02, CHAPTER TWO. OUT HERE IN MIAMI.
word count. 9.6K. warnings. alcohol consumption, a (very light) slap, smut (drunk sex, oral, scissoring). links. main masterlist. wicked games masterlist. a/n. they’ve never really moved slow so
THE UNRIVALED KICKOFF PARTY is exactly the kind of high-gloss, high-energy event that Micah usually thrives in—loud music, dim lights, too many people packed into a space that's trying very hard to look expensive, drinks that taste like fruit and sugar and vodka, teammates everywhere, laughter echoing off the walls. It's the kind of environment where she usually feels electric, plugged in, alive. She's always been a party girl at heart, and that doesn't change even with the lingering anxiety she's felt since she got to Miami. She loves being around her friends, loves dancing, loves drinking, loves the way nights like this make her forget everything except the moment she's in.
And tonight should be perfect. The new year has settled over the city, and with the first official games of the season slated to tip off in less than forty-eight hours, everyone's excited and everyone is here. Like, literally everyone. The bar is packed with players from every team, coaches, staff, random Miami people that somehow got invited, and, unfortunately, the StudBudz. Courtney and Natisha are already posted up in a corner with their Twitch setup, ring light glowing, camera pointed at whoever walks by. Micah and Jackie have been avoiding that corner like it's radioactive; neither of them have any desires to end up on their stream. Micah's sure she'd saying something stupid, and Jackie hates being caught off guard, especially on camera. So, they stick together, shoulder to shoulder, moving through the crowd like a two-person unit.
Micah spends the first half of the night attached to Jackie's side, letting the warm, buzzing blur of her tequila soda soften any sharp edges. She keeps her hand on Jackie's waist, keeps her eyes on Jackie's face, keeps her focus on Jackie, Jackie, Jackie. And why wouldn't she? They've been so incredibly good lately. Not that they've ever been bad, but the last two weeks have felt extra sweet. Spending the holidays in Indiana with Jackie's family had done something quiet and healing to Micah's chest. Being in a house where love wasn't a transaction, where there were no heavy, suffocating secrets buried under the floorboards, had felt like a long, deep breath after being underwater for years. It was the exact opposite of what Christmas tended to look like with her own family. Being in Indiana made Micah feel happy. She loves Jackie. She really fucking does, she swears. Jackie is safe, and she's kind, and she represents the exact kind of mature, stable future Micah has spent her entire life longing for.
Every ten or fifteen minutes, like clockwork, her gaze is drawn across the crowded bar by a strange, magnetic pull she can't seem to fight. And every single time, without fail, she finds Paige fucking Bueckers already looking back at her. Paige is standing near the VIP lounge, laughing with Phee, looking effortlessly striking. Her hair is slicked back into a bun and it allows her bone structure to lay stark, her jawline as sharp as ever. But even in the middle of a conversation, Paige's eyes keep finding Micah's through the shifting gaps in the crowd. Every time their gazes lock, a sudden, sharp tingle slides directly under Micah's skin, making her face heat up and her heart do a violent, traitorous bounce against her ribs.
It's a problem. A big fucking problem. It makes Micah feel physically ill with frustration. She's spent eighteen months insisting that the book on Paige is closed, burned, and buried. She has built an entire life with a good woman. She can't afford to feel any sort of way about Paige anymore—she has made that abundantly clear to herself for a thousand different reasons—but her body simply refuses to listen to her brain.
Around midnight, the bubble pops. Jackie leans in close, her breath warm against Micah's ear to be heard over the thumping music.
"Hey," Jackie says, her hand resting flat against the small of Micah's back. "I've gotta head out, baby. 'm sorry."
Micah already knew. Jackie told her earlier that she was planning on leaving early because she has a hyperbaric chamber session at an ungodly morning hour—because Jackie is a responsible adult athlete who takes care of her body like it's a temple. Micah respects it—she does. But the reality of it still sucks, making her groan.
"Already?" Micah complains, her bottom lip puffing out in a genuine, childish pout. Her hand slides down to grip Jackie's hip, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer in the crowded room.
Jackie laughs, a soft, rich sound, shaking her head as she does so. "You knew I was leaving early."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," Micah sighs, letting her forehead rest against Jackie's shoulder for a brief, heavy second.
"You gonna come to mine when you get back?" Jackie asks, her fingers lightly tracing the side of Micah's neck, her thumb brushing over her jawline.
Micah pulls back to look at her. She tilts her head in question. "What time are you getting up tomorrow?"
Micah makes a face, scrunching her nose. "Absolutely not."
Jackie laughs again, leaning in to kiss her. Their mouths brush, soft and sweet. Micah's sure she tastes like tequila. "I'll see you tomorrow," Jackie promises.
Micah smiles, then purses her lips slightly. "'kay."
Jackie gives her one last squeeze before slipping away, through the crowd, waving at a few teammates on her way out. Micah watches her go, her fingers sliding against the condensation of her glass.
She doesn't dwell for long. She's never been one of those codependent girls who loses their ability to function the second their significant other walks out of a room, and she is absolutely not about to start now. That shit's pathetic and that's the last thing Micah wants to be. Rolling her shoulders, Micah sets her empty glass down on a passing server's tray and begins navigating the thick, pulsing crowd. She's lucky; it doesn't take her more than three minutes to spot Aaliyah's familiar braids near the secondary bar.
"Lili!" Micah calls out over the thumping bass. A genuine, loose grin breaks across her face as she slides through the gap in the crowd to slap Aaliyah's arm. "What're you getting?"
Aaliyah turns, her eyes lighting up. "Oh my God, you're just in time—shots! Where's Jack?"
"Hyperbaric chamber at five AM," Micah answers, rolling her eyes in an affectionate, long-suffering gesture. "She abandoned me. Which means we're hanging out now."
"Say less," Aaliyah beams, before turning to the bartender and holding up two fingers. "Two shots of Don Julio. Pleaseee."
