You laugh as you tap the rim of your cup against hers. "Cheers, Subway Surfer."
"Cheers, baby."
You both throw it back, and Paige makes a face like she's just been punched in the throat. The tequila burns all the way down, leaving her eyes watering, but you're already giggling again and pressing your cold fingers against her cheeks like you're trying to stable yourself.
And as Paige watches you do so, brain fizzling out a little, she blurts, "Let's go upstairs and make out."
You blink at her, slow and spacey, like your brain is also buffering—and then your face splits into a wide grin. "Okay," you say immediately, not even pretending to hesitate.
You're already grabbing her hand again, dragging her out of the kitchen, both of you stumbling and laughing like kids skipping class. You nearly run into a guy dressed up as a cowboy in the hallway, and Paige has to use her free hand to brace against the wall just to keep you both upright.
It takes a minute to find a room that isn't occupied—the first one's locked, the second one has a group of girls sitting crisscross on the floor clearly in some sort of debrief, and the third one... yeah, Paige doesn't even want to think about what she saw in there. But the fourth bedroom is empty. It’s mostly dark except for a string of LED lights casting a red glow across the walls. The bed's made, the door shuts with a soft click, and suddenly everything feels a lot quieter.
Paige leans back against the closed door, blinking hard, trying to find her balance.
You're standing in front of her now, still grinning, still flushed and gorgeous and wild-eyed. One of the straps of your white tank is hanging off your shoulder, and your jeans lay low on your waist, and Paige just... stares for a second.
"You're so pretty," she says, like it just slips out.
You hum, pleased. "I know."
And then you're kissing her—hot and eager and messy, arms looped around her neck, your body all soft curves pressed up against hers. Paige melts into it instantly, grabbing at your waist and backing you into the edge of the bed. She's dizzy in the best way, drunk off the alcohol and you, and all she wants is to feel your mouth against hers for the rest of the night.
You tug her down with you when you flop onto the mattress, laughing against her lips as her knee slots between yours.
"You're so warm," you mumble, hands sliding beneath her shirt to press flat against the muscles of her abs.
Paige groans a little, dragging her mouth to your jaw. "You're so crossed."
"Mhm," you respond.
Paige doesn't respond, too busy sucking a soft bruise into your neck, just beneath your jaw. You tug at the hem of her jacket like you want more of her, all of her, now.
The room spins a little when she pulls back to take it off, and she has to laugh at herself to keep from falling over. "Jesus," she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut for a second.
When she opens them back up, you're still beneath her, eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown, your lips slightly swollen from the way she's been kissing you. Paige feels it everywhere—that slow, warm buzz that starts in her stomach and spreads out through every nerve ending. She's drunk, sure, but it's not just the tequila or the shots that she probably shouldn't have taken. It's you, too, looking like that, beneath her like that, staring up at her like that.
Your hands are gripping at the wife beater tank she's been wearing beneath the jacket, clumsy but firm, pulling her back in close. Paige grins, head dipped, forehead pressed lightly against yours, her breath warm against your cheek as she asks, "Can we fuck?"
"Yes," you breathe immediately, like it's the easiest answer in the world. You tug her back in, mouth finding hers again, messy and fast and all teeth and tongue.
Paige's grin widens into the kiss, because she can't help it—because she's stupid happy and stupid drunk and stupid turned on and your legs are already hooking around her waist and she just wants you so, so bad.
"God," she murmurs against your mouth, "you're so—"
She doesn't finish. She doesn't even really know what she was gonna say. You're so perfect? You're so hot? You're so mine?
All of them, probably. But the words blur together in her head, and she's too busy kissing you again to get them out anyway. Her hands slip under your tank, fingertips skating across your stomach, and she feels you twitch, shiver a little at the touch.
"Wait," she says, blinking hard. She pulls back just an inch, just enough to see your face better in the red LED light. You’re drunk, and she needs to know.
You blink up at her, all flushed cheeks and bedroom eyes. "What?"
"I just—" She grins again, that gummy one she's got. "You're sure?"
You nod, smiling up at her, though looking slightly impatient. "Paige," you say in amusement.
"Okay," she replies, practically breathless now. "Okay."
And then you're kissing again, a little slower this time, deeper, and Paige forgets all about whatever music is thumping through the floor below, forgets all about where you both are, who might be downstairs, what time it is.
The makeout lasts a while, getting heavier and messier as it keeps going. Paige knows she's sloppy when she's drunk, but you are too, and that kind of makes it perfect. Her hat—part of the whole dumb Subway Surfers thing—got tossed who knows where a few minutes ago. Your beanie is halfway off your head. The spray paint cans that was clipped to your jeans are somewhere on the floor. One of them rolled under the bed and clanged against something, and you both paused for a split second, and then immediately went back to kissing.
You're squirming under her, and Paige feels your fingers dragging up under the back of her tank, and her hips automatically press down, grinding into you. Her breath catches in her throat, and she holds back a groan in the back of her throat. Your grip on her tightens, and she keeps rolling her hips into you, slow and lazy, gasping into your mouth. And then, somewhere in the middle of that, her drunk brain stutters.
Wait.
You're both still fully clothed.
Like... jeans, tops, shoes. So many layers. Why?
Paige pulls back just slightly, looking down between your bodies like it's some big revelation. Her forehead scrunches, confused and dramatic. "Bro," she mutters, dragging her hands up your sides. "Why do we have so many clothes on right now?"
You're breathing heavy, too, lips kiss-bitten and eyes lazy, and you kind of laugh against her. "I don't know," you mumble. "You tell me."
Paige just stares at you for a second, like she's trying to solve a very serious puzzle. Then, she nods, like it all suddenly makes sense.
"That's dumb," she declares, fumbling at your jeans with drunk hands. "That's so dumb."
You laugh again, trying to help her out because she's terrible at buttons when she's sober, let alone several shots of tequila deep. "You're kinda dumb, too."
"I'm serious," Paige says, still messing with your waistband like it personally offended her. "I'm—this is, like—clothes are wrong."
You snort. "Right."
"No, listen," she continues, letting out a half-drunken huff as she finally gets your jeans unbuttoned and starts tugging them down, clumsily but determined. "I just—I don't understand why I'm grindin’ on, like, your zipper when I could be—"
"Paige," you say, half laughing, half gasping as she manages to get your jeans halfway down your thighs.
"What?"
You grin. "I love you, but you gotta stop talking. You're not very good at multitasking right now."
"Rude," Paige mutters, nose scrunching. "I'm tryin' so hard."
"I know," you whisper, hands at the back of her neck tugging her back down. "It's cute."
She smirks against your mouth as she kisses you again, hands still moving. She finally fully gets your jeans off, tossing them to the side with far too much force—they land on a lamp and knock it over with a loud clunk. You both freeze for a moment. Paige blinks.
"That wasn't me."
"That was definitely you."
"Nope," Paige says, leaning back over you, clearly done caring. "Ghost did it."
You're giggling again, arms back around her neck, and she smiles as she kisses you, now with your bare legs wrapped around her waist. It's easier like this—better, closer. Her hands settle at your hips as she rocks down again, sighing against your mouth.
"See," she mumbles, voice low now, "way better without clothes."
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. "You're still wearing pants," you inform her.
Paige doesn't bother with that, too busy kissing you greedily once more, tongue deep in your mouth, one of her hands already sliding between your legs. She palms you first through your panties, just pressing there a second, testing the heat and the way your hips lift into her. You're already warm, already kind of wet, and that makes Paige's stomach flip. You whine into her mouth, and the blonde swears she could live in that sound.
"Fuck," she breathes out, breaking the kiss just enough to look down. Her hand keeps moving, rubbing slow little circles over the damp spot growing beneath her fingers. "You're already like this?"
"You've been on top of me for, like, ten minutes," you remind her.
"Oh, right," Paige says. "My bad."
She grins down at you, biting her lip. Her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are hot, and everything’s very hazy. You’re all she really sees. You, spread under her in this random bedroom at some packed Halloween party, lights from the hallway still peeking in under the door, faint bass thumping somewhere below your feet. But it’s all so far away. This—your hands on her waist, your chest rising and falling, your thighs tight around her—is all that matters.
And God, you’re so pretty. Your hair’s a mess and your lipstick’s completely gone and you’re looking at her like you’d let her do anything right now. It makes her dizzy.
She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, tugging slowly.
"Yeah?" she murmurs a little hoarsely, her nose brushing yours. "Can I take these off?"
You nod, eyes wide, breath catching. "Please."
And maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's how turned on she is, or maybe it's just the way you say please, but Paige has never moved quicker. She shimmies your underwear down your legs in a clumsy rush, grinning when you giggle at her drunken focus.
She tosses the panties to the side and leans back over you, planting a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, then your mouth again. Her hand slips back between your legs, and the second her fingers slide through you, her whole body tenses.
"Fuck, mama," she mumbles, mouth still against your cheek. "You're so wet."
You let out a little noise, something between a hum and a muffled moan, grabbing at her shoulders, nails digging in a little.
Paige is definitely drunk. Definitely too gone to be doing this as skilled and purposeful as she usually does—but that doesn't stop her from trying. She kisses you once more, deep and slow, while her fingers start working you open eagerly, not at all trying to tease. No, tonight, she just wants to make you feel good.
