hiya! im ray and i really really like uconn wbb and wbb! im new to tumblr so bare w me.... ermmmm.. yeah! ^_^. i am currently on the waitlist to make a ao3 account, so ill be cross-posting on that! i will try to get a tiktok account for yous to follow (bc i dont wanna use my personal one :P)!
this account will be filled with pazzi one-shots and my own wlw story! (thats the plan)! and if you have any req for me to write, ill try to do it ^_^
i am not very active since i get my laptop taken away, but ill try my best!!! if you wanna be moots, comment on this post!! ill prob start writing tomorrow :)
bye bye! (will update this in the upcoming months)
When kelis found out azzi sent kyle 10 bucks 😂 😂 mind you her crashout went on longer.
Azzi answering the phone you can hear paige first and then azzi's "why are u yelling?" (🫠)
"i only condone healthy eating" then telling Kelis "no" when she asked for "healthy grapes" and THEN rubbed salt in the wounds with saying "look I'm playing dominoes with my friends"(lmfao but who says "azzi bro stop saying that")
A/N: I wish I was bringing this to you under better circumstances, but here’s a Natty distraction for those that want it. Nonetheless, I couldn’t hold onto this anymore and I’m so excited to officially start this series!
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Miami, Florida - December 2025
The flight from Dallas was two and a half hours and somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico she stopped thinking about those two possessions for the first time in three months.
Three months she'd been carrying them. Every film session, every practice, every drive home from the arena. She wasn’t punishing herself exactly, moreso turning them over, the way she turned everything over, looking for the edge of the problem. She had found it. She knew what the problem was and now, somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico, they were gone - they needed to be gone.
The season was filed, it had to be. The record was what it was and it had told her what she needed to know and she'd been building toward the answer ever since, quietly and on her own terms, which was how she built toward everything. What was in front of her now was completely different. A new team, a new format, a new city, a league she'd believed in before she had any stake in what it became. She felt, quietly and without making anything of it, a lightness she hadn't expected arriving somewhere that didn't know her yet. She liked that feeling, the not-knowing-yet part and she let it sit for the rest of the flight, when the city appeared through the descent - flat and lit and entirely unconcerned with her arrival - she put her seat forward, stashed her tray table, threw her headphones into her bag before shoving that under her seat too.
Okay. Here we go.
December 13, 2025
The heat was there the moment she stepped off the jetway - it wasn’t aggressive, far from the thick wall she'd expected, but it still had bite. Present in the way of something that didn't need to announce itself. She got the rest of her luggage and found the car - Phee had been very specific about exactly where to meet the driver, assuming Paige would try to figure out the pickup herself rather than wait where she was supposed to - and sat in the back with the window cracked and watched a city she'd never lived in go past.
Dallas had known her before she played a single game. Before she'd landed, essentially - the first pick that moved through the internet the way only certain names could, the franchise unrecognisable by morning, her name in the building before her body was. She'd learned to carry that. It had been, for her Rookie season, both the best and the most complicated thing about living there. The expectation that arrived before you did and stayed in the building long after your arrival. Miami had its own version of that waiting for her - she’d made sure of it - but it felt different. She’d helped build what was waiting. That had never been true before, and something in her chest let go of something she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
The apartment was three blocks from the facility. Fourteenth floor, facing south, and it smelled like new appliances and someone else's cleaning products; a neutral scent, a space that hadn't been inhabited yet. The Dallas apartment had had a smell she couldn’t have described but would have recognised anywhere: eight months of accumulated living, coffee and sneakers and how her mornings ran. She’d found something like quiet there, eventually. A routine that was hers. The type of solitude you build slowly without realising you’re building it. This didn't have any of that. Surfaces clean. Furniture good and generic and entirely not hers yet. She dropped her bags and stood in the middle of the living room for a moment.
Hopkins. UConn. Dallas. Every place she'd ever lived had arrived with a context already built - people who knew her, expectations already formed, a place that had opinions about her before she'd said anything. She'd always adapted to that. Had become good at it in the way she became good at most things that required intelligence and practice. Though she'd never fully noticed the weight of it until she was standing in a room that had none of it. This apartment didn't know anything about her. The walls had no opinions. The kitchen counter had never watched her eat standing up while she was thinking about something else, her iPad split screen showing at least one NBA game and often some old episode of Criminal Minds - she choose not to rewatch Grey’s Anatomy while eating. Nobody in this complex had clocked her expression and understood what it meant before she understood it herself.
It was the loneliest and the most free she'd felt in years, and she stood there and held both of those things at the same time before she went straight to the balcony.
The city spread out below in a configuration unlike anything she'd lived in before, it was more horizontal than she'd expected and far from the flat predictable Dallas grid. At the same time, she thought it also looked nothing like the compressed vertical of East Coast cities; Miami was different.
There was more colour, it felt more open. Knowing that the water was out there somewhere past the buildings, the sky going amber at the edges. She stood at the railing for a minute and let it be new, which she didn't always allow herself. Usually she was already converting: map this, learn this, build the route. She let herself just stand there instead, just be a person standing on a balcony in a city that didn't know her name yet, and she thought it felt good, like putting something down she'd been carrying so long she'd forgotten she was carrying it. Then her phone buzzed.
Phee: Come see the arena tonight if you want. I'll be there.
She looked at the message for a moment, surprised to see that it wasn’t a group text nor had it been routed through anyone. It was Phee, on a December evening, with everything else she had going on - reaching out directly. Paige had been on the receiving end of a lot of attention in her career, most of it pointed at the version of her that was useful to someone else's story; this felt different.
She changed and went.
She'd seen pictures of course. The naming rights announcement had dropped December fourth and the internet had done what the internet did - released every angle, every detail, the centre-court Sephora logo and the expanded seating and the LED strips running the length of the floor. She'd looked at all of it and she thought she knew what she was walking into.
It was different in person, but it was always different in person.
Phee was at the side entrance in a league jacket, moving carefully on the ankles. This was her building. She had imagined it, funded it, fought for it, and put her name behind it when nobody was sure it would work and standing in it now looked good on her. She looked up when Paige came through the door and said, “come on,” before they continued on through the space.
The facility had expanded over the summer - 15,000 square feet of new player space, a third practice court, the Samsung Rest Club that she'd read about in the league materials, hyperbaric chambers, massage facilities that looked like they'd been designed by someone who had actually asked what professional athletes needed rather than what was standard. The storage room held something she clocked immediately: her merch. The Breeze gear; joggers, hoodies, training kit, all of it in Breeze colours with her name on it, waiting to be claimed. There was so much packed into the tiny room she wondered where they had to put the other teams’ gear. She picked up a hoodie and looked at it.
“Away jersey's in there too,” Phee said. “New this season.”
She'd had jerseys before, obviously. Hopkins, which in part helped her rise on TikTok, and UConn, where they'd sold out before she'd played a game. Dallas, the PB5 in every colourway, the ones she'd seen in the lower bowl from the free-throw line when the light caught them a certain way. She understood the economics of her own name by now, had made her peace with the marketability of it. But this was different from all of those, and it took her a moment to understand why.
Those jerseys had been for teams that already existed. Teams with histories, with championships, with the accumulated weight of everything that had come before she arrived. She'd walked into all of them carrying someone else's legacy whether she wanted to or not. Breeze didn't have any of that, they had six players and a coach and twelve days and an away jersey in her hands that had her name on it because this team had been built around her name specifically, around the bet that she was the beginning of something rather than a continuation of it. She was not inheriting anything; instead, she was the history. The first game hadn't happened yet and the name on this jersey was already the whole story.
She folded it carefully and put it in her bag.
They came out into the main arena space and she stopped walking.
The Sephora Tunnel was at the far end - the player entrance, lit differently from the rest of the room. The LED boards ran the full walls. The centre-court logo. The court itself, condensed full-court, smaller than she was used to, which she'd known about and which still did something to her chest because it was finally in front of her. Still the smallest professional arena in the country by a significant margin. Still on purpose.
Phee was watching her.
“It's real,” Paige said, which wasn't the most articulate thing she'd ever produced but was all she could offer.
Phee almost smiled. “That's what Stewie said.”
They sat in the new courtside seating - the Sephora-branded section, deep colour, noticeably considered design that said someone had spent money on a chair because a chair was part of the experience - and then, from somewhere behind them, small feet on the court.
Mila. In a Breeze hoodie that was technically child-sized and still came past her knees, under the far hoop at the end of the court with a miniature basketball - the right size for her hands, a detail that said someone had thought about it - attempting to make shots with the total seriousness of someone who had seen this done and intended to replicate it exactly.
She watched her for a moment. Mila held the ball with both hands, lined herself up under the hoop with complete concentration, and threw it. It hit the underside of the backboard and bounced back. She retrieved it without complaint and did it again.
Paige had met her before. A couple of times, at games, at events, the way you met the kids of the people in your orbit before you were properly in each other's orbits yet. Mila had been younger then, had been a baby and then a toddler sitting courtside. She was different now. Three and a half meant she was watching you back.
Paige walked over.
Mila looked up.
Paige looked at the hoodie. Looked at Phee.
Phee’s expression said, …don’t.
Mila had Phee's face - like really had it, the same directness, the same quality of paying full attention - and she conducted the same brief assessment before apparently reaching a satisfactory conclusion. “You're tall,” she said.
“I am,” Paige agreed. She crouched down to Mila's level anyway. “Can I try?”
Mila considered this. She looked at the ball. Looked at Paige. Then held it out with the gravity of someone extending a significant privilege.
Paige took it. Stood. Held it in one hand - it fit in her palm like an orange - and put it up from three feet, nothing but net. Mila watched with her mouth slightly open.
“Again.”
Paige did it again.
“Again.”
Phee had appeared at the edge of the court, watching them as if she’d seen this happen before and was not at all surprised. “Mila. Where are your manners?”
Mila, without taking her eyes off Paige, said, “Please.”
Paige handed the ball back, doing her best to hide her gummy smile. Mila took it, turned to face the hoop, and attempted the same shot with renewed conviction. It hit the backboard in roughly the same place. She was unbothered.
“She's been doing this for six months,” Phee said, coming to stand beside Paige. “Alex put the junior hoop up at home and now every time she's in a real arena she has to test the actual one.”
“Smart kid.”
“She's thorough.” But Phee said it the way she said most things about Mila, which was with the soft incredulous warmth of someone who could not entirely believe this small person existed.
Mila had retrieved the ball and was lining up again, this time having moved six inches closer to the basket. Scientific. Paige watched her and felt something uncomplicated happen in her chest - something about the total commitment of it, the complete absence of self-consciousness, the way a three-year-old under a hoop in a professional arena had exactly the same expression Paige had seen on the faces of the best players in the world when they were working on something.
Phee called across the court: “Baby. What do we say to Paige for playing with you and making all those shots.”
Mila turned around. She appeared to be weighing the social obligation against the continued pull of the hoop. The smallest ever, “thank you,” was muttered to the floor before she immediately turned back around.
“She's amazing,” Paige said, smiling in a way that made her nose scrunch up and her eyes crease.
“Yeah,” Phee said. “She really is.”
They sat down in the courtside seating. Mila stayed under the hoop, working. From twenty feet away Paige could hear the small sound of the ball hitting the backboard, again and again, patient and methodical. She watched her and thought about what it looked like to want something that much before you were old enough to have been told to want it.
Phee watched her for a moment too. “She's been asking about the players. Who's coming. I showed her the Breeze roster.”
“And?”
“She pointed at your picture and said 'fast.' I don't know where she got that… She must have overheard our scouting reports in the locker room back in Minny.”
Paige laughed, properly. “I'll take it.”
“You should.” Phee looked at her with the warm directness she had, that meant she loved you and didn't make you guess it. “I'm glad you're here, Paige. I mean that. This team is going to be something.”
“I know.”
“Not because I have to say it. Because I've watched you for years and I know what you do when you have the right conditions around you.”
Paige looked at the court. The way Phee said things - not as compliments but as observations, as assessments from someone who had been paying attention and had arrived at a conclusion. It landed differently than praise because praise was something she could dismiss. This, she had to sit with.
Mila had successfully gotten the ball to hit the rim. A small sound of triumph came from the far end of the court. Phee smiled at it without looking up.
They stood in the empty arena for a moment, the three of them. The building was quiet in the way it would never be again once the season started.
“Can I ask you something?” Paige said.
Phee looked at her.
“Does it feel different? Being here.” She tried to find the words for what she meant. “This is… you built this. You're here like every winter now. Does it feel like somewhere that's actually yours?”
Phee was quiet for a moment. She looked at the court, the one she had designed from the ground up, and then at Mila, who was reaching for one of the lights on the tunnel entrance with complete confidence that she could get it.
“Yeah,” she said eventually. “It does. It took longer to feel than I expected, actually. But yeah.” Paige watched as she took a moment, a deep breath, before she continued. “Alex is here. Mila is clearly comfortable here. She knows this arena so well already.” Phee looked around; Paige could only look on in awe. “She knows the tunnel. She knows where the good snacks are backstage. She knows which of the staff will let her sit on the scorer's table if I'm not looking.”
Paige laughed.
“That's the thing, you know?” Phee said. “You spend your whole career in buildings that aren't yours. You give them everything and then the offseason comes and you get on a plane and somewhere that never fully belonged to you goes on without you. This one doesn't go on without me. That's new… It's a good feeling.”
Paige thought about the apartment three blocks north. The blank walls, the neutral scent, the city that didn't know her name yet. She thought about Dallas, which had known her name before she'd unpacked. She thought about what it would feel like to build something and have it be yours in the way this was Phee's.
“That's what I want,” she said. Not about Miami specifically, but about something larger and harder to name. Phee seemed to understand, but she let it go without response.
Mila had drifted back under the hoop, ball in both hands again, lining up her next attempt with the patience and certainty of knowing that this was going to go in eventually. Paige and Phee watched on whilst the building around them stayed quiet quiet, if not for the bouncing of a ball and the tiny squeaking of feet. The backboard sound came again, soft and methodical, and Mila retrieved the ball without complaint and reset.
Paige thought about the conversation she'd had with both Phee and Stewie in the months before it was announced. Before the NIL deal was signed, before it was public, before it was real to anyone except the people who'd been in the rooms where it was being built. She'd asked them the question she'd been building toward since she first understood what they were trying to do: why build this specifically, when you could have built anything?
Stewie had gone first. She’d talked about her kids - Ruby, already a permanent fixture at Liberty games, the kid who ran to the bench during timeouts and couldn’t understand why her mom had to go back. And Theo, two years old, who had Stewie’s face and apparently her stubbornness already. She had said, “I want them to grow up in a world where what I do is worth what it’s worth. I want to have built something that proves that was possible before they're old enough to wonder whether it is.”
Phee had been quieter. She'd talked about Mila - eighteen months old at the time of the call, born in the middle of a season, brought courtside in a carrier during warmups because the alternative was not seeing her. She'd talked about the exhaustion of being one of the best athletes on the planet and still having to argue for basic infrastructure every time she wanted something that any male athlete in a comparable league would have had without asking. She had said, “we're not building this for us. We're building it for the players who come after us, and for our kids, and for every girl who's going to grow up watching this and think that's just what it looks like when women play professionally.”
Paige had put money in after those conversations.
She sat in the courtside chair and looked at the court she'd be playing on in three weeks and thought about what it had taken to get here - not just for her but for the whole thing, for the institution of it, two women who were also mothers who had looked at the gap between what professional women's athletes were given and what they deserved and had simply decided to close it. The performance nutrition programme that had been announced in the league materials. The Samsung Rest Club visible through the corridor window. The merch room with her name on a jersey that cost real money and had real care in the design. All of it built by people who had been asking the right questions.
“The nutrition programme,” she said. She hadn't planned to say it but it came out anyway, like she’d abandoned the public version of curiosity and allowed the private one to consume her; ever direct.
Phee looked at her, both bsolute and patient at the same time, the power of someone who had built a league on the premise of knowing what athletes needed before they said it.
“It's not that I'm resistant,” Paige said. “That's not it.”
“Okay.”
“Look… I get what the program is trying to do. And I'm not dismissing it. UConn had unbelievable staff. Genuinely. That team knew me, knew everything I'd been through, and I honestly don't think I'd be here without what we built together.” She paused. Phee would know, she had been there, had come up through the same programme, understood exactly who she was talking about. “And Dallas did what they could. But it wasn't the same.”
“No,” Phee said. “It wasn't.”
“I have people I trust. My trainers, my team - they've been with me through everything, before UConn and after, through every surgery, through all of it. They just know me. I don't gotta start from zero every time someone new walks in.” She looked at the court. “I know something’s missing Phee, but I found it myself. I know what it is. And now there's gonna be someone I've never even met coming in with a folder and I'm supposed to just - …”
She stopped.
The arena might have been too big for silence, but Phee didn’t move to break it.
“Individual assignments come out after media day, after the formal league announcement,” she said finally. “Keep an open mind. That's all I'm asking.” A pause. “I think you might be surprised.”
“Surprised by what.”
“By who we brought in. For you specifically.” She said it with so much care that Paige knew she was choosing her words deliberately. “She's good. Really good. I think you're going to respond to her.”
“Her,” Paige said.
Phee looked at her, completely neutral, and gave nothing else away.
Not a command or reassurance. Just, keep an open mind, said with the weight because she knew something Paige didn't yet and had decided to give her exactly one piece of the puzzle and no more.
Which meant there was something to know. And Phee had just decided to let her start wondering about it.
She looked at the court and didn't ask the follow-up question, because sometimes not asking was the smarter move and Phee would tell her when it was time.
“Come on,” Phee said. “I'll show you the rest.”
By the time Paige got back to the apartment it was past nine. She showered and sat on the balcony in the dark for a while with the city doing its thing below her, and she thought about what Phee had said about building something that proved it was possible. She thought about the jersey in her bag. She thought about the foundation problem she'd named in September, the private accounting she'd been doing since, and she thought about what it meant to be in a league that was also doing the accounting - that had looked at the gap and decided to address it structurally, not as a favour but as a premise.
She was still going to fix it herself, that hadn't changed. But there was something in knowing that the institution she'd invested in had been asking the same questions, that it wasn't just her in the car at night identifying what needed addressing. Something that felt, if not like permission exactly, then like company.
She went to bed thinking that this was the right place to do this.
Whatever comes next - the team, the season, the format, the work, the gap she was going to address on her own terms - this was the right place for all of it. A league built by people asking the right questions. A blank apartment that didn't know her yet. Days before anything was required of her publicly. Room to become, without the weight of what she already was following her through the door.
She thought about what Phee had said. Keep an open mind. The way it had landed as more than a pleasantry. The folder that was going to arrive with someone she'd never met. She thought about the fact that the most accurate person in the room about her own body had sometimes been exhaustingly, comprehensively alone in that accuracy - turning things over in the dark of cars and apartments and empty courts because there was no one else in the room to turn them over with.
She thought about what it might feel like to not be alone in that.
She put it down. Set it aside with the things she wasn't ready to examine. And then - for the first time in three months, in an apartment the city didn't know about yet, with the Miami night humming ten stories below - she went to sleep without running the two possessions one more time first.
December 15, 2025 - Media Day
She was up at five-fifteen. She always was before days like this; it wasn’t anxiety, more the alertness of a body that had learned to be ready before it needed to be. She made coffee and took it to the balcony. Miami at five in the morning was doing what Miami apparently always did, which was: not stopping. A continuous low-frequency hum of the city still in progress, people and lights and the sound of a place that had never heard of dormancy. She liked it, especially on the nights she'd been out there before bed too. Dallas had its own night quality but it gathered itself eventually, went quiet the way cities acknowledged December. Miami just kept going; she was going to have to get used to that and she was looking forward to it.
She ran at six. The ‘active tourist on their first full day of touristing’ run - not a workout, far from structured - movement and attention, cataloguing the neighbourhood the way she catalogued everything, building a map that existed in her body rather than on her phone. Three blocks north, the facility. Two blocks east, a Starbucks with its lights already on. Marina had sent her a list of places with ‘actual coffee’ and she respected the commitment, but she was also going to that Starbucks. A residential block she looped twice to get the feel of it. The morning air was warm enough that she wasn't wearing a layer by the second mile, which she was going to have to adjust to. Dallas in December had a bite to it. Miami in December was just warm, the city entirely unbothered by the fact that she was running through it. She ran the residential block a third time because she felt like it.
Back at the apartment by seven-fifteen. Shower. Actual food; eggs, rice, something green from the grocery order she'd placed the night before, because she was going to be in a building full of people for twelve hours and she'd learned through years of long professional days exactly what happened to her concentration when she tried to run on less than this. The fact that she’d even eaten before she left was worth noting because on a normal day - a day without cameras, without fifty-four players and twelve hours of professional performance, of being ‘on’ ahead of her - she probably wouldn't have. She’d have just had the coffee and gone. The coffee was the thing her body actually asked for first every morning, and the eggs were the thing she made herself have afterward because she understood, theoretically and from years of people telling her, that she was supposed to. The structure was there when the day required it. On days that didn’t require it, the structure had a way of quietly collapsing to its minimum - coffee and whatever was available and an intention to eat properly later that sometimes materialised and sometimes didn’t. She’d been managing it for years, and she was managing it fine.
She ate standing at the counter, which was how she ate when she was thinking about something else, and what she was thinking about was the day ahead. Fifty-four players, including the development pool. Eight complete coaching staffs. The full league administrative structure - board members, performance teams, sponsors, people she’d never met who had a stake in how this season went. Every journalist who covered women’s basketball would be in that building at some point. She was going to be asked the same twelve questions approximately forty times and she was going to answer them each time as though the question were new, which was the only way to do it if you wanted the answers to land rather than echo.
She was ready by eight. The Uber arrived at eight-twelve. The driver recognised her - at this point, most of them did - and she was still calibrating the difference between being known in her world and being known everywhere. He said his daughter was excited Paige was playing in Unrivaled this season and she said she was excited too and meant it, and then they pulled up outside the facility and she thanked him and got out.
She stood on the pavement for a moment and told herself she wouldn’t hesitate.
Then she went inside.
The facility was already moving when she arrived; staff crossing corridors with the purposeful energy of a building that had been preparing for something for days and was now actually doing it. Cameras being positioned. Signage going up. Someone testing lights in the media area, running them up and down in slow cycles. She looked around and thought the whole scene looked like how a theatre would look hours before a tech run.
She found the locker room. Zaza was already there - development pool had a different call time, earlier, and Zaza had apparently decided to just stay once she was in the building, which tracked. The habit of being somewhere before anyone expected her was useful in a teammate and occasionally alarming in a friend. Rickea and Cam were at the mirror at the far end, deep in whatever they were doing. Cam had her phone out at an angle that suggested content, Rickea was doing something with her hair that required absolute concentration and was not to be interrupted. Haley was perched near the door talking to someone Paige didn’t recognise yet, her back to the rest of the room - one of the performance staff maybe, but she assumed she must have been waiting for Zaza so they could move on. A few other players drifted through - the locker room had that media day energy, people moving with purpose in no particular direction, everyone slightly too caffeinated and slightly too aware of the cameras already set up in the corridor outside
“You sleep?” Zaza cut in before her thoughts could run any further.
“Yeah.”
“You eat?”
“Yes.”
Zaza looked at her. “For real eat or -”
“Eggs. Rice. Green things. For real eat.”
“Good.” She went back to her phone. “Kate's already in the film room. Malonga's in the gym. Aari’s not here yet.”
“It's eight twenty-two.”
“I'm just telling you.”
Paige put her bag down and sat and let the room be quiet for a moment. Around them, the facility was building toward something. She could feel it - not just the noise of preparation, but something underneath that, the charge of a day that was going to require all of her attention. Media days were not games but they were their own version of a performance, with their own demands, and she'd learned over years of them that the players who thought they were easy were usually the ones who left something in the room they hadn't meant to.
“There's food in the corridor,” Zaza said. “Someone from the performance staff set up a whole spread.”
Paige had eaten already. She went to look anyway.
The spread was real. Not the perfunctory catering that showed up at these events to be photographed and then ignored but something that had actually been thought about. Eggs in multiple preparations. Rice. Actual fruit. Things labelled not just by name but by composition, protein content and timing guidance, pre-session versus recovery, clearly prepared by someone who understood what professional athletes actually needed on a long day rather than what looked good on a table. She stood in front of it and read a label. Then another. Then she looked at the whole setup - the arrangement, the system of it, how things had been organised - and thought about much attention someone had actually put into this.
There was also a flicker of something she didn't fully want to name. She had been doing this herself. The private accounting, the knowing what she needed and when, the calculus of her own body, built across years of necessity. She had done it alone because alone was the only option available, because the people who had been put in rooms with her had arrived with the wrong frameworks and she had spent more energy managing their wrongness than building her own system. And now here was a table that somebody else had built, organised by someone she had never met, and it was correct. The labels were correct. The system was correct. And part of her found that genuinely good, the league she had invested in living up to what she had invested in it for. Another part, smaller and less comfortable, noticed the label that said *Recovery* and wanted to push back, her thoughts circling the same arguments once more - I already know this. I have always known this. I have been doing this alone for years and I was fine. I don't need someone to hand me a label.