The tequila burns a clean, hot path down Micah's throat, instantly amplifying the pleasant, floating buzz that's been building in her system all evening. Once the shots are gone, the two of them migrate toward the edges of the dance floor, where they happen to run into Marina Mabrey and Saniya Rivers. Lili's teammates with the former for the Lunar Owls this year, which means they linger.
Micah didn't expect to vibe with Marina; she's always assumed Marina was stuck-up, an honest-to-God bitch, mostly because Marina's resting face looks like she's silently judging the world, not to mention some of her infamous on-court crash outs. But, then again, Micah's own resting face isn't exactly sunshine and rainbows. She's sure plenty of people think she's a bitch on sight. And they're probably not always wrong.
Marina turns out to be funny, though. Dry humor, sharp timing, a surprisingly energetic drunk. Niya's even better. She's loud, chaotic, dancing without a care in the world who's watching, including that of the StudBudz's camera, and Micah finds herself laughing until her breathing's quenched. They're great distractions. Perfect distractions. Because she hasn't even seen Paige in a while now, hasn't felt that electric jolt under her skin, hasn't had her stomach flip inside out for no good reason. It's great.
She's having a great time.
Aaliyah disappears at some point—Micah doesn't even notice until she turns around and realizes she's suddenly third-wheeling Marina and Niya. She doesn't mind. She's drunk enough to find it funny, leaning against the bar while Marina tells some ridiculous story about a tech she got. Micah laughs, head tipped back, drink in hand, feeling warm and loose and almost—almost—normal.
It's only when she tries to step back to let a group of people pass that the floor beneath her feet tilts just a fraction of an inch too far.
Micah stumbles slightly, her hip catching the edge of a high-top table to steady herself. A sudden, heavy wave of heat rolls up her neck, her ears ringing behind the deep thump of the music. Oh, she thinks, her eyelids suddenly feeling heavy, a slow, floating numbness settling into her fingertips. She's definitely drunker than she planned to be. The tequila has fully caught up to the seltzers from earlier, and the air inside the bar suddenly feels too thick, too loud, and too full of bodies.
"I'm gonna—" she interjects, gesturing vaguely toward the terrace.
Marina nods, mid-story. Niya gives her a thumbs-up.
Micah turns, focusing all of her remaining coordination on navigating a straight line toward the back of the venue. She pushes through the heavy, velvet curtains leading out to the terrace, the cool, salt-crusted midnight breeze of Miami instantly hitting her face, a sharp mercy. She walks farther out, until she's gripping the stone balustrade, closing her eyes for a brief, heavy second to let the spinning in her head settle into a manageable, slow roll. The distant thrum from inside the bar vibrates through the soles of her feet, but out here, under the dark sky, the silence feels vast and clean. She takes a long, deep breath, feeling the heavy numbness in her limbs, and finally starts to feel like she's back in her own skin.
Until she opens her eyes and realizes she isn't alone.
Leaning against the far corner of the stone railing, her profile illuminated by the amber glow of a nearby wall sconce, is Paige. She's got a short glass in hand, half-filled with a red liquid and melting ice. Her cheeks are flushed peony, her eyes a little unfocused, and her posture holds an unbalanced sway, all of which give her away. She's drunk. Not just buzzed, but deep into that heavy, uninhibited territory where her self-control starts to fray.
Micah's stomach does a violent, familiar plunge. Her first instinct is to spin on her heel and slip back through the velvet curtains before Paige can look up, but her limbs are just a fraction of a second too slow.
"Good night?" Paige calls out. Her voice is quiet, but it carries a sharp, mocking edge that cuts straight through the humid air.
Micah freezes, her knuckles tightening around the stone railing. She looks at the blonde cautiously, keeping several feet between them. Paige raises an eyebrow, her blue eyes glassed over with alcohol, her lips pulled into a tight, challenging line.
"Was fine," Micah says stiffly. Her voice sounds wrong—tight and clipped and careful.
"I bet," Paige scoffs, letting out a short, humorless laugh that sounds incredibly hollow under the open sky. She shrugs her shoulders, her eyes drifting down to her glass as she swirls the ice around. "All in love and shit."
She takes a long, slow sip of her drink, her jaw working as she swallows. The defensive wall Micah has spent the last year and a half building suddenly feels incredibly fragile. She takes a slow, cautious step closer, her eyes scanning Paige's face, a sudden, frustrating pinch of concern pulling at her brow despite herself. it's ridiculous—as if she isn't slightly stumbling herself, as if she hasn't spent the last however many hours drinking too much tequila.
"You're drunk," Micah observes, her voice dropping into a lower, quieter register.
Paige snorts, "Oh, really?"
It's sarcastic and sharp, full of teeth. It's the kind of tone Paige only uses when she's done pretending. And Micah feels something in her chest twist because this—this right here—is the real Paige. The one who's been simmering under the surface since they reunited in Miami two weeks ago. The one who's been polite and professional and distant around her. The one who clearly has things to say but hasn't said them.
Micah rolls her eyes, a familiar irritation flaring in her chest. She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to have this fight on a terrace in the city, with however many of their colleagues just on the other side of a curtain and Courtney Williams potentially lurking with a phone. She turns, intending to walk away, to leave Paige to drown in her own glass.
"Bro, you're so full of it," Paige accuses, her voice rising slightly, the words tumbling out with a slurred, angry urgency. She takes a step forward, her free hand gesturing wildly in the space between them. "All up on her and shit, constantly. Spending fucking Christmas together?"
Micah's stomach dips, the implication hanging between them. Neither of them says it, but she knows they both think it, both remember it.
The only other person Micah has ever spent Christmas with—besides Jackie this year—is Paige. Paige and her family. Back in 2023, during their senior year at UConn, the second Christmas following her parents' divorce. She and her mom had spent the holidays squeezed in the Bueckers' family condo in Maryland, with Paige, her dad, and Drew. It had been fun and warm and happy, one of the best holidays of Micah's life. She had slept in the guest bedroom with Paige, their ankles tangled under the heavy blankets.
Micah swallows hard before her voice rises into a warning, snapping back, "Yeah, those are normal ass things to do with your fucking girlfriend, last I checked."