Her mouth never stops moving. It’s either kissing you or mumbling into your skin. “You’re so pretty like this,” she says. “So good for me. I swear, you always are.”
And, okay, let this be known: when Paige is drunk, she's a lot of things—clingy, giggly, overly confident, always talking with her hands, always saying exactly what's on her mind without thinking it through. But above all, she's messy. Emotionally, physically, romantically. Just... messy in the way she touches and wants and moves.
Right now's no different.
Her fingers are pumping in and out of you, rhythm not totally smooth, but urgent and hungry and warm—and it doesn't even matter that it's not perfect because the way you're responding to her is more than enough. You're just as gone as she is, mouth falling open with every sharp inhale, hips grinding to meet each thrust, like your body is chasing Paige's touch without needing instructions.
It makes something coil in her gut, this tight hot thing that burns through the haze of alcohol.
"Holy shit," she murmurs, breathless, her vocabulary small at this point. "You feel so good. Like... fuck."
You whimper, thighs twitching around her hand, and Paige swears she could die happy hearing that sound again. The bass from the party downstairs is still faint in the background, but Paige can hardly even hear it behind the sound of your breathing and her fingers working you open.
You whisper her name like it's the only word you remember. "Paige—"
She groans, soft and right into your ear. "Say it again."
"Paige," you breathe, voice breaking around it.
"Fuckin'—love you," she grits out behind another harsh thrust of her wrist. She leans back in, kissing you sloppily, lazily, while her fingers curl again, and this time, the reaction you give her is instant: back arching, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open on a gasp.
"There," she mumbles. "Tha's it, right?"
You nod, biting your lip, and she keeps going—keeps curling her fingers just like that, over and over again, while her thumb starts circling over your clit quickly. Her hand is drenched from you, a white ring started to form around her fingers, the squelching sounds obscene.
"Gonna cum for me?" she asks, all sweet and a little cocky even though she's barely holding herself up.
You nod again, eyes squeezed shut, and Paige watches every second of it like it’s the most important thing she’s ever seen. The way your body trembles, the way your lips part and your breath hitches and your hips buck up against her hand like you can’t help it.
And then you do—right there, falling apart underneath her, your voice breaking, back arching, fingers fisting the front of her hoodie.
It’s honestly one of the hottest things Paige has ever seen.
She slows her hand down, keeps it there, not pulling out until your body softens and your thighs relax around her wrist. You're gasping, blinking up at her with this dazed little smile that makes her heart do a somersault and her cunt pulse.
She pulls her fingers out, watching your slickness slide down her hand as she does so. It's instantaneous—the want that pulses deep inside her.
"Fuck, I gotta feel you," she mumbles, and the words fall out low and desperate, like she doens't even realize she's saying them until they're out there.
You nod, wide-eyed and breathless, already reaching to tug at her waistband like you were two seconds ahead of her. The second her jeans and boxers are off—kind of a disaster, honestly, because she almost trips trying to get them off one foot and you're giggling as you yank them the rest of the way—Paige climbs right back on top of you like she's been waiting hours and not seconds. Her hands settle on either side of your head, your legs open instinctively for her, and then she's grinding down against your cunt.
"Shit," she gasps the second her hips roll forward.
Because it's so good. The way your pussies slide against each other, hot and slippery and messy, but perfect in that blurry, overstimulated, drunk kind of way. You both moan at the same time and it's like the sound just echoes in Paige's chest.
She buries her face in your neck and lets herself get lost in the pace. Back and forth, up and down. No real pattern, just feeling wet folds along wet folds. The heat of your thighs around her. Your slick mixing with hers. Your hands digging into her back. Your hips rising to meet her every movement.
"Holy fuck," she whines, not even sure if she's talking to you or herself. "You feel so good. You feel so—God, 'M not gonna last, I swear."
Your hands curl around her waist, fingers digging into the indents of her lower back, and your hips stutter up into hers like you're trying to match her rhythm and just barely missing it.
Paige helps, one of her hands reaching to hold your hip down. She kisses you again, sloppy and open-mouthed, pulling away only to mumble, "You're so perfect, mama. So fuckin' perfect."
"P, so good," you gasp before her lips press back down onto yours.
Paige grinds down harder, every brush of your pussy against hers feeling like fucking fireworks. It's probably the inebriation, but her every nerve feels like it's lighting up. Her whole body is buzzing with it.
You whimper underneath her and tilt your hips just right and Paige gasps because that's it. The fucking spot.
You're both panting now, the tension ratcheting up fast and sharp between you. Her stomach tightens. Her thighs are starting to tremble, aching. The whole room feels like it's spinning but you are solid underneath her, something to hold onto.
"Jesus," she breaths, almost delirious with it. "I'm close. I'm—shit, baby, I'm so—fuck."
Your nails dig into her back. You're close too, she can feel it. The way your body arches, the way your breath catches, the way your pussy pulses against hers, the way you keep chasing every touch like your whole body is begging her not to stop.
"Cum with me," Paige whispers, and it sounds like begging. "Please, baby. Want you to cum with me."
And you do.
You both do, tangled up and shaking and moaning into each other's mouths, slick sliding down your thighs. Paige buries her face in your neck and groans as her orgasm hits her like a truck. Her whole body clenches up and her breath stutters out in short little huffs as she rides it out, grinding down once more before collapsing fully on top of you.
Paige listens to your heartbeat, racing under her cheek, and her eyes flutter shut.
You, however, shift slightly beneath her. Your hand finds her hair and you let out a long sigh, voice slightly slurred as you say, "Bro, we just fucked in a random frat boy's bed."
Paige groans into your collarbone, face pressed against your skin. "Was good, though."
Warnings: slight angst? Jealousy, drama, crying, very messy (my fav)
Synopsis: even though you and Paige aren't together anymore, she uses the shared custody and drop offs to flirt, she can't help it. She's desperate.
Sunday Night, Drop-Off at Your Place
It’s past 8PM when the knock comes — two short, one long. Hazel’s pattern.
You open the door to find Violet mid-sentence, “…and then I told her you were my real best friend but she said I’m mean and I said ‘no I’m not, I’m five!’ and then Hazel said—”
Hazel hugs your waist gently as she passes by, her little fingers brushing over the hem of your hoodie, a soft, reassuring stim before she shuffles inside. You kiss the top of her head, then turn to Violet who’s holding a stuffed dolphin and a single Croc.
“Where’s the other shoe?” you ask her.
She points at Paige. “She forgot it. Mommy Paige made me leave it in the car so she could ‘be on time,’” Violet adds, using air quotes way too confidently for someone who can’t tie her shoes yet.
You shoot Paige a look. “You were already late.”
Paige leans casually against the doorframe, hands in her Wings hoodie pocket. “Exactly. What’s one more Croc when I’m already the villain?”
You roll your eyes and start to close the door, but she slips a foot inside.
“I’ll grab it tomorrow,” she offers. “Or maybe I’ll just stay until bedtime? Tuck them in? Maybe steal some of those lemon bars you always pretend not to make anymore?”
You sigh. “Paige.”
“What?” she says, feigning innocence. “Can’t I just hang out? For old time’s sake?”
She’s teasing. You know she’s teasing. But it’s the same teasing she used to do when you were hers, when things were simpler — before late practices and long road trips and missed dinners became more common than ‘I love you.’
“I don’t think your fake emergencies to ‘see the girls’ are fooling anyone,” you reply, deadpan.
“I genuinely love my daughters,” Paige says, placing a hand over her heart. “And your lemon bars. And possibly you. It’s hard to say.”
You open your mouth to respond but—
“Mommy,” Violet calls from the hallway, not even looking up from her coloring book. “Is your friend coming over again tonight? The one with the sparkly nails and the blue water bottle? She said I could do her hair if you let her stay again.”
Paige blinks.
You blink.
Hazel, on the couch, softly hums without missing a beat. “Violet…”
“What?” Violet asks, utterly unbothered. “She slept on the couch. I saw her hoodie.”
Paige straightens up, expression tight but trying to stay cool. “Sooo… you’re having friends sleep over now?”
“She’s a friend from pilates, Paige.”
“She has a sparkly water bottle,” Paige says seriously. “That’s advanced-level crush behavior.”
You glare. “Don’t be childish.”
She smirks. “You used to like when I was childish.”
You sigh. “You’re really not gonna go until I kick you out, are you?”
“I mean… if you want to physically remove me…” Paige grins wider, then leans in, voice lower. “Still got the same grip strength, by the way. Been working on it.”
You open the door wider.
“Bye, Paige.”
She stands there, grinning, but something flickers behind her eyes. Maybe a flash of regret. Maybe just more of the same yearning she’s been quietly carrying since you signed the papers.
“See you Friday?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“And if I drop Hazel’s Croc off early, that doesn’t count as seeing you midweek, right?”
You shut the door in her face — gently.
Inside, Hazel is already curled up on the couch with her fidget blanket, and Violet’s dancing around the kitchen singing about sparkly nails.
You turn off the porch light.
Outside, Paige lingers in the dark for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Later That Night, After Drop-Off
The girls are in pajamas, Hazel in her favorite soft long-sleeve and Violet in mismatched ones she insisted on choosing herself — sparkly butterfly pants and a Wings tee that clearly once belonged to Paige.