She put the label down. She was aware of both parts. She was not going to pretend the smaller one wasn't there.
A staff member was at the end of the table with a clipboard, checking something. Paige hadn't seen her before. Young. Dark curls pulled up. Her back was turned to Paige so she couldn’t see her face. She was; however, looking down at the clipboard with what she assumed was the focused attention of someone who was in the middle of a task she hadn't finished yet, and she didn't look up when Paige sidestepped across the side of table towards her, which was in itself a thing - most people had what Paige felt was a sixth sense and just looked up when Paige Bueckers walked into a room - but this person was either unaware she'd arrived or had decided the clipboard mattered more, and Paige couldn't tell which.
She stood at the table for a moment. Picked up a label. Put it down.
“The labelling system is good,” she said, directing her words to the girls’ back and dark curls.
The staff member don’t look up. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was low. Even.
“Did you put this together?”
She still didn’t look up. She did stop writing. “Most of it,” she said, toward the clipboard.
“The labelling system specifically?”
A pause in which she could have sworn she could hear a pin drop followed.
“Yes. And the greens. They’re broccolini. They count. You do need to eat those, too.”
Paige looked at the broccolini. Looked at the back of the staff member’s head. Loaded a plate. She was about to say something - she wasn’t sure what, exactly, just that the conversation felt unfinished in a way she wanted to finish - when her phone buzzed, and buzzed again. Then Cam appeared at the end of the corridor, already walking toward her with an urgency that said she needed her somewhere else right now.
Plate in hand and not quite done, she turned and followed Cam.
She ate the broccolini at the window at the end of the hall, the one that looked out over the second practice court, still empty at this hour. Standing up, the way she ate when she was thinking. She was thinking about the labelling system and the pause before the answer. She was thinking about how she’d already decided not to make anything of something before the something had even happened.
She’d also decided after she finished eating the broccolini, that it was cold and she didn’t love broccolini the way she loved pop tarts.
She went to find her team.
The first time all six of them were in the same room was nine o'clock in a side room off the main corridor that had been set up with a whiteboard and six chairs. No film, no tape, no game prep - Noelle had been clear about that. Today was Media Day and she made sure this time was used to align who they were before any of it started. Before the cameras. Before the press. Before anyone else got to decide what Breeze BC was.
Noelle Quinn stood in front of them with ad edge to her, as if she knew she had a lot to prove and had decided to prove it through work rather than announcement. Paige had read the early media day interviews - Noelle talking about the learning curve, about watching Unrivaled tape, about how this is a little bit of a different format so it's new for her as well - and had noted how she was the kind of coach who named her own gaps before anyone else could. That was its own kind of confidence.
Six players. No depth chart in the traditional sense. Kate was the only one who'd stood on an Unrivaled court before, six games for Laces in 2025 before a leg injury cut her season short. The average age of the team was twenty-four, the youngest roster in the league by a significant margin, which the press had been noting since the rosters dropped and which Paige had been filing as a variable rather than a liability. Youth was what you decided to make it.
“Before anything goes out today,” Noelle said, “I want to know who we are. Not for the cameras. In here.” She looked around the room. “We're not going to talk about match-ups or the format or what other teams are doing. We're going to talk about what Breeze BC means. What we want people to feel when they watch us. What we want to be known for. Because once we walk out that door today, everyone else starts writing our story. I'd like us to have already written it ourselves.”
The room was quiet for a moment. Then Cam said, simply, “accountable.”
“And…” Kate thought for a moment. “Tough.”
"Relentless.” Aari didn’t even hesitate.
Malonga nodded once, then added, “dangerous.”
Rickea let it land for exactly one second. “Clock itttt.” Already grinning, like she’d been waiting for someone to say it first.
Paige thought about it properly. About what she actually wanted. Not what she was supposed to say. “Ours,” she said eventually. “I want it to feel like ours. Like something we built, not something we were handed.”
They all turned to look at her then like it was real, it was serious. They all felt it - the start of something big.
Noelle wrote it all down. Didn't rank them, didn't comment, just wrote. Then she looked at the board for a moment.
“Collective voice,” Noelle said, looking at Paige.
“Collective voice,” Paige agreed. She'd said it to every journalist who'd asked about leadership since the rosters were announced and she meant it every time. “There's no vet on this team. We're all going to have to find our voices. Mine included.”
Noelle looked at her for a moment deciding what kind of captain she had. Then she made a mark on her clipboard and moved on to the whiteboard, which was the right call.
When the session ended, after Noelle dismissed them to go and represented Breeze like only they knew how, she stood in the corridor outside with Cam and Rickea and felt, for maybe three seconds, pure uncomplicated excitement. Different from the right-kind-of-nervous; these five people, this team, the whole thing being real in a way it hadn't been until she was in a room with all of them at once. She didn't say it out loud. Rickea caught her eye and gave her the look that meant she knew - she had been doing that a lot today - and that was enough.
After, Cam said to her in the corridor - not loudly, not for anyone else: “I've been thinking about what we do in the high post.” As though they'd been in the middle of it for weeks, which in a sense they had. Paige could only let out a small laugh, because of course they’d talk actual hoops the second they could.
“Me too,” Paige said.
“If you can get me there with the second defender cheating -”
“The dump is there every time.”
“Yeah.” Cam turned to her, wild-eyed. “Every time.”
Paige turned to meet her eyes. That was enough for now; the season was three weeks away and they had so much time to get it right.
The all-league briefing was at ten. All fifty-four players, all eight coaching staffs, the full Unrivaled administrative structure, in a room that had been arranged for maximum photo opportunities - long tables with team nameplates, good light, branding visible from every angle. Paige found her seat - Breeze BC, ‘Captain’, first expansion team - and sat down and put her hands flat on the table.
Phee was at the end of the room in a league jacket, moving carefully in the way that told anyone who was paying attention, that her ankles were being managed. She was not in a uniform. She'd announced on December first that she was still hoping to play, still rehabbing, hadn't made the final decision yet - though everyone in the room knew what decision was coming. Paige watched her navigate the room and felt the weight of what it meant to have built something and then have to watch it from the outside. Phee caught her eye across the space and nodded. Paige nodded back. They'd been in adjacent orbits for years - not close in that intimate way, but connected through the architecture of the game, through UConn lineage, through the shared fact of Unrivaled. But that relationship was deepening everyday, and there was a lot in a nod between two people who'd both put money behind the same belief before they knew what it would become.
Alex spoke first. He rattled off all the major updates to this years’ schedule - second season, eight teams, fifty-four players, first road stop in Philadelphia, Year One revenue that had doubled the projections, the $100,000 championship bonus doubled from last season. He’d built the operational infrastructure of this from the ground up and he knew it, in the way you knew something you’d wagered on and been right about. You could see how much he loved it here; his job, this city and being able to share all of it with his family.
Rickea, beside her, leaned over briefly and held out her phone screen without comment: the Unrivaled merchandise page. Every Breeze jersey - all six names, every size - showing sold out. Paige looked at it for a moment before passing it back. Rickea pocketed the phone and they both looked at the front of the room and said nothing, which was its own conversation.
Then Phee spoke. And the room went quiet.
“What we set out to do,” she said, “was demonstrate that elite women's basketball players deserve elite support infrastructure. Not as a nice gesture. As a structural commitment. We don't ask these athletes to perform at the highest level and then leave them to figure out the rest. The rest is part of what we provide.”
She paused.
“This season we're expanding that commitment. In addition to the existing performance and recovery infrastructure, every player in the league will be assigned a dedicated performance nutrition specialist. This programme has been developed in consultation with sports science and nutrition professionals and reflects what this league has always believed: that the gap between what we ask these bodies to do and what we give them to do it with is the gap where careers get shortened and potential goes unrealised. We are closing that gap.”
The room received it. Paige kept her hands flat on the table, kept her face doing the right thing. She had been good at doing the right thing since she was young; a little girl who was sat down and told her mommy and daddy didn’t love each other the same anymore and expected not to act like the world she knew was ending. She looked interested, engaged, receptive - the version of herself that rooms like this got. She knew that version well. It never let her down.
Underneath that she was doing the math. The gap. The thing she’d been working on since September, privately, on her own terms - and here it was, officially announced as league policy in front of fifty-four of her peers. Someone had looked at the same problem from the outside and arrived at the same answer and built a programme around it. Someone she hadn’t chosen.
She knew why it was happening and she believed in it enough to push her reservations aside. She’d put money behind this league because of exactly this kind of commitment; athlete-first, structurally, not as a gesture. She’d believed that before she had any personal stake in whether it was true. And now it was in front of her, and it was good, and she had no argument. That was the whole problem.
It wasn’t the principle, that was fine. It was just - the gap was hers. She’d found it, had been carrying it and now someone she’d never met was going to come in and have opinions about it. She’d gotten good at doing this alone. Maybe too good. That was the part she hadn’t figured out yet.
She returned her attention to the front of the room
Phee was acknowledging the performance staff - a formal moment, brief, the room applauding. Paige looked toward the left wall where they were seated. She looked at none of them specifically but noted there were twelve, maybe fifteen people, and assumed they must be assigned like 2-3 players each. The fact that she registered the scene was itself information she was filing for later.
Along the left wall, near the end of the row, one of the Performance Staff was looking at the front of the room with her chair shifted on an angle away from Paige’s view. Dark curls pulled up - the same ones from the food spread table that morning, she was almost sure. A cough from the opposite side of the room forced her attention back Phee.
She applauded with the room.
Individual assignments, Alex said, would be distributed by the end of the day.
The Sephora Studio was a room off the main corridor with branded mirrors and a full glam setup; a league partnership, Sephora's name on the arena, a dedicated space where every player got access to a professional hair and makeup team before the official photos. Paige had read about it in the media day schedule and hadn't fully processed it until she was sitting in the chair.
She let them work. The mirrors were good, though they were those mirrors that gave you the full version of yourself rather than the flattered one - and she sat in front of hers and watched herself in it while the work happened.
Two women from the league's content team were talking in the doorway, not quietly enough. She caught fragments - the half-whisper of people who thought they were out of earshot. Something about the broadcast schedule, about making sure certain players were featured in the pre-game packages. Then she heard her name, the way she always heard her name in these types of conversations.
Bueckers needs to be in everything.
Absolutely. She's the one moving the needle.
You put her in the thumbnail, the click-through doubles. All of it. They’ll never get tired of her.
She's also just…
Nah come on… not you too?
No - I mean… she photographs well. Like, objectively. Viewers respond to her.
Yeah okay…
Shuuut uuup!
What should we have her do fir-
The Sephora PRO artist cut in above the background noise, asking her to look up slightly.
She knew how to receive such commentary because she had been receiving it in various versions since she was a teenager - being in a room where people discussed the commercial value of her face, weighing the business of it against everything else. She understood the business of it, really, she did. The league needed visibility and visibility required faces and her face was apparently among the more effective ones for that purpose. Though she’d made peace with the tangle, she had to remind herself once or twice in the mirror.
What she hadn't made peace with, sitting in this chair while someone worked on her face, was the manipulation of it - the way moving the needle and photographs well sat comfortably together in a sentence where ‘basketball player’ didn't need to appear. She was in this building because she was one of the best basketball players in the world. That was the sentence; moreso, she wanted that to be the sentence. Not the thumbnail, and never the click-through rate.
The league had decided, from the beginning, that the players were worth this. Not worth it in a begrudging way, not worth it as a marketing decision - though it was that too. Worth it in the way of an organisation that had been built by people who had spent their careers in leagues that communicated the opposite through a thousand small decisions, and who had built this one differently on purpose. You are worth being seen properly. The industry has been telling you otherwise for a long time and we are not doing that here. That was the philosophy made physical. A room with good mirrors and someone who knew what they were doing.
She watched herself in the mirror and thought about the other thing. She was twenty-four years old and she'd been told she was attractive since before she was old enough to know what to do with it, and she understood the potential weaponization of it now in a way she hadn't at eighteen, sixteen - really, although she didn’t like to think about it. The way a photograph of her face circulated differently from a photograph of her game. The comments about her body when she wanted the conversation to be about the crossover. Those fans who showed up not for the basketball. She didn't resent it exactly, because the same visibility produced the platform and the platform was real and she used it. It was all tangled together and she'd made peace with the tangle… Mostly.
What she hadn't made peace with was the suspicion, on days like this, that the glam squad and the branded mirrors were all in service of one version of her - the version that photographed well, that trended, that was easy to package - and that the other version, the one who had rebuilt herself twice and managed chronic pain since high school and knew exactly what her body could do and had pushed it to the edge of what that was and come back from the far side of that edge, that version was something fans wanted to claim without having to see clearly. She was one of the best basketball players in the world and she wanted that to be the sentence, not an asterisk on a sentence about something else.
Not, ‘skinny for this level.’ Not, ‘gets wherever she wants despite it.’ Not, ‘impressive for her frame.’ Just one of the best basketball players in the world. The sentence, clean, with nothing underneath it qualifying the thing.
She knew that wasn't how it worked, and had known so for a long time. That didn’t change that she still wanted it, in the stubborn way of wanting things you know you won't get exactly as you've imagined them. She held it for one more second in the mirror and then pushed it down.
Paige had grown to be great at pushing things down.
The photos were in twenty minutes and she had a team to captain and a season in three weeks and none of this had anywhere useful to go right now. She looked at herself in the mirror - hair done, looking like whatever version of herself this was - and stood up.
In the corridor afterward, they called them through to the locker room for the uniform reveal. The Under Armour kits: six of them, their names on the backs, the Breeze colours exactly as they'd been on a screen for months except different now, different in the way things were always different when they were real and close. Kate picked hers up and whispered, “I like this one more.” Rickea looked at hers for a long quiet moment and just shook her head, like she both couldn’t believe this was happening and expected nothing less - at the same time. Malonga held hers up and examined it with the focused attention she brought to everything - reading it, Paige thought, the way she read a rise before she blocked a shot. Cam looked at hers and then at Paige and smiled - the smile of someone who had been waiting for something and had just confirmed it was real.
Paige looked at her own name on the back of her jersey and felt the season snap into focus.
The team photos took ninety minutes. Six of them stood side by side - a season in the W spent as opponents for most, teammates for a couple, but all of them now something else. Paige looked at the camera.
Malonga stood beside her. Up close she was extraordinary in a way film couldn't carry; not the statistics, not the highlights, but of her physical presence in any space and the way she occupied it, as though she’d had been building toward this her entire life. She was twenty years old. She had come up through French club basketball, had played at the Olympics, had spent her rookie WNBA season proving people right. In just a short amount of time, Paige had noticed that she said almost nothing and watched everything an that was going to be a problem for everyone else.
Cam was on her other side in the team lineup. She'd known her since they were seventeen years old, had been in the same spaces at various points across the years - competing against each other, watching each other from opposite benches, texting on draft nights a year apart; Cam going second overall in 2024, Paige going first overall in 2025, unanimously, which was the only outcome anyone who had watched her seriously had ever considered possible - and they'd talked, vaguely and intermittently and sincerely, about what it would be like to play together someday. Someday was now. A journalist had asked her about it in the press rounds and she'd said what was true; “I haven't played with Cam since we were like seventeen. We've always supported each other and talked about being teammates again in the future, so having that opportunity now is really exciting.” Standing next to her in the lineup, she meant it, and she was also just - grateful. Just grateful.
Rickea watched all of this with an expression that meant she was sitting on strong views and had decided not to share them; a full season of watching Paige operate in public had given her many.
Paige caught the expression. “What.”
“Nothing,” Kea said. Which meant something.
The TikTok happened in Sephora Arena itself - between the team photos and the afternoon sessions, a gap that opened up amidst a long day where people are forced to stay in uniform and the cameras are still around. Malonga had been the one to suggest the exact dance, had said that she’d been watching the trend on her phone for days. She demonstrated the sequence once, the easy way of someone who’d practiced it without making anything of the fact that she’d practiced it.
Rickea already had her phone out before Malonga had finished demonstrating, showing the rest of the girls the trend as grinned at Paige and said “we’re doing this.” She found a spot, propped the phone and set up the frame. That was how the Young and Turnt crew made their first TikTok; the six of them in their Breeze uniforms inside Sephora Arena on media day, @breezebasketballclub posting it to TikTok the following morning at a timestamp that would become, in its own small way, evidence of exactly who they were before the season had started.
Aari was genuinely, unexpectedly good, the kind of good that, after watching the complete TikTok, made you rewind the clip because you wanted to see it again.
Malonga giggled through the whole thing. It was cute. That was enough.
And then there was Paige.
Paige Bueckers had rhythm. She’d always sworn up and down that she had rhythm, spending most nights of her Uconn career up late with her teammates learning dance after dance - she knew there were countless edits made of those late night efforts. She was also the person who made difficult things look easy and easy things look like art, who moved on a basketball court in a way that professional analysts consistently described as the most refined spatial intelligence in the league. She was known, in the circles that paid attention to these things, for making things look effortless and occasionally very, very cool.
None of this was present in the TikTok.
What was present in the TikTok was her arms arriving approximately a beat and a half after the rest of her, and her hips making what appeared to be a completely independent decision from her upper body, and an expression of focused concentration that suggested she was very much aware that something was not right and was actively trying to correct it, which was making it worse. She was not quite giving the ick, but she was fast approaching the realm of ick. She was standing at the border of the ick and making sustained eye contact with it.
Cam was extremely tall and extremely aware of being extremely tall and did the whole thing with such self-conscious sweetness that couldn’t quite manage to be anything but endearing. She was also just a white girl, who couldn’t really dance - and that was okay, she tried!
Kate barely tried. A single almost-gesture that communicated she’d fulfilled her social contract and was ready to leave.
Rickea closed it out and made it look easy. She always knew what she was doing.
They watched the playback together on a Rickea’s phone. Malonga watched Paige’s section from the corner of her eye as if she was processing new information about the world and choosing not to comment on it immediately. Cam folded about four seconds in - not mockingly, so helpless against the best and worse TikTok she’d ever been apart of. Rickea kept going but her shoulders were shaking and she quickly sent it to a manager before anyone could stop her.
@breezebasketballclub posted it the following morning - December sixteenth - and she found out it had taken off when she woke up on the seventeenth because someone in the facility said, loud enough to carry, that “Paige Bueckers apparently had absolutely no rhythm and the internet was not letting it go.” The clip had gone everywhere overnight, Overtime had clearly had an absolute field day. The comment section had reached a verdict by consensus. She would read through them in the uber home, the way she read everything - fast, then slower on the ones that landed. She was not going to be precious about this. She would open the notes app, create a folder, not name it, and copy three comments that stood out. Not to dwell on. As material. Fuel. Filed for later.
The individual media rounds ran from noon. Forty-five minutes, same twelve questions, different voices asking them. She’d learned to find what was actually true in each version and lead with that. It was the only way to make it not sound like she’d said it forty-five times already.
On collective leadership: “There’s no vet on this team. We’re all figuring it out - me included. That’s actually kind of exciting.”
On the league: “With Phee and Stewie being the founders, you just want to support the women who came before you. They continue to pave the way. I started in college just being a fan, appreciating what this means for women’s basketball. That part hasn’t changed.”
On the format: “I played a lot of three-on-three when I was younger - Junior USA, Junior Olympics. The muscle memory is there. It’s different from five-on-five, brings a completely different dynamic. I’m excited to see what it looks like when the stakes are real.”
On being the youngest roster: “Youth is a variable. It’s about what you do with it.”
The CBA question came midway through, as she'd known it would. Someone from the left side of the room, recorder tilted, a journalist who had been waiting to ask it all session and was not going to pretend they hadn't been. She took the half-second she'd learned to take - not a sigh, just calibration, the beat before the questions that required more precision not less.
“At this point it's not really a negotiation anymore,” she said. “Both sides aren't moving in any meaningful way. We as players don't want to have a strike. We want to have a season. But there are things that need to be handled, and we want to do it as professionals.” She let a beat land. “That's all I'll say.”
She meant it. The CBA was real and the stakes were real and women's basketball players had been underpaid for the entirety of the professional game's existence, and she had thoughts about all of it that could fill four hours. She kept it short, but tried to convert as much as she could without becoming a new headline, again. That was the only way to do it without becoming the story rather than the person commenting on it.
Noelle fielded a question in the same session about adjusting to the format. “This is a little bit of a different format, so it's new for me as well,” she said, probably also feeling herself caught up in the repetitious cycle of media. “There's going to be a learning curve. I've been watching a lot of Unrivaled tape. But at the end of the day it's still a hoop, and these athletes are young and talented and have been playing against the people they'll face here their entire careers. I like where we're starting from.”
Paige liked the answer, particularly the honesty, and thought about how refreshing it was to have a coach who named the gap between what she knew and what the context required rather than pretending the gap wasn't there. She filed it under the same category as the thirty seconds before Noelle said anything at the morning session; some things you knew early and they didn't change.
The nutrition programme question came near the end - someone near the back who had clearly read every line of the league documents before walking into the room, which was impressive given they’d only been public for a couple of hours. She clocked it but decided not to comment on that, she wouldn’t give the world a chance to claim she was against the concept.
“Paige, there’s been a lot of conversation over the years about physicality at this level, and recently, about how you’d step into it… your frame, your injury history. Now the league has announced dedicated nutrition specialists for every player. Does that feel like something that’s come at the right time for you specifically?”
She took the half-second. “I think it speaks to what this league is trying to do,” she said. “Athlete-first, and they mean it... That’s not a small thing. That’s why I’m here.” A deep breath. “So yeah… I’m looking forward to it.”
She absolutely meant the first part; however, she was still working on the second part.
The body question came near the end of the session, which was where it usually came - saved for last, slipped in under the wire, phrased carefully enough to suggest it wasn't the thing they'd been building toward but plainly was. “There's been a lot of conversation this season around your physicality,” someone said. “The adjustment to the professional level. Heading into Unrivaled, is that something you've been working on?”
She took the half-second she always took. “Everybody at this level is strong and experienced,” she said. “It's about continuing to develop, taking care of your body, putting yourself in the best position to compete every night. That's the work.”
Strong. She'd said that word so many times this year it had almost stopped meaning anything specific. It was a direction disguised as a fact; a thing she was moving toward, presented as a thing she already possessed in sufficient quantity. The journalists nodded and wrote something down and she watched them do it and thought about the version of the answer that existed underneath the one she'd given.
What surfaced, briefly and without her permission, was the conversation she’d overheard from the tunnel at College Park Center; September, last game of the season. Two women in the row above her, talking the way people talked about athletes who were still in the room - casually, like fame would negate proximity and they wouldn’t be overheard. She'd caught it mid-sentence and stood completely still in the shadow of the tunnel entrance and listened. It hadn't been mean, she kept coming back to that. It had been the tone of a reasonable observation, tossed between two people who had no idea she was there.
Lowkey she's kinda skinny for this level.
Yeah… but she still gets wherever she wants.
And then they'd moved on, as easily as they'd started, the way people did when they hadn't said anything that felt like a thing. She'd kept walking, hadn’t turned and hadn’t done anything that would have suggested she'd caught a single syllable of it.
It sat there though. The way it always did - not loud, not sharp, just there. Same feeling, different register. A journalist with a recorder was not the same as two strangers in a tunnel. Logically she knew that; however, the feeling wasn’t entirely different. She’d never said that out loud and wasn’t starting now.
The journalists nodded and wrote something down. She watched them do it and thought about the version of the answer that existed underneath the one she'd given. The version that had said, she'd been “managing patellar tendonitis since high school. Every day, every practice, every game.” She'd said that out loud earlier in the season, in a room not unlike this one. “You manage it at all times. There's no day where it probably doesn't hurt.” And before that, the tibial plateau fracture. And before that, the ACL. By the time she arrived in this league she'd already rebuilt her body twice, had already made her peace with pain as a permanent condition of her existence as a professional athlete, had already learned to perform at a level that made none of that visible. Still the conversation circled back to the frame, as if surviving wasn't evidence. As if rebuilding yourself twice said nothing about what you were made of.
She took it seriously. She'd been taking it seriously for years, which was why she'd named the gap herself in September, in the privacy of a car that night. The gap was real and the solution was hers. Hers to claim where she wanted to, which was not going to be here, in this room. The moment she put it in language these cameras could use, it stopped being hers. It became a narrative about limitations rather than a problem she'd already started solving, and she'd spent enough time watching herself get discussed in terms of what she couldn't do to have no interest in providing new material.
“Do you feel like it's affected your game?” someone followed up.
“It's part of development,” she said. And moved on.
Phee found her later at the water station, in between individual shoots. Of course she did. She poured herself a water and stood next to her and didn’t say anything for a moment, as though she had been looking out Paige and had chosen now to make sure she was okay.