"You like her," Paige says stupidly, her brow furrowing in a drunken, childish confusion. She looks at Micah as if she's trying to solve a puzzle she doesn't have the pieces for, her chest heaving.
It's such an incredibly obvious, ridiculous thing to say that Micah wants to shake her.
"I love her," Micah corrects sharply, her voice ringing with a cold, desperate certainty. She hopes it digs somewhere, hopes it lands. Hopes it hurts, even just a little.
She's stupid like that. She's incredibly, tragically stupid for still wanting to make Paige feel even a fraction of the hurt she's been carrying since the night of her draft. She should know better by now. She should know that Paige has never actually cared about what Micah loves—only about what she can have, what she can touch, and what she can ultimately run away from when it becomes too much.
"Shit, I guess I shoulda known. Picked her over me and everything," Paige scoffs, shaking her head. A bitter, mocking grin of pure disbelief spreads across her face as she stares at Micah. In the dim, amber wash of the terrace light, Paige's pupils are so incredibly blown out that her eyes look almost entirely black, swallowing the blue.
That hollow, vacant look makes Micah even angrier. A hot, prickling wave of rage flares up her neck, tightening the muscles in her chest until her breathing is shallow. It's almost like Paige is doing this on purpose, trying to rage-bait her, trying to drag her down into some ugly, dramatic mud-fight just so they can both feel something again. After everything that happened, after what Paige said, what she ruined, it's almost cruel.
"Bro, you had nothing to do with that shit," Micah counters, seething. She rolls her eyes, trying to look entirely bored by the accusation, trying to summon every single ounce of unbotheredness she can muster. "I picked her to pick her. You were never even an option."
She tells herself she's going to walk away now. She's laid her boundary, she's said her piece, and there's absolutely nothing left to gain from standing on a dark balcony with a drunk girl who's looking for a target. But as she stares at Paige, her feet feel as if they've been poured directly into the concrete deck. She's stuck. Her eyes are utterly, hopelessly locked onto Paige's face, tracing the sharp, familiar slope of her nose and the soft plumpness of her bottom lip.
Paige takes a slow, heavy step forward.
They're too close. The empty space that's been keeping the peace between them is gone, and Micah can feel the radiating heat of Paige's body cutting through the air. The world tilts a fraction of an inch to the left. Micah's head swims, a sudden, heavy wave of dizziness washing over her as the sheer volume of the tequila she drank finally collides with the overwhelming, physical proximity of Paige.
"She fuck you better than I did?" Paige asks.
Her voice has dropped, lower than it's been all conversation, raspy and quiet, completely stripped of the loud, mocking sarcasm she'd been weaponizing seconds ago. It's the voice she used to use in the dark, when the rest of the world was asleep and they were the only two people left awake. As she speaks, Paige's gaze drops down, her eyes locking onto Micah's lips with a heavy, unblinking focus that makes the air in Micah's lungs turn to solid ice.
Micah just stares. For one long, agonizing, breathless second, she's completely captivated. She's drunk, she's weak, and she's almost entirely helpless to the fact that Paige is still so, so pretty. Even under the harsh, yellow glow of the patio light, with her hair falling out of its bun and her shoulders slumped, Paige looks like she's out of a movie. And she still smells like that damn Valentino cologne—the warm, woodsy scent that Micah used to bury her face in back in Connecticut. For a fraction of a second, the urge to just lean forward, to close the tiny gap between them and let the world burn, is so strong it makes her breath quench.
Paige asked her that, on draft night. She'd felt stupid then. She doesn't want to fall into that same hole now.
The spell shatters, leaving behind a cold, sharp shock of reality. Micah scoffs, her hand moving before she can even consciously think about the action. She reaches up, her palm making contact with Paige's cheek.
It's a slap, but it's mostly light. It's a quick, stinging snap of her fingers against Paige's skin—she would never actually do anything that would physically hurt her, never anything that would leave a real mark. But she hopes, with every ounce of her soul, that the sharp crack of her hand against Paige's face gives her at least a little bit of fucking sense.
Paige's head jerks to the side, her blonde hair that's fallen out of the bun curtaining her eyes. She stills, her hand slowly rising to touch her cheek, her face a mask of stunned shock.
"Fucking get over yourself," Micah spits, voice shaking with anger she didn't know she still had.
She doesn't wait to see if Paige is going to say anything else. She doesn't wait to see if the tears she can see starting to well up in those dark, blown-out pupils are actually going to fall. She spins on her heel, her shoes squeaking loudly against the tiles, and storms back through the heavy velvet curtains, letting the loud, thumping bass of the party swallow her whole.
MICAH GRIPS THE EDGES of the cold, porcelain sink so hard her knuckles go white. The bathroom is dim, the overhead lights flickering slightly, and she splashes icy water onto her face again, letting it drip down her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. She already knows that—there's no cure for this. It's a poison that's infected her brain for many years now and she should've known better than to think it would have just gone away, even if it did disappear for a while. Her pulse is still hammering, her chest still tight, her stomach still twisted into something ugly and hot. It's uncomfortable and painful. She wishes it gone, like always.
She hates Paige. She swears to God, to whatever higher power is listening to her right now, she absolutely, thoroughly hates her. She hates how fucking annoying she is, hates how rude she can be under the guise of being the league's golden girl, hates her massive, bloated ego, and, most of all, she hates how easily Paige can still pull her apart with a single sentence. She hates everything about her—hates her pretty, blown-out blue eyes, hates the soft curve of her mouth, and hates that bright blonde hair that she can still see behind her eyelids as she blinks. Micah wants to physically rip her own hair out by the roots; she feels like she would gladly dig her own eyes out of her skull if it meant she could guarantee she'd never have to look at Paige Bueckers ever again.
She wishes they weren't on the same team. She wishes Paige hadn't even signed up for Unrivaled in the first place, wish she went overseas or did AU or chose any other alternative. Being thousands of miles away during the W season had been the greatest, most merciful relief Micah has ever been provided. The distance had been a safety net for nearly two years.