You’re on the couch with a cup of tea, mentally replaying every word from earlier like some sad rerun. Paige’s smirking face still lingers in your mind, like she’s camped out behind your eyes.
“Can I sleep in your bed?” Violet asks, already climbing up beside you without waiting for permission. Her stuffed dolphin flops onto your lap, followed by one Croc — the surviving one.
“You say that like it’s not your bed half the week,” you murmur, scooting the blanket over.
Violet snuggles in, her curls all wild and tangled. She’s warm and soft and full of trouble. “Hazel’s being boring,” she whispers. “She’s writing a poem.”
“She’s not boring,” you say automatically.
“She doesn’t use glitter,” Violet says flatly.
You stifle a smile. The room falls quiet for a minute.
Then, as if she can feel your brain settling, Violet turns to you with a sigh.
“I miss Mommy already.”
You blink. “She just dropped you off, baby.”
“I know.” Violet hugs her dolphin tighter. “But I miss her jokes. And when she does the robot. And when she lets me wear her hats.”
You nod softly.
“And her hair always smells like marshmallows,” Violet adds. “You smell like laundry.”
“Thanks.”
“She said she’s gonna teach me how to shoot backwards, and I’m gonna be on the Wings too, and we’re gonna be the first mommy-and-kid basketball team.”
You turn toward her, amused. “She told you that?”
“She pinky promised.” Violet extends her hand dramatically to prove it.
You shake your head, but you feel that familiar tug in your chest. The one that always creeps in when Paige is mentioned — which, lately, is constantly.
She scrambles off the couch and runs to her backpack, pulling out a crumpled paper with a wobbly drawing of a tall stick figure in a Wings jersey, holding hands with a smaller one — curly hair, glitter dress, the whole deal.
You look closer. “That’s you?”
“Duh.”
Your heart squeezes. “This is really good, baby.”
“I’m gonna give it to her Friday,” she says proudly. “And then maybe she’ll stay for the weekend instead of leaving.”
Your breath catches.
Violet doesn’t notice. She’s already crawling back under the blanket. “You still like her, right?”
You pause. “Vi…”
“It’s okay if you do,” she says matter-of-factly. “She still likes you. She was looking at your butt when you bent over to pick up my dolphin.”
You nearly choke on your tea. “What?!”
“She made a face,” Violet says casually, then mimics a cartoonish wide-eyed expression. “Like that.”
You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
“She’s your favorite,” Hazel calls from the hallway. You didn’t even hear her come over.
Violet turns, delighted. “See?! Told you.”
You sigh, already dreading Friday.
Because your ex-wife is her whole world.
And unfortunately, you remember exactly what that feels like.
synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.
warnings: angst. mentions of past abuse and toxic relationships. manipulation. fluff. paige being a trick. like she’s sooo down bad pls. nairaya moment.
word count: 10.8k
note: monthly update yayy lol. this one was actually special to write for me because yall get a “deeper-ish” insight into some of soraya’s past. reblogs and feedback are VERY appreciated and motivational
Almost two full weeks had passed in a slow, muted blur. Thirteen days spent mostly inside Soraya’s apartment, her world reduced to the soft glow of her lamp, the hum of the fridge, the persistent weight of fatigue, and the distant sound of people living their normal lives outside her window. She wasn’t allowed to drive yet, and even if she had been, she doubted she would’ve gone far.
The idea of bothering anyone for rides made her chest tighten, and the thought of getting into an Uber with a stranger while her brain still felt fragile set something uneasy stirring under her ribs. Other than her hospital checkups, she didn’t really have anywhere she needed to be. The season hadn’t paused for her, but her life had. Everything felt like it was held together by thread.
Paige had made sure that thread didn’t snap.
For thirteen days straight, without a single exception, Paige checked on her. It became a rhythm Soraya hadn’t agreed to but somehow fell into anyway. Every morning before practice, Paige sent a text to see if she was awake, and even if she didn’t answer, the knock on her door followed shortly after. If Soraya happened to already be up, Paige still came by, arms full of something she’d grabbed on her way over. If practice ran late or the morning run through was tight, Paige showed up afterward instead, hair still damp from a quick shower at the facility.
She never arrived empty handed. Some days it was takeout containers that smelled like comfort, warm and familiar in the quiet kitchen. Other times it was bags of fruit or snacks she swore Soraya liked even when Soraya insisted she hadn’t mentioned half of those things. “Jiggy likes them,” Paige would say when confronted, which didn’t actually make sense but somehow ended the argument. On other days she brought treats or toys for the cat, small things that made Jiggy’s tail sweep against the floor in welcome.
In the mornings, without fail, Paige brought iced decaf coffee. It was her way of pretending the situation wasn’t as restrictive as it felt, a soft distraction from the fact that Soraya couldn’t touch her regular coffee or her beloved matcha yet. Paige handed it over with this careful, almost gentle pride, as if she’d solved a problem Soraya hadn’t wanted to name.
More than the food or the coffee, it was the consistency that got to her. Paige insisted on driving her to nearly every appointment she had. On the few days where she absolutely couldn’t—when she had a mandatory film session or a game or practice—she apologized more than she needed to, looking frustrated with herself in a way Soraya didn’t quite know how to handle. None of it was Paige’s responsibility. Soraya had told her that more than once. Paige simply ignored the protest each time.
Soraya didn’t know how to feel about it. Part of her carried a quiet guilt that pulled at her in the evenings when the apartment felt too still. It seemed like she was taking up more of Paige’s time than she had any right to, like she was pulling from a well she wasn’t contributing to. The thought of Paige waking up earlier just to check on her or showing up after practice when she was obviously exhausted made Soraya’s chest ache with something uncomfortable. She kept telling herself she wasn’t asking for this. She kept telling Paige too, though the girl never listened.
But there was another part of her, the part she didn’t speak aloud, that felt something warmer and far more confusing. She liked the care, even if she tried not to. She liked the effort Paige poured into her without being asked. She liked that Paige stayed, even when Soraya tried to convince her that she didn’t need to. She liked the gentle steadiness and the way Paige showed up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She liked the small smile Paige got whenever Soraya opened her door, as if the simple act of seeing her was some kind of relief.
She didn’t know what to make of that feeling, so she didn’t touch it. She kept it tucked somewhere quiet, somewhere she could ignore if she tried hard enough. Yet every time Paige walked through her door, Soraya felt it stir again, soft and persistent, the one part of her she wasn’t sure she wanted to silence.
Dijonai had been begging Soraya for a girls’ night since the very day she moved to Dallas. It started as casual suggestions slipped into conversations, little nudges about catching up or cooking together the way they used to in college. After the seizure though, the invitations became more frequent, softer in tone but more insistent beneath the surface. It wasn’t pressure so much as care disguised as persistence. Dijonai didn’t want to hover or intrude on Soraya’s space, but she also refused to stand by and let her best friend isolate herself, especially now. A girls’ night was her compromise, a way to check in without making Soraya feel like a patient.
And after nearly two weeks of turning down every attempt with excuses ranging from reasonable to flimsy, Soraya finally relented. She didn’t even know why she agreed this time. Maybe she had grown tired of staring at the same four walls. Maybe she knew she owed Dijonai more than silence. Or maybe it was simply easier to say yes than to watch her best friend try again tomorrow.
Whatever the reason, the moment the word “fine” left her mouth, Dijonai lit up like someone had just handed her a championship trophy.
She moved quickly, almost comically so, grabbing her keys and heading out before Soraya could change her mind. The grocery store became her first stop. She started tossing things into the cart with the chaotic enthusiasm of someone who didn’t know what kind of night they were aiming for but was determined to cover every possible version of it. Fresh pasta ingredients. Garlic bread. A variety of snacks ranging from healthy to ‘we’ll regret this later.’ Sparkling water and flavored lemonades. A pint of ice cream she insisted she wasn’t going to touch but absolutely would.
She texted Soraya only once to confirm a single detail: ‘no alcohol, right?’ Soraya replied with a thumbs up. Dijonai rolled her eyes at the bare minimum answer but smiled anyway.
By the time she parked outside Soraya’s building, her trunk looked like she was preparing to host a small event rather than a two person hangout.
Soraya opened the door just as Dijonai reached the landing. She stood there with a bag slung over her shoulder and Jiggy tucked neatly in her arms, the little cat perched like a spoiled princess surveying her servants. Soraya looked tired but a little brighter than she had in days, her hair pulled back loosely and her expression softened by something that looked dangerously close to comfort.
“Aww, you’re bringing her,” Dijonai crooned as she shifted the grocery bags to free a hand and scratch Jiggy under the chin. The cat leaned into the touch like she had been waiting for exactly that.
Soraya’s gaze dropped to the bundle of fur in her arms. She pressed a small kiss to Jiggy’s head, almost absent mindedly, as if the gesture had become instinct. “Yeah. I fear she might get separation anxiety, and I feel bad bothering Carmen tonight.”
Dijonai raised a brow, the kind of slow, knowing look that only best friends could get away with. “You mean you might get separation anxiety,” she corrected, her tone light and teasing.
Soraya rolled her eyes in that quiet, fond way she reserved only for a very small circle of people. She stepped out into the hall, locked her door, and began walking down the stairs with Jiggy still nestled comfortably against her chest. She didn’t wait to see if Dijonai was following, because of course she was. Dijonai let out a low chuckle as she trailed close behind, already feeling the warmth of the night settling into something that resembled the old days, before the chaos and the distance. Before everything felt so heavy on Soraya’s shoulders.