“The programme,” Phee said.
“I know.”
“Your answer in there was diplomatic.”
“It was accurate.”
Phee looked at her. Napheesa Collier looking at you was its own experience - the weight of intelligence that was both strategic and personal, that tracked what you were saying and what you weren't and didn't pretend not to notice the gap. She was one of the best basketball players in the world and she had also built this league, and those two things coexisted in her in a way that produced a kind of authority that wasn't about status.
“I know what you think about it,” Phee said.
“Then you know I'm going to do it.”
“I know you're going to show up. I'm asking if you're going to be present.”
Paige drank her water. This was the question; showing up was the baseline - what you owed the institution, what any professional owed a programme they'd agreed to. Being present was different; however, being actually open, actually receiving what someone was trying to give you rather than managing the transaction from behind the professional face until it was over. She'd been declining to do that for years, not because she was stubborn but because the part had worked. She'd built herself twice. She'd come back from two surgeries and managed chronic pain and rebuilt trust in a body that had failed her, and she'd done all of it on her own terms in her own way without anyone's framework, and the ‘alone’ of it all had produced a rookie season and a Rookie of the Year award and thirty straight games in double figures to start her career, a number no guard in the history of the league had ever reached. The ‘alone’ of it all had worked, which made it the hardest thing in the world to put down and hand over to someone else.
There was also the other thing, the thing underneath the practical resistance, the one she didn't examine directly but that was there if she was willing to look at it honestly. She didn't want help with this one. Not because she was above it but instead because the narrative around her body had been managed by other people's opinions for long enough that the idea of bringing someone else into it - handing the assessment over, allowing someone else to define the gap and design the intervention - felt uncomfortably close to conceding the point. To admitting the version of the conversation she'd been declining to have all season. She knew the gap; she’d found it herself and had been quietly building her understanding of it ever since. That was hers, and she was absolutely certain that the solution would be hers too. She didn't need someone to tell her what she already knew.
“The person we've assigned to you is good,” Phee said. She didn't say how she knew, didn't say what she'd read or what she'd been involved in selecting or how far back the attention went. She just said, “good,” which was its own kind of information about what she knew and what she'd decided to give Paige of it. “She's been thinking about the gap you're dealing with for a long time,” she said. “Longer than the job. That's all I'll say.”
Paige looked at her.
Phee held the look. Patient. She'd said what she meant and was going to let it land. “I know what you think about it,” she said. “I know you've named it yourself. I know you have a plan.” A pause. “I'm not asking you to give up the plan. I'm asking you to be in the room.”
“Three sessions,” Phee said. “Give it three sessions before you make a decision. That's all I'm asking. Three sessions and then you get to have an opinion.”
Three sessions. A low bar and a non-negotiable one at the same time, which was exactly how Phee operated - here is the minimum you owe the thing I built, and it is framed generously enough that declining it is impossible without revealing something about yourself you'd rather not reveal. Paige had sat across the table from Napheesa Collier in board settings and understood this about her before she'd understood almost anything else, she didn't argue. She arranged situations so that the right thing was also the easiest thing, and then she waited.
“Three sessions,” Paige said.
Phee nodded. Done. “Like I said the other day, I think your team is going to be fun to watch,” she said. “I genuinely mean that.” And she was gone, down the hallway in the opposite direction, already somewhere else, already three steps ahead of this conversation.
Paige stood at the water station for a moment longer than she needed to. She thought about the events of the day; turned them over: the breakfast table, the labelling system, the broccolini, the possibility of a - somewhat - new beginning and also, the dark curls she’d clocked twice now without seeing a face. She was building something she didn’t have a name for yet. She told herself she’d name it when she had more information.
The afternoon was photos and more press and the social texture of fifty-four athletes in the same building, which produced its own energy; conversations happening in hallways, people who'd been opponents all season finding each other in common areas and being easy with each other in the way you were easy with people you'd spent years competing against and therefore understood completely. She talked to Chelsea Gray for four minutes about spacing in the three-on-three format and it was one of the better basketball conversations she'd had all month. Gray played like she had decided years ago to be the best at this and had been proving it quietly and consistently for years. Paige was going to enjoy this matchup when it arrived.
She found Zaza at the end of the afternoon in the common area with the end-of-day energy of someone who was ready to just be twenty-three again, not a professional basketball player. “How are you?” Zaza said, which meant something more specific than the words.
“I'm good.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“I know.” Paige sat down next to her. The corridor was quieter now, the day winding down, most of the press gone. “The programme.”
“I figured.”
“Individual assignments are coming tonight.”
“I know.” Zaza looked at her sideways. “You already know it's the right thing.”
“I know the logic is right.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No,” Paige said. “It's not.”
Zaza was quiet for a moment. Then: “You don’t have to trust the plan. You just have to trust the person long enough to find out if the plan is right.”
Paige thought about this. “That's the thing though. I don't know the person.”
“Not yet.”
Paige looked at the floor. Not yet. Which was technically true and felt like more than that.
“The breakfast this morning,” Zaza said, more carefully. “That was from the performance kitchen. From whoever they've assigned to you.”
Paige looked at her.
“The development pool room is next to it. I could hear.” She paused. “She's already been here for like two days. Alone. Just setting up. The labelling system, all of it.”
Paige thought about that; about being alone in a facility for days before anyone who mattered also walked through the door, setting up a kitchen correctly before anyone even thought about using it. She like what it said about someone that they showed up that early and that quietly, without announcement, without making anything of it.
“Okay,” Paige said.
“Okay meaning?”
“Okay meaning I heard you.”
Zaza nodded. Left it there.
By five o'clock she had been in the building for nine hours and had eaten the eggs at seven-fifteen and the broccolini at eight-thirty and basically nothing after that. This was not a complaint and was not something she was particularly aware of in real time - the day was mostly the same as any other long day - the adrenaline of being required to be switched-on did a decent job of substituting for everything else, and she'd run on that substitution before. What she noticed, at five o'clock, walking between the final session and the locker room, was that her legs felt slightly wrong. Not tired wrong, she knew tired, knew what muscle fatigue felt like after real exertion and this wasn't that. This was more like flat; like the charge had run low somewhere underneath everything and was doing its best to hold on without making a scene. She put it in the later pile, where most things her body reported in the middle of a long day went, and told herself to deal with it later.
She didn't deal with it later; she went to the court instead.
The building had mostly cleared by six. Staff were wrapping, the lighting rigs were coming down - Sephora Studio was being packed away. Paige changed back into her own clothes and walked the facility alone for a few minutes: the court, the film room, the corridor outside the second practice space, the hallway on the second floor where the performance offices were. At the end of the hall: a door with a small printed label. Nutrition/Recovery Kitchen: Staff. The light underneath it was off. She kept walking.
She picked up a ball and stood at the three-point line without doing anything for a moment. The facility was quiet enough that the first bounce carried - sharp and clean, nothing to absorb it. She liked courts like this: empty but lit, still available.
She dribbled to the wing. Net. The sound the net made was different from any other sound in the world and always had been, since she was six years old. Clean and certain and entirely hers. She moved to the corner. Net. The elbow. Net. A pull-up from the free-throw line that felt slightly off; she took it again, found the correction and made the second one. Better.
Not a workout and definitely not structured, except the cleanest version of herself available after a day that had required a lot of the other versions. No professional face, no diplomatic answer and management of how something landed in a room. Just her and the net; is it going in or isn’t it. The answer was always hers.
She thought about the day again while she shot, which was something she’d learned to do rather than fight. The thinking was going to happen; better to let it happen while her body was doing something it knew. She remembered the session with Noelle, the team in a room for the first time, the briefing - Phee’s announcement landing in the way things land when they’re right and still uncomfortable, the email at the end of it all. Once more, she thought about someone who arrived with a folder and a knack for labelling kitchens; someone she didn’t know yet.
The part she kept for places like this - empty courts, end of long days, nobody watching - was the other thing, the thing underneath the diagnosis. She had done the work; come back from every surgery that by rights should have taken years from her game and hadn’t, managed daily pain she’d simply factored into the cost of being herself, rebuilt trust in her own body twice from near zero. That work was real and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. She had arrived in this league with everything she’d built and she was determined to ensure it wasn’t reduced to nothing.
She’d been using what she’d survived as evidence that she had everything she needed, and those weren’t the same ledger. Survival was one column. Optimal was another. She had been very, very good at the first one for so long that she’d let herself blur the line between them. Phee had said it from the outside tonight without knowing she was saying it but Paige had known it from the inside since September; both angles pointed at the same thing.
She shot again. Net. Pulled up from the elbow. Net.
She was going to give Phee the three sessions; she would be present. She was going to go in with her own diagnosis already made and her own understanding already built, because that was hers and she wasn't handing it over. However, she was also - quietly, in the private ledger she kept only on empty courts - starting to let herself wonder what it would look like to not be doing the accounting entirely alone.
She put the ball back and got her things and went outside into a Miami evening that was warm and amber and entirely unconcerned with what kind of day she'd had. She ordered a car, stood on the pavement waiting for it and looked at the building behind her a thinking about the season that was starting; the team she had, the format that was built for her brain, the foundation problem which she was going to address, on her own terms, in her own time, starting with three sessions she'd promised Phee.
The car arrived. She got in.
Her phone buzzed before she'd told the driver the address. The email had a subject line she recognised immediately.
She opened it in the back of the car with the Miami streets going past the windows.
Player: Paige Bueckers.
Nutrition Specialist: Azzi Fudd, MS, RD.
She went straight to Google, intending to learn literally everything she could. Columbia, a master's in sports nutrition and performance dietetics, recently completed in October. Twenty-three years old - a year younger than Paige - which landed as a detail that took a moment to place. Two lines of professional biography that were clean and specific and told her nothing about approach or philosophy or what the person was actually like in a room. No image attached. Nothing to give her away. That was it.
She held the phone for a moment.
She also told herself not to hold preconceptions in either direction. She'd had wrong frameworks put on her before - coaches, trainers, the get in the weight room people, the frame people, the people who arrived with a conclusion already formed and then arranged the evidence to fit it - and she knew the cost of that, the cost of managing someone else's wrong story about your body on top of everything else you were managing. No preconceptions beat wrong ones. She had no idea who this person was, which meant she also had no reason yet to defend against who they might be. That was something she could work.
She put the phone in her pocket and looked out the window at the city.
She thought about kitchen organisation and about a person who had arrived in Miami a few days before her with no players in the building yet, no team, nothing to set up for except the eventual fact of it. She thought about dark curls that had organised a refrigerator system and labelled everything and prepared a breakfast spread for a media day before spending her morning checking labels she'd already checked, because that was the work and the work was what she came for.
Longer than the job.
That phrase had been sitting with her since the water station corridor and she'd been turning it over, trying to understand exactly what it was telling her. Someone who had been thinking about the gap she was carrying for a long time; before the job existed, before Paige had any idea. The foundation problem she'd diagnosed in private - someone else had apparently been looking at it too, from the outside, from a distance, without access to how it felt from the inside and they had come to Miami about it.
She wasn't sure what to do with that but she wasn't going to pretend it was nothing. She filed it in the place she filed things she wasn't ready to examine yet, alongside the breakfast labels and the half-second at the table.
She'd give it three sessions.
The car moved through the amber Miami evening and she watched the city go past - lit intersections, restaurants still open, the warm continuousness of a place that never paused - and told herself she was done thinking about it for tonight. She was going to call her dad. She was going to eat something real, properly this time, not whatever the adrenaline of the day had been standing in for. She was going to go to sleep because training camp officially started in two days and she had a season to build.
She was mostly successful at not thinking about it.
Mostly.
Her phone buzzed. Not a comment; a notification - TikTok - the kind that meant something had been posted.
@breezebasketballclub Feeling breezy in Miami 🌬️
PB5...Year 1 in @unrivaledbasketball loading 📶
She watched it for a moment. The video was the one they'd shot that afternoon - a solo shoot; her walking slowly into a spotlight, the Sephora Tunnel lit the way it was lit for games, the light that made everything coming through it look like it had been waiting to arrive. They'd filmed it as part of the intro package but she hadn't seen it until now.
She looked good.
She watched it twice. Then she put her phone face-down on the seat beside her, not before turning on do not disturb once more, and looked out at the amber Miami evening going past.
Year One loading.
“Yeah,” she said, to no one in particular. “Okay.”
themes: aged up pazzi, angst? (I don’t even know if you can consider it that yet), azzi as a single mother, paige lowkey being a simp, enemies? comforting each other, men!
a story where azzi is not a big fan of paige. paige though? she's a big fan of azzi.
a/n: IT'S DONE!
w/c: 4.8k
masterlist | previous part
AZZI POV:
azzi shows up early to the pregame. she promised caroline that she’d get ready over there and help her pick out an outfit. she’s sitting on the floor, criss crossed in front of caroline’s floor length mirror lining her lips when caroline finally decides to pry. honestly azzi isn’t shocked, she’s more shocked it took 45 minutes of her being here for caroline to bring it up.
“so. you wanna tell me what’s going on with you and bueckers?”
azzi looks up into the mirror and can see caroline staring at her pointedly. “not particularly”
caroline hums knowingly “so you do admit something happened”
azzi debates leaving her in the dark, but you know what– a second opinion in this whole situation would be good. and she trusts caroline, with her life, so she definitely wouldn’t go around telling people. she would however definitely clown azzi.
“we fucked.”
caroline audibly gasps and drops the setting spray she was holding in her hand. immediately she moves to sit on the bed directly behind azzi to get closer.
“no way” caroline’s eyes are bulging out of her head, azzi can see it in the mirror. “you. azzi fudd. paige bueckers’ like number one hater hooked up with paige????”
“caro i was so down bad for an orgasam, you know that both julia and ava left me orgasam-less”
caroline thinks for a second “what about jude? was he bad too?”
“yes. so bad. like he probably couldn't find a clit with a magnifying glass and someone literally pointing” caroline laughed loudly at this
there’s no such thing as tmi for azzi and caroline.
“so like how did it even happen?”
“well it was at the party she and her friends hosted a couple weeks ago” caroline nods making it clear she’s paying attention “i was drunk and i think she was drunk like i was just dancing and then before i know it she’s like all up behind me and i start grinding on her”
azzi thought it was impossible for caroline's eyes to bulge out even more. she was wrong. “i can’t believe it” caroline pauses “okay that’s actually a lie i can believe it because bro she’s been plotting, but like i thought your stubbornness would like reign supreme”
azzi pauses at this “plotting???? what are you talking about”
“… azzi. paige has been plotting on you for like ever. don’t tell me you didn’t know this?”
“well kk said something about it to me last week but i though she was making it up”
this messed everything up. the fact that kk wasn’t lying changes everything. because then she was being a total fucking ass to paige for no reason. this negates all her logic— guilt washes over her.
caroline seems to sense azzi’s shift in demeanor.
“is there more you want to tell me…” she says suspiciously
azzi ignores that question. “caroline, like how sure are you that paige has a crush. like on a scale of one to ten”
“like eleven”
azzi can feel her nervous system deregulating.
“okay… so i may or may not have reacted really poorly to this whole situation. in my defense, i didn’t actually think paige had any feelings towards me.. yk other then lust”
she can see caroline's expression turn into worry.
“tell me everything”
“i think she feels used? or maybe i was just a bitch”
“okayyyy…”
“i’m gonna have to give you the details of you know” azzi says with the slightest tone of nervousness
that’s quickly eased when caroline honestly gets more interested. so azzi continues, “okay so well we fucked obviously. honestly, that’s generous what really happened is she fucked me. like she brought me to her room was kissing me all over and then fucking fingered me against the door”
caroline screams “oh my godd” with her hands like pushing back her hair in disbelief.
“i’m not even done. she lifted me up, like i weigh fucking nothing and brought me to her bed and then proceeded to eat me out. i came once and then she convinced me to let her keep going and then i came again. like genuinely did not give me a break.”
caroline yells and moves to sit next to the floor. azzi turns towards her so they’re facing each other.
“caroline i’ve never been fucked like that it felt like she was literally worshipping me… and she didn’t like even try to get herself off omg and the next morning i woke up and she was full on spooning me”
“alright so i’m more confused on the parts that made you think this girl isn’t down bad???”
“well i was thinking that she does this with every other bitch. like almost every gay girl on the volleyball team has fucked her. i guess now every gay girl has, since i fell for the propaganda"
“azzi she doesn’t let girls spend the night”
“what???????? that has to be a lie”
“no its not. azzi. do you like not pay attention to anything ever?”
“what are you talking about.”
“sadie, tatum, harper, and vanessa all complained about how paige kicked them out, like thirty minutes after they fucked. how on earth did you not hear about this??”
azzi takes a second and thinks about it. she’s realizing now that if paige is ever brought up in conversation she will literally make an effort to not hear about it. that’s how much she thought she hated her.
“hellooo…. earth to azzi”
“i guess– i guess i never paid attention” azzi says with little to no vigor because her brain is still occupied with seeing if she really read everything totally wrong.
not to toot her own horn, but azzi would argue she’s pretty emotionally intelligent. usually. she supposes that everything goes out the door when paige is brought up.
“so, what else happened” caroline continues questioning.
“well. she kept trying to talk to me. and i um– i kept like dodging her. like anytime she showed up i’d find a way out. and like she followed me and dm’d me, and like i ignored her. then kk was coming up to me questioning what happened with me and paige. i just acted like i had no idea what she was talking about.” azzi said this quickly, like with as few breaths as possible, she really just wanted to get everything out, being a little embarrassed with how she reacted
caroline jaw is dropped before she closes her mouth and starts to talk. “so let me get this straight. you fucked– she basically worshipped you, then you ghost and run away from her?”
azzi doesn’t immediately reply and her bottom lip pulls back making a face saying ‘theres more but i’m scared to tell you because it gets worse’
“theres more?? azzi i’m offended i wasn't updated on this situation. you’ve been weird for weeks now.”
“i knowww i’m sorry. i was planning to go to my grave with this information.” caroline laughs at this and let’s azzi continue.
“so, i’m like successful at this. dodging her so good, until kk freaking tells her where i am and she finds me, in the library. i obviously can’t back down now so i pack my shit in record time and storm out.”
caroline's eyes bulge out again in utter shock.
“well she eventually catches me. right outside the library and like i'm not sure if i should keep doing my lil act and keep ignoring her, but i gave in. like i figured yk what she deserves a conversation”
caroline hums in agreement at this.
“so we start talking and immediately i regret my decision because she’s being so fucking cocky. like maybe she has the right to be but still it pissed me off. so i walked away. but then she apologized for being egotistical and then she like really emphasized that she wanted to talk about it instead of go with what i suggested and just pretend it never happened.”
caroline is nodding, listening so attentively azzi is honestly impressed
“so i turned around. i don’t know why, something about her tone. she was confused about why i was insistent on pretending it never happened. and like i’m not sure if she’s being deadass because to me it’s so clear. like she knows i don’t like her why would i want people to know we fucked. and so i kinda snapped at her and said that i wanted her to stop following me, that i only needed an orgasam and that it shouldn’t matter because it couldn't ever mean anything”
caroline’s jaw drops. “azzi???? you probably broke the poor girls heart. why did you do that???”
“okay well. i was under the impression she was playing in my face, just chasing for the thrill.”
“well. you were wrong. and you were mean.”
“i knowww.” azzi says dragging it for a second “what should i do?” azzi appreciates that caroline is a good enough friend to call her out.
“well, she’s coming tonight. so you should talk to her, and apologize.” her tone gentle, making it clear she isn’t mad at azzi
~
the party has been full for like an hour now, and there’s still no sign of paige. azzi’s played a full pong tournament, done the shot ski twice, peed, and made tiktoks in the bathroom, and still no paige.
azzi needs a second so she goes upstairs to caroline's room away from all the noise. she probably lays there for 20 minutes just contemplating. she wants to talk to paige, and she wants to do it right. she’s not exactly sure what she’d even say, and honestly she got a little more drunk then she needed to.
she rallies (finally) and pushes herself off of caroline’s bed making her way back down. she turns the corner to go down the stairs and she spots the blonde. her heart jumps– but then she sees she’s with another girl, standing awfully close, bent down with her lips near the girl’s ear. azzi feels her face turn red, in embarrassment? anger? stupidity? she doesn’t know.
of course she was right. paige likes the chase. she’s embarrassed that like even just for a second she thought that paige was actually interested in her. she’s even more embarrassed she’s disappointed about it.
she looks harder for a second trying to figure out who she’s talking to, she recognizes who it is by the gold cuff on her arm. the girls name is trinity. she’s one of lindsey’s friends from high school. they met at the pregame and from what azzi remembers is that she’s really nice and honestly, exactly paige’s type.
azzi scoffs and decides that she’s not gonna let her ruin her night. so what paige doesn’t actually like her? it’s fine. doesn’t matter at all. not one bit.
she continues down the stairs head held high, and walks around the crowd so she doesn't have to see paige flirting with another girl. thank god though she sees caroline and morgan by the bathroom, down the hall from the balcony doors, she quickly makes her way to them.
“azziiiii” they both yell in sync when they see her approaching, they are very drunk.
“my girlssssssss, are you having fun?” trying to seem fine, and not at all thinking about how caroline was wrong. paige didn’t like her, she just liked fucking her.
“yessss, lucas and i talked for like half an hour, he just left to get me a drink” morgan updates azzi on this guy she’s been talking to.
“stoppp okay that’s good. he’s so nice to you” azzi leans against the wall. she’s about to add more when she sees paige walk through the sliding doors. she gets angry all over again, but she does note that she went out there without trinity by her side. azzi pretends to be interested with what caroline and morgan are talking about for about thirty seconds before she makes an excuse and follows paige.
she doesn’t know why. is she gonna start a fight? act like everything’s fine?
azzi opens the door just in time to see a smoke could waft out into the air. paige is leaving against the railing, evidently smoking. azzi didn’t know she did that, someone as serious as her in sports usually opt for a gummy or something.
she’s doesn’t know what to say until it comes out of her mouth.
“so that’s what we’re doing now?” it comes out harsher then she meant, but she doesn’t regret it. paige was the one who manipulated azzi into feeling bad. made this whole fuss about wanting azzi, and liking her, just to turn around and start on the next girl.
paige doesn’t turn around right away like she doesn’t care enough to check. that irritates azzi more than it should.
paige turns slightly when azzi reaches the railing. azzi looks at her for a split second and can already read her. that look– guarded, already a little sharp, like she’s bracing for something. azzi feels it low in her stomach, something tight and entirely her fault.
she shifts, not sure how to continue. she watches paige take another drag, watches and her lips wrap around the tip and the way her chests deepens as she inhales.
she watched paige blow out all the smoke before she speaks, and azzi watches her do it. “you stalking me now or something?” paige’s tone is mean. defensive.
azzi scoffs, “you wish.”
there’s a beat, and azzi’s eyes drop before she can stop them. the joint. then back up to paige’s face.
“since when do you smoke?” it’s a real question, even if it doesn’t sound like one.
paige looks away. “you don’t know anything about me, let alone my smoking habits. what’d you come out here for?”
that lands. azzi shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “needed some air.”
it sounds weak even to her own ears. this front of anger is getting harder and harder to keep up. paige lets her response sit, and azzi can immediately tell paige isn’t buying into her act one bit.
“you could’ve gone literally anywhere else.”
azzi’s jaw tightens. “okay?”
“okay,” paige echoes. “so try again.”
azzi feels irritation spike, quick and defensive. “i just needed air.”
now paige’s fully looking at her, and azzi has to fight the urge to look away first.
“you don’t look like someone who just needed air.”
“and what do i look like?” she shoots back, sharper, like she’s trying to one up paige’s attitude.
“like you’re annoyed. like you’ve been annoyed.”
azzi’s gaze drops for half a second. it’s too accurate. she hates that too.
“i’m not annoyed,” she says, too quickly. then, because she doesn’t know how to just say what she actually feels, and honestly she’s a little surprised these words came out of her own mouth. “just happy to see that i was right about you.” she forces a smile that doesn’t feel right on her face.
paige pauses. “the fuck are you talking about?”
azzi crosses her arms, more to hold herself together than anything. “i saw you found your target for the night. you definitely have a type.”
the second it leaves her mouth, she knows. it sounds bitter, jealous.
paige laughs, short and disbelieving, and azzi feels something twist in her chest at the sound.
“no fucking way you’re jealous right now.”
“i’m not–”
“you are.”
azzi hates how certain paige sounds. hates that there’s no hesitation in it. hates that shes fucking right. she responds before azzi can gather her bearings, “that’s crazy.”
“it’s not crazy,” azzi snaps, then she reins it in, jaw clenching. “i’m not jealous.”
but even as she says it, she can feel it– the heat under her skin, the way her chest feels too tight, the way her eyes keep flicking to paige’s mouth without permission.
paige takes one last drag, then drops the joint, crushing it under her shoe.
then she steps closer.
and azzi’s breath catches, just slightly.