But now, here Paige is, invading her immediate personal space, forcing her way into Micah's brain, and acting like a goddamn victim. It's the entitlement that makes Micah's blood boil; the way Paige acted out on that terrace, behaving as if she still has some sort of claim or ownership over Micah's life and body, when that couldn't be further from the truth.
Micah is pissed. She's furious, and she's still incredibly drunk—the reality of the alcohol is hitting her full-force now, making the tiled bathroom walls tilt and spin like a carnival ride every time she moves her head. When she forces herself to look up, her own reflection in the mirror is blurred, her mascara slightly smudged under her eyes and her skin flushed in agitation. She looks insane. She feels insane.
Micah startles. The voice echoes from her left, the sound cutting through the high-pitched ringing in her ears. Her head snaps around so fast the room takes a long second to catch up. She hadn't even realized anyone else was in the room.
Standing a few feet away, having clearly just stepped out of one of the stalls, is Maddy Siegrist. Her hand is still hovering near the lock like she wasn't expecting to see whatever meltdown Micah is currently having. She's got a genuine, heavy expression of concern on her face. Micah can't blame her for staring; she knows she looks—and feels—like a patient in a psych ward, chest heaving and hands trembling.
But Micah has absolutely zero desire to talk to this girl. Not tonight, and definitely not about this. Maddy's good friends with Paige—Micah's seen them together at the facility, laughing, talking, lifting. They both play for the Wings. They're close. And Micah is not about to stand here and spill her guts to one of Paige's people.
"Fine," Micah coughs out, her voice sounding raw, dry, and entirely unconvincing.
She doesn't wait for Maddy to reply, and she doesn't care to give her another second of the light of day. She rips a paper towel from the dispenser, wipes her wet hands with a rough, frantic motion, and shoves it into the trash can before turning toward the door. She bursts through the bathroom threshold and steers herself toward the main exit of the club, bypassing the dance floor entirely. Her fingers are clumsy as she pulls her phone out of her clutch, her vision swimming as she taps through the apps. She wants to order an Uber, get back to her apartment, lock the door, and leave this night behind. Immediately.
However, the universe clearly has it out for Micah tonight.
Because as she's weaving through the crowd, head spinning, stomach full of knots, phone slightly wobbling in her hand as she begins to type her address into the Uber app, someone suddenly grabs her arm.
"Yo, you leaving?" Aaliyah asks, appearing out of nowhere like a drunk guardian angel who has absolutely no idea she's dragging a demon behind her.
Micah looks over—and nearly laughs, or screams, or both—because Aaliyah's other hand is wrapped around Paige's wrist, pulling her around like an unruly toddler.
Paige looks dazed, annoyed, and very much like someone who does not want to be standing next to the girl who slapped her ten minutes ago. She's shaking her head back and forth, her eyes downcast, muttering a quiet, repetitive, "Nah, bro, nah," under her breath, like she's trying to pull away. Lili's grip must be iron-tight in her drunken enthusiasm.
Micah wants to evaporate. She wants to dissolve into thin air, wants to become pink mist like those that are blown to bits do. She wants to be anywhere except here.
"Yeah," Micah replies shortly, voice flat and clipped.
"Okay, I ordered an Uber, let's just go together," Aaliyah suggests, cheerful and oblivious, like she hasn't just detonated a bomb under Micah's feet.
Micah genuinely has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from outright screaming in front of everyone. Because it's not like she can just say no. She can't. It would be impractical—they all in the same building. It would be weird—Aaliyah is her best friend. It would be suspicious—Paige is right there, and Micah refuses to give her even a crumb of emotional reaction she can twist into something else.
But it's torture. It's going to be torture. Sitting in the same car as Paige after that fight? After that slap? After Paige asked her that fucking question?
Micah swallows hard, nods stiffly, and pockets her phone.
They wait outside on the curb, the Miami air thick and warm, pink and red neon lights reflecting off the pavement. Aaliyah is yapping away—drunk, happy, and loud, talking about something Micah can't even begin to process. She thinks she hears her bring up Marina again, but she isn't even sure. It all just goes in one ear and out the other.
Micah and Paige stand on opposite sides of her, silent. The former keeps her eyes on the street while the latter keeps her eyes on the ground. Every few seconds, Micah feels Paige glance at her. Every few seconds, Micah's stomach flips and rolls. Every few seconds, she remembers the way Paige stepped closer, the way her voice dropped, the way her gaze fell to Micah's lips.
She wants to scream again, wants her throat to go raw with it.
The Uber pulls up—a black SUV—and Paige climbs in first, settling herself on the far drivers side. It's the only good thing that's happened all night. Because it means that Aaliyah will be between them, in the middle, and Micah doesn't have to touch Paige, doesn't have to brush knees or shoulders, doesn't have to feel her. But as the Uber pulls out into ongoing traffic, the scent of that Valentino cologne somehow manages to drift across the backseat anyway, filling Micah's lungs and reminding her with every single thumping heartbeat that she is still locked in a very small box with Paige.
She tries to ignore it, leaning over to press her cheek firmly against the cool, vibration-heavy glass of the passenger window, her eyes tracking the dark, jagged silhouettes of the palm trees as they cut across the neon-pink wash of the Miami skyline. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and electric blue, but she can't look at it for too long without the world tilting. She considers pulling her phone back out of her clutch just to have something to hold, to scroll on and obtain her attention, but she has a feeling that looking down at a glowing screen will make the spinning become unmanageable and a massive, splitting headache might crack her skull wide open. So, instead, she's trapped in her own thoughts, forced to listen to the rhythm of Aaliyah's breathing next to her and the heavy, suffocating absence of sound coming from Paige's side of the car.
Fortunately, the drive isn't long. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. When the Uber finally pulls up to their building, Micah is out of the car before the driver even finishes parking. She stumbles out slightly—her heel catching on the side of the curb—but she straightens quickly, pretending it didn't happen. Aaliyah climbs out next, still smiling (albeit a little sleepily now), still blissfully unaware of the emotional nuclear fallout happening on either side of her. Paige follows last, quiet, head down, hands shoved into her pockets.