Tonight, at least, she didn’t have to carry it alone.
The drive to Dijonai and Nalyssa’s apartment was quieter than Soraya had expected, but not in the tense way she had grown accustomed to lately.
The silence held a shape that felt almost gentle, filled by the steady thrum of the city outside the rolled down windows, the occasional hum of passing cars, and the low, comforting presence of music playing at a volume that invited calm rather than conversation.
The city at night sounded alive but distant, the kind of background noise that reminded Soraya that life was still happening around her even when hers had momentarily stalled. Dijonai’s silence, by contrast, felt respectful and intentional. A wordless agreement that Soraya didn’t need to perform conversation when her nervous system was still recovering from something she hadn’t fully digested or moved past.
Soraya kept her gaze drifting between the blurred lights outside the window and the small creature curled safely against her lap.
Jiggy, the cat who had spent more time inside cozy apartments than the outside world in the past years, nestled into Soraya’s legs like she understood her role as emotional ballast. Soraya wasn’t sure if the cat registered the idea of a girls’ night, or simply more people and more noise, but either way, she clung like Soraya was her favorite sentence, not bothered by the movement of the car, only leaning into the soft rhythm of Soraya’s hand stroking her fur.
Soraya’s thumb traced down the cat’s spine in gentle, repetitive motions, grounding both of them in the tactile reassurance of something familiar. Every time she paused, even briefly, Jiggy tilted her head upward, already watching her with wide, luminous eyes that made it impossible not to smile. There was something humbling about how an animal could look at you like you were safety personified.
Soraya exhaled once, softly through her nose, the sigh nearly swallowed by the music, and resumed petting.
It took only five minutes before they pulled into the parking space outside Dijonai and Nalyssa’s building. Time felt distorted lately to Soraya—hours passing slowly, days trickling by in uneven drops—so the short drive struck her almost with surprise.
Dijonai had already slid out of the driver’s seat before Soraya blinked twice, rounding the car with athlete precision as she grabbed the grocery bags from the trunk.
Soraya cradled Jiggy with both hands for a moment before shifting her to one arm, freeing her other hand to lock the car. The small ritual of doing something that didn’t require assistance made her shoulders loosen just a fraction. She didn’t even think about it. She just wanted to do it. To silently say ‘I’m here, i can contribute too, see?’ to someone who never asked her to prove anything.
The moment Dijonai unlocked the apartment door, motion surged toward Soraya like a soft tidal push. First came the clicking of nails against hardwood. Then warm, excited breathing. Then two furry bodies launching into her space with immediate, unfiltered joy.
Seven and Three, Dijonai’s two dogs, greeted Soraya like she was long lost rotation, pacing around her ankles in quick circles, tails sweeping behind them like ink strokes painting affection into the air. They recognized her instantly, not politely or quietly, but in the unselfconscious way animals celebrated belonging. Their bodies curved around Soraya’s legs as they pawed at her knees, a greeting that was loud in movement even when it didn’t make a sound. Soraya laughed—a real sound this time, low and hushed but genuine enough to blink the weariness from her face for a heartbeat. She crouched just slightly, releasing Jiggy to the floor, watching as the cat scampered without hesitation into the familiar chaos of dog affection. They had met many times before in Soraya’s own apartment. The animals became their own little ecosystem of play almost immediately, a swirl of paws and gentle head butts and shared warmth under the dim, ambient lighting of the apartment.
Nalyssa was next to greet her, rising from the couch with that relaxed confidence she always carried, shoulders loose, body language unhurried, a lazy, crooked smile warming her expression before she even spoke. Her presence swaggered without arrogance. The kind of masc energy that didn’t ask for attention, but knew how to inhabit a room fully. Soraya met her halfway, lifting a hand before Nalyssa’s hands met hers, effortlessly dabbing each other up. It was a small thing, two fists and palms tapping instead of two bodies embracing, but the simplicity of it felt like breathing room.
Nalyssa was one of the few people who actually understood Soraya’s discomfort with unsolicited physical affection without making it a conversation. Maybe it was simply observation. Whatever it was, Soraya appreciated it more than she had ever told her out loud.
“She finally convinced you, huh?” Nalyssa drawled, amusement soft in her voice, her tone shaped like an inside joke Soraya hadn’t even signed up for, but was willing to laugh at.
Soraya smirked—just slightly, that teasing quirk in her expression curling into something playful. “Had to give her what she wants. Otherwise she gets cranky,” she shot back, fist tapping Nalyssa’s again with unbothered mimicry, letting the joke land without adding layers or heaviness.
“Tell me about it,” Nalyssa huffed with mock exasperation, the humor somehow even more convincing for how unbothered she seemed saying it.
Dijonai set the bags down on the counter at precisely that moment, lifting her head just enough for her girlfriend’s comment to earn a mild but sharp glare. It was the kind of look that had barely any bite behind it, softened by affection and familiarity and the domestic choreography of two people who existed in each other’s constellations daily. Soraya watched the small exchange with a quiet smile
Dijonai and Soraya settled into the kitchen with the easy rhythm of people who had cooked together more than a few times. The overhead lights were warm, casting a soft glow over the counter where vegetables, spices, and a cutting board had been laid out in an almost purposeful clutter.
Dijonai took it upon herself to chop the vegetables, her knife gliding through peppers and onions with efficient speed after having already cubed the meat. The rhythmic tapping of the knife blended with the music floating from the living room speaker, something upbeat and catchy that Dijonai would occasionally bounce her shoulder to. Soraya, meanwhile, worked on assembling the dish, sorting herbs, checking measurements, and tending to the boiling pasta water with a quiet focus that made her look almost serene if you didn’t know her well.
The music seemed to energize only one of them. Dijonai swayed lightly as she chopped, her lips forming half words to the song. Soraya didn’t join in, her attention staying firmly on the stove. Cooking was one of the few activities that silenced her wandering mind. Every step required enough concentration to drown out the clutter of thoughts she’d been dragging behind her since the seizure. The sizzle from the pan and the steam rising from the pot were grounding.
“So,” Dijonai said, drawing out the word with a grin that curled at the corners of her mouth before it fully bloomed. “Heard Paige’s been promoted.”
Soraya didn’t look over at her, but there was a tell in the way her hand paused for just half a second before she sprinkled a small handful of salt into the bubbling water. Her expression remained composed when she answered, almost to a stubborn degree. “Promoted to what?”
Dijonai’s grin turned mischievous, bright and full. When she glanced at Soraya, her eyes were practically sparkling like she had been waiting all afternoon to say this. “Your chauffeur and nurse.”
Soraya let out a long breath, rolling her eyes in a way that was far more dramatic than the situation warranted. Then she sighed like she had been holding that exhale in all day. “It’s not a promotion if I’m basically being forced into it.” She finally turned toward Dijonai with an unimpressed, deadpan expression, her face giving away absolutely nothing.
This only made Dijonai laugh, genuine and loud enough to be heard over the music. She reached over and gently tapped Soraya’s upper arm with the back of her hand. “You’re so mean, oh my god. At least show the girl some appreciation.”
Soraya turned back to the stove and tossed the vegetables into the pan, letting them sizzle as she coated them evenly in the oil. The fragrant smell of garlic rose between them. “I’m not sure why she’s doing all of that.”
Dijonai watched her for a moment, no longer grinning. Her expression softened as she studied the side of Soraya’s face, her brow lowering slightly with curiosity and a quiet sort of concern. Sometimes she could read Soraya like a book written in bold ink, clear and obvious. Other times Soraya was in another language entirely. guarded, coded, and impossible to decipher unless you caught her in a rare moment of transparency. Dijonai wasn’t sure which version she was facing now.
“You know why,” she finally said, her voice gentler as she grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. “She cares about you. I’d go as far as to say she has a huge crush on you. Don’t pretend you don’t see it, Sora.”
Soraya’s shoulders tensed. Not visibly, not dramatically, but Dijonai knew her well enough to catch the subtle shift. Something tightened in her chest, something familiar and unwelcome and confusing all at once. It felt like a blend of guilt and uncertainty swirling together into a weight she didn’t know how to set down. The kind of feeling that suggested something wasn’t supposed to be good for her, and yet a part of her wondered if maybe it was.
Paige was sweet. Too sweet. Kind without conditions, caring without being asked, smart, talented, and so genuine it almost hurt. Everything Soraya quietly admired. Everything Soraya convinced herself she didn’t deserve.
Before she could stop herself, her guard slipped sideways, her mouth speaking faster than her brain could rationalize. “We hooked up,” she announced, abruptly and without any preamble. Her eyes stayed locked on the pan, refusing to shift toward Dijonai.
Dijonai froze mid sip. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open with a delayed gasp as if she needed a second to reboot her entire system. Then came a sharp inhale and a laugh that burst out of her without warning. “Shut up. Oh my god. When?” Her voice jumped up an octave, disbelief and excitement tangled together. She had expected tension, maybe flirting, maybe a kiss in a moment of weakness. But sex? Not really on her bingo card.