“–so you came all the way out here,” paige says, quieter now, “to ask me about a girl you don’t care about.”
azzi doesn’t answer. because she doesn’t have one. because paige’s right. her breathing picks up, barely, but she knows paige notices. paige always notices.
there’s a second where azzi could say it. could fix it. could tell the truth. say you’re right i am jealous and i’m sorry for being such a bitch.
but paige is too close she can’t think. not with her close enough for azzi so see the blue in her eyes and the shine in her skin. her instincts move on their own.
it’s not planned. it’s not thought through. it’s just instinct, impulsive and messy and entirely driven by the fact that paige is right there and she’s been thinking about this for weeks. her hand wraps in paige’s shirt pulling her close and boom she’s kissing her.
and fuck– it’s the same.
it hits just as hard, just as fast. familiar in a way that makes her chest ache. paige stiffens for half a second and azzi almost pulls back but then paige melts into it.
paige kisses her back like she remembers. like she wants to. hands gripping her hoodie, pulling her closer, and azzi lets herself lean into it, lets herself pretend for one second that she didn’t completely fuck this up.
she tilts paige’s head, deepens it without thinking, chasing something she doesn’t even have a name for.
for a second, it feels easy. like before, like that night that changed everything.
and then– paige pulls away. fast. the space between them feels immediate and wrong, like something’s been ripped out too quickly.
“no.”
azzi blinks, still half leaning forward, not fully caught up. “what–?”
paige’s already stepping back, running a hand through her hair, frustration written all over her face.
“i can’t.”
azzi’s stomach drops.
“don’t do that,” paige says, sharper now.
“do what?” azzi asks, genuinely thrown at the 360.
“that,” paige gestures between them. “you don’t get to just kiss me and reel me back in after ignoring me for fucking weeks.”
guilt hits immediately. heavy. familiar.
“i wasn’t–”
“you weren’t what, azzi?”
she doesn’t have an answer. not one that doesn’t make her sound worse, so she hesitates. and that’s all it takes for paige to go off.
“you ghost, you act like i don’t exist…” paige’s words come fast, sharp, and azzi feels every single one of them land. “but the second we’re out and you have a couple drinks in your system, suddenly you remember i exist?”
azzi flinches. she can’t help it because paige is right. every part of it is right.
“i’m not doing this,” paige continues. “i’m not being that for you.”
“paige–” she doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say.
“no.”
azzi stops. because there’s something in her voice, something final.
“i mean it. i like you–” paige corrects herself, quieter, “i liked you.”
that hurts more than azzi expects. way more.
“enough to look stupid, apparently.”
azzi’s chest tightens. she hates that she’s the reason for that.
“but you made it clear that whatever this is was never gonna mean anything… and it’s cruel to me to keep letting you pick me up and put me down whenever you want.”
azzi wants to respond. she does. she can feel the words somewhere–an apology, an explanation, something– but they get stuck. the silence stretches for too long.
paige nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. and azzi knows, in that moment, she’s already lost her.
“i’m done with this.”
it’s quieter now. but it hits harder. paige turns. and azzi– azzi doesn’t move.
she just stands there, staring at the space paige just left behind, her chest tight, her thoughts finally catching up all at once in the worst way possible. because the truth is that caroline was right, paige did like her and azzi ruined it all before she even gave it a chance to be real.
she was done for the night. she didn't want her friends asking what was wrong, didn’t want to see paige out there with someone else, didn’t want to have to put on a act and act like everything was fine. when in fact nothing was. so she made her way back up the stairs to carolines room and went to sleep thinking about how she’s just fucked things up more. she didn’t even think that was possible.
~
she wakes up to light. not the soft light she woke up to while in paige’s arms, it was the aggressive, straight-through-the-blinds, stabbing-her-directly-in-the-eyes kind of light.
azzi groans, rolling over and immediately regretting it when her head throbs.
“jesus christ,” she mutters, voice dry, face half buried in a pillow that is definitely not hers.
there’s a beat.
“yeah,” caroline’s voice “me too girl”
azzi cracks one eye open. caroline’s sprawled out next to her, her arm covering her eyes
azzi squints at her. “what time is it.”
“like twelve probably. i woke up like 20-30 minutes ago and it was 11:30”
azzi shuts her eye again. “ughhhhh”
there’s a pause.
then caroline, softer now, “you okay?”
azzi exhales slowly, dragging a hand over her face. she can feel the sticky residue from tears she doesn’t remember crying.
she thinks about last night. the balcony. the fight. the kiss. the way paige pulled away. azzi swallows. “…yeah.”
caroline watches her carefully. “are you sure?”
azzi lets out a humorless laugh, sitting up slowly and wincing at the movement. “i fucked it up even more.”
“how azzi???”
azzi picks at a loose thread on the comforter, not looking up. “she said she’s done.”
caroline’s expression shifts, just slightly. “like… done done?”
azzi nods once. “yeah.”
silence settles for a second.
then–
“what exactly happened? when did you talk to her last night? when you were drunk?” caroline asks.
azzi huffs out a breath, already annoyed with herself all over again. “well i saw her, flirting with another girl.”
caroline immediately lifts her arm off her face, turning her head. “okay–pause. was she actually flirting or were you–”
“she was,” azzi cuts in quickly, defensive. “like, leaned in, talking in her ear, whole thing.”
caroline raises an eyebrow “hmm okay” like she’s logging this information “continue.”
azzi sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “i got pissed. like instantly. and then i told myself i didn’t care, whatever, but then she went outside and–” she shakes her head. “i followed her.”
caroline blinks. “oh my god.”
“i know,” azzi mutters. “i don’t even know why i did that.”
“yes you do.”
azzi ignores that and exhales, leaning back against the headboard. “i went out there. started a fight for no reason.”
“not no reason,” caroline corrects. “you were jealous.”
azzi makes a face. “…don’t say it like that.”
“that’s what it was.”
“i know,” azzi mutters. “i just don’t like hearing it out loud.”
caroline raises an eyebrow but lets her continue.
“i basically accused her of… being her,” azzi says, vaguely gesturing. “like she was just doing what she always does.”
“and then?”
azzi hesitates for half a second. “then i kissed her.”
caroline’s eyes widen. “you kissed her?”
“yeah.”
“and?”
azzi swallows. “she kissed me back.”
caroline leans forward slightly. “okay… that’s not bad.”
azzi shakes her head. “no, it is. because then she stopped it. and she–” azzi cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “she went off on me. about everything. the ghosting. ignoring her. acting like she didn’t exist.”
caroline winces. “yeah… fair.”
“i know it’s fair,” azzi snaps, then exhales. “that’s the problem. everything she said was right.”
there’s a pause.
azzi’s voice is quieter when she speaks again. “she said she liked me.”
caroline doesn’t react dramatically this time. just nods, like she already knew.
“and i–” azzi laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it. “i stood there like an idiot and didn’t say anything back.”
“why not?”
“because i didn’t deserve to,” azzi says simply. “what was i gonna say? oh sorry i treated you like shit but actually i like you too? like– no. that doesn’t fix anything.”
caroline tilts her head. “it’s a start.”
azzi shakes hers immediately. “not after everything i did.”
silence stretches between them.
then caroline shifts, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “okay. so what are you gonna do about it?”
azzi lets out a slow breath. “i don’t know.”
caroline holds her gaze. “you either leave it alone and accept that you messed it up…” a beat. “or you try to fix it.”
azzi’s stomach twists.
“caroline–”
“no, listen,” she cuts in. “you don’t get to decide for her that it’s unfixable. that’s her call. the only thing you control is whether or not you own your shit.”
azzi goes quiet because she knows she’s right.
“i don’t even know what i’d say,” azzi admits after a second.
caroline shrugs. “start with the truth.”
~
azzi spends the next day alone in her room, just thinking. it feels different when she’s actually alone with her thoughts. no music, no voices, no distractions. just everything replaying on a loop whether she wants it to or not.
she’s been sitting on her bed for… a while. she’s not sure how long. her phone rests next to her, already open to the messages app. she got paige’s number from caroline before she left yesterday, told herself she’d text her, you know–try to make things right.
the screen goes dark from inactivity. azzi sighs, picks it up again, unlocks it, opens the thread, and stares at paige’s name like it might tell her what to do.every time she tries to type something, it feels wrong. too small. too late. i’m sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. can we talk feels almost insulting after everything she said. and anything longer starts to sound like an excuse, even when it’s not.
azzi groans softly, dropping her phone onto the bed beside her and dragging both hands over her face. “this is so bad,” she mutters into her palms.
she replays it again– because of course she does. the way paige looked at her. the way her voice went quieter instead of louder. the way she said her truth even though she could've just stormed out. she chose to speak about what she felt and well azzi– azzi did the compete opposite.
her mind drifts back to the library. the way paige followed her, trying to talk. the way she apologized, even when she didn’t have to. the way she kept giving her chances to just… be honest. and azzi shut every single one of them down on purpose.
her chest tightens. “god,” she exhales, shaking her head. “what was i doing?”
well she knows. she was avoiding it. avoiding her because paige mattered more than she was ready to deal with.
she had drafted a million texts and nothing seems adequate to even actually send. like nothing feels like enough. nothing feels like it actually says what she needs it to say.
azzi exhales sharply, locking her phone again and tossing it further down the bed this time, like she’s done trying. “okay,” she mutters. “so texting is out.”
she sits there for a second, chewing on the inside of her cheek, thinking. because if she can’t text her… and she already knows if she tries to talk to her in person, there’s a solid chance she’ll panic again. say the wrong thing. or worse, say nothing at all. like last night.
she goes quiet again, her eyes drifting around her room without really seeing anything.
until they land on her desk.
her journal is sitting there. closed. a pen resting on top of it.
azzi stares at it. for a second. then longer. she goes quiet again, her eyes drifting around her room without really seeing anything. until they land on her desk again. she swings her legs off the bed, standing up and crossing the room before she can overthink it. her fingers hover over her journal for a second.
she should just tell paige the truth. even if it doesn’t change anything. even if paige still walks away after. azzi exhales slowly, she can’t even think of that possibility or she’ll pussy out. and not in the good way.
her fingers hover over her journal for a second. then she picks it up and grabs the pen. azzi swallows. then lowers the pen and starts writing.
once azzi starts the first sentence, everything started to flow out.
she doesn’t know how long she’s been writing for. her hand is sore just from how hard she’s been gripping the pen. she stares at the paper for a long second before exhaling and setting the pen down. she folds it carefully– more careful than she needs to be, like that somehow matters. then she just sits there, holding it. because writing it was one thing. actually giving it to paige? that’s something else entirely.
Priscilla Da Silva, known as Labubu, a 39-year-old compulsive liar who has been harassing girls for months, and who, once she was discovered, made all her social media accounts private she's the one who spread all the nasty rumors about Paige and azzi @angellabubu @labubuangel @gabkossatz
It’s barely 5:12 a.m. when Captain Paige Bueckers steps into Terminal C wearing the same expression she’s had every morning for the last six months: done. Fully, completely, bone-deeply done.
Her hair is pulled back tight, her aviator sunglasses are on even though the sun hasn’t come up yet, and every flight attendant, co-pilot, and gate agent she passes makes the exact same decision:
Don’t talk to her. Not before she has caffeine.
Paige walks with her usual pace — fast enough that most people have to jog to keep up with her — tugging her rolling suitcase behind her. She’s the youngest captain at the airline, already a legend, already notoriously sarcastic, blunt, and hard to impress.
A professional menace.
An aviator-wearing menace.
She isn’t expecting today to be any different.
She taps into the crew door with her badge, pushes through, and—
She freezes.
Because standing in the center of the crew room, fingers tapping against a stack of safety cards, smiling so wide her dimples have dimples… is the brightest human being Paige has ever seen.
Azzi Fudd.
Brand new hire. Transferred from the regional airline. Known around the company for being “the one who brings cupcakes to training” and “the girl who volunteers for holiday shifts because she loves traveling.”
She’s already in uniform — crisp navy skirt, white blouse, scarf tied perfectly, curls pinned back, lip gloss shining. And she’s talking. A lot. To everyone.
“Oh my god, this is the long-haul group! Hi!!! I’m Azzi! This is my first flight with the big jets, please be nice to me, I promise I don’t bite unless you’re a cookie!”
Someone laughs. Someone else hands her the duty schedule. Someone else tries to ask her where she trained and Azzi answers with three minutes of fast talking and sparkly hand gestures.
Paige instantly feels tired.
And then Azzi sees her.
Her whole face lights up like someone plugged her into a socket.
“You must be Captain Bueckers!”
Paige doesn’t respond. She just stares over the rim of her sunglasses.
Azzi practically skips over.
“I’ve heard so much about you — not in a creepy way! Just like… you’re very iconic? And the youngest captain, that’s so cool. And you’re flying us today! Lucky us!”
Paige takes a slow sip of her iced coffee.
It doesn’t help.
Azzi smiles even wider. “I hope we’re gonna be best friends.”
Paige actually chokes.
“No,” she says. Just one word. Flat. Deadpan.
Azzi beams. “Okay, so not best friends yet. But you’ll warm up to me. Don’t worry, I’m good with grumpy people.”
Paige glares. “I’m not grumpy.”
The entire crew room turns to stare at her because everyone — everyone — knows she is.
Azzi just grins like she’s been handed a personal challenge.
“Right,” she nods dramatically. “You’re not grumpy. You’re… serious. Focused. Mysterious. A woman of depth.”
Paige blinks twice. “…Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all, Captain!” Azzi chirps, absolutely mocking her.
And just like that, Paige is thrown off balance — the one thing she hates more than turbulence.
── .✦
Paige steps into the cockpit, grateful for the quiet.
Her sanctuary.
No passengers.
No loud flight attendants.
She begins her routine: checklist, fuel check, systems check.
Then there’s a knock on the door frame.
Azzi. Of course.
“Hi again!” she chirps, leaning in with a smile that should be illegal at this hour. “I brought snacks!”
Paige swivels in her seat. “What.”
She holds up a small Ziploc bag full of mini muffins. “Blueberry. I made them at 3 a.m. because I was nervous for my first full crew day. Do you want one?”
“No.”
Azzi takes a muffin out and places it next to Paige anyway. “In case you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
Azzi smiles. “You will.”
She leaves.
Paige stares at the muffin like it personally offended her.
── .✦
Azzi is a machine.
Smiling at every passenger.
Complimenting outfits.
Holding babies.
Helping grandparents with luggage.
Laughing with a five-year-old about dinosaurs.
Paige watches from the cockpit doorway for exactly three seconds before deciding she needs noise-canceling headphones.
Azzi feels her watching and waves.
Paige jerks back inside like she got caught staring.
Paige does what Paige does best — smooth, perfect rotation, clean climb, steady leveling out at cruising altitude. Her flying is textbook.
Azzi knocks again once seatbelt signs turn off.
“Captain?”
Paige sighs. “What now.”
Azzi steps in with two cups.
“I made you tea. Chamomile with honey.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
“You do today,” Azzi says, setting it down.
Paige opens her mouth to say something grumpy and pointed — but then the plane hits a sudden small bump of turbulence and Azzi loses her balance, stumbling forward—
—straight into Paige’s lap.
Paige’s soul leaves her body.
Azzi freezes, palms flat on Paige’s thighs, eyes wide. “Oh my god—I—I’m so sorry—”
Paige’s voice is so low it could rattle the floor. “Stand. Up.”
Azzi shoots upright like she was launched.
Her face is so red it matches the emergency exit sign.
“I’m so so so so sorry—”
“Go,” Paige mutters, staring firmly at the control panel.
Azzi flees down the aisle.
Paige drags a hand over her face.
Her cheeks are burning.
Her heart is racing.
And her pulse has absolutely no business acting like this.
She finally says it out loud, to the empty cockpit:
“…I hate my job.”
But her voice is soft. Not convincing. Warm in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to be in a long time.
She looks at the little muffin on the ledge.
She eats it.
Damn it.
Azzi keeps stopping by the cockpit every 30 minutes.
To check on Paige.
To tell her jokes.
To ask if she needs anything.
To show her a drawing a little girl made of the “pretty pilot.”
Paige tries to act annoyed.
She fails miserably.
Azzi’s sunshine is too bright.
── .✦
Perfect touchdown.
Paige always nails it, but this time… when the passengers clap, Azzi beams so proudly at her that Paige feels something strange in her chest.
As the crew exits the plane after everyone leaves, Azzi walks beside Paige, cheerful as ever. “Captain, thanks for flying us today. I really liked working with you.”
Paige shoves her hands in her pockets. “You talk too much.”
Azzi shrugs, smiling. “Yeah, but you listen. Even when you act like you’re not.”
Paige opens her mouth.
Closes it.
She has nothing.
Azzi steps closer, voice gentle. “You’re not as scary as people say.”
Paige’s throat tightens a little. “Yes I am.”
“No,” Azzi whispers, eyes soft. “You’re just lonely.”
Paige goes still.
Because no one says things like that to her.
No one sees her that clearly.
Azzi reaches out and fixes the crooked wing pin on Paige’s uniform. Her fingers graze Paige’s chest lightly, innocently, but Paige feels it like electricity.
“I hope we fly together again soon,” Azzi says, stepping back.
Paige can barely breathe. “Why.”
Azzi winks. “Because I like cracking grumpy puzzles.”
And with that, she walks away, curls bouncing, dimples deep, sunshine trailing behind her.
Paige stands frozen in the jet bridge, watching her go.
“…Shit,” she mutters. “I’m in trouble.”
── .✦
Three days later, Paige Bueckers is standing in the crew room again, arms crossed, jaw clenched, pretending to read the bulletin board.
She isn’t angry.
She isn’t annoyed.
She isn’t bothered.
She definitely isn’t wondering whether a certain flight attendant with perfect curls and a sunshine smile is working this morning.
Nope. Not at all.
She’s fine.
Totally, completely fine.
She’s even early today. Not because she hoped to “accidentally” run into Azzi. Just—professionalism. Obviously.
She’s scrolling through the flight plan on her tablet when she hears it:
Azzi’s laugh.
Soft. High. Infectious. Immediate.
Paige doesn’t turn. She doesn’t need to. Her brain already supplies the entire visual: Azzi bouncing on her toes, grinning at someone, dimples out, eyes crinkling.
And then she hears a voice.
A male voice.
She does turn then. Slowly.
Azzi is standing across the room talking to Pilot Tyler Stone — 34, smug, thinks he’s charming, absolutely not charming — and he’s leaning way too close.
Azzi is smiling. Laughing. Twirling a curl around her finger while she talks about something that probably doesn’t matter at all but Paige immediately decides is the most important thing in the universe.
Paige’s jaw drops.
Her stomach twists.
Oh.
Oh no.
She is jealous.
Deeply.
Violently.
And she hates it.
── .✦
Tyler is leaning one hand on the counter, doing that stupid grin he thinks is handsome.
“So what’s your schedule like this week, Azzi? Maybe we’ll get lucky and get paired up.”
“Oh! I don’t know yet,” Azzi says brightly. “I kind of just go with the flow. I like meeting new people.”
Paige scoffs under her breath. Ugh.
Tyler smirks. “Well, I’d sure like to see more of you.”
Azzi giggles—actual giggles. “You’re funny.”
Paige feels her soul crack.
Funny?He’s not funny.
He’s about as funny as a broken landing gear.
Azzi continues happily, “My mom says I make friends too fast. I just like people!”
Tyler leans in closer. “I like you.”
Paige’s hand slams down on her tablet.
Heads snap in her direction.
She clears her throat and walks over, forcing her face into the sourest expression she owns.
“Fudd.” Paige nods sharply.
Azzi beams. “Captain!”
“Don’t call me that in public,” Paige mutters, sounding a little too flustered.
Tyler raises an eyebrow. “Captain Bueckers. You’re flying 208 tomorrow? Looks like Azzi’s with me.”
Paige stiffens. “What.”
Azzi nods. “Oh! Yeah! I got reassigned this morning. Looks like we’re working together.”
Paige’s eye twitches.
Not this.
Not today.
Not him.
“I see,” Paige says tightly.
Tyler smirks again. “Relax, Bueckers. I’m taking good care of her.”
Azzi laughs. “Why does everyone act like I need protecting? I’m not breakable.”
Paige shoots Tyler a look that could scorch metal.
“Some people,” she says quietly but sharply, “don’t have good intentions.”
Tyler shrugs. “It’s just conversation.”
Paige leans in beside him, her voice low, dangerous. “I’ve heard the way you talk about flight attendants when you think no one’s listening.”
Azzi blinks. “Huh?”
Tyler flushes. “Hey, don’t twist things—”
Paige tilts her head. “Maybe keep your comments professional this time.”
Tyler mutters something under his breath, but Paige’s glare shuts him up.
Azzi looks between them, confused. “What’s going on?”
Paige ignores her. “We start boarding in thirty.”
She turns and walks away without another word.
Azzi stares after her, lips parted.
Tyler whistles softly. “What’s her deal?”
Azzi shrugs. “She’s just… like that.”
Tyler smirks. “Or she’s into you.”
Azzi laughs — a little too loud. “Noooo! Captain Bueckers doesn’t like… well… anyone.”
And Paige hears that, because of course she does.
She keeps walking, but it hits her right in the chest anyway.
── .✦
Paige goes through preflight like she’s on autopilot, except every checklist feels harder, every switch louder, every breath hotter in her lungs.
She thinks about Azzi with Tyler.
Azzi smiling at him.
Azzi laughing with him.
Azzi maybe liking him.
Her fingers grip the throttle too hard.
By the time Azzi steps into the cockpit to check on her before takeoff, Paige is a simmering pot ready to boil.
Azzi knocks lightly. “Captain? Preboarding is complete!”
Paige turns slowly, deliberately, eyes narrowed.
Azzi blinks. “Um… you good?”
Paige stares. “Why are you on his flight?”
Azzi tilts her head. “Crew scheduling—”
“You request flights sometimes,” Paige snaps. “You could’ve said no.”
Azzi’s eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know I needed your permission.”
Paige exhales, long and sharp. “Stay away from Stone.”
Azzi’s lips part. “Why?”
“Because he’s not safe.”
Azzi frowns. “He’s annoying but he’s not—”
Paige cuts her off. “He said something inappropriate about you.”
Azzi freezes. “What.”
Paige stands.
Too fast.
Too close.
Their chests nearly touch.
“He said,” Paige growls, “that he ‘wouldn’t mind being stuck in a hotel overnight with you.’ And he said it like he was talking about a toy. Not a person.”
Azzi’s face twists — not in fear, but in disbelief and a little anger. “Are you serious?”
Paige nods once. “He’s made comments like that about other attendants before. He does it when he thinks no one hears.”
Azzi crosses her arms, upset. “That’s disgusting.”
“That’s why I’m telling you to stay away from him.”
Azzi softens again. “You could’ve just said that instead of… I don’t know, glaring daggers and stomping around.”
Paige stays silent.
Azzi studies her. “Are you… mad at me?”
Paige swallows.
God, she hates emotions.
She hates this feeling in her chest even more.
“I’m not mad,” she mutters.
Azzi steps closer again, gentler this time. “Then what?”
Paige hesitates.
And Azzi sees it. The flash of something in Paige’s eyes.
Possessive. Protective. Raw.
Her voice goes soft. “Are you jealous?”
Paige instantly looks away. “Absolutely not.”
Azzi smiles. Slowly. Warmly. “You are.”
“No.”
“You sooo are.”
Paige grips the armrest until her knuckles whiten. “Fudd, drop it.”
Azzi leans in, whisper-light. “You know… you could’ve just said you wanted to work with me again.”
Paige meets her gaze.
Her breath hitches.
Then she turns away, cheeks burning.
“Get out of my cockpit.”
Azzi grins. “Yes, Captain Jealous.”
“Out.”
Azzi leaves with the brightest smile she’s worn all day.
And Paige sits there, heart pounding, realizing she is absolutely, completely, undeniably screwed.
── .✦
The crew lounge is always loud — bags rolling, radios buzzing, people hurrying in and out between flights — but this morning it feels even more chaotic than usual. Paige walks in first, cold iced coffee in hand, back straight, sunglasses on, her usual intimidating captain aura making people part for her like the Red Sea.
Azzi walks in behind her, bouncing on her toes, curls perfect, glossy lips shining, doing her usual routine of waving to literally everyone. She’s already in full sunshine mode.
“Good morning, Captain Martin!
Hi Susan, love your scrunchie!
Oooh, new bulletin board notes!”
Paige pretends not to smile.
She tries not to notice how Azzi’s skirt hugs her waist. Or how her tights look freshly pressed. Or how her perfume is already floating through the room like a soft floral hug.
She definitely tries not to notice the way people look at Azzi — because they always look. Men. Women. Everybody.
But she fails. Of course.
Paige scans the lounge to find a spot to sit, when it happens—
The moment everything implodes.