They wordlessly walk inside, the lobby bright and empty at this hour. The elevator doors slide open, and the three of them step in. Micah stands closest to the front, staring at the silver metal doors, the glossiness of them, the slight reflection. It's an easy distraction. The elevator hums as it rises, and it's only then—only when the numbers begin to tick upward—that Micah remembers something that she should've far earlier.
Aaliyah lives on the fourth floor. Micah lives on the sixth floor. And Paige—because the universe is an unmitigated nightmare—shares the exact same sixth-floor hallway with Micah, her door sitting just three doors down on the opposite side of the carpet. They're about to be left completely, utterly alone in a space less than four feet wide.
Micah's stomach might as well be on the floor, her pulse spiking. She curses herself silently, viciously. She should've taken the stairs. She should've pretended she needed to throw up and stayed in the lobby. She should've done anything except get into this elevator.
With a soft, melodic ding, the car settles at the fourth floor, and the silver doors slide apart. Aaliyah stumbles out into the brightly lit hallway, her shoulders loose as she turns back around, a massive, completely oblivious grin plastered across her face.
"Get up safe, y'all!" she exclaims, waving like she's sending them off on a field trip.
The doors close back and Micah keeps her chin high, staring straight ahead once more as the metal box lifts toward the sixth floor. Her reflection is warped and ghostly, but she focuses on it with a desperate intensity, as if she can simply wish the elevator to move faster through sheer force of will.
Paige is quiet for a long, agonizing second, the silence stretching between them until it feels like a physical wire pulled taut enough to snap. Then, with a low, rough exhale, she must muster up the confidence—or maybe just the raw, drunken irritation—to let out a sharp, bitter scoff. "You can't even look at me?"
Micah's jaw tightens instantly. She's stubborn to a fault on a normal day, but when she's drunk, that stubbornness hardens into something completely unyielding, a fierce refusal to be seen as weak or intimidated. She rolls her eyes before snapping her head around to look. She stares up at Paige—who has about an inch of height on her—with a cold, defiant glare, her chin tilting upward.
"I'm looking," Micah voices, a low, level challenge.
But the moment the words leave her mouth, she realizes she's made a mistake. Paige is closer than she thought. Much closer, enough to feel the radiating heat of her body. She's drunk, her brain is swimming in tequila, and as furious as she is—as much as she had been screaming inside her own head about how much she hated this girl however minutes ago—the reality is that Paige is... Paige. Attractive in a way that feels like a trap door opening beneath her feet, luring in a dangerous way that Micah has never learned how to resist. She shouldn't have looked. She shouldn't have looked because Paige's gaze isn't on Micah's eyes at all; it's already directly, heavily trained on Micah's mouth, her lower lip slightly parted as her breath hitches.
But before she can do anything—before she can lean in, before she can step back, before she can make any choice at all—the elevator dings, the digital number 6 illuminates above the panel, and the silver doors slide open to reveal the quiet hallway.
Micah walks out immediately, fast, purposeful, like she's trying to outrun her own instincts. She forces her feet to move, her keys already clinking her hand as she makes a beeline for her apartment door. But the magnetic pull is too violent, too familiar, too old. She hears Paige's footsteps behind her, not bothering to turn toward her own door three units down. No, she follows, tracking Micah like a shadow. They're both drunk, they're both fucking stupid, and the terrible truth about old habits is that they don't care about boundaries or eighteen months of pure silence. They just die hard.
Micah reaches her door, her hands shaking just enough that she can barely align the electronic key fob with the scanner. She can feel the thick, suffocating heat of Paige's presence hovering right at her shoulder, so close she can smell the distinct, sharp woody notes of that Valentino cologne mixing with the scent of sweat and vodka from the club. The scanner bleeps green, the lock clicking open.
The very millisecond the door clears the frame, Paige doesn't wait. She's never been very patient, after all. She just catches Micah by the waist and shoves her inside, her long arms crossing the threshold as she uses her weight to drive them both forward into the dark entryway of the apartment. Behind them, the heavy front door slams shut with a loud, echoing thud that locks the rest of the world out.
And then, they completely explode into each other.
Their mouths meet instantly in a desperate collision that knocks the air out of Micah's lungs. Her head hits the drywall of the door with a dull thud as Paige pins her to it, but she barely registers the impact because her hands are already grabbing at the blonde, pulling her closer, dragging her down.
Yes, God, she fucking is. It's a recurring theme, a permanent condition. Micah can stand on business with everyone else in her life—everyone—but the second Paige Bueckers touches her, her entire brain turns to absolute mush.
Paige's mouth is relentless against hers, a familiar, bruising hunger that Micah has been starving for without ever admitting it. Paige's tongue slides into her mouth, deep and demanding, and Micah lets out a low, ragged moan into the kiss, her fingers shifting from Paige's shirt up into the loose strands of blonde hair that have completely fallen out of her bun.
Micah wants more. She wants everything. She wants to be consumed by it, even though the thought of Jackie—sweet, safe, supportive Jackie, who's currently fast asleep in bed, unknowing of what her girlfriend is doing—flashes in the back of her mind like a warning siren. Micah should never want this. She should be throwing Paige off her, pushing her back out into the hallway, and locking the door.
But like she said, she's stupid. She's completely, tragically stupid when it comes to Paige, and they begin to shuffle deeper into the dark apartment, their mouths still locked together.
Eventually, they reach the bedroom, stumbling in still locked together, mouths sliding wet and open, tongues pushing past each other with that clumsy, drunk urgency that makes spit string between them when they break for air. Micah feels Paige's hand at the small of her back, steadying her, but the floor is a minefield of clothes and random shit and she almost goes down when her foot catches on something soft. Paige doesn't seem to notice or care. The second they're inside, she kicks the door shut hard enough that the frame rattles, then immediately crowds Micah backward, mouth dragging along her jaw, teeth scraping just enough to make Micah's skin prickle.