Soraya sighed again, pushing the vegetables around the pan with a wooden spoon. “Twice. Over a month ago. Well, I wouldn’t call it proper sex. It was just me receiving.” She shrugged, the gesture minimal but intentional, like she wanted to pretend she didn’t realize how explosive the confession was.
“Girl,” Dijonai said, shaking her head with a grin of disbelief. “Just because you didn’t give back doesn’t mean it’s not proper sex.”
Soraya finally spared her a side eye, unimpressed. “It does to me.”
Dijonai leaned back against the counter, breathing out as she processed the information, still shaking her head like she couldn’t fully wrap her mind around it. “So what now?” Her tone softened again. She knew better than to interrogate Soraya. She knew to keep her question open and light, something Soraya could answer without feeling trapped.
“Nothing. It just happened.” Soraya shrugged, this one far smaller, almost resigned. She stirred the vegetables again, making sure they didn’t burn as she avoided eye contact.
Dijonai let out a quiet sigh, choosing not to push further even though every bone in her body wanted to say something wise or teasing or gently confrontational. Sometimes silence was safer. Sometimes it was kinder.
And sometimes Soraya needed space to figure out what she wasn’t ready to admit out loud.
The rest of the girl’s night unfolded with a softness Soraya hadn’t expected. After dinner finished simmering in the kitchen, they migrated to the living room—Soraya and Dijonai settling into opposite ends of the couch with their plates while Nalyssa sat cross legged on the carpet, Seven sprawled across her thigh and Three curled up near Jiggy as if guarding her. The movie they’d chosen played quietly in the background, mostly ignored as the night turned into easy conversation, teasing jokes, and the kind of laughter that comes in quick, unfiltered bursts. Every so often, Jiggy would hop onto Soraya’s lap, her small weight grounding her in a way nothing else ever quite did.
Soraya kept the conversation light, careful to steer it toward old college memories, basketball gossip, and Nalyssa’s storytelling tangents. She didn’t bring up Paige again. Even thinking about the name made something tighten in her chest—the same knot of emotion she hadn’t been able to untangle since May. She’d already regretted letting anything slip earlier. Not because she didn’t trust Dijonai, who had been her closest friend for years, or because she felt ashamed. It was because saying something out loud made it feel solid and real. Fixed in the air, no matter how much she might want to tuck it away somewhere quiet and untouched.
She’d grown up being taught that vulnerability invited risk. That too much honesty—especially about anything good—was like calling down the evil eye.
Keep your successes quiet, keep your goals protected, keep your joys tucked close to the chest, or else envy from others could poison them. Even good news was something to share sparsely and carefully. So whenever Soraya felt herself about to confide something raw or delicate, her instinct was to swallow it back down. Hide it. Protect it. Protect herself. And talking about Paige—whatever was happening between them—felt like holding a fragile thing up to the sun and daring something terrible to notice.
By the time the movie ended, all three women were a little full, a little tired, and a lot more relaxed. Dijonai insisted on driving Soraya back home, claiming it was ‘only right’ since she had dragged her out of the house in the first place. Soraya didn’t argue. Jiggy curled up in her lap again on the way back.
The hum of the engine and the faint city lights passing through the windows made the drive strangely peaceful. Dijonai hummed along to whatever playlist was still quietly playing, and Soraya found herself sinking into the calm, grateful she’d agreed to come out tonight.
She wasn’t an introvert—not fully. But she wasn’t an extrovert either. She lived somewhere in the in between, able to be social when she wanted to, quiet and observant when she didn’t. People often assumed she was shy or withdrawn, because she wasn’t loud or overly expressive. Really, she just didn’t hand pieces of herself out easily. When she did, it was intentional.
Once back at her apartment, Soraya kicked her shoes off near the door and let Jiggy wander freely, the cat immediately trotting toward her favorite corner of the living room. Soraya headed straight for the shower. Warm water—not hot, never hot—ran down her skin. Anything too steamy made her chest feel tight, her breath shallow, the humidity triggering that strange suffocating sensation that had always come with her hypothyroidism. Warm was safe. Warm was enough. She let it wash away the remnants of the night—the emotions she hadn’t talked about, the ones she had, the strange cocktail of comfort, guilt, and confusion she’d been carrying since the seizures, since the car rides with Paige, since the first time she’d kissed her.
When she finally stepped out, wrapping a towel over her body, she felt lighter.
A few days later, the morning of June 17th arrived quietly, without fanfare. Soraya had slowly been easing her way back into a routine: returning to the gym, logging her workouts in short, careful intervals, and showing up to practice even if she wasn’t cleared to participate fully. Some days she joined warmups or individual drills. other days she sat on the sideline benches with her water bottle and watched everyone else move—watched Paige move. There was something grounding about the controlled chaos of practice, something almost comforting in the squeak of sneakers on the hardwood and the clipped shouts of coaches. She would be cleared to sit on the bench at games soon. Just a few more days until she could finally sit under the bright arena lights without the risk of nausea, migraines, or dizziness. Just a few more days until she could exist in the noise again.
The morning sunlight filtered weakly through her curtains when she woke, stretching beneath her blankets and blinking up at the ceiling. Her head felt clear, her body rested. It took almost a full hour—showering, feeding Jiggy, starting breakfast—before she remembered what day it was.
Her birthday.
She stopped mid stir at the kitchen counter, staring blankly at the decaf coffee she’d just poured, wondering how she had managed to forget. Then again, birthdays had never been something she clung to. They had always been quiet, uneventful things, dates she acknowledged more out of obligation than anticipation. She hadn’t even celebrated them during the first twenty years of her life. Only when she turned twenty-one had she allowed herself the excuse to go out and get drunk with teammates, and even that had become a rare indulgence. Now she was on an alcohol ban, so there was even less reason to mark the date in any special way. It all felt like just another morning.
Around ten, her doorbell rang. Soraya froze mid step, brows drawing together. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Paige hadn’t texted her yet—likely swallowed up by practice—and she figured if the girl planned to drop by, it would be after lunchtime. She walked toward the intercom system, wiping her hands absently on her shorts before pressing the button.
“Hello?” Her voice was calm, but a quiet note of caution lingered beneath it.
“Hello. I’m with the downtown flower delivery service. Got a delivery for you.” The man’s voice crackled faintly through the speaker.
Soraya blinked. Her suspicion sharpened immediately. Flowers? For her? Almost no one in her life bothered sending her flowers, mostly because they knew that she had never liked receiving them. They felt too sentimental, too performative, and too temporary. She held her breath for a moment before answering.
“Alright, come up.” She released the button and immediately went to grab her phone off the couch.
Her thumbs moved quickly, typing out a message to Dijonai: did you send me flowers? She hit send and waited, pacing once toward the kitchen before hearing the doorbell ring again. Whoever it was had reached her floor.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.
A young man stood there in a simple work uniform, holding a bouquet wrapped neatly in paper. Red and white roses—classic, romantic, all wrong. Soraya’s stomach dropped instantly, dread settling into her gut like a stone. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
“Delivery for Soraya?” he asked with a polite smile.
She nodded stiffly and accepted the bouquet, murmuring a quiet thank you as he wished her a good day and headed back toward the elevator. Once the door shut, the silence of her apartment felt sudden and heavy. The dread swelled. She carried the bouquet to the kitchen counter with the same caution she might use handling a bomb.
Her eyes scanned every inch of it for a note, her hand trembling slightly as she searched. She found the small white card tucked among the petals and plucked it out, her breath catching as she flipped it over.
“Happy birthday, my Soso. I had T help me send these to your place. Hope you don’t mind.
love, your Leah.”
The moment her eyes finished tracing the words, she set the card down on the counter like it burned her. Both hands braced against the marble surface as she bowed her head, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. Her body trembled, not dramatically, but enough for her to feel her pulse skittering under her skin.
A storm of emotions rose and collided inside her. Anger sharp and bright, annoyance bitter at the edges, anxiety twisting in her stomach, disgust simmering like heat beneath her ribs. But the worst part, the part she hated most, was the vulnerability threading through all of it. The audacity of Leah Katz to send flowers to the woman she had manipulated, belittled, and broken down. The sheer nerve it took to address her so intimately—as if she still had any right to that name. And Natisha Heidemann—of all people—to help her? To hand out Soraya’s private address as if it were nothing?
Soraya’s fingers curled slowly, tightening until her knuckles turned white. Her jaw clenched. She wasn’t angry enough to scream, but she wasn’t calm enough to keep from shaking. She swallowed hard, forcing her breath to stay slow, forcing herself not to let everything rush out at once.
After a long moment, when the worst of the trembling had passed, she straightened and reached for a pair of scissors. Her movements were controlled, almost surgical. She stripped the bouquet apart piece by piece, cutting stems too short to salvage, slicing petals that had been arranged with false tenderness, dismantling every trace of Leah’s presence in her kitchen
. When she finished, she gathered the ruined flowers in her hands and dumped them into the trash, the scent of roses lingering faintly in the air like an insult.
She washed her hands afterward, scrubbing until the smell faded from her skin.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe again.
Stanford — december 13th, 2018
It had been late—almost midnight at Stanford’s gym—when Soraya realized she left her water bottle in the locker room. She jogged back down the empty hallway, the lights humming overhead, the place quiet in that strange way gyms always were after hours. When she pushed the locker room door open, she wasn’t expecting to hear voices. Muffled laughter and a soft hum of conversation.