Azzi is walking toward the counter, humming to herself, still half-talking to a gate agent. She doesn’t see the overstuffed duffel bag sticking out from under a chair.
Paige sees it.
Too late.
Azzi’s toe hooks under the strap—
“Ah—!”
She goes forward, arms flinging out, body pitching down—
Slam.
She hits the carpet on her hands and knees.
The room gasps. People turn.
Paige’s heart drops straight through the floor.
“Azz—Fudd!” she snaps, stepping forward, already halfway reaching for her—when another voice cuts through the air.
A harsh one.
A man steps out from behind the counter.
Captain Raymond Holt.
Older, graying hair, ugly personality.
Known for his temper.
His self-importance.
His complete lack of respect for cabin crew.
He walks to Azzi like she’s something he stepped in.
Azzi, still on her hands and knees, blinks up at him, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I—I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t see your bag—”
“Of course you didn’t.” Holt scoffs loudly, not caring that half the lounge can hear. “Maybe if you paid more attention instead of chit-chatting like a child, you’d know where you’re walking.”
Azzi’s face falls instantly.
Her lip trembles.
Her eyes go glossy.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“And look,” Holt continues, gesturing at his duffel like it’s sacred property. “You bent the zipper. Do you have any idea how expensive this bag is? Or would that require basic awareness?”
Azzi’s throat works around a swallow. “I’m really sorry…”
Around them, people stare but no one says anything.
Paige steps forward.
Her blood is boiling.
Her fists curl.
Her jaw locks so hard she hears her teeth grind.
But Azzi stands up before Paige reaches her.
And that’s when Paige sees it—
Her knees are scraped.
One is bleeding.
Her tights are ripped wide open at the shin.
She’s holding in a sob so hard it physically shakes her shoulders.
She whispers, “I’m sorry,” one more time and turns away, walking fast — too fast — toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
Paige sees everything.
And she snaps.
Paige is after her instantly.
Her steps long, fast.
Her voice low but urgent.
“Azzi—hey—wait.”
Azzi keeps walking, shoulders stiff, head ducked, face burning.
Azzi tries to speak but her voice breaks. “I—I just—he—he yelled at me, and everyone saw, and now my tights are ruined, and I’m bleeding and—”
Her eyes overflow.
“Come here,” Paige murmurs.
She takes Azzi’s wrist gently and guides her into the private crew bathroom — the single-stall one with the lock, the mirror, the good lighting.
She shuts the door behind them.
Azzi stands there, trembling, mascara starting to smudge at the corner of one eye, hands shaking. Her tights have a jagged rip and blood is sliding down her shin.
Paige’s voice drops to something soft and deep. “Sit.”
Azzi obeys immediately, lowering onto the small bench by the sink.
Paige kneels in front of her.
Her hands are steady.
Her breathing is not.
“Let me see.” Paige carefully lifts the ripped fabric.
Azzi sniffles. “I’m sorry I tripped—”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“But his bag—”
“Shouldn’t have been there,” Paige snaps. “That’s on him. Not you.”
Azzi’s eyes well again. “He was so mean. Like… he didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t worth talking to.”
Paige’s chest aches. Hard.
She reaches up and cups Azzi’s calf gently. “Look at me.”
Azzi does.
Paige’s voice is the softest it’s ever been. “You hear me? Nobody talks to you like that.”
Azzi bites her lip. “Everyone was looking.”
“I know.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“I know.”
“I ruined my tights.”
Paige almost smiles — not mocking, but tender. “They’re just tights.”
“I liked this pair,” Azzi pouts, small, sad.
Paige’s heart does a full somersault.
She grabs paper towels, wets them, dabs Azzi’s cut with impossible gentleness. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
Azzi sniffles. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.”
Paige looks up at her through her lashes.
Paige clears her throat, standing to grab the mini first-aid kit from the cabinet. She kneels again and unwraps a small bandage.
Azzi is watching her with big watery eyes.
Paige tries not to melt. She fails.
“There,” Paige murmurs as she presses the bandage onto Azzi’s knee. “Good as new.”
Azzi’s voice is tiny. “Doesn’t feel good as new.”
Of course not.
Azzi isn’t upset about the cut.
She’s upset about being embarrassed.
Being talked down to.
Being made small.
Paige hates seeing her anything less than glowing.
Paige wipes beneath Azzi’s eye with her thumb. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Azzi shakes her head quickly — curls bouncing.
“No. I just… want to forget it.”
Paige sighs softly. “I’ll talk to him.”
Azzi’s eyes widen. “No! Don’t make it worse!”
“He’s a grown man. If he doesn’t like being called out, he shouldn’t act like garbage.”
Azzi sniffles again. “You’re being really nice to me right now.”
Paige’s jaw tenses.
She looks away.
She pulls herself back together.
“I’m not nice,” she mutters.
“You are.”
“No.”
Azzi smiles weakly. “Are you… worried about me?”
Paige stands up too fast. “I’m your captain.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Paige turns to the sink, bracing her hands on the counter. “Of course I’m worried. You ran off crying.”
Azzi’s cheeks pink. “I didn’t mean to run. I just—”
“You got hurt,” Paige finishes, voice low. “And embarrassed. And he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
Azzi lowers her eyes. “I hate when people get mad at me.”
Paige turns fully toward her.
Steps closer.
Close enough their knees almost touch.
“He wasn’t mad. He was out of line,” Paige says quietly. “And he won’t do it again.”
Azzi looks up at her. Vulnerable. Soft.
“Thank you… Paige.”
It’s the first time Azzi says her name without “Captain.”
Paige feels it everywhere.
She clears her throat. “Can you stand?”
Azzi nods and Paige helps her up, hands hovering at her waist, steadying her.
Azzi looks down at the ruined tights and pouts again. “They’re ripped all the way up the leg. I look ridiculous.”
“You don’t.” Paige looks her over slowly, softly. “You never do.”
Azzi blushes so hard it hits her ears.
Paige unlocks the door. “Come on. Let’s get you another pair from the crew closet.”
Azzi follows, still quiet.
And Paige walks half a step behind her —
close enough to catch her if she falls again.
── .✦
Paige unlocks the closet with her badge, pushes open the door, and flicks on the tiny overhead light. It hums softly, illuminating stacks of spare scarves, tights, jackets, shoes, and half-broken equipment.
Azzi steps inside behind her, still limping slightly from her scraped knee, still pouting at the rip in her tights, still looking small and shaken in a way Paige hates.
Paige closes the door behind them.
And the second it clicks shut…
the air changes.
It’s cramped. Narrow. Barely enough room for one person to stand comfortably.
So with the two of them inside?
They’re practically chest to chest.
Azzi looks up at Paige, eyes still a little watery, lips parted, curls falling around her forehead.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For… earlier.”
Paige’s jaw flexes. “He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
Azzi nods. “I know. It just… embarrassed me.”
Paige steps closer until Azzi has to lean back against the shelf behind her. “Azzi.”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Azzi exhales shakily. Her voice goes small. “I know. I just… hate when stuff like that happens.”
Paige reaches up, fingers brushing a curl away from Azzi’s cheek. “I know you do.”
Azzi blushes — pink and soft and real.
This girl could be sunshine in human form and a lightning strike at the same time.
Paige pulls a fresh pair of tights from the shelf. “Here. These should fit.”
Azzi stares at them, then at Paige.
“You want… me to change here?”
Paige gestures around. “It’s private.”
Azzi’s cheeks go red. “You’ll see everything.”
Paige swallows hard. And looks away. “I won’t look.”
Azzi watches her for a moment longer, then laughs softly — not mocking, but teasing.
Azzi takes a breath, slips off her jacket, then starts rolling down the ruined tights. As she does, she loses her balance — just slightly — and her hand goes straight to Paige’s shoulder for support.
Paige grabs her waist automatically.
Their bodies meet.
Warm.
Soft.
Too close.
Azzi freezes. Paige freezes.
Neither pulls away.
Azzi’s voice is barely audible. “Paige…”
Paige tries to swallow but her throat is dry. “Baby, be careful.”
Azzi’s heart stutters visibly in her chest. “You keep calling me that.”
Paige doesn’t deny it.
Azzi steps the tiniest bit closer. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.” Paige’s voice is gravel-soft. “I don’t.”
Azzi shivers.
The tights fall the rest of the way, pooled around Azzi’s ankles. She stands there in the narrow closet, fragile and flustered and beautiful in the soft overhead light.
Paige kneels before she even realizes what she’s doing — not touching inappropriately, just helping.
“Give me your hand,” Paige says softly.
Azzi does.
Paige steadies her, sliding the new tights up carefully, gently, protecting the bandaged knee. Every brush of Paige’s fingers makes Azzi’s breath catch.
When Paige stands again, they’re chest to chest, breath to breath.
Azzi whispers, “Why are you being so gentle with me?”
Paige whispers back, “Because someone has to be.”
Azzi’s eyes go glossy again — but not from sadness this time.
From wanting.
Hurting.
Soft need.
She reaches up, fingers trembling, and touches Paige’s jaw.
Paige inhales sharply.
“Azzi…”
“You can kiss me,” Azzi says quietly. “If you want.”
Paige’s restraint snaps like a thin wire.
She cups Azzi’s face with both hands and kisses her — slow at first, soft, like she’s afraid Azzi might break.
Azzi melts instantly, grabbing Paige’s shirt, pulling her closer.
Then the kiss deepens.
Gets messy.
Hungry.
Paige pulls her fully against the shelf, hand sliding to the small of her back, holding her like she’s terrified Azzi might disappear.
Azzi whimpers softly into the kiss and Paige loses whatever composure she had left.
Her voice drops against Azzi’s lips. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Azzi tugs her closer. “Then don’t stop.”
Paige doesn’t.
She kisses her again — harder — one hand in her curls, the other gripping her waist, their bodies flush everywhere they can be in the tiny space.
Azzi breathes her name between kisses. “Paige… Paige…”
contains: stepmom!pazzi. mommy issues. slight daddy issues. lesbophobia. drunkenness. throwing up. smut. slight age gap (p is early twenties, a is early thirties) mommy kink. praise kink. service top!p. hailey bieber level plotting. a man getting his hoe snatched by his daughter. a fade to black ending
word count: 20k
niyah speaks: this took a lot out of me because i have been going through thee fucking ringer. plot and moodboard by @hcneymooners. sorry it's so long, but also i'm not sorry at all lol low-key proud of myself. proofread (sorta) this time guys. love ya, enjoy.
SPRING BREAK
paige met azzi during the spring break of her junior year of college. she was twenty-one then, and when her father told her that he had a new girlfriend, paige didn’t think much of it.
when she was kid, she’d gotten attached to nearly every woman her father introduced her to. she chalked it up to her biological mother’s coldness towards her (she used her three psych credits to form the conclusion that she was just desperate for a mother figure.)
by the time she was twelve, paige learned that they never stayed and they never called her like they promised. so she stopped letting herself get close. she looked at them more as temporary visitors rather than nurturers or authoritative figures. she figured out that they came and went, and nothing lasted forever with her dad.
when she got to her childhood home, there was no one to greet her. it wasn’t shocking, and she didn’t take offense because she knew her father wasn’t a homebody and that he made it a point to eat lunch at the same place every single weekday. she just took her suitcase to her bedroom and taken a shower to wash the plane ride and uber off of her.
when she got out, she looked in the mirror and decided she’d spend that week trying to bulk up. she wanted to be bigger. she was too thin and she drowned in her basketball uniform. she figured that would be her excuse for being away from home all week.
she had no intention of making this a spring break to remember. she didn’t enjoy spending copious amounts of time with her father, or walking on eggshells around her mother. the gym would be the perfect safe space.
by the time she’d showered and braided her hair and gotten dressed and put on deodorant , she’d heard rustling from the front of her house.
her father was home.
she took her time on the journey from her bedroom. she eyed the pictures on the walls, tried to remember every moment that each frame encapsulated.
she paid special attention to her senior pictures. only four years had gone by, but alot changed between seventeen and twenty-one. she’d never wear jeans that tight again, would never be caught dead in a flannel that pink.
“you were still just a kid, then.” she didn’t hear her father creep beside her, and she didn’t register his presence until his hand was clasped on her shoulder. “you wanted to wear sweats for your photos— fully ready to die on that hill.”
paige had learned to bite the bullet since she’d went to college. her freshman year, she beat the demons of bisexuality and dipped her toe into the men's section of every online shopping site.
it was covid, she was a baby lesbian. she was stubborn and unwilling to listen to reason. she’d freshly figured out who she was, newly solidified herself within her own identity.
college did that to you, she learned. it had a way of thrusting you into yourself and you had no choice but to deal with it.
when she came home for christmas, her mom asked what boy broke her heart. because, of course it had to have been heartbreak that spurred such a dramatic change. it was totally unexpected for her six-foot daughter, who was away at a D1 college on a full basketball scholarship, to realize she was a lesbian who preferred to present as masculine.
she’d overheard her dad telling his girlfriend at the time that this was another one of her things. like when she dyed her hair purple, or took up painting.
she’d heard the you haven’t found the right man speech four times in the last four years. it wasn’t one she was interested in listening to again.
“yeah, well.” she turned to face him, “did you enjoy your lunch?”
“uh, yeah, sorry i missed you getting here.” he fixed his gaze to the front of the home, “azzi brought you something.”
paige had no idea who ‘azzi’ was, or why she felt inclined to bring her food, so she cut her eyes at her father.
“azzi?” he repeated the name like that would ignite some sort of familiarity. when he realized that it wasn’t clicking, he sighed and gave a you’re so silly smile. “my girlfriend, paige.”
paige had honestly forgotten that she was supposed to be meeting her, but something tightened in her chest at the realization.
“oh,” she forced herself to seem neutral because neutrality was better than dread. “right.”
she followed her dad down the rest of the hallway and thought about how there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old father still had girlfriends.
she’d always told herself that she wouldn’t be like that. she wouldn’t have children of divorce or a plethora of exes. she wanted to get it right the first time. she wanted forever— she wanted a wife.
the second they stepped into the kitchen, she realized that she was wrong. in actuality, there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old dad’s girlfriend was clearly too young.
her father never brought home ugly women, so she’d expected this woman to be beautiful, but she wasn’t just beautiful, she was attractive.
she was tall, not as tall as paige, but tall. her hair was in a tight half-bun at the top of her head, but paige could tell she had thick curls. she had warm brown skin that flushed when she turned around and saw her boyfriend and his daughter.
“hello—hi.” she’d stuck her hand out, “i’m azzi.”
azzi had a pretty smile. she had bucked teeth that sunk into her bottom lip while she waited for paige to take her hand.
she took it, and tried not to smile back at her. her hands were warm and soft, like she’d never known discomfort in her whole life. she was the one who moved their hands in a single up and down motion. it was firm and final and when she pulled her hand away, paige never wanted to touch her again.
she turned her attention to the plastic bag on the counter that held her to-go plate.
“paige.” she didn’t mean to sound like a dick when she introduced herself but there was no point in an enthusiastic meet-and-greet. not when she’d be doing the same thing with someone else on thanksgiving.
when she sat down at the kitchen table, paige had to force herself to sit with her legs closed. natural instinct told her to spread out and be comfortable, but she didn't want to be told to sit like a lady, so she crossed her ankles under the table, despite the fact that she was in pajama pants and a beater and there was no chance of someone looking up her skirt.
“your dad’s told me alot about you.” she watched paige pop the styrofoam plate open. “it’s nice to finally meet you.”
paige nodded, never taking her eyes off the chicken and rice.
something about this felt like uncharted territory. azzi wasn't following the script— her voice wasn't obnoxiously high, she wasn't fidgeting with her nerves. she was calm— too calm. she almost seemed indifferent.
luckily, her father's phone started ringing. it seemed that azzi had learned the everyone be silent until he’s done rule because she didn’t say a word. she just watched paige nibble at the food until—
“i gotta go…” of course he did.
who would bob bueckers be if he wasn’t leaving his daughter with unfamiliar women?
“it’s a work thing. they—”
azzi cut him off with a raise of her palm. “it’s okay,” her smile almost seemed genuine, except her teeth were still in her mouth. “just go. me and paige can talk while i make dinner.”
paige shouldn’t care that her dad was leaving because she was supposed to be going as well. the gym was waiting for her. it didn't matter that her dad was taking the car, because she could uber… except she didn't want to go anymore.
all the more reason for her to get the hell out of there.
her dad leaned over the counter and pressed a kiss to azzi’s cheek, “we’ll go shopping monday, hun,” then, he wrapped his arms around paige. “glad you're here, p.”
paige let herself enjoy the hug, she savored that moment where no one cared what she was wearing, or how she was sitting and let herself melt into her dads arms. “love you, dad.”
she meant it.
when he walked out the door, paige turned to azzi, who was doing something in the refrigerator.
“you just ate lunch,” azzi didn't turn around. “why you already making dinner?”
still in the fridge, azzi rummaged until she pulled out a concerningly large tub of butter.
“your father wants duck.” she brought the container to the counter. ‘i don’t know how to cook duck, so i need time for trial and error.”
that was bullshit. her father was the one to cook in all of his relationships. he didn’t trust people to do it right, and he enjoyed listening to everyone tell him how talented he was. even if azzi was a cooker, she wasn’t doing it for paige’s dad.
she wouldn’t air her out. she didn’t care enough to do that, but paige had always been intrigued by liars. perhaps it was her own form of narcissism.
she got up from the table, the goal not being to be closer, but to know more. the bar stool was near enough for paige to see everything. she didn’t know this woman. she needed proximity to learn her tells.
“you cook for him alot?”
azzi dug through a drawer, pulling out a rubber spatula. “not really, no.”
paige was used to over-explaining and over-achieving. azzi seemed like she was more worried about ruining a bird than talking to paige. it was weird, the feeling that she was the one trying to hard for something that wouldn’t last.
she dug her heels into the step of the bar and tried to keep her discomfort under wraps. “why the special occasion?”
azzi shrugged, now armed with a butcher's knife. “dunno.”
it was kind of scary, the way she was prepping and yet she didn’t even have the duck out. paige knew the knife wouldn’t be necessary until the bird was cooked, and that she shouldn’t apply the butter until the duck was stuffed.
paige wanted to warn her. the usual willingness to let someone learn the hard way was nowhere to be found. that was scary enough for the conscious decision to let azzi learn the hard way regardless to be be made.
paige pointed at herself, “for me?”
she thought, for a second, that she sounded like she wanted this. she worried that she sounded like she cared. which, she didn’t. she just felt a little bad. which was a sign of empathy. anyone would feel empathetic when watching a car crash.
that’s what this was— azzi’s relationship with paige’s dad was a car crash in the making. it would end the way they all did, except azzi was Different.
azzi shook her head, still not fucking looking at paige. she had no clue why she wanted azzi to look at her, but the disappointment in her chest was hard to ignore.
“think i just wanted to busy myself. your dad says you’re hardly ever home when you’re home.”
she was doing it so she wouldn’t be bored, it had nothing to with paige or her father. azzi simply did not want to be bored. that was understandable. that was justifiable. paige knew nothing about the woman, but she had the feeling that she should never be bored.
so what the fuck is she doing dating the most boring human on the planet?
it wasn’t paige’s business. she had no reason to want the answer to that question. so she nodded, once, and left her head hanging.
“yeah.” it was a small acknowledgment, enough to confirm paige’s future absence.
azzi laughed, quiet but not in a self deprecating way. like the situation was pathetic, not her need for entertainment. “so i’m going to butcher a duck.”
this is the end, paige thought. this is the end of whatever was going on here.
she stood up and headed to the hallway, leaving the food and azzi behind.
“i’m going to the gym.”
by the time she heard, “have fun, p.” it was already too late to turn around and see if azzi looked as unbothered as she sounded
──
easter dinner was bound to be a disaster of drastic proportions. paige’s parents were those weird divorcees who got along well enough to spend the holidays together for the sake of kid. except, for the past few years, it always ended up feeling like they were only in the same room for paige’s detriment.
not because they didn’t get along. that was never the issue. amy and bob made it a point to never argue in front of paige, as if that would have made her oblivious to their agony towards each other. no, these days, the issue was that they did not approve of paige’s Lifestyle Choices.
when she came out as bisexual, neither of them seemed to care much. they probably thought it was one of paige’s phases, or that she’d end up with a man anyway. and then christmas 2020 happened, and they suddenly were enthralled with who paige planned to spend the rest of her life with.
her mother had convinced her to curl her hair for the family photo instead of wearing a slickback bun. her father told her that there would be no suit because she and her mother always wore matching dresses.
it had been nearly three years of biting her tongue— of wanting to crawl out of her skin for the sake of keeping the peace. paige knew that her parents didn’t like the way she dressed. or the way she talked, sat, and turned down male advances.
and it wasn’t that she just rolled over and did what they wanted. it was just that trying to get them to understand that this is who she was took more than it was worth.
paige’s step family, dan and taylor, never really said much during these meetings either. they’d just passively agreed with whatever amy was saying. they never really acknowledged paige, never wanted to know things about her and always declined the game tickets paige provided.
they didn’t feel like family— none of them did. but then again, only family could make paige feel the way she did.
but this year, easter would be something different. azzi would be there, and paige knew she’d be more focused on the Difference She Could Not Explain than her mother.
her blended family never met up at anyone’s house. they’d always opted for neutral territory— whatever restaurant was open that holiday.
the steakhouse had been reserved for easter. it wasn’t fine dining like her father loved, and it wasn’t homey the way her mother preferred. it was casual in a way that said we’re trying to get a star without seeming like we’re trying.
her parents always reserved the same table. it was in the back with six chairs. paige sat beside azzi, who sat beside her father. her mother, step-dad, and step-sister all sat on the other side.
they’d done their quarterly hello’s. amy smiled when she met azzi, but paige knew her mother’s disapproval when she saw it. azzi didn’t seem bothered by the awkwardness of it all. she shook everyone’s hand and smiled without her teeth. she was quiet and contained when anyone else would have let their nerves scream over the whole building.
when the waiter asked for their drinks, the whole table asked for ice water. except paige, who requested sweet tea with lemon slices on the side. she quickly realized her mistake when her father sucked in a harsh breath and her mother began to wave her hand.
“that’s okay, she’ll just have water.” she had her usual smile on her face, completely oblivious to the look on paige’s face.
paige didn’t speak on her annoyance, but when the waiter left, her mom leaned forward and whispered, “i don’t know why you insist on making things so hard for everyone.”
paige didn’t know why she was whispering. there was no one near them, hardly anyone in the restaurant at all. it was a holiday, everyone was at home having a home cooked meal.
she didn’t answer her mom, hoping that she would be left alone. of course, that was just too much like right, because her father chipped in.
“yeah paige,” he was still nose deep in the menu, as if he was going to order something different this year. “everyone got water. why would you want the waiter to make a whole different drink?”
paige knew this wasn’t worth a clapback. she also knew it was just the beginning of her parent’s nitpicking, so she put her head down and physically retreated into herself. she should have just stayed in storrs, or went to kk’s house. she didn’t know why she always voluntarily put herself through this shit—
“maybe she just wanted something sweet.”
paige’s head popped up then. it was azzi who'd spoken up, brown eyes dead set ahead of her on amy.
she’d hardly spoken to paige the entire week she’d been there. they’d been in the same house, yet paige made sure they were worlds apart. azzi had made no effort to know paige, and yet…
amy flushed beet red. she’d never been confrontational, never pushed the line on anything besides paige. azzi didn’t let up, though. she didn’t blink until paige’s mom buried her face in the menu and asked bob how work was going.
dinner went the way it usually did. paige learned that azzi was an ER nurse, that taylor was set to start nursing school in a few months, and bob didn’t like his new assistant.
it was all noise to paige.
maybe she just wanted something sweet.
azzi had no reason to pipe up, but she stood up for paige. anyone else would have just minded their business. they’d have probably felt bad, but told themselves that this was between parents and their child. but azzi…
it didn’t make sense. they never talked, and the one time they did, azzi seemed as disinterested as paige was pretending to be.
but she spoke. and paige would spend the rest of spring break thinking about how azzi’s lips pushed out the word “sweet”.
she’d been playing with her veggies when her mother addressed her again.
“paige, sweetie,” she tapped the prongs of her fork on the table “sit up. you look like a boy.”
she broke out of her comfortable position and leaned forward so that her ribs were pressed into the table and her feet were under her chair. she didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her mother. she just did what she was told and went back to her plate.
still her mother continued.
“and what’s with this outfit?” she waved her fork lazily in paige’s direction “i don’t know why you want to look like…”
paige knew what was coming. it happened every single time, and there was no way to avoid it besides re-becoming something she wasn’t. that wasn’t an option— cosplaying a girly bisexual would never be an option again. so paige just braced for impact.
she dropped her fork and sat straight up. with her hands folded between her legs, she steeled her eyes on her mother. “like what, mom?”