"Be careful," Micah mutters, voice already rough. "Gonna break something."
"I'on care," Paige answers, low and quick, like it's obvious, and Micah feels a familiar flicker of irritation spark in her chest. Of course she doesn't care. She never does when she's like this. But the thought barely even has time to fester before Paige's mouth is back on hers, hot and insistent, silencing her completely. Paige's large hands slide down the backs of Micah's thighs, grabbing her ass through her mini skirt. The thin fabric does nothing to cushion the squeeze; Paige's fingers dig in, lifting her slightly and pressing her forward.
Micah's being walked back to the bed now, and the room is spinning just enough that she really would prefer to be horizontal before she loses her balance. Her calves hit the mattress and she drops onto it, kicking her shoes off as she goes. Paige is already climbing over her, one knee between her thighs, and Micah's hands come up on instinct, pushing two flat palms against Paige's chest, holding her back.
"No, shoes off my bed," Micah complains, her voice sharp despite the haze in her brain. She glares at the white Air Forces Paige is still wearing. "Seriously, fuckin' take 'em off."
Paige pauses, looking like she might argue—Micah can see it in the way her mouth tightens—but then she must think better of it, instead just rolling her eyes, letting out a heavy sigh as if she's being asked to move a mountain. She shifts her weight, reaching down with a clumsy, impatient hand to yank at the heels of her sneakers, unceremoniously tossing them over her shoulder. They hit the floor with two dull thuds.
The second they're gone, Paige leans in again, one big hand wrapping around the side of Micah's neck, thumb pressing just under her jaw, effectively pinning her down into the pillows. The kiss that follows is harder, deeper, all tongue and teeth, and Micah feels her stomach lurch. Fuck. A quiet, desperate groan catches in the back of her throat as her fingers lock into the fabric of Paige's long sleeve. She hates how much she enjoys being held like that, handled like that. Jackie never does that; with her it's all sweet and soft and occasionally fast. Not that Micah doesn't like that—she does. Which is precisely why she hates how Paige gripping her like that makes her thighs twitch and her pussy clench around nothing. She's already wet, the thin strip of her thong clinging to her, and every shift of her hips drags the fabric against slick skin.
They keep kissing, messy and open-mouthed, and then Paige starts to move. She grinds down, denim rough against Micah's barely-covered cunt, her mini-skirt bunched up at her waist, and the friction is almost too much—sharp and almost painful where the seam of Paige's jeans catches on sensitive flesh. But it's also exactly what Micah needs, her breath stuttering out of her. Paige's hips roll again, slower this time, and Micah can feel the heat of her through the layers, can hear the way Paige's breathing is getting heavier too, low exhales punched out against her mouth.
Paige's hands slide lower, catching the hem of Micah's tank top. She pushes it up eagerly, bunching the fabric under Micah's armpits, and Micah's tits spill free. No bra, nothing between skin and air, and Paige makes a low, surprised sound in her throat before her palms are there, calloused and warm, cupping and squeezing with that familiar, firm, greedy grip.
"Fuck, they're so nice," Paige mumbles, words slurring with the alcohol, almost to herself. And then she's shifting down Micah's body, mouth trailing along her jaw, her neck, open kisses turning into soft bites that make Micah's back arch.
When Paige reaches her chest, she doesn't hesitate. She buries her face between Micah's tits, breathing hot against skin, then turns her head and drags her long tongue over one nipple before sucking it into her mouth. The pull is firm, wet, and Micah's hand finds the back of Paige's head without thinking, thoroughly ruining her bun. Paige's tongue flicks and circles before she switches to the other side and does it all again. Micah's thighs spread wider on their own, hips lifting into the next grind, chasing that harsh drag of denim against her soaked thong. She can feel how slick she's getting, how the fabric is starting to stick, and every time Paige rocks forward it sends a jolt straight through her.
Among other things, Paige has always been completely obsessed with Micah's tits. Micah has never had to overthink anything when it comes to Paige's physical attraction towards her—Paige is as gay as they come and she's made it known several times before that she loves Micah's body. It's just—everything else other than that, that tends to give Micah pause.
Nevertheless, Micah lets Paige keep her mouth clamped tight around her nipple, circling her tongue around it slowly in a way that makes a sharp, liquid heat shoot directly to Micah's core. Paige is making those quiet, satisfied little grunts against Micah's skin that she always makes when she's completely locked in, her breath hot and fast. While her mouth stays busy, one of her hands slides down Micah's stomach, her long fingers slipping beneath the mini skirt and flattening out over the front of her silk thong. The second Paige's palm presses down, dragging her fingers over the swollen bump of Micah's clit through the thin fabric, Micah lets out a shaky sigh, her back arching off the mattress as a violent shiver runs up her spine.
"Shit, pussy wet as fuck," Paige brags out, pulling her mouth away from Micah's chest. She furrows her brows, her eyes dark and heavy as she circles two fingers firmly over the damp silk, feeling the slick heat blooming right through the material. She lets out a low, rough breath of appreciation, her thumb pressing hard against the sweet spot. "Didn't know I could still getchu like this so fast, mama."
Micah rolls her eyes in the dark, a defensive flash of pride flaring through the haze of the alcohol and her arousal. She doesn't want to admit a single damn thing to Paige, doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much power she still holds over Micah's body. Instead of answering, she reaches up, her fingers tangling tightly into the blonde strands at the crown of Paige's head, digging her nails deep into the darker roots near the scalp and pulling just hard enough to make Paige's breath hitch.
"Stop talking," Micah whispers impatiently. "Just do sum."
Paige chuckles, a low vibration against Micah's ribs as she leans down, her teeth dragging lightly over the soft skin of Micah's side before she starts moving her body lower. She drags her mouth down the center of Micah's stomach, her tongue leaving a wet trail over her abs, until she's fully down between Micah's knees. Micah props herself up on her elbows, her vision swimming slightly as she watches. Paige hooks her hands behind Micah's knees, forcing her legs wide apart to look down at her covered cunt. She reaches in with her fingers, hooking the thin strap of the thong and pulling the silk roughly to the side, exposing the slick swollenness there.