She froze.
Around the corner, in the row of lockers she and Leah shared, two silhouettes stood too close. Soraya stepped forward, not even consciously deciding to. It was pure instinct. The closer she came, the clearer the picture became. Leah pressed up against a wall, some sophomore guard giggling against her mouth. Leah’s hands was on the girl’s waist. The girl’s fingers were in Leah’s hair.
“Wow.”
Leah’s head snapped up, her face paling. The sophomore stepped back instantly, mortified, whispering “oh my god—sorry— I didn’t know—” before scurrying away.
Leah didn’t chase after her. She just stared at Soraya with that sharp, irritated look she always wore when she got caught in something she couldn’t talk her way out of.
“It’s not what it looked like,” Leah had said, as if the words worked like magic.
Soraya’s head shook. “You were kissing her.”
Leah exhaled hard, rolling her eyes, as if Soraya were being dramatic. “It was stupid. It didn’t mean anything. You know I get reckless when I’m stressed.”
Stressed. The excuse Leah used for everything.
Soraya stood there, silent, her stomach in knots. Leah stepped closer, crowding her space the way she always did to regain control. She cupped Soraya’s jaw, tilting her face up, eyes softening with practiced precision.
“Don’t look at me like that, Soso. I’m sorry, I swear. I love you.”
Later that night, outside Soraya’s apartment door, Leah had shown up with a bouquet of red and white roses—the first time. She held them out with a pout, an apology rehearsed.
“Let me fix it,” she whispered.
Soraya had taken them.
Stanford — february 27th, 2019
It happened after a brutal loss, the kind that sat heavy on everyone’s shoulders. Leah had scored well, but she still found a way to direct all her fury outward. The coaching staff, the defensive rotation, the bench unit—none of them escaped her blame. And when the two of them got back to Soraya’s apartment, that anger found its sharpest edge. Leah paced the living room like she was trapped in her own skin, the snaps in her tone growing harsher each time Soraya tried to soothe her. By the time they reached the kitchen, Leah was no longer talking about the game. Every insecurity Soraya had ever confessed to her was suddenly ammunition.
“You’re so ungrateful for everything I do,” she said, voice rising with each word. “Do you even understand how embarrassing you made me look out there? You played like you were scared.”
Soraya was exhausted in a way that sank into her bones. Her limbs felt heavy, her head aching from the emotional whiplash of the entire day. She didn’t want to fight. She wanted to take a breath. “I’m not doing this right now,” she murmured, stepping toward her bedroom in the hope Leah would let it go until morning.
Leah let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “You think you get to decide that?”
Before Soraya could respond, Leah stepped into her space. The movement was swift enough that Soraya instinctively backed up, hands lifting slightly in a silent plea for distance. Leah advanced again. Soraya tried one more step away, but Leah matched it, closing the gap until Soraya’s back hit the wall. The soft thud that followed made something shift in Leah—an ugly satisfaction that came from seeing Soraya flinch.
“Oh, don’t start acting scared now,” Leah said, her voice dropping into something low and venomous. “You make me feel insane and then you act like I’m the problem.”
“Please stop,” Soraya managed, trying to keep her voice steady even as her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She wanted space, not a fight. “I’m tired. We can talk later.”
Leah leaned in close enough that Soraya could feel her breath. “Or what? You’ll run off and hide? Cry until I have to fix that too?” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head.
The fear in Soraya’s chest tightened. “You’re scaring me.”
Soraya tried to slip to the side, hoping Leah would let her pass, but Leah’s arm shot out and blocked her escape. The contact of Leah’s body near hers made something inside Soraya jolt. Leah reacted instantly, like any movement that wasn’t surrender was an insult. She pushed Soraya back—not hard enough to send her to the floor, but with enough force that the back of Soraya’s head struck the wall behind her. A bloom of pain spread along her skull. She stood stunned, breath caught halfway in her throat.
Leah’s hand came up. Soraya barely had time to register it before the slap landed. It wasn’t the kind meant to leave lasting injury, but it was sharp and fast and humiliating in a way Soraya had never experienced before. Her cheek stung, and her eyes filled with tears from the sheer shock of it more than the pain.
The moment Leah saw the tears rising, her expression changed with sickening speed. Regret washed over her features in a way that felt almost grotesque. She stepped back like she was the victim of her own actions, one hand trembling as she reached for her hair. “Oh my god… Soso… no. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t. You just—” Her voice cracked on the inhale. “You know how to get under my skin. Please don’t look at me like that.”
Soraya didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She pressed a hand to her cheek, breathing slowly, grounding herself against the dizziness creeping up her spine.
Leah gently took Soraya’s hand and lowered it from her face. For a moment, Soraya thought she might flinch again, but her body stayed still. Leah cupped Soraya’s face with both hands, her touch suddenly soft and fragile. She pressed small, apologetic kisses to her cheeks, nose, forehead, even her chin, whispering between them, “I’m sorry, darling. I’m so sorry.” Her accent thickened as she spoke, as if the guilt made her voice unravel.
Soraya finally summoned the strength to push her back. The contact broke, and Leah simply stood there. Her chest rose and fell quickly as she tried to collect herself. Her eyes dragged over Soraya’s figure, taking in the stunned posture, the redness spreading across her cheek, the trembling that Soraya couldn’t hide. Leah swallowed hard, exhaled slowly, and then, without a word, walked out of the apartment.
Thirty minutes passed. Soraya sat on the kitchen floor, hugging her knees loosely as tears streamed down her face silently , and the apartment was quiet except for the ticking of the clock over the microwave. When the doorbell rang, her heart sank as she already knew who it would be. She looked through the peephole and saw Leah holding the largest bouquet of red and white roses Soraya had ever seen.
Soraya opened the door. Leah didn’t speak right away. She simply held the flowers out with shaky hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You know I love you more than anything. It’ll never happen again. Let me fix us.”
The apology pierced deeper than the slap. Soraya’s throat tightened. “What is it about me that makes you so angry?” she asked, voice fragile, barely audible. The question slipped out before she could swallow it back, full of all the hurt she’d been trying to ignore.
Leah’s eyes softened. She stepped closer, lowering her voice into something calm and gentle. “It’s not you, baby. It’s me. I’ll work on it. I swear.”
And even though Soraya’s body trembled and her mind told her to close the door, she stepped aside.
She let Leah in.
She always let her in.
Stanford — november 2nd, 2019
Soraya was in her room getting dressed for one of the huge, infamous Stanford parties that always exploded across campus before the sports season began. They were known for being chaotic and loud, packed with athletes and friends, overflowing with booze, music, weed, and all the casual confidence college kids carried before the pressure of the season crushed them. The environment was overstimulating for Soraya on most days, and on nights like this she usually preferred staying in or having a quieter time with a small circle. But Leah liked going, and Soraya was determined to be a supportive girlfriend, so she stood in front of her mirror trying on outfit after outfit, asking for Leah’s opinion each time.
Leah was sprawled out on Soraya’s bed, legs crossed, scrolling her phone mindlessly while Soraya switched tops, adjusted skirts, brushed her hair aside, and tried to imagine what she might feel comfortable in for the night. “What about this one?” Soraya asked, turning slightly so Leah could see the full look. She wore a short denim skirt and a black halter top that revealed a sliver of her stomach, something she had only recently begun to feel confident enough to wear. The outfit made her feel bold, grown, and pretty in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years.
Leah barely glanced up. Her bored expression didn’t change, but a slight curl in her lip formed before she spoke. “Too slutty. It’s a college party, not a club.”
Soraya blinked, frozen for a moment, not prepared for the bluntness. She looked back at the mirror, the outfit suddenly feeling loud and wrong even though a moment ago she had felt confident and hopeful about it. “It’s not that bad…” she said quietly, brushing her hands down the sides of the skirt, trying to reconcile her own feelings with the sudden dismissal.
Leah scoffed without looking away from her phone. “Are you joking? Your bum is basically peeking out of that skirt, and it doesn’t flatter your thighs. It looks desperate.”
The words stung instantly. They didn’t come with a raised voice or pointed cruelty. they were delivered casually, as if they were facts rather than insults. Soraya felt her throat tighten, the burn spreading down her chest like she’d been pushed underwater. She swallowed and stared harder at the mirror, trying to understand what Leah saw that she didn’t. “What do you mean ‘it doesn’t flatter my thighs’?” she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
Leah didn’t hesitate. “I mean it makes you look fat, Soraya.”
The sentence landed like a physical blow. Soraya had always struggled with her body image, even before college. She had lost over forty pounds a few years ago and was finally starting to feel comfortable in her skin, finally starting to believe that she wasn’t defined by the numbers on a scale or the shape of her legs. She’d clawed her way out of two different eating disorders, had worked tooth and nail to heal herself, and had confided all of those vulnerabilities to Leah because she had believed Leah would protect them. Hearing those words from the one person who knew the depth of her insecurities made her chest cave in. She couldn’t even look at Leah.
Leah looked up then, as if realizing a second too late what she’d said. Her expression shifted, first to confusion and then to worry. “Baby, I’m so—”
“Get the fuck out.” Soraya didn’t shout, but her voice was sharp and steady, with a force Leah wasn’t used to hearing from her. She walked to the door, pulled it open, and pointed outward without a single glance toward Leah.