“like a—” she lowered her voice, “like a lesbian.”
paige’s sighed.
paige had never outright said i’m actually not bi, i'm a full blown ‘mo, but it didn’t take much to tell. her mother could read between the lines— everyone at that table was able to read between the fucking lines.
“i’m just saying,” amy stabbed a piece of broccoli onto her fork, “you don’t have to broadcast it for everyone to see.”
“mom.” her monotone pitch wasn’t because she was forcing herself to not be upset, she’d just gotten bored of the same conversation every time she came home. “i’m not broadcasting anything i’m just—”
she was cut off by taylor. “you don’t have to argue all the time, paige.”
“i’m not arguing with her.” paige furrowed her brows, “i barely even said anything.”
“but you were going to,” her father chimed in now. “you know yourself, p.”
“your mother just wants what’s best for you, paige.” dan didn’t look up from his plate when he decided to add his two cents. “making a scene all the time isn’t good for anyone.”
“how am i making a scene, though?” paige felt exhausted, even though she knew they were just getting started. “by dressing the way i want to— in clothes i feel comfortable in?”
amy sighed, setting her fork down and looking at paige again. “it’s just inconvenient for everyone when your comfort makes everyone else uncomfortable. who do you think you are to just force this on us for all these years?”
paige reared her head back, like she was dodging a punch. and maybe she actually was, because the words found her anyway. they rippled cross her face like the impact of an actual hit, taking over her whole being and making her head fuzzy.
she should expect shit like this. her mother had wobbled on the line of passive aggressive to flat out homophobic for years, but something about tonight hurt a little worse. it usually felt like a punch to the gut, and paige had built an endurance to that. tonight, felt like a hook to the temple.
she was dizzy and genuinely unsure of if she had the strength to walk away from this in one piece.
everyone kept going, kept agreeing with amy and adding their own issues with paige into the mix, but she just sat there in her chair. she didn’t speak, she didn’t defend herself, she didn’t move— she couldn’t do much of anything besides try and keep her eyes from closing.
if they closed, then paige would be crying.
she heard one voice through all of it.
azzi.
she was making an effort, paige assumed, but she was ultimately unsuccessful. even she wasn’t strong enough to cut through all the tension that spread over the table. she’d been saying paige’s dad’s name. over and over— like he was going to listen to her. he didn't listen though, no one ever did. so, azzi huffed out a tight line of air and sat back in her seat.
paige guessed that this would be her leave— this conversation would be the reason she left. she’d probably say it was because she felt bad for paige, when in reality she was just leaving like everyone else. she’d make paige her scapegoat just like the rest of them.
she was an idiot for thinking azzi would be anything different.
──
the next day, paige woke up before the sun and drove her dad’s car to the gym. her father was still asleep, as was azzi. she just left. her head was still hurting from the night before, her face still felt hot with embarrassment and tears.
she was leaving that night and she planned to stay away from her house until it was time to get her suitcases. she’d uber to the airport. she wasn’t telling anyone bye, or announcing her exit in any way, shape or form.
somehow, someway, paige had lost her edge. she nearly lost herself at dinner, which was something that she didn’t let happen. she’d forged herself into steel years ago, and every time she prepared to return home, she hardened herself even more.
at dinner, she felt shame force itself into her gut and take her over. she’d known what the difference was, the only thing that had changed from the usual was the fact that she seemingly had someone in her corner.
azzi.
she was on paige’s side, which was new. but more than that, azzi had only known the version of paige that was built. she hadn’t known the version that had to be erased to get there.
her mother had ripped that paige out and left her on the table for the vultures to get, and azzi had seen it. azzi watched as everyone picked paige apart and poked at her skeleton. there was nothing that could be done to come back from that.
this woman— who wouldn’t even there for another three months— had seen paige. an outsider had seen it all.
when this ended, she’d walk around with the knowledge that paige wasn’t steel. she’d know forever that there wasn’t a non-chalant bone in her body, and she almost cried when her mom hurt her feelings.
paige left the gym praying that azzi went with her father to lunch. she couldn’t look at her.
when she got home, no one was there. it was a blessing. truly. she didn't stop in the kitchen, or look at the photos in the hallway. she beelined for her room, determined to be out of the house before azzi and her father got back.
her bedroom door was closed. she didn’t close it when she left, which meant someone had been in her room. paige thought the cleaning lady probably left it open, even though she always told her dad to remind her that paige could clean her own room.
bob never cared to remember shit like that. he never cared to remember anything.
only, he might have remembered this time. her room was just as she left it. her desk chair was still facing away from the desk, her duffel bag was still in the middle of the room and her bed was still unmade with the dent of her body molded in the mattress.
but there was a bag. a single gift bag with no label on it. it was brown— not like a paper bag but something expensive that shined when paige turned the light on. there was no bow attached, no card tied to it’s handles. just a brown gift back placed dead center on the bench before her bed.
paige didn’t open it right away. she just stood there staring at it, like something would climb out of it on its own. she wondered who put it there and what was in it. bob was never one for spontaneous presents— he didn’t pay enough attention for shit like that. her mom wouldn’t be over their spat yet, so it wasn’t her. paige was pretty sure taylor and dan hated her, so not them either.
there was azzi. over the past week, there had been azzi. but she didn’t know paige. paige didn’t even know if azzi liked her. so why would she get her a gift? but then again, why would azzi defend her?
the possibility jumpstarted paige’s anticipation enough for her to snatch the bag up and rip the ribbons that tied it shut.
it was clothes, maybe three items. they were folded and stacked in the bag. on top of the top item, though there was a receipt. paige grabbed that first.
POLO RALPH LAUREN ran across the top of the paper in big, bold letters. it was an expensive gift. too expensive for an ER nurse in minnesota. and there were multiple items, so paige decided it definitely wasn’t azzi.
but then she looked at the bottom, where the card information and signature would have been and there it was.
CUSTOMER: Azzi Fudd
************1857
azzi fudd.
azzi had gotten the gift. for paige.
paige dropped the receipt and dug the clothes out of the bag. the top item was heavy and thick. it was meant for cold weather. it was a deep red quarter button sweater. cable-knit. it felt expensive and intentional in paige’s hands. it was a men’s sweater, too. a women’s top would have a curve in the waist, and it would have been lighter.
the second item was a pair of black pants. fancy— slacks or something like that. the fabric wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t rough either. it was textured and smooth. these were made for men, too. the pockets were big.
in the bottom of the bag, there was a package of briefs. a five pack of ralph lauren briefs.
there was no note, no explanation for why azzi had purchased men’s winter clothes for paige. the fact that she’d purchased anything for paige was deserved an explanation. but there was nothing.
just clothes and a gift receipt.
FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND
as expected, paige’s dad wasn’t home when she got there. he was at lunch, same place as usual. paige wasn’t excited to see him, anyway. she wanted a shower and a nap and then to eat so that she wouldn’t have to leave her bedroom until the next day.
but, unexpectedly, someone was sitting on the living room couch with their back to the door. paige didn’t have to see their face to know who it was. she didn’t even have to open the door and enter the house to know. those curls were imprinted on her brain.
her hair was half up-half down, the top secured to the base of her head with a white claw clip. her hair looked soft, moisturized by something too cultured for paige and her midwestern whiteness to know the name of.
several deep breaths were needed before paige could open the door, but when the lock finally turned, azzi turned her head slowly, like there was no urgency to know who it was.
she smiled the same way she did when she and paige first met, with her two front teeth pushing into her bottom lip. she had make-up on, a deep pink lined her lips while a lighter one covered the totality of her mouth. her lashes were longer— long enough to reach just under her brow bone.
“you’re here.” azzi didn’t sound the way she did during spring break. she sounded relieved, almost. she’d been expecting paige. “your dad is having lunch, but he gave me a list.”
obviously, paige was missing something. she didn’t even have the brainwidth to try and figure it out. she was lost looking at azzi’s mouth as she spoke. her mouth and her perfect fucking teeth.
“uh… list for—” she blinked out of her trance. “list for what?”
“for the barbecue?” azzi sounded like this was something paige was supposed to know. “amy's barbecue at the park tomorrow?”
paige felt her whole body kind of reset at the mention of her mother. it all came back to her. easter dinner. azzi’s gift.
she didn't think azzi would even be a topic of conversation anymore, but here she was.
“oh,” paige dropped her duffel at the entrance. “right.”
azzi stood from the couch and turned so she was facing paige completely. “do you need to do anything before we go or are you ready?”
“uh, nah.” paige looked around like a task would magically appear out of thin air. “we can go.”
azzi said nothing else. she just walked around the couch, grabbed her purse off the hook and opened the front door. on the way to the car, paige trailed behind her, watching the way her body moved with every step.
she had a silk shirt on with no sleeves and an open back that showcased the muscles on her back like waves rippling under the skin. her jeans weren’t baggy, but they were loose like they were hanging off of the woman’s hips.
azzi drove without the use of GPS. the drive wasn’t long, maybe 10 minutes. mitski sang about eggshells crumbling, and paige tried not to side-eye azzi.
she felt an uncomfortable calmness in azzi’s car. she didn’t think twice about pushing the seat back so she could slouch and spread her legs. she wasn’t scared to have her phone laying her lap, or to keep her hair in it’s bun. with azzi, she didn’t have to have blonde waves cascading down her back, or perfect posture.
it was quiet besides the music, but not tense. that was the problem. paige wanted to talk— to converse and bond. she had questions, but something told her that conversation with azzi was dangerous for her.
the grocery store was busy, crawling with last minute shoppers grabbing hot dog buns and beers. paige and azzi were not those people. apparently, paige’s dad had left azzi with a list— written sloppily on what used to be an envelope.
paige was pushing the basket but azzi was leading. with one hand gripping the front of the cart, she guided them around. it was all going rather quickly. there was no pausing for long amounts of time, running her eyes over the shelves trying to decide what was needed. bob and his neuroticism had everything on the list specified down to the brand.
azzi pulled paige throughout the store, turning her head every now and then. she’d look at paige with raised brows and her chin tucked into her collarbone, and paige would nod, silently answering whatever question azzi was trying to ask.
they went like that until every item had been retrieved. it felt routine, like they’d done this every weekend.
unsurprisingly, the lines were filled and checkout would take longer than the actual shopping. that uncomfortable calmness was back.
“can i ask you something?” paige starting talking out of no where, causing azzi’s head to whip around so fast it looked like it hurt.
she was so fucking pretty. too pretty for bob— too pretty for anyone. no one would notice the things that paige noticed, they wouldn’t pay as much attention as she did. maybe that was the problem. maybe it was why azzi had barely spoken to paige that day, despite them having been together for over forty-five minutes.
either way, paige didn’t want silence anymore. she wanted to make the uncomfortable calmness a conversation.
azzi smiled her real smile. “yes.”
“that gift— the clothes,” paige looked for the rest of her question in azzi’s face and found nothing. “why’d you do that?”
“you deserve it.” it came out like it was the obvious answer. like azzi and paige weren't virtual strangers, and they had the kind of relationship where they gave each other random gifts for the simple fact that they deserved it.
it was absurd.
paige blinked. “what?”
azzi just looked at paige not angrily or annoyed, but with a tenderness that paige wasn't familiar with. “you deserve to feel comfortable in whatever you wear. your clothes don’t make me uncomfortable— they shouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”
“oh.”
something about hearing those words, while azzi was looking at her like that, had paige at a loss for words.
she stared at azzi, who despite knowing nothing about paige, was capable of saying the one thing paige thought she’d never hear. she was an ocean of beautiful confusion, and suddenly, paige wanted to drown in her.
azzi kept her eyes on paige. she didn't push paige for a response, didn't say anything at all. she just kept fucking looking.
what was paige supposed to say? what could she say that wouldn’t make her seem like she’d been silently begging for this since she was nineteen?
the answer was nothing. this conversation had to end for the sake of paige’s pride.
she shook her head and tried to put some bass in her voice to counteract the softness that was flooding her. she failed miserably.
“why winter clothes?” her voice came out more choked and grovel-ly than prideful and indifferent.
she’d tried to sound like she didn't care, like she still had no skin in the game and nothing to lose. but she knew the look on her face said she had everything to lose. she just hoped that it didn't also say she was considering losing it in azzi.
the difference in azzi was becoming abundantly clear. it was sickening and it made paige’s head spin in the best way.
she watched azzi close her eyes and open them again. it wasn’t a blink. it was something slower and more intentional than that.
“bob told me about the christmas photo situation that happened a few years ago.” that smile stretched across azzi’s face once again. “i want you to like what you wear in the picture this year.”
of course he did. of course he’d told her about one the most embarrassing moments of paige’s life. he’d probably brought it up in casual conversation, too. it probably wasn’t that big of a deal to him. actually, paige knew it wasn’t. nothing was that big of a deal to her father.
azzi had got those clothes because she felt bad for paige. and if it was anyone else, paige would have gotten pissed off. she’d have demanded that azzi take the clothes back, and told her that she didn’t need her sympathy.
but something in paige lit up. something bloomed at the concept of having this woman’s sympathy. she could have just minded her business. she could have been like everyone else and pretended not to see what was going on between paige and her parents. but she didn’t.
she’d wear that outfit for christmas this year. she’d wear it all— down to the fucking briefs. she’d argue with her father and tell her mother to go to fucking hell, because azzi wanted her to like what she wore in the photo this year.
azzi was moving. it took four steps for her to get around the basket but she took another one anyway. she and paige were nearly chest-to-chest. “did they fit?”
paige almost didn’t hear a word she said. she was too busy watching azzi’s mouth as it moved. she thought she could feel the wind when azzi blinked. she was painfully aware of everything about the woman in front of her.
“huh?” paige felt hot, like her whole body was beet red with heat. she shoved her hands in her pockets to hide the way her fingers were practically twitching. “sorry i— what was your question?”
she wanted to touch. to tug at one of the curls that laid over azzi’s shoulder. she wanted to smear that pink across azzi’s mouth and kiss the mess away.
azzi didn’t seem to mind that paige was acting like she’d never experienced human interaction. she just shook her head and told paige it was okay before asking her question again.
“i asked if the clothes fit. the ones i got you.”
paige tried the clothes on as soon as she got to storrs. she’d stared at herself in the mirror and tried to figure out the soonest occasion that called for an outfit like that. she’d worn all 5 pairs of the briefs, some of them twice.
“oh, yeah.” she nodded. “yeah, they fit.”
azzi stepped even closer, forcing eye contact with paige. “you didn’t have to return anything?”
paige couldn't take eyes off of azzi’s. she didn't move away from her— she didn't want to.
“nothing.” she spoke lowly, like she wanted no one but azzi to hear her.
“that’s good.” azzi’s teeth poked into her bottom lip. “and you like them?”
paige wanted to laugh. what a ridiculous, basically rhetorical question.
“i love them.” she stood on her tippy toes and rocked back down onto her heels. she just needed movement, otherwise she’d physically jump out of her own body. “thank you.”
azzi kept smiling for a second before she spoke. “anytime, p.”
with that, azzi turned and pushed the basket. they still had a while before it was their turn, but paige was thankful for the separation.
the pull she was feeling towards azzi was beginning to to escalate. it started the second they met, and the proximity was only making it worse.
paige wanted to feel azzi. she needed to know the root of all that tenderness. she needed to know where the softness originated. then, maybe she’d know why she felt so drawn to her. maybe she’d be able to stop herself from doing something colossally stupid.
──
paige didn’t mean to get so drunk.
really.
she’d planned to go to the fourth of july party and take a few shots, maybe share a joint with some high school friends. she planned to have a good night— that’s the whole reason she went to the party. she didn’t want to be around her family. she just wanted one good fucking day in her hometown.
but of course, she never got anything she wanted.
her dad made her tell her mom that she wasn’t going to the barbecue. he said he didn’t want to be the one to deal with her mouth, even though amy had never so much as given bob a dirty look. but paige called anyway, deciding that if worst came to worst, she could always hang up the phone and go about her night
her mother was pissed, but not like she was at dinner. her mom was angry in that i know you’re not coming, so i’m gonna make you hurt kind of way.
paige didn’t hang up, she sat there curled in a ball with the phone to her ear and listened to her mother berate her. her fingers popped around her duvet, her eyes salted her pillows with tears as she listened.
paige felt that small crack in her chest expand just a little bit more. she felt so… wide. so open and empty.
she went to that party wanting to be full. so she drank more than she’d planned to. she danced until she couldn’t breathe. she flirted with the same girl all night.
the girl was pretty. paige never got her name, but she was short and her smile was bright. she left without telling paige bye, though. not that paige minded, she was too busy knocking back bombpop flavored jungle juice and chasing it with red, white & blue jello shots.
by the time her uber came, paige had given herself a field sobriety test and failed miserably. she couldn’t walk in a straight line, she couldn’t even say the alphabet in the original order, much less backwards, and she poked herself in the eye while trying to touch her finger to her nose.
she was drunk. beautifully, undeniably wasted.
she asked the uber driver if she could roll her window down, and the man said sure and asked her not to throw up in his back seat.
the car ride made her sick. the fresh-air did nothing to calm the nausea swirling in her belly or the burning in her chest. she felt her head get light and then heavy and then light again. her eyelids felt too heavy to keep them open for the entire ride.
she didn’t realize she’d gotten home until the driver banged on the seat in front of her. her eyes popped open and she flew forward, causing her head to feel like it was going to fall off her shoulders. it took her a second and more than three deep breaths to be ready to get out of the car, and when she did, she nearly fell.
paige wasn’t a sloppy drunk. she’d never been one to black-out, or make mistakes she could blame on alcohol. but tonight, she felt like she wasn't gonna make it into the house.
she wasn't even enjoying her drunk anymore. she was so hot, so heavy and so fucking tired.
the front door was unlocked, which she was grateful for because she couldn't remember which pocket her keys were in. she tried to be quiet, but her foot dragged over the doorstep, which made her begin to fall.
she didn't fall, thankfully. azzi caught her. tall, beautiful, Different azzi with her strong hands caught paige and pulled her back on solid ground. she moved paige’s body with ease, grabbing her just below the shoulders and guiding her back up right.
for a moment, paige could do nothing but stand there with azzi’s hands on her arms gripping them like she was scared to let go. her eyes were wide. her usually styled curls were piled on top of her head in a frizzy bun.
paige was too drunk for azzi to be wearing the pajamas that she was wearing. it was a pink— soft pink that almost looked white— camisole dress. it was so short, stopping way before azzi’s knees with a shallow v neck.
paige felt her mouth begin to water, and she didn’t know if it was because of azzi, or because she was about to projectile vomit. she couldn’t act on either one. she couldn’t drool over azzi and she couldn’t ruin this fucking dress.
she was already hot and azzi’s hands on her weren't helping but she wanted azzi to keep touching her. to always feel the heat of her palms.
“you’re up.” it was supposed to come out like a question, but paige was more focused on trying to actually say the words than her tone of voice.
azzi nodded, flexing her fingers around the meat of paige’s arms. “i was waiting for you.”
paige nodded, meaning to say something about what azzi said, but the movement made her dizzy and the reason her mouth started water became clear.
“i’m gonna be sick.” she jumped backwards for the sake of azzi’s dress.
azzi took a step forward, placing her hand on paige’s back. “let’s go to the bathroom.” she stepped to the side of her. “c’mon, p let’s go to the bathroom.”
paige didn’t nod again, but she took a slow step forward. she’d have gone wherever azzi took her because she didn’t have it in her to think about whether things were ideas or bad.
Sober Paige would have avoided close proximity to azzi, but Drunk Paige told herself she could handle it— that she’d much rather be guided off a cliff by azzi, than stumble to the bathroom alone. so, she just walked and turned three corners, not remembering if that was really the path to her bathroom.
azzi guided her the whole way with the softest press between the shoulder blades. she kept a hand on paige’s hip, steering her for every turn and keeping her up right. her grip wasn’t hard and she didn’t seem annoyed but there was firmness in her thumbs that made paige try a little harder to not knock into the walls.
azzi didn’t let paige go until they made it to the bathroom, and even then, she helped her sit on the toilet lid before closing the door and turning the light on.
it seemed like azzi knew what it was like to be drunk and blinded by bright lights, because she didn't tirn the big light on. she opted for the lights on paige’s mirror, which filled bathroom with a warm orange glow.
paige leaned against the tank of the toilet, trying her absolute hardest to keep her head from falling back. “i think i have alcohol poisoning.”
azzi was at the counter, pulling something out from under the sink. “do you feel hot or cold?”
paige watched from the toilet as azzi rummaged through the bathroom. she didn’t know what she was doing, she just looked so sure. like everything she was doing had a purpose.
“hot.” paige blinked. “really fucking hot.”
azzi turned the sink on with a deep sigh, “you don’t have alcohol poisoning. people who have alcohol poisoning feel hypothermic.”
she was relieved, paige noticed. her shoulders relaxed when she said it.
paige followed her every movement, catching the way her nightdress clung to her body. paige was a fan, so she said so.
“i like your dress.” inside thoughts were no longer inside thoughts, apparently.
azzi turned and smiled, still messing with things on the counter.
“pink is like,” paige paused to swallow the sour taste in her mouth. “your color.”
azzi smiled again and moved so she was standing in front of paige. “it’s my favorite.” then, she pressed something cold and wet against paige’s chest.
any other person would have jumped back at the unexpected contact, but paige leaned in. it was a nearly painful contrast— the heat of her body versus the coolness of the rag. she felt her face get even hotter and she knew that whatever was spreading in her chest wasn’t because of the rag— it was because of the woman holding it.
paige craned her neck so she could look at azzi’s face instead of her chest. she was too close— closer than she’d ever been before. she was dizzy and nauseous but she’d pretend she wasn’t if it meant she could keep looking.
azzi had waited up for her. it was the middle of the night, and azzi had waited up for paige. she didn’t think twice about helping her and she didn’t seem annoyed, she wasn’t rushing the process. she was just standing there, giving paige whatever she needed.
“you’re so soft.” the beauty of being drunk was that you didn’t care about the repercussions of your words. paige couldn’t even remember why being around azzi was a bad idea anymore.
there was no facade or distancing. there was just nearness and cold water trickling down her shirt.
“everything is soft like,” paige reached up and touched her own head. “like your hair is so fucking soft and your hands— i love your hands. i saw them when you were trying to make the duck.”
azzi let out a laugh and paige beamed. she really liked when azzi smiled and she loved even more when azzi smiled at her.
“and your smile is soft. when you smile your teeth go into your lip and it looks like someone’s laying on a pillow.”
paige wanted to lay on that pillow. she’d give anything to lay on that fucking pillow.
paige blinked and swallowed that taste again before speaking. “you have soft eyes and your voice is so— yeugh.”
paige interrupted herself with a gag. the taste she’d been trying to swallow had crept it’s way back up her throat. she slapped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her watery eyes shut. it took a minute for her to to shove it back down, but when she opened her eyes again, she was face-to-face with a kneeling azzi.
she put her hand on paige’s shoulder and pulled. “let’s get on the floor.”
paige’s body stiffened at the idea of vomiting in front of azzi. she shook her head and tried to pull it together “no, i’m—” she gagged again, and she decided there was no escaping it. “okay.”
she let azzi nudge her to her knees. the tile was cold and it bit into her knees and paige was becoming more and more overwhelmed by the second.
she slid her hair over her shoulder and leaned over the toilet and forced herself to gag. she just wanted to get over with. she wanted to be done.
but she couldn't throw up. no matter how much she retched, nothing happened. it was humiliating and paige was so dizzy and her stomach was still bubbling.
she didn’t mean to start crying, but the tears began to fall and all she could do was rest her head on her arm, which was laying on the toilet seat.
she felt a hand— azzi’s hand— on her back. she didn't move it, but she didn't have to. it was doing it’s job.
she leaned in so her mouth was beside paige’s war. “what’s wrong, sweetheart?”
paige wanted to cry even harder. azzi had never called her anything but her name, and sudden switch up was an even harder shock to her system.
“i can’t.” she whined. “it won’t come up. i almost yacked all over you and now i can’t.”
none of this was supposed to happen. she was supposed to get tipsy, come home, sleep, and leave the next morning. but things never happened the way paige wanted them to.
“that’s okay.” azzi cooed. “do you need help?”
paige didn't know how azzi was supposed to help in this situation, but she’d have done anything for this to be over, so she nodded and groaned into her elbow.
“okay,” azzi patted paige’s back twice and pulled her so that she was sitting up. “i need you to lean over the toilet an— no not right now. in just a second, i need you to wait just a second, okay?”
paige pushed her hair out of her face and nodded. she was still wet with tears and she felt her bottom lip shaking from trying to keep it together.
“good.” azzi held onto paige’s shoulders and rubbed her thumbs along the sides of her neck. “i need you to lean over the toilet and i’m gonna put my fingers down your throat so you can throw up. is that okay?” paige nodded again. “alright, now lean over.”
she did as she was told, of course. turning to face the toilet again, paige braced her hands on the seat. azzi scooped all of her hair up into her fist and held it at the base of her neck.