"Jackie a munch?" Paige asks stupidly, the silent, arrogant like me? echoing so loudly behind it that it makes Micah want to slap her again.
Micah doesn't want to think about Jackie right now. If she lets Jackie's face enter her mind—if she thinks about the safe, caring woman who loves her and trusts her—she's going to lose it. She feels like she already sort of has.
"Don't talk about her," Micah snaps, her voice cracking as she reaches down, her hand finding the back of Paige's neck and aggressively pushing her face closer to her pussy, desperate to drown out the world with pleasure—and get Paige to shut up.
Paige lets out a quiet chuckle against Micah's inner thigh, entirely unbothered by the command, and then she finally gets to work. Thank God. It's exactly what Micah needs—she needs the thoughts to stop, needs the spinning room to vanish, needs her dripping pussy to be eaten well. And, trust, Paige eats pussy as well as she shoots the fucking midrange. She's fearless, messy, and hungry with it, her mouth opening wide as she buries her face into Micah's wetness. Her tongue is long and flat, sweeping up from the bottom of Micah's opening all the way to the top, lapping up the slick fluids before she centers her focus directly on her clit. She sucks the tiny, sensitive knot of nerves into her lips, groaning heavily into Micah's cunt as her tongue darts back and forth in fast, heavy strokes.
Micah's grip in Paige's hair tightens, her hips beginning to twitch helplessly against the mattress. She lets out long sighs, her skin heating up to a fever pitch as Paige's mouth grows completely soaked with her juices, the wet, slapping sound of Paige's chin against her pelvis filling the otherwise quiet room.
But Paige gets fed up pretty quick with all that fabric bunched around her nose and chin. She pulls away for a brief second, the cool air hitting Micah's soaked skin with a sudden, freezing contrast that makes her shiver. Paige wipes her slick mouth with the back of her hand, muttering, "Shit's in my way, bro," before digging her fingers into the waistband of Micah's mini skirt. She yanks it downward, dragging it, along with the thong, down Micah's long legs in one aggressive motion, before throwing them blindly into the shadows of the bedroom.
Micah barely has time to register the loss before Paige is pushing her thighs up, bending her knees toward her chest, and diving back in face-first.
Paige's mouth is open wide as she begins sucking and licking and eating diligently once more. Micah just can't help herself. The slickness of Paige's tongue sliding over her folds makes her lose all remaining control. She starts grinding her hips up into Paige's mouth, seeking out that heavy, flat pressure, her whole body feeling like it's catching on fire from the inside out. She reaches down, her fingers tangling frantically back into Paige's hair, pushing her head down into her pussy even deeper. The blonde makes a happy, strangled noise against her skin, a muffled groan of pure satisfaction that vibrates straight through Micah's clit.
It's then that she pulls back just an inch, looking up at Micah through her eyelashes. "Look at you," Paige pants out. "Fucking dripping for me. Tell me whose pussy this is, Mic."
Micah instantly shakes her head, pulling hard on Paige's hair. "Shut up," she gasps in irritation, her breathing uneven. "Just—keep going."
"Yeah? You like how I eat it?" Paige questions, a dark, arrogant smirk pulling at the corners of her wet lips. Micah rolls her eyes, leaning her head back, not keen on answering that.
Paige doesn't seem to care much, moving over, spitting a thick, heavy glob of saliva directly onto Micah's swollen clit before leaning back in to quickly lap at it, mixing it with Micah's own slickness. She then pushes her tongue inside Micah's entrance, fucking her with it slowly.
Micah's whole body feels like it's burning from the inside out. Her skin is flushed and damp, sweat beading at her hairline, and every drag of Paige's tongue sends sparks shooting up her spine. She can't stop moving, can't stop grinding up into that relentless mouth, and Paige just takes it, groaning into her like she's getting off on how desperate Micah is.
"Tha's it, baby," Paige murmurs between licks, voice muffled. She locks eyes with Micah. Hers are dark, hazed over with alcohol and sex and determination as her mouth opens against Micah's pussy. She has to be as drunk as Micah. "Grind on my tongue. Fuckin' use me."
The words hit Micah low in her stomach and she whines, a pathetic high-pitched sound she instantly wants to take back. Her thighs shake harder now, toes curling as Paige keeps licking and sucking and spitting until everything feels slick and messy and overwhelming.
"I'm fucking—cumming, fuck," Micah forces out, the coil in her core winding tighter with every flick of Paige's tongue.
Her breathing turns ragged, little gasps and moans slipping out no matter how hard she tries to hold them back. Her fingers twist ever tighter in Paige's hair, holding her exactly where she needs her, and then it crashes over her all at once—her orgasm hitting hard and sudden, thighs clamping around Paige's head as her pussy pulses and clenches around nothing. She cums with a strangled sound, whole body going tight before it melts into shudders, and Paige doesn't stop lapping at her wetness until Micah's pushing at her head, oversensitive and breathless.
Paige doesn't give Micah even a single second to catch her breath or process the shivering aftermath. Instead, she immediately drags her long body back up the mattress, her chest heavy and heaving against Micah's bare breasts as she leans down to trap Micah's mouth in another deep, bruising kiss. She shoves her tongue straight past Micah's teeth, thick and demanding, forcing Micah to taste the sharp, slick tang of herself. Micah's jaw works open almost involuntarily, fingers gripping at the fabric of Paige's sleeves as the last residual tremors of her climax ripple through her thighs.
When Paige finally pulls her mouth away, she's completely breathless, her eyes heavy and blown-out as she stares at Micah. "Need one," Paige pants, her voice rough and desperate. "Want that pussy on mine."
She immediately starts fiddling with the button of her jeans, her fingers clumsy as she tugs at the heavy denim, trying to shimmy the stiff fabric down her hips.