Leah stood slowly, the phone slipping from her fingers onto the bed. Her eyes stayed glued to Soraya, searching for some break in her resolve. “Come on… you know I didn’t mean it like that.” Her tone softened, almost pleading, but Soraya still wouldn’t look at her. She kept her gaze fixed on the wall across the hallway, jaw tight, body stiff. Leah sighed, realizing she had no foothold tonight, and eventually walked out.
The apartment felt unbearably quiet once she was gone. Soraya shut the door, locked it, and stood there for a long moment, breathing through the ache in her chest. She changed out of the outfit, put on sweatpants instead, and sat on the edge of her bed trying to piece together why Leah’s words felt like they were echoing inside her head. She skipped the party, turned her phone face down, and spent the night fighting the old familiar urge to hate her reflection.
The next morning, the doorbell rang. Soraya answered it with puffy eyes and tangled hair, only to find a delivery driver holding a bouquet of red and white roses. They were large and dramatic, the kind that made a statement before you even read the card. She brought them inside and slid the note from between the stems with trembling fingers.
“I’m sorry about last night, Soso. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, I was just jealous and insecure. Please forgive me, baby.”
She stared at the handwriting for a long time. The apology was familiar, the pattern predictable. Roses after cruelty. Grand gestures after casual wounds. She stood there torn between anger and longing, between pride and the aching desire for reassurance. And like every other time before this one, after an hour of pulling herself apart with her thoughts, she eventually called Leah.
Leah picked up on the first ring, already promising she would make it up to her.
Arike had absolutely insisted on hosting a birthday gathering for Soraya, inviting the team and a few close friends over to her house without even pretending it was optional. She was the only one with a place big enough to hold everyone comfortably, and after two years of being the unofficial team host, she had already decided that Soraya’s birthday would not be spent alone on a couch.
Soraya had tried to decline at first, had half heartedly attempted to talk her way out of it, citing exhaustion and recovery and the fact that she really did not feel like celebrating anything after the situation with the flowers. But Arike had already set everything in motion. Invitations were sent, food was ordered, people were excited. By the time Soraya realized she was serious, it was already too late to back out without feeling guilty.
So she got dressed anyway. If nothing else, she could use the distraction. Staying home alone with her thoughts felt far more dangerous than forcing herself into a few hours of polite socializing. She told herself she would show up, smile, make an appearance, and leave early. Carmen would check on Jiggy while she was gone, and the night would pass whether she wanted it to or not.
She chose an outfit that made her feel grounded in her body rather than exposed. The two piece set was a light, muted green, soft and earthy, the kind of color that caught the light without demanding attention. The corset style top hugged her torso closely, structured with subtle boning that cinched her waist and lifted her chest in a way that felt elegant rather than restrictive. Thin straps rested against her shoulders, delicate but secure, and the fabric molded to her as if it had been tailored specifically for her shape.
The matching pants sat low on her hips, fitted smoothly through her thighs before flaring slightly at the hem, long enough to skim the tops of her shoes. The textured fabric wrapped around her legs and hips with ease, accentuating her curves naturally, confidently, without crossing into anything that felt performative.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt composed. Put together. Like someone who could walk into a room full of people and not immediately unravel.
She reminded herself again that she would only stay a few hours. She would talk, eat a little, let people sing at her if they insisted, and then leave. It was just one night. Just a birthday. Just another thing to get through.
Dijonai and Lyss were the ones who picked her up, pulling up outside her building with music already playing at an easy volume. Soraya slid into the backseat, greeting them with a soft smile, letting their energy carry her forward even if she did not quite feel it yet.
As they drove, she found herself wondering, despite her best efforts not to, why Paige had not offered to come get her. Paige had not even texted her all day. No check in. No happy birthday text. Soraya told herself it did not matter. Told herself she did not need it. She would see Paige at the gathering anyway, most likely surrounded by teammates and noise and laughter, and that would be enough.
Or at least, she tried to convince herself that it would be.
By the time they pulled into Arike’s driveway, the sun had already dipped low enough to cast everything in that dusky, warm glow that made even a crowded street feel softer. A few cars were parked out front, some familiar, some not.
Soraya spotted Paige’s almost immediately, her chest tightening in a way she refused to examine too closely.
Most of the others had clearly Ubered, probably already planning on getting at least a little buzzed. Soraya took a slow breath as she stepped out of the car, smoothing her top down out of habit more than nerves, and followed Dijonai and Lyss up to the front door.
She barely had time to process the quiet before the door swung open and Myisha ushered them inside. The moment Soraya crossed the threshold, the house erupted.
“Happy birthday!”
The sound echoed off the walls, loud and genuine and coordinated enough to catch her off guard. Her teammates stood scattered across the living room, some perched on couches, others holding drinks or plates, all grinning at her like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. Vets, rookies, newbies, a few friends mixed in.
And Paige.
Soraya’s smile came slow but real, small at first, then settling comfortably on her face as she took it all in.
Paige stood a little off to the side, hair pulled into a low bun, dressed casually in baggy dark gray jorts and a dark green football jersey that hung loose on her frame. The color made Soraya’s lips twitch upward despite herself.
Of course they were almost matching.
People started closing in around her one by one. Quick side hugs she usually avoided but allowed tonight, daps, gentle shoulder squeezes, warm words spoken directly into her ear. She returned each greeting with quiet appreciation, grounding herself in the familiarity of it all. Paige stayed back, watching with an easy patience, hands tucked into her pockets and a soft smile playing on her lips.
When the crowd finally dispersed enough for Soraya to breathe, she found herself walking toward Paige without fully deciding to. “You shy, Bueckers?” she asked lightly, head tilted as she stopped in front of her.
Paige scoffed softly, rolling her eyes with a lazy grin. “Never,” she said. “I just know you’re not exactly a hug person, so I figured I’d spare you.” She shrugged like it was nothing, like that consideration hadn’t clearly been thought through.
Soraya studied her for a beat, brows lifting with a faint, amused disbelief. Then she surprised them both by opening her arms. “Bring it in, rook,” she said. “I’m being nice on my birthday.”
Paige blinked, genuinely caught off guard, but the hesitation didn’t last long. Her smile widened, still a little shy, a little careful, as she stepped forward. She wrapped her arms gently around Soraya’s waist, mindful of the pressure, while Soraya’s arms slid up around Paige’s neck, drawing her closer and setting the tone herself. Their chins rested against each other’s shoulders, bodies settling into the space naturally. Paige’s hand flattened against the small of Soraya’s back without thinking, warm and grounding, and Soraya didn’t pull away.
“Happy birthday, Bambi,” Paige murmured so softly it almost felt like it was meant only for Soraya. The nickname hit her unexpectedly, sending a quiet shiver down her spine.
When they finally pulled apart, slow and reluctant, Soraya lifted her brows again, eyes searching Paige’s face. “Bambi?”
Paige’s smile turned faintly smug, clearly pleased with herself. One arm still lingered around Soraya’s waist, unconscious and familiar. “Yeah,” she said. “You’ve got big brown deer eyes.”
Soraya shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips like she couldn’t help it, like she was silently calling Paige ridiculous without saying the words out loud. She slipped out of her grasp, Paige’s arm falling back to her side as Soraya turned away. “You’re sooo creative,” she said over her shoulder, dry but fond, disappearing back into the room with that same quiet smile still playing on her mouth.
And Paige watched her go, still smiling, already replaying it in her head.
After blowing out the candles and cutting the cake, Soraya could feel herself slipping past her limit. The laughter was warm, the attention well-intentioned, but the overlapping voices, the music, the clinking of glasses and constant movement pressed in on her senses until it all started to blur together. She smiled when she needed to, accepted another quick hug, another comment, another drink she didn’t plan on touching. Eventually, she excused herself without much explanation, weaving through the house until she found the stairs that led upward.
That was how she ended up on Arike’s rooftop, leaning against the cool metal railing and letting the quiet settle into her bones. The city stretched out below her, distant and muted, while the night sky above felt impossibly close. Stars scattered themselves across the darkness, steady and unbothered, and the moon hung bright and full, following her no matter where she turned her head. Soraya tilted her chin up slightly, breathing a little deeper. She’d always loved the moon. It had a way of making everything feel less immediate, less suffocating.
She stayed there alone for a while, long enough for her shoulders to loosen and her heartbeat to slow. Then she heard the soft creak of the door behind her.
Soraya turned just as Paige stepped onto the rooftop, closing the door gently like she was afraid of breaking the quiet. They exchanged small smiles, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Paige walked closer, stopping beside her and leaning her elbows against the railing too, mirroring Soraya without even realizing it.
“You overwhelmed?” Paige asked carefully, her voice low.
Soraya nodded once, eyes still on the sky. She didn’t bother with words.
“Me too,” Paige admitted, following Soraya’s gaze upward.
That made Soraya glance over at her, curiosity flickering across her face. “I thought you loved parties.”
Paige let out a quiet, breathy chuckle and nodded to herself. “I do. I just… it’s been a stressful few months.” She didn’t look at Soraya when she said it, like the words were easier to admit to the night than to her.
Soraya hummed softly in understanding. “Yeah. It’s a lot.” She tilted her head back again, eyes tracing the moon’s outline. “Arike means well. Everyone does. I’m just not built for all of it at once.”