“good. now open up for me, sweetheart.”
paige’s whole body locked up. she was too drunk for shit like that, too intoxicated to stop her mind from wandering. but then, azzi tapped two fingers on her chin and her mouth popped open.
she didn't do it hard— she was never rough with the way she moved. azzi slid her fingers into paige’s mouth quickly but gently. she went all the way back, her knuckles brushing against the roof of paige’s mouth. she reached all the way down paige’s throat, waiting for her gag before ripping them out.
paige burned as she emptied herself into the toilet. her eyes burned, her throat burned, her cheeks burned. everything was hot and violent. it burned until she was done, and even then, her body sat at a simmer.
she gasped over the toilet bowl, huffing and puffing and wiping at her face like it would clean her up. she felt awful and gross to the point that a shower might not have helped.
azzi pushed her through it all. she rubbed at her back, patted it at times. she’d said little shit like there you go and you’re doing so good, as if she were cheering her on at a game, and not making sure she didn't pass out in the toilet.
when paige could breath again, all she wanted to lay down and forget any of this ever happened. she moved to get to her feet, stumbling on the way. she got there eventually, and that was the point.
azzi guided paige to her bedroom the same way she did before— one hand on her hip, one on her back. again, she wasn’t rough, she didn’t speak. she just got paige where she needed to go, and helped her sit at the side of her bed.
“do you want pajama’s, p?”
she had her hands on paige’s shoulders, and her head dipped low so that they were eye-to-eye. she looked tired, her usually big eyes a little smaller. paige felt horrible. this was all her fault— azzi would never be up well after midnight, but here she was. exhausted for the sake of paige.
the tears came again, this time paige didn’t have it in her to fight them off.
azzi caught it immediately, of course. she stood up to her full height, sliding between paige’s knees. she brought her hands to the back of paige’s neck, pulling her in so that she was resting just below azzi’s breasts.
it was comfortable there, warm but not hot. paige let go of herself in those arms. she cried softly, shaking her head for every tear that fell.
azzi ran her hands up the nape of paige’s neck and held her. she asked no questions, but paige couldn't shut herself up if she tried.
“i’m so sorry.” she whined. she was so fucking whiny tonight. “i didn’t mean for this to happen. i swear. it’s just all got fucked up and i’m just sorry. it wasn’t supposed to happen.”
azzi kept rubbing at the back of paige’s neck. “i know, sweetheart.” she let out a breath, and paige felt the exhale against her cheek. “i know.”
she pulled away, looking up at azzi with wet cheeks. azzi looked down at her, still holding her. she still looked tired, but there was something in her eyes— something that made paige nervous.
“are you mad at me?”
god, she needed to go the fuck to sleep. she was drunk and crying and fucking pathetic.
azzi shook her head, her eyes bugged out. “no, paige.” she used her thumb to wipe at paige’s face. “i’m not mad.”
paige kept her eyes on azzi, still. she felt too good to pull away, and she still was worried that azzi was mad. she ran her eyes over every one of azzi’s features, and by the time she’d gotten to her mouth, azzi was smiling.
paige felt a little lighter (which could have just been her drunk taking over her again). she didn’t want azzi to be mad. she was literally crying because azzi looked sleepy. she’d have done whatever in that moment if it meant azzi wasn’t mad.
“i just need you to lay down for me.” she pushed at paige’s shoulders and helped get her feet in the bed. “need you to sleep it off.”
like before, paige did what she was told. she shimmied until her head was on her pillow (an uncomfortable contrast to azzi’s ribcage) and her feet were rubbing together. she was still in her jorts and t-shirt, but she’d worry about that the next day.
“okay.” azzi pushed the cover over paige’s shoulders. “thank you, mommy.”
nobody moved. nobody said a word.
paige nearly started crying again as azzi still held the duvet over her shoulders. she closed her eyes and tried to control herself enough that azzi would think she’d fallen asleep. she was drunk enough for this to be ignored— she prayed that this would be ignored.
maybe paige had fooled her, or maybe azzi was showing grace, but she patted paige’s shoulder twice and squeezed at her bicep with a “goodnight, p.”
and paige waited until she heard her bedroom door close before she turned on her belly and screamed.
──
when paige woke up, she thought the sun was a lazer trying to slice her skull in half. she was beyond hungover— she was hungunder. she shoved her head into her pillows in an attempt to ease the ache behind her eyes. of course, she was unsuccessful.
everything hurt. her mouth tasted like vomit and tequila. it hurt to use her eyes. and worst of all— she’d over-fucking-slept. she didn’t know where the hell her phone was, but she knew it was too bright outside for early morning.
her flight wasn’t until two, but she’d planned to leave the house way earlier than necessary and sleep at the airport. she needed to know how late she was, because if God loved her, her father and azzi would be at lunch already.
she sat up in her bed and patted around her mattress. she was still in her clothes from the night before, but they felt stiffer. her hair was knotted at the scalp, her head was about to explode.
she found her phone charging on her nightstand next to a bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of white gatorade. paige didn’t have to think about who’d done it.
it was ten thirty-seven in the morning, and her dad wouldn’t be leaving for lunch until twelve.
she wished she forgot what happened last night. she wished she actually did get alcohol poisoning so that she’d have died in her sleep. maybe she could have choked on her vomit if she’d have laid on her back. anything so that she didn’t have to walk out of her bedroom with the knowledge that she’d called her father’s girlfriend mommy the night before in a drunken, tear-induced stupor.
paige would have to leave eventually. she had a boat trip with kk in two days, and she’d be damned if she missed that flight.
technically speaking, azzi was supposed to have been gone. none of her dad’s conquests lasted more than three months, and he’d been seeing azzi since february.
why the fuck was she still with him?
there was no way azzi— who seemed like the most interesting person on the planet— was in love with bob bueckers.
maybe she was like an escort or something. maybe she was gold digging. maybe paige’s dad was sick and dying and azzi had met him at the hospital and swooped in to anna nicole smith him. that made more sense— anything made more sense— than her staying with him because he made her happy.
bob didn’t make anyone happy. he didn’t make anyone feel anything. he was like wonderbread from subway. bland and boring and way too fucking old for someone like azzi. there was no way she was getting what she needed from him.
paige got out of bed and went to the bathroom. she pee’d, she brushed out her hair, she brushed her teeth, she wiped the crust from her eyes. she stared at herself in the mirror and prepared herself for what she was about to walk into.
when she walked into the living room, her father was watching blue bloods. azzi wasn’t sitting with him, and paige couldn’t find a trace of her anywhere.
bob nodded in paige’s direction. “morning.”
she didn’t stop on her way to the kitchen. “hey, dad.”
as she made her coffee, she looked around the kitchen for azzi but there were no dirty dishes, no lipgloss tubes, no hair-ties.
her father shouted from the couch. “‘m surprised you’re still here. you’re usually gone before anyone else wake up on your flight days.”
“yeah i uh—” how did you say i got shitfaced to your father even though you’re over the legal drinking age? “i went a little hard last night. had to sleep it off.”
that worked… right?
she popped her head around the corner and took a sip of her coffee. “where’s azzi?”
still watching tv, her dad shrugged. “oh, she went back to her place this morning.”
“her place?”
“she doesn’t live with me, p.” he laughed. “she’s thirty-one. she has her own house.”
azzi had her own house. of course she did because she was an Adult who worked in an emergency room. she was thirty-one of course she had a house. she was thirty-one.
had bob been to azzi’s house? if she had her own house, why was she always at bob’s? if was an ER nurse and had her own house, why the fuck was she with bob bueckers?
it wasn’t paige’s business— azzi wasn’t paige’s business.
but azzi had made paige her business. with the clothes and the tucking her in. she cared about paige. she asked bob questions about her, so what was the harm in reciprocating energy?
“right.” she nodded. “is it serious? with you and azzi?”
“i dunno,” he shrugged. “she’s nice. can’t cook, but she’s nice.” her dad never looked away from the tv, and that told paige all she needed to know.
azzi wasn’t going to be with him much longer. there was no way someone like her could stand to be around someone like paige’s dad long term.
she leaned back on the couch and thought for a second.
whenever bob’s girlfriends broke up with him, paige usually never saw them again. she’d never wanted to see them again, but azzi was different. paige was older now. she could get azzi’s number. they could talk even when she and bob broke up. that could be normal.
“yeah.” she stood up, coffee in hand. “okay, i’m gonna go pack my bag.”
her dad called down the hallway. “love you!”
“me too, dad.”
FALL BREAK
every time paige came home for thanksgiving, she spent the whole flight thinking about one thing: mac and cheese.
they always ate at the same soul food spot for thanksgiving because it was one of the only places that served actual thanksgiving food on thanksgiving. they had the best mac and cheese, and paige waited all year for it.
this year on her flight home, all she could think about was azzi fudd.
paige spent the last five months learning all google could offer on azzi. she was an ER nurse, which paige already knew, but azzi was also an NP, which meant she made the big bucks. hence the house. she’d never been in a public relationship, but she was a bridesmaid in her best friends wedding, and her date was a brunette masc in a suit that didn’t match the theme. her favorite color was pink. she had a dark pink accent wall in her bedroom and her bedspread was always some shade of pink.
pink is like… your color.
paige had gone through her instagram highlights countless times. she’d memorized azzi’s linkedin. she’d turned her profile views off on tiktok so she could check azzi’s reposts, but she’d never reposted anything.
paige was aware that this was teetering the line of stalking. she knew that Normal people were not this invested in their dad’s girlfriend. but paige was almost positive that azzi would have broken up with bob by now. it was november. no one lasted more than a year with bob, not even paige’s mom.
amy had called paige before her flight to say she was excited to see her. paige never wanted her mother to be excited to see her. shit like that never ended well for her.
she called kk immediately after that to ask if she could spend the holiday in wisconsin. she got cussed out, of course. kk told her that her mom had already started cooking, and that paige had to woman up and just tell her mother to shut the fuck up.
paige would never.
paige never had an issue being confrontational unless it was her mother. she was a one hundred and twenty pound masculine lesbian basketball player. the slick mouth came naturally. but being around family— her biological family, not her chosen one— made paige something she learned she wasn’t.
she became quiet in minnesota. she became softer, more susceptible to bruising. she’d always been the one that someone always had an issue with.
her mom hated when paige started playing basketball. she hated when paige didn’t got to any school dances. she hated when paige refused to wear a dress for her senior pictures. she hated that paige moved twenty hours away for school.
she gotten used to their dance. she didn’t talk, her mother said things, everyone agreed with amy. a few days later, amy would call paige (who had most likely already went back to school) and apologize, while also making it seem like paige was the one in the wrong. she’d ignore everyone’s calls and texts until it was time to come home again, and the cycle would repeat itself.
toxic? yes. routine? also yes.
she mastered avoiding it. she was never home for more than a week at a time, she never called her mother first and she kept an excuse to leave early on lock.
but then azzi came, and paige had someone in her corner. you’d think that having azzi would have made paige feel better—and it did. paige wasn’t so much worried about being dogpiled on as she was about azzi seeing it… again.
paige worked hard so that no one knew how much her mother hurt her. it was why none of her dad’s girlfriends ever spoke up for her, no teachers, no hometown friends. she seemed like she had it— she didn’t even really care. azzi saw that, and still said something. still did something.
it was all paige could think about.
then there was the fourth of july.
you deserve it and open up for me, sweetheart.
what the hell any of that weekend was about was anyone’s guess. but it stuck with paige. she didn’t know how she was supposed to act like it didn’t, but she’d figure it out. she had no choice.
on the uber ride from the airport, paige felt her heart pound. she was nervous. she was excited. she was anticipating. she wanted to see— she wanted azzi.
of course, azzi wasn’t there when paige got home. small conveniences didn’t happen for paige.
she wanted to ask her dad where azzi was and when she’d be coming over but again— that would throw her father off. so she went to her room and thrust her duffel onto her ottoman and unpacked her suitcase. she tried to do it slowly, to convince herself that she didn’t care. except when she finished settling in, and azzi wasn’t there, paige felt like she was going to go insane.
her father, the poor, useless man, was sitting at the kitchen table—like he didn’t have an office— shuffling through papers.
bob was one of those men who you never really know what her does for work, but he always seems to be working. paige was twenty-two and she still had no idea how her father had so much money. she just knew that she’d gotten a brand new car for her sixteenth birthday, and that her let amy keep the house in the divorce because he could buy another one. she’d never been told no because they couldn’t afford something, and her father told her she didn’t need to get a full scholarship if she didn’t want to play basketball in college.
she didn’t care to know about his job, she didn’t know anyone who ever did. he just worked.
but his working was annoying her because he was so calm and she was nearly manic. he knew where azzi was, and he knew when she’d be coming over and he wouldn’t say a damn word about it unless he was asked. he probably didn’t even recognize azzi’s absence— it didn’t effect him the way it affected paige.
he was pissing her off, and she needed to be gone. so she did what any girl in her early twenties did in crisis; she took her dad’s car and went to the mall.
she didn’t really shop, she just walked around and went into the stores she always went into and rummaged through the racks without trying things on.
every time she saw something she liked, she’d pick it up and hold it to her body. she’d imagine it on herself, the way it would fit, the way it would feel on her skin. then she’d picture the face her mother would make if she saw paige in it, and she’d get sick to her stomach and she’d put the clothes back.
the thought of purposely irritating amy made paige sick. but then she thought about azzi’s gift and the plan to rebel for the christmas photo. she smiled at the memory of azzi’s face while she asked paige about the clothes. she wanted her to like them. she wanted her to be comfortable.
“your clothes don’t make me uncomfortable— they shouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”
paige could have fallen to her knees that day and promised azzi everything she’d ever wanted in life. she’d never experienced anything like what she felt when azzi was around, and her want for that feeling was almost unmanageable.
when paige walked into the jewelry store, she planned on getting her earrings cleaned. they were her first Big Girl purchase, and she’d been walking around aimlessly for about an hour. she needed productivity. she planned to hand the man with the strange mustache the earring and go eat.
she didn’t plan on talking to the man with the mustache and learning his name, nor did she plan on letting him show her jewelry she wasn’t going to buy— she wasn’t going to buy any.
but, he picked up a necklace. silver chain, pink square cut diamond held in place by four prongs. it glittered as john— the salesman's name was john— explained that it was lab grown and he’d give it to her for the bargain price of three hundred and sixty dollars due to the holidays.
paige stared at the necklace with hard, furrowed brows.
“pink is like… your color.”
“it’s my favorite.”
her accountant would have encourage paige to get the price down to an even three hundred, and she probably could have. but she didn’t. she looked john straight in his beady eyes, and asked if they took apple pay.
──
paige woke up on thanksgiving with the feeling that she was going to die that day. she had the worst anxiety she’d had since she was a junior in highschool, and it took her twenty minutes to get out of bed.
she hadn’t seen azzi the entire time she’d been home. it had only been two days, but still. she’d spent the last five month thinking about this woman. she’d spent two days with a necklace she’d bought for her tucked in her top drawer. she’d waited to hear azzi’s voice or smell or hair or see her coat on the rack.
she knew azzi would be at thanksgiving though. she heard her father talking yesterday, telling amy that the reservation was for six, which meant azzi had to be coming.
she got ready for dinner with that in mind. fresh out the shower, she put on deodorant and spritzed her valentino cologne. she looked at herself in mirror, in her calvin briefs and binder, and admired herself.
she’d bulked up like she planned. she’d never get called olive oil, or string bean again. no more sleeper build, no more low stamina. she worked for this body. carved it herself and she was proud of it. she tried to drill that in her brain before it was scrutinized by her entire family.
she wore black denim jeans and a cream button down that was a size too big. paired it with sambas and a silver chain. she slicked her hair into a bun and shoved her glasses on her face with no makeup she’d tried to give calm, when she felt anything but.
she was nervous about her mother, but she was always nervous about her mother. the nausea came with azzi. not knowing why she’d been away. wondering if she’d still be on paige’s side. figuring out how she was going to act like she didn’t want her dad’s girlfriend.
her dad drove them to the restaurant and paige could smell the food before the door was even open. at least she’d have this. food— real comfort food that she’d gorge on while holding back tears.
the table was set the way it always was. amy, dan and taylor on one side. paige and her dad on the other. everyone said their hello’s and pretended like they didn’t hate paige. azzi wasn’t there.
for a while, paige thought she wouldn’t come and that comforted her. she could do this by herself. she always had. she ordered plain water the same way everyone else did, and sat with her back straight and elbows off the table.
she was going to be good tonight.
dan was the first person to address her individually.
“paige, how’s the season going.”
he always asked her about basketball. he played when he was in highschool, and he tried to give her advice, as if she wasn’t playing at higher level than he ever got to. but he was trying, so paige always let it slide.
“uh, we’re good.” she nodded. “we got this freshman— her name’s sarah. she’s already a dog.”
she watched dan nod and pretend to know who she was talking about. her team was five games into their season, and she knew her family knew nothing about it.
she liked it that way. basketball was hers.
taylor perked up, wide eyed and antsy. “what about kk?”
paige watched the way taylor twinkled when she said kk’s name, the way her hand gripped the edge of the table, and she made a mental note to tell kk that her step-sister may or may not have a thing for her.
paige smiled and took a sip of her water. “kk’s good. she’s been in the gym, i think she’d gonna be a problem this season.”
taylor beamed, and amy spoke.
“kk…” paige braced herself, the way she always did before he mother spoke. “i remember her. she’s a good girl. i’m glad she’s progressing.”
paige cracked a little. her mother had never been glad paige was progressing, she’d never thought of paige and said she was a good girl.
kk was a good girl, and she was progressing, but paige was paige bueckers. she was already legendary.
she dug at a scratch in the wooden table and tried not to be jealous of her best friend. “yeah.”
“and you?” amy looked directly at paige and folded her hands. “we saw your GQ magazine thing.”
“did you like it?”
paige knew the answer to that question. she was manspread in a suit on the cover, and dressed like a skater boy by page three. her mom hated it, and paige knew that during the shoot. she liked the way she looked in the mag. she disliked the way they over-lined her lips, but she loved the way the photos turned out.
she knew she’d leave this table hating the entire thing.
her mom closed her eyes and pressed her palms into the table. “i just don’t know why you have to broadcast it, paige.”
she always said that.
broadcast. advertise.
like paige was supposed to hide the fact that she was gay. she’d spent fourteen years in the closet and another six pretending to be bisexual. that wasn’t enough for amy.
“i’m just being me, mom.”
amy shook her head, her bob swaying with every twist. “no, that’s not you.”
she pointed at paige, “you—” then she clutched her chest. “my paige doesn’t dress like a boy on magazine cover while talking about how much she loves God.”
paige could have flown across the table then. she’d only had a few things that were hers. her faith was one of those things, and her mother knew that.
her faith was one of the few things that she kept from her mother. when she was in highschool, she’d go to church and bible study and youth group because it made her feel close to her mom. it was the one thing they could talk about without causing WWIII. her senior year, paige got deeper into hit. she was going to be leaving home, and she needed something to bring her back when she needed it.
now, she was junior in college, and her faith had nothing to do with her mother, or her father or anyone besides her and the God she served. it honestly made sense for amy to try and take that from her.
she watched her mom’s lip shake. she watched dan hide in his cup of water. she watched taylor bury her face in her arms on the table.
she planned on being good. she planned for smooth sailing and calmness.
“me being loving a woman doesn’t have anything to do with—” she couldn’t even get into her speech before being interrupted by her father.
bob put his hand up, pointing in the air. “don’t yell at your mother.”
she screwed her face up and whipped to look at him. she was used to him taking her side, she’d gotten used to their double teams. but being used to something doesn’t make it hurt any less.
no matter how much of a tolerance you build to to something, it’ll find a way to hurt you eventually.
her father shrugged like everything was that simple. “she wants the best for you.”
paige scoffed—or maybe it was a laugh. she couldn’t believe this was still her life. that she signed herself up for this bullshit five time a year.
amy kept going, wagging that fucking finger over paige’s frame. “you just look ridiculous is all—”
the door to the restaurant chimed, and paige became painfully aware of the fact that they hadn’t even ordered yet. she had no food, and she wouldn’t for at least another twenty minutes.
she heard azzi before she saw her. she’d been telling hostess that her party was already there, and thanking her for taking her drink.
when she got to the table, paige could smell her. she smelled like white diamond and powder fresh deodorant.
“i’m so sorry i’m late,” she slid into her seat and shuffled so she was leaning over the table. “my shift ran late and i smelled like hospital.”
paige watched as she spoke. she sucked in every word like it was oxygen. azzi was smiling but not really. she’d grown her hair out and the curls were being held back by a braid secured with a white ribbon. she looked tired, which was probably why she was talking so fast, but despite azzi’s tardiness and chaotic entrance, paige felt herself breathe again.
she nearly cried at the side of the woman. she’d waited days months to see her, and there she was.
she almost pissed herself when azzi looked back at her. it was a small glance, but paige would hold onto it until her dying breath. she didn’t stop looking. not when azzi started asking taylor about nursing school, or when bob said he liked azzi’s jeans, or when dan agreed that azzi looked really nice.
everyone’s attention was on azzi for those moments, but paige… she was learning azzi always had her attention, whether she was in the room or not.
when azzi looked at her, it felt like a glow had been cast over her head and angels from heaven were singing songs in too high of a pitch to be understood.
she looked paige up, down, and up again, and then she smiled.
“i like your shirt, p.” she reached out and ran a hand from paige’s shoulder down to her elbow. “i think it looks good with your skin tone.”
paige almost laughed. she wanted to. she didn’t take her eyes off of azzi, but she knew her mom was about to blow her gasket. azzi hadn’t spoken quietly. she wasn’t subtle in the way she touched paige’s arm.
they just looked at each other and for some odd reason, paige no longer cared about why azzi hadn’t come to see her, nor did she care about how she was going to hide the fact that she wanted this woman more than she wanted to wake up the next morning.
but then azzi blinked and turned away, forcing paige to do the same. she looked at bob, who had his head in his hand, and then at taylor who was smiling behind her glass.
azzi nudged bob, “bob, what’s the matter?”
paige felt her chest puff out just little, because finally the joke wasn’t on her. she leaned back in her chair and manspread like it was dare.
“my mom was just telling me how ridiculous i look in my boy clothes.”
azzi turned the corners of her lips down and raised her brows in a way that said interesting but in a condescending way and paige felt herself get tight between the legs.
“oh, well.” azzi clasped her hands together and sat back in her seat “it’s a good thing it’s not for her, isn’t it?”
there were only a few points in paige’s life where she’d been sure of things.
she knew when she picked up a basketball that she’d never put it down.
after her first salon trip, she knew that she was meant to be a blonde, and she’d spend one day every month making sure she lived in her truth.
when she was sixteen, she made out with a cheerleader in the hotel pool at an away game, and paige knew that she had to break up with her boyfriend, because nothing had ever felt like that before.
that night, paige became undeniably sure of that fact she was going to get azzi. she’d make her feel as good. she was going to make her smile so hard she busted her lip. she was going to fill her with warmth and light and joy.
“yes,” she said. “it’s a great thing it’s not."
──
paige knew azzi was coming home— to bob’s home.
azzi drove a suburu. paige pictured her driving her dogs to the dog park while they messed around in the back of the car. she wondered if azzi kept the AC booming, or if she was a windows down kind of woman.
she wanted to know every minute detail about her. how she drove, how she slept, how she tasted. she suddenly had no interest in pretending she wanted nothing to do with azzi, and she’d realized how dangerous this feeling truly was.
she watched azzi get out of her car. watched her forearms flex as she pulled herself up on the door. watched her shoulders square while she closed the door. watched her jaw move as she made fun of bob’s slow driving.
she made it a point to not say anything on the way inside the house. she made it a point to not say goodnight before speedwalking to her bedroom. she knew azzi would follow her— she needed azzi to follow her.
she was pacing her room when she heard the knock on her baseboard. it was azzi, still in her cardigan, smiling the way paige had been hoping.
she took a singular step into the room, and folded her hands in front of her. “i like the bun.”
paige froze and tried not to say thank you. she could see the lace of azzi’s bra under her mustard yellow tanktop. she didn’t seem like the type for frilly lingerie but paige felt tight all the same.
it dawned on her that the lace wasn’t for her. that it was for a man that didn’t deserve it— a man who wouldn’t appreciate it the way paige would.
she felt her body be flooded with an anger she’d never felt before. something strong and envious that sang i can do anything better than you.
for safety reasons, she didn’t move. she dug her toes into her rug and put her hands in the pockets of her jeans.
“where you been?” she didn’t know if she sounded as desperate as she felt, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
azzi furrowed her brows. her head tilted to the side like she was trying to figure something out, and it made paige uneasy.
“working.” she said. she stepped forward again. “i wanted a little nest egg for the holidays.”