Micah's brain is mush. She can barely string two thoughts together, everything hazy and throbbing at once. "Yeah," is all she can think to say. Even though she just came hard enough to leave her limbs feeling like lead, her core is already pulsing with a fresh wave of need. It makes no sense—she should be satisfied, she should be clear-headed enough to stop this now, to say enough—but Paige's stupid, suffocating presence has always acted like a direct match to Micah's gasoline.
Micah reaches up, helping to tug at Paige's long sleeve, bunching the fabric in her fists until Paige can shrug out of it and toss it carelessly onto the floor. Paige kicks out of her jeans and boxers, her movements frantic and impatient, until she's stripped down to just her white sports bra. She doesn't even bother taking that off. Micah, however, pushes herself up into a slight sit, her skin itching with the annoying feel of her own tank top still bunched awkwardly around her neck. She yanks it off over her head and hurls it into the dark.
Paige leans down, pressing one more hard, wet kiss to Micah's mouth, before she rolls onto her back, her large hands immediately clamping on Micah's waist to guide her along. She grips Micah's ass, her fingers digging firmly into the soft flesh, and pulls her up and over her hips.
Micah shifts, straddling Paige's thigh before sliding down to slot herself directly against Paige. Their pussies are close but not quite touching yet. The anticipation is a white-hot torture; Micah can feel the rising steam of Paige's own arousal radiating against her inner thighs. Paige lets out a low, impatient sound, her hand wrapping firmly around Micah's lower back to yank her down until their cunts finally brush.
The physical contact is a shock of energy. Micah starts grinding, finding a rhythm. The first few slides send a flare of overwhelming, almost painful oversensitivity straight through Micah's freshly spent clit, making her gasp out loud and attempt to pull back. But Paige's grip is far too firm for that.
"You ain't going nowhere," Paige instructs, her teeth catching the soft skin of Micah's shoulder as she rolls her hips upward. "Take it. Lemme feel it."
Micah lets out a long, ragged sigh, her body melting as she gets used to the intense friction. The oversensitivity rapidly dissolves into a deep, heavy ache, and she grinds back against Paige with a matching urgency. The wet, slapping sound of their skin meeting fills the dark bedroom, their shared juices mixing together until every slow slide is completely lubricated and hot with slick. Paige doesn't let Micah do all the heavy lifting; she lifts her own hips and her grip on Micah's ass is like a vice, pulling Micah down into every single upward roll of her pelvis.
"Shit's so wet," Paige groans into Micah's neck, her abs clenching hard.
Paige works her elbows underneath her, shifting her weight to sit up a little more against the pillows, using her long arm to drag Micah's torso flush against her chest. Micah responds instantly, her hands seeking out purchase to stabilize herself against the dizzying roll of the room. One of her palms grips tightly at Paige's inner thigh while the other wraps around Paige's bicep.
As she squeezes, Micah's fingers sink into dense, rigid muscle. Paige is so much bigger, so much stronger than she was the last time they had been tangled up in a bed together back in college. The realization sends a sudden, involuntary spasm straight through Micah's pussy, making her walls clench down hard, all the while Paige letting out a series of low grunts right into the shell of Micah's ear, her hot breath puffing against Micah's damp neck.
The overwhelming pleasure of it, mixed with the sickening, heavy realization of what she's doing to her life outside this room, bubbles up in Micah's throat until she can't choke it back down.
"Hate how fucking good this feels," Micah spits out, her voice raw and jagged with frustration.
Paige lets out a deep, gravelly groan at the words, her hands shifting to grip the flesh of Micah's ass even harder, pulling her down into a flat grind that leaves Micah gasping. "'t's good," Paige slurs out, her speech thick, slow, growing heavier.
The alcohol is fully catching up to both of them now, a heavy, sedating fog settling into the room and slowing their limbs down into a sluggish, desperate exhaustion. Because Micah’s body had already been primed by her first orgasm, she can feel the white-hot tension coiling tightly in her lower stomach almost immediately. She tries to slow her hips down, tries to brace herself against the dizzying rush, but the thick, lubricating mix of their slickness is too much. She cums quicker this time, a sudden, blinding burst of heat that makes her thighs shake uncontrollably as she collapses forward against Paige’s shoulder, her wet walls pulsing erratically.
Paige is yet to cum. She lets out a frustrated, needy sound in the back of her throat and tries to keep grinding up against Micah, desperate for the friction, but Micah is completely, agonizingly oversensitive now. Every slow slide feels like a raw wire rubbing against her.
"Stop, stop—too much," Micah heaves, her voice tight as she pushes flat palms against Paige’s hips.
Before Paige can complain, Micah slides her hand down between their tangled bodies. Her fingers are clumsy and wet as she slips them firmly, messily into the heat between Paige's thighs. She finds Paige’s swollen, dripping clit and just begins to rub at it with a hard, relentless pressure. Her palm instantly grows soaked, covered in the thick, slick evidence of Paige's own arousal as she works the sensitive knot of nerves. There's no rhyme or reason to the motion; it's uncoordinated, heavy, and frantic, but Paige has never needed a delicate touch anyway. She's always loved mess.
"Fuck, right there," Paige gasps out, her head snapping back against the headboard, her long legs twitching as Micah’s hand continues to ruthlessly friction her wet pussy. "Just like that, yeah."
It doesn't take long. With one final, deep groan that vibrates all the way through Micah’s chest, Paige's lower stomach goes entirely rigid. She cums hard against Micah's fingers, her hips shuddering in short, violent jerks before she completely deflates, all the tension draining out of her frame in a matter of seconds.
The sudden silence in the room is deafening. They both slump instantly under the weight of the exhaustion, the fog of the alcohol and the physical comedown crashing over them like a wave. Micah rolls off Paige’s body with a heavy, uncoordinated heave, her bare skin sticking to the sheets as she lands flat on her back on the covers. Her head is still spinning in slow, sickening circles, her long legs feel entirely numb, and her right wrist throbs with a dull, aching soreness from the frantic effort. She stares up at the dark ceiling, letting her eyelids flutter shut.
Maybe she’ll just close her eyes for a little while, just until the room stops moving.