Paige glanced at her then, a small grin tugging at her mouth. “You still showed up.”
“Barely,” Soraya replied dryly, then softened. “But I appreciate it. Really.”
They stood there in a silence that felt intentional, the breeze brushing past them, lifting loose strands of hair and cooling the warmth left behind by the house below. Paige shifted her weight slightly, then spoke again.
“You okay?” she asked, not prying, just offering.
Soraya considered lying. It would have been simpler. Instead, she shrugged lightly. “I am now.” She glanced sideways at Paige. “This helps.”
Paige’s smile was subtle, almost hidden, but it was real. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Soraya said, exhaling. “You’re easy to be around. Even when you’re not trying to be.”
Paige laughed quietly under her breath. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Soraya replied, her tone teasing.
That earned Paige a small, pleased smirk. “It’s crazy how you can go from mean to somewhat nice.”
“You’re not that bad,” Soraya said, more serious now.
Paige scoffed lightly. “High praise.”
Soraya shrugged, gaze drifting back to the skyline. “I’ve had a shitty day.”
Paige turned fully toward her at that, attention sharpening. “Wanna talk about it?”
Soraya hesitated, then shrugged again. “My ex sent me flowers today. It triggered some bad memories, I guess.” She kept her tone casual, like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t shaken her earlier.
Paige didn’t rush to fill the silence. Her fingers curled slightly around the railing as she took that in. Before she could respond, Soraya spoke again.
“Thanks for being here.”
Paige swallowed, something warm blooming in her chest. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The words settled between them, heavier than the quiet but comforting all the same. Soraya turned then, really looking at Paige. The city lights reflected faintly in her eyes, softening her expression. Paige noticed and went still, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile thing was forming.
“Can I ask you something?” Paige said quietly.
Soraya nodded. “Yeah.”
“Is it okay if I stay up here with you for a bit?” Paige asked, almost sheepish. “I don’t really want to go back down there yet.”
Soraya’s lips curved into a small smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was aware, charged, gentle. Paige shifted closer without thinking, their shoulders brushing this time. Soraya didn’t move away. Instead, she turned fully toward her, one arm still resting on the railing.
“You have a habit of doing that,” Paige murmured.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re deciding something.”
Soraya’s gaze flicked briefly to Paige’s mouth before returning to her eyes. “Maybe I am.”
Paige’s breath caught, just barely. “Okay.”
There was no rush after that. No spectacle. Just two people leaning in under the quiet sky, close enough now that the space between them felt optional. When their lips met, it was soft and unassuming, a kiss that felt more like an exhale than a decision. The noise, the weight, the tension of the day all seemed to fall away at once.
Soraya’s hand slid up to the back of Paige’s neck, fingers curling there as if grounding herself. Paige’s hands found Soraya’s hips, steady and warm, pulling her just a little closer. Their lips moved together slowly, unhurried, switching between gentle pecks and deeper presses. No teeth, no urgency, just longing and reassurance wrapped into something tender and real.
It felt different from every kiss before it. Like not just mouths meeting, but something quieter and deeper lining up too, if only for a moment.
And for the first time that day, Soraya felt like she could breathe.
When they finally pulled away from each other, it felt both endless and impossibly brief, like time had stretched itself thin just for them and then snapped back into place. They stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, breathing a little heavier than before, eyes searching each other’s faces as if to confirm that what had just happened was real. The city hummed faintly below them, the party noise muffled and distant, but up here it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them and the quiet space they shared.
Paige was the first to break the silence, her voice coming out softer than usual, almost hesitant. Soraya’s gaze was still fixed on her, steady and intense in a way that made Paige’s chest tighten and her knees feel a little unsteady. “Uh,” she started, clearing her throat as she shifted her weight slightly. “I got you something.”
Before Soraya could even respond, Paige turned on her heel and walked back toward the rooftop door, moving with quick, purposeful steps as if she might lose her nerve if she didn’t act immediately. She reached down and picked up a small, neatly wrapped box she had left by the door earlier, then turned back around.
Soraya watched her with a raised brow, curiosity flickering across her face as she wandered over to the swing bench near the railing and sat down. Paige followed a second later, settling beside her without saying a word. The usual confidence she carried seemed dulled now, replaced with something quieter and more careful. She placed the box gently in Soraya’s lap, like it was something fragile.
Soraya glanced down at it, then back up at Paige, amusement and surprise mingling in her expression. “You’re acting weird,” she said lightly, though there was no edge to it.
Paige scratched the back of her neck, eyes dropping to the gift instead of meeting Soraya’s gaze. “Just open it.”
Soraya shook her head faintly, still smiling as she picked at the wrapping paper. As she peeled it back, a flash of bright orange appeared, and her brows slowly furrowed. She froze for half a second before ripping the rest away, the small Hermès logo coming fully into view.
Her head snapped up instantly. “Shut up,” she blurted, the words sharp but breathless, fueled entirely by shock rather than irritation.
Paige’s lips curved into a small, slightly unsure smile, one that didn’t try to hide how closely she was watching Soraya’s reaction. “Open it.”
Soraya’s heart was beating too fast now, her pulse loud in her ears. She inhaled deeply, then carefully lifted the lid, as if moving too quickly might make the moment disappear. Inside was a fabric dust bag. She pulled it out slowly and set the box aside with deliberate care, then loosened the drawstrings.
When she revealed the bag inside, her breath caught. A burgundy crocodile Mini Kelly sat nestled in her hands, elegant and understated and unmistakably something she had thought about more than once but never allowed herself to seriously consider. Her eyes widened just a little, glassy at the edges, and she looked back up at Paige with a stunned shake of her head.
“You’re literally insane,” Soraya said quietly. “I can’t accept this.”
Paige rolled her eyes, clearly having anticipated the protest. “You can and you will,” she replied easily. “You’ve been wanting it for a while.”
Soraya swallowed, her throat tight as she stared back down at the bag. There was nothing casual about this gift. It wasn’t impulsive or playful or small. It was intentional, expensive, intimate in a way that made her chest ache. “How did you even get it?” she asked softly. “The waiting list is huge.”
Paige shrugged, trying for nonchalance, though the faint pride in her smile gave her away. “I have connections.”
Soraya huffed a quiet laugh at that, but it came out shaky. She closed the bag carefully and set it aside on the bench, then turned toward Paige fully. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Words felt insufficient anyway.
Instead, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around Paige, slow and deliberate, resting her chin against Paige’s shoulder. Paige hesitated for only a second before her arms came up around Soraya’s back, holding her just as gently. The hug wasn’t tight or possessive. It was steady, grounding, full of quiet understanding.
“Thank you,” Soraya murmured, her voice low and sincere.
Paige smiled into her hair, one hand resting flat against her back. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said softly. “I just wanted you to have something that makes you feel good.”
Soraya pulled back just enough to look at her, her expression unguarded in a way Paige didn’t see often. “You do,” she said simply.
Paige’s smile softened at that, and she pulled Soraya back into her arms, the city lights flickering around them as the swing bench creaked gently beneath their weight. Up on the rooftop, away from the noise and expectations and eyes of the world below, it felt like the safest place Soraya had been all day.
By the time Soraya got home, the adrenaline of the night had finally worn off. The city felt quieter now, streets washed in amber streetlight and shadows stretching lazily across the pavement. Her body ached in that familiar way it always did after socializing for too long, a deep, pleasant exhaustion settling into her bones. She unlocked her building, climbed the stairs slowly, and let herself exist in the silence, replaying fragments of the evening without trying to analyze them too deeply. The rooftop. The kiss. The way Paige had looked at her
When she reached her door, she stopped.
At first, it was just the color that caught her eye. Soft whites and gentle pinks resting against the dark of the hallway floor. A bouquet sat neatly in front of her apartment, wrapped simply in cream paper, tied with twine instead of ribbon. Lilies and hibiscus, arranged without excess or drama, their petals open and relaxed like they belonged there. Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just present.
Soraya’s chest tightened, but this time not with dread.
She crouched slowly, setting her keys aside, and picked up the bouquet with careful hands. The flowers smelled clean and faintly sweet, not the heavy perfume of roses that always seemed to announce themselves before she even saw them. Tucked between the stems was a small folded card, plain and unassuming. No elaborate handwriting. No explanations.
She opened it.
‘Happy birthday – Paige’
Soraya stared at the words for a long moment, her lips slowly curving upward without her permission. A quiet, genuine smile that reached her eyes before she even realized it. No grand declarations. No apologies disguised as affection. No attempt to rewrite history or demand forgiveness. Just a simple acknowledgment of her existence, given freely and without expectation.
She exhaled, a soft laugh slipping out as she pressed the card briefly to her chest. It felt selfless in a way that made her throat ache. Thoughtful. Innocent. Paige had already given her something extravagant tonight, something she still wasn’t sure she fully knew how to accept. And yet this, somehow, meant just as much. Maybe more.
Soraya stood, unlocked her door, and carried the flowers inside. She placed them gently on the counter, stepping back to look at them for a second longer than necessary. The apartment felt warmer somehow, less heavy than it had that morning.
synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.
warnings: angst. fluff. sexual content. mentions of homophobia. mentions of substance abuse. explicit language. rejection. slow burn. lots of hoops.
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
tangentwithtanner
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