“so it wasn’t because of….” paige didn’t want to say it. saying it would force them to talk about it. if she trailed off, the answer would be yes or no and there’s be no need for expanding.
azzi chewed at her bottom lip, but paige could see her grin. the tips of her ears grew hot with embarrassment, but she didn’t feel ashamed. not anymore.
azzi shook her head. “of course not.” she sounded like she was telling the truth, but she looked like there was something she wasn’t saying. “i wanted to see you.”
paige almost came. she scratched at her thigh through her pockets and looked at the ground.
“thought you were avoiding me.” she regretted the words as soon as she said them. she wasn’t used to wanting to be this vulnerable. she wasn’t used to wanting to see someone. she wasn’t used to wanting to be seen by someone.
she felt azzi’s hand on her shoulder and lifted her head. she didn’t know when she’d gotten so close, but that seemed to be the running theme.
“i promise you i wasn’t.” she leaned up close so paige could see the black speckled in her eyes. “i was working graveyards and sleeping.”
they were inches apart. paige couldn’t breath from holding in everything she wasn’t supposed to want out loud. it was like a single inhale would cross a boundary. they hadn’t done that. yet.
azzi was looking at her like it was the most important thing in the world for paige to know that she wasn’t avoiding. it was the most important thing, at least to paige.
again, for safety reasons, she took a step back. “i got you something.”
the necklace. it was in her underwear drawer, in a long back velvet box that cost paige another twenty six dollars.
the space between them felt like a life raft. she could breathe again. she felt azzi’s eyes on her as she made her way to her dresser, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. she moved slower just to feel those eyes burning into the back of her head.
she pulled the box out and looked at it. she looked at the way her hands held the box, the way the velvet felt on her fingertips. it was soft but if she pushed even a little, she’d be met with a hardness. she wondered if she pushed into azzi, would she be met with the same hardness.
she showed azzi the necklace like a presentation. she shoved at her the way a child would while displaying their macaroni art. azzi didn’t take the box out of her hand, she just flipped the top open and pushed out a breath.
“paige,” she touched the diamond at the center and ran her finger around it slowly. paige watched the way her finger trembled, the gentleness she used.
she brought her eyes to azzi’s face and studied the vein in her forehead. she looked perplexed. not upset, not happy, but confused. “d’you like it?”
azzi looked up at her and balled her hand into a fist. she smiled her real smile and nodded, and paige nearly jumped for joy.
she needed that. the validation and the acceptance. she feared she would always need that and she feared she would only need it from azzi.
“i do.” azzi grabbed paige’s wrist. she didn’t squeeze, but her touch was enough for the hairs there to stand up. “put it on me.”
she turned and held her braid over her shoulder. paige’s first instinct was to step into her. to press her front to azzi’s back and pop every personal bubble. she didn’t do that, obviously. she was a gentlewoman.
kinda.
azzi’s hair smelled like hibiscus and honey. she had a tattoo on the back of her neck. paige traced the infinity symbol without touching it. what was infinite for azzi fudd?
she watched azzi’s shoulders rise and fall from behind her. watched her take the smallest step back. felt her ass press into paige’s thighs.
she put the necklace on azzi, letting her hands rest on her shoulders after. she wanted to push the cardigan off and feel the heat of azzi’s skin. she wanted her hands on azzi’s hips instead of her shoulders. she wanted— she just wanted.
azzi turned around, and paige used the guise of adjusting the necklace as a reason to keep touching her. she started at the clasp and dragged her fingers all the way down past the dips of azzi’s collarbones to the center of her chest. she tapped the pendant, then rubbed circles on the skin around it, all while not allowing herself eye contact.
she was right though. pink was azzi's color.
she felt azzi breath under her finger. she felt her chest rise and fall and rise and stay.
paige brought her eyes up to meet azzi’s and she knew then that she felt it too. it was the kind of intensity that had to be reciprocated in order to be felt.
azzi was breathing through her mouth, paige could feel it on her neck. she felt everything and she planned on feeling so much more.
azzi spoke but not really. it was more of a rasp than anything, but she let out a low. “paige.”
“hm?”
she didn’t know that that was supposed to do. if it was a warning, it hadn’t been heeded. it only made paige close her eyes and picture her name tumbling from those pouty lips again and again and again.
“i don’t thi—”
paige swallowed the rest of that sentence. whatever azzi didn’t think wasn’t necessary.
azzi’s lips were as soft as they looked. soft and smooth but firm in the way they wrapped around paige’s. she didn’t kiss back immediately, but when she did, paige all but fell to her knees at the feeling.
she wrapped her arms around azzi’s waist, tugging the woman into her. she groaned into the kiss, her whole body languid. she felt azzi’s hands at the back of her head, fingers sliding beneath her bun.
without pulling away, paige guided azzi’s cardigan off of her shoulders. she pushed the bottom of her tanktop up just enough for her thumbs to be touching skin. azzi was hot and panting and paige wanted to keep her that way.
azzi pulled away and said paige’s name. she didn’t say it with much merit. didn’t push her away. she just said paige and tugged the sides of her button down. paige looked her pretty face for half a second before dipping into the woman’s neck.
azzi sucked in a breath and fisted paige’s shirt. “maybe we— hm,”
paige worked at her neck; kissing and sucking and licking and biting at the skin until azzi’s whole body shook in her hands.
“maybe we what?”
azzi moaned again, pulling paige further into her. “i just think—”
paige kissed her lips because there was no way the sentence was going to be productive.
“we can think later.” she kissed her again, longer this time. “we can think all day tomorrow.”
she didn’t plan on thinking the next day either, but that wasn’t the point. the point was that she could feel azzi and she felt too good for distractions.
“lemme have you tonight.” she kissed her again, unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans. “just wanna make you feel good.”
she didn’t touch azzi, at least not the way she do desperately wanted to. no, she was going to drag this out, make it last.
she tugged at the trim of azzi’s panties and smiled when the woman curled over, resting her head on paige’s shoulder with the quietest moan.
“wanna make you happy, az.” she tugged again, and this time, azzi’s hips bucked into paige.
she edged her fingers into azzi’s pants, cupping her pussy over her underwear. “make you cum,”
azzi shuddered and paige pulled her hand away. she stepped back entirely, looking azzi in the eyes, so she could see the severity of the situation.
“lemme have you.” she pleaded, kissing the center of azzi’s chest, right under her necklace. “please.”
azzi nodded, stepping up at the same time paige did. the two crashed into each other holding one another as tightly as they could while simultaneously fucking each other’s mouths.
paige felt azzi’s nails drag against her skin as she pulled her shirt off. she tugged back into place by the waist and kissed her again, leading them to the bed.
azzi sat, fully clothed on the bed, looking up at paige with those big brown eyes. pupil blown out, lip combo smeared, braid halfway undone. she was so perfect, it was impossible to make a mess of her. paige was nearly foaming at the mouth. she stood over azzi trying to catch her breath, which was pointless because every time azzi blinked, paige choked again.
azzi broke the silence. “p?”
still staring in her daze, paige raised a brow. “hm?”
azzi grabbed paige’s hips, splaying her hands over the skin. she was grinning like she hadn’t tried to shut this down two minutes ago. she pressed a kiss to one of paige’s hips, then to the other, sucking on the muscle there.
“i said yes, sweetheart.”
paige fell to her knees, tugging the neckline of azzi’s tanktop down and wrapping her lips around the swell of her breast. she placed her free hand on azzi’s back and pushed her further into her mouth.
aazzi pushed her pussy into paige’s belly, though paige couldn’t imagine it was doing much for her. it was doing wonders for paige though. she was two seconds away from fucking the woman into the ground. she was so needy, panting and searching for something to get her off.
now she gets it. paige thought. she feels the desperation i’ve felt since we met, and she'll never get rid of it.
she put her fingers in azzi’s belt loop, tugging the denim down and off her legs, leaving her underwear soaked and clinging to her pussy. she ran a finger down and watched azzi arch.
“i wanna taste.” she pushed the fabric to the side and pushed her palm to azzi’s clit and they moaned together. “eat you so good you can’t see straight.”
azzi, with her scrunched face and sopping pussy and skin, rolled her hips. she was chasing it— chasing paige. she was so fucked.
“yes.” azzi moaned, still fucking into paige’s palm. “you can. you can taste p, you can— oh fuck.”
paige fell into it, digging her hands into the flesh of azzi’s thighs and taking everything she had into her mouth. paige moaned into azzi’s pussy because she had to.
she was enveloped by it all. the taste of azzi. the smell of azzi. the feel of azzi’s thighs shaking in her hands. the sound of azzi falling apart above her.
she could do this all day. she wasn’t thinking of anything besides the fact that she wanted to stay here. in this bed. feasting on azzi.
she pulled away, smiling when azzi’s hips chased after her mouth. she snatched azzi’s panties off, brought her hand down and slid in her middle finger. azzi keened, arching so that the only part of her body that touched the bed was her head.
paige fucked into her slowly at first— again, trying to drag it out, to make it last. but then azzi started fucking her back, rolling her hips to meet paige.
all paige wanted was to give azzi what she wanted and it seemed like azzi wanted more. paige was just as greedy, so she added her index finger and rolled over azzi’s clit with her thumb.
it was like azzi’s whole body stuttered. her eyes fell closed at the same time that her mouth fell open with an oh my god.
paige watched azzi as her face scrambled into something that could only be described as wanton. she wanted azzi to scream.
she curled her fingers, “does it feel good?”
she knew it felt good. she knew what she was doing to her but she wanted to hear it. she wanted to hear azzi tell her it was good— that she was good.
azzi nodded from above, sliding a hand onto paige’s shoulder and squeezing. “yes— yes,” paige kissed under her belly button, sucking at the skin. “you’re making mommy feel so good, sweetheart.”
paige felt her ears physically perk up. they hadn’t talked about it— what she’d called azzi on the fourth of july. she’d been embarrassed but hearing azzi say it made her feel nothing but hungry.
she stuck her tongue out and licked at azzi’s skin, trailing until she was at her clit again. she licked at her until she felt azzi dripping down her wrist and then she used her whole mouth to suck until azzi’s blunt nails dug into her shoulders.
paige hoped she’d bruise, she wanted this engraved on her forever. her hips dug into the mattress without her permission. she just needed to feel something— anything to relieve the tension between her legs.
she kept fucking and eating and grinding until she thought she wasn’t breathing, and even then, she kept going.
azzi was writhing above her, one hand playing with her tits, the other clutching paige’s shoulder. she was spread so wide, taking it so good and paige was lost. she nodded into azzi’s pussy, breathing through her nose, eyes rolling back at the scent.
“so good,” azzi cried, tightening her legs around paige’s head and grinding. “you’re doing so good.”
paige wondered if the cumming untouched thing actually happened. she was sure she was almost there, still fucking into the mattress like it could fuck back. the humping wasn’t enough, but azzi telling her she was doing good was all she needed.
“please az— i wanna make you cum.” she spat onto her pussy “i need you to cum.”
she dove back in, eating her pussy and fucking her all at once. she was so close to coming herself and the feel of azzi spazzing around her was only pushing her further.
“paige,” azzi gasped, nearly sitting all the way up. “you’re so fucking—”
“i want it,” paige begged. “want you to cum on my face. in my mouth— fuck please, mommy”
azzi sucked in a big breath before her whole body locked up and her leg started twitched around paige’s head. she came quietly, letting out harsh, quiet breaths as she gradually fell back on the bed.
paige kept going because one wasn’t enough. she wanted the taste of azzi’s cum on her tongue forever. azzi was so sensitive, though. so she took her mouth off of her and instead blew lightly on her swollen clit. she added a third finger and watched as her pussy contracted.
azzi locked up again, this time gripping at paige’s disheveled bun. “paigepaigepaigepaigepai—SHIT” she snatched at the girls hair and arched so that her entire neck was on display. “oh shiit, fuck yes, sweetheart, just like that.”
she came on paige’s fingers and paige couldn’t help but to lick at her hand as she was fucking azzi through her orgasm.
she was on a high. the taste of azzi’s cum in her mouth and the sight of it on her fingers and the sound of her gasping for air and the feeling of her hands in paige’s hair— it was all so good.
she came untouched with a shaky groan into azzi’s thigh. she literally came in her pants and she couldn’t care less. she climbed over the woman’s body kissing her lips until she noticed that azzi was still trying to catch her breath, so she kissed down her neck and stopped at the valley between her breasts.
she laid there, breathing azzi in, resting her forehead on the woman’s solar plexus. she matched her breath to azzi’s. she felt that hand in her hair, letting her bun down and rubbing the base of her skull.
paige could have fallen asleep there. but she has so much to say, and so little time to say it. azzi would have to leave her before the night was over. that realization curdled like milk in her chest.
face in azzi’s chest, paige whispered, “i’ve never wanted anyone like i want you.”
azzi’s hand froze in her head, but she corrected quickly stroking again while saying nothing.
“like,” paige laughed a little, “when we first met, all i wanted to do was talk to you. ask you a million questions.”
she felt azzi’s heart pound against her cheek, but she didn't show that she was effected by anything paige had said.
in a raspy, tired voice all azzi said was, “i wanted you to.”
paige thought back to the day they met. when azzi was preparing to butcher the duck they never got to eat. she’d been enamored from the jump, but she’d been callous.
she brought her head up, looking at azzi, who’d already been looking at her.
“i’m sorry i was a dick to you.” she mumbled.
azzi smiled and shook her head like it was the ridiculous thing to say. she brushed a thumb across paige’s chin and pressed it into her bottom lip. “it’s okay, baby.”
paige slept alone that night, wrapped in azzi’s cardigan. she lied when she told azzi they’d think all day the next day. she had a plane to catch and a game to play. she’d be going back to storrs knowing nothing but azzi fudd.
Fuck.
CHRISTMAS BREAK
paige wasn’t the biggest fan of christmas. winter in minnesota wasn’t her favorite thing in the world, and neither was exchanging gifts with her family. but the thing she looked forward to the least was the christmas photo.
every year, her family met at JCPenny in pre-planned outfits. the christmas photo was amy’s chance to show everyone and their grandmothers that she’d done divorce correctly. to flaunt her perfectly blended family.
and paige wanted to give her that. so every year, she put on that stupid red dress and let her mom curl her hair. she wore the heels and the ugly pearl earrings and the pink lip gloss. she’d only tried to do it differently once and that taught paige that obedience was best in regards to her mother.
she promised herself this year would be different. that she’d wear the clothes azzi got her because azzi wanted her to be comfortable— because azzi said she deserved to be comfortable. but her hands were shaking as she looked at the slacks she’d just ironed.
all she could think about was her mother’s face. the disgust and shame.
there was only so much pride you could have in yourself when your mother was disgusted by you. only so much confidence you could walk with when your mother made it her mission to break you.
paige had known how her life would go for a while. she’d never be able to bring a girl home. her mother wouldn’t give her away, and her father wouldn’t walk her down the aisle. her children would never know her family, they’d never look through her baby books or be spoiled by grandma.
she’d been single because she knew the minute she met a girl worth keeping, she’d never see her family again. so she was careful with who she went out with, careful with how she went about relationships.
since she’d been home for christmas, she was sure she’d found that girl— that woman. of course, it just had to be her father’s girlfriend. not only was it a woman paige’s mom liked, but a woman her father had already claimed.
paige slammed her head into her hands and pulled at her hair. she cursed herself for fucking up the routine she’d mastered. she should have stayed away. she should have left the fucking clothes. returned them. burned them. something.
her door opened without a knock.
it was azzi in the dress paige had fucked her in the day before. only now, she had her hair pressed into big curls. “your dad sent me to—” she took one look at paige and lost her sly smirk. “what’s wrong?”
paige crumbled again, shaking her head in her hands. “i can’t do it, az.” she choked out.
azzi put a hand on paige’s shoulder and crouched down in front of her. paige thought her dress was too tight for that to be comfortable. “do what, sweetheart?”
she waved at the outfit spread the mattress beside her. “the c-clothes. i was gonna wear the clothes you got me but i– i can’t.”
she cried some more, not looking at azzi but resting her head on the woman’s forearm.
“hey,” azzi cooed.
paige didn’t respond, she kept crying.
then, firmer this time, azzi said, “look at me, paige.”
paige opened her eyes instantly, popping her head up and trying to pull it together.
azzi held paige’s face in her hands and kissed just beside her nose.
“you can wear whatever you want to.” rubbed at paige’s tears, keeping her brown saucers on paige’s blue ones. “amy doesn’t get a say in what you wear. she doesn’t get a say in who you love. it’s your life— your happiness. not hers. do you understand?”
more tears poured from paige’s eyes. no one had ever said that to her. no one had ever made her feel the way azzi did. security was new to her, as was feeling validated for anything other than throwing a ball in a hoop.
but there azzi was. holding paige and wiping her tears and ruining her lip combo by kissing paige’s face.
paige nodded and tried not to fall apart completely.
“good.” azzi smiled. “now put your clothes on and i’ll see you at the mall. okay?”
paige nodded again and with a wobbly voice said, “okay.”
azzi stood up and peered down at paige before bending and pressing a closed mouth but world shattering kiss to her lips.
“good girl.” she whispered, wiping her makeup off of paige’s lips.
──
paige sat in her dad’s car for fifteen minutes. the mall was packed with children wanting pictures with santa and parents forgetting gifts for family they didn’t really care about. she didn’t need to go inside to know that the people of edina, minnesota were in a frenzy.
the sweater fit her perfectly. the slacks fit her perfectly. the loafers she bought complimented the outfit perfectly. her accessories matched perfectly.
paige looked good. she looked perfect.
she wanted to remember that. she kept saying it.
you look good. this is a good outfit.
this is christmas and festive and azzi knew what she was doing when she bought it.
there is nothing wrong. with your fucking. clothes.
she hadn’t fully convinced herself, but taylor had texted her saying that amy was losing her shit, which meant paige had approximately five minutes before she was disowned and the family photo was taken without her.
she hadn’t fully convinced herself, but taylor had texted her saying that amy was losing her shit, which meant paige had approximately five minutes before she was disowned and the family photo was taken without her.
when she got to the photography section of the JCPenny, paige saw azzi first. she was talking to taylor and playing with the pink diamond laying on her chest.
her dress was black and tight with a black fur trim around the top and the wrists. you wouldn’t know it was a christmas photoshoot if she didn’t have a ridiculously large red bow at the top of her ponytail. her shoulders were out and dusted with body glitter that paige wanted nothing more than to lick off of her. her had paige’s christmas gift to her on her feet, and small but chunky silver hoops to match her necklace.
looking at azzi laugh, paige thought i can do this.
she stepped in and everyone looked at her. azzi smiled so wide, paige could see her gums. taylor’s eyes bugged out of her head. bob face palmed. dan looked at amy. amy turned fire hydrant red.
“paige.” her mom seethed.
paige sighed and squared her shoulders. “mom.”
“we don’t have time for this,” her mom approached her and pushed at her bicep. she pointed to the door. “go change.”
she shrugged her mother off of her. “this is what i’m wearing, mom.”
she was standing on it. she looked to azzi, who nodded in solidarity. taylor was holding azzi’s hand, squeezing so hard her veins were popping out.
“no it isn’t,” amy shook her head.“go put on the dress i bought you. did you even bring it?”
paige didn’t even take the dress out of it’s box.
“no, i didn’t bring it because this is what i’m wearing.”
shaking her head again, amy pointed at paige’s body. “that’s not appropriate.”
paige deadpanned and tilted her head in dan’s direction. “it’s almost the exact same thing your husband is wearing.”
“paige,” dan sighed, stepping up to the two women. “your mother just wants things to go smoothly. why do you always have to provoke her?”
paige gawked “i’m no-”
“paige’s outfit is perfectly fine.”
she was interrupted by that same firm voice from earlier. azzi stepped up, dragging taylor with her.
“i think you look beautiful,” she smiled at paige before turning to taylor. “doesn’t she look beautiful?”
taylor looked between azzi and her dad with wide eyes. “i— yeah.”
paige nearly dropped her jaw. taylor was a few years younger than paige, but the two had grown up together. they’d never been close. taylor had never been kind to p, but she’d never been rude. she was just always there.
azzi let taylor go and approached amy. “since i met your family, you’ve done nothing but berate your child and make her feel small. for her clothes, for the way she sits, the way she talks.” she counted on her fingers. “it’s pathetic, the way you can’t open your small mind and show compassion to this girl.”
paige couldn’t help but gape at the only person in the history of the universe to defend her. azzi fudd was standing up for her. she was in her mother’s face, lording over her in the heels paige bought her.
the heat in her eyes was fascinating.
“if you’re provoked by your daughter in sweater, that’s a you issue.” she pointed at amy’s head. “all she wants is to make you happy and be herself. i watch her bite her tongue every time you speak because she doesn’t want to provoke you.”
paige could have kissed her and blew shit up even more. she wanted to cry and smile and scream all at once.
“and you.” azzi turned to bob, who’d been scratching his neck this whole time. “you never have her back. you roll over for your ex-wife like a yorkie but tell me how bad you feel for your daughter.”
paige looked at her father, who seemed like he wanted to crawl in a hole.
doesn’t feel good, does it bitch?
azzi looked at bob, then dan, then dead at amy. “you’re all so sick and so sad and i’m tired of watching it.”
she headed to door, but paige’s dad grabbed at her. “azzi wait—”
she shrugged him off, shaking her head. “talk to your kid, robert.”
he turned to paige, who was trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened. “paige?”
not right now, pops.” she shook her head, too, before walking out the door.
she found azzi sitting in the waiting area. she sat beside her, not looking at her.
“thanks.” she mumbled. “i could have defended myself, but thank you.”
azzi shook her head. “they wouldn’t let you.” she cut her eyes like she was still looking at paige’s mom. “ i hate when she doesn’t let you speak.”
paige shrugged. and turned to azzi who still looked homicidal. she rubbed at the woman’s back. “it’s okay.”
she’d been through this a million times. she’d cry about it later. once she was alone and had no choice but to think, paige would cry about this whole thing. she’d imagine comebacks and scream into her pillow and punch her mattress until kingdom came. but for now, she was okay.
“no, it’s not.” azzi insisted, whipping her head to paige. her eyes were red and glossy.
“what gives her the fucking right to talk to you that way?” her voice cracked and she rolled her eyes as she wiped them. “god, and your father is so spineless.”
paige knew she was in love right then. it didn’t matter that azzi wasn’t hers, or that she was eight years older. the logistics were out the window because paige was in love.
“az.” she grabbed both of azzi’s shoulders. “i’m okay for now.”
azzi looked over her face and sniffled. “are you sure?”
paige smiled and nodded. “yes.”
azzi reached across the armrest and took paige in her arms. paige nearly melted. she hugged her back and nuzzled her face into the woman’s neck, inhaling her scent.
she felt peace there. like nothing would hurt ever again. the feeling made her want to do crazy shit, like kiss azzi in the JCPenny photography waiting room.
“i really like you, azzi.” paige blurted out, pulling out the hug but still holding azzi’s elbows.
“like this isn’t just sex for me. i know you’re with my dad right now but we both know you don’t wanna be. you could be with me— i wanna be with you. and i know i’m at school right now but i graduate next year and i’ll be home more often because i’m pretty sure my parents never wanna see me again and— and we can be together, az.”
she sucked in a breath and searched azzi’s face for an answer. the woman was still holding paige’s arms, but she looked so far away. dread took over paige’s entire being.
“what?” she let go of azzi. “you—” her voice broke, “you don’t wanna be with me?”
just the thought had paige nauseous. she’d misread this whole thing. how fucking stupid could she be?
she never got what she wanted and she knew that. she’d known that her whole life. she’d clawed her way through life with scraps of approval and enough false confidence to fill a well. she had a routine. she had a systematic way of going about things and she let this woman— her dad’s fucking girlfriend— give her hope.
she’d fallen for azzi’s whole you deserve it bullshit and let herself get excited. that was the worst part. she knew better. she should have expected this.
she should have expected azzi to stay with bob. paige knew he’d never deserve azzi. that he didn’t have what it took to make her happy. she’d seen azzi happy. she knew azzi’s real smile well, and she’d never seen it directed at bob.
azzi reached for her, “that’s not it—”
paige pulled away from her, causing azzi to stop her sentence. her breath trembled with betrayal.
azzi’s lips parted, whatever she was about to say stuck in her mouth. she went to speak again but the door to the waiting area slammed open.
bob stood at the threshold, eyes bouncing from paige to azzi with a low brows and that stupid, clueless twinkle in his eyes.
and suddenly, time was frozen.
paige looked at her father. her father looked at his girlfriend. his girlfriend looked at paige.
paige felt her heart pounding in her throat. she watched azzi’d face flash with confusion, then guilt, then something softer. and then bob opened his mouth.
“p, can we talk?” her asked, painfully unaware of the clusterfuck he’d just interrupted.
paige opened her mouth. nothing came out.
azzi shifted in her seat, just enough for her knee to brush paige’s. it was like a tether. a small, wordless one, but a tether nonetheless. paige’s heart clenched.
