notes. was supposed to cram multiple chapters for my lit class but wrote this instead :P consider it an early valentine's gift. also this is set in the summertime bc i am so over this dreadful ass weather.
words. 2.30k
paige plops down beside you on the sofa with a tired little grunt. it’s natural, instinctual even, the way your body immediately seeks hers, wrapping your arms around and curling into her, and exhaling contently when she returns the hug, lips pressing to your temple lovingly.
it’s been a long, long day, with you and paige finally moving into your new apartment downtown. between going back and forth to transport boxes from your old place on the other side of the city and unpacking, you didn’t have much time for each other all day. it’s like heaven when her lips finally press to yours, moving together languidly as one of her hands splay across the small of your back, bringing you closer.
this place is nicer than the complex you moved into right after the draft last year. it’s a sleek, shiny high–rise building, located right in the heart of the dallas. the view of the city from your unit on the eleventh floor is breathtaking— but still, it’s nothing compared to the sight of paige right in front of you.
in the heat of hauling things in earlier, she’d taken off her shirt, leaving her clad in just her basketball shorts and nike sports bra, hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. warmth radiates from her body to yours, her sunkissed skin smooth and firm. you let your hand wander, feeling up her abdomen, abs flexing under your touch. the kiss breaks when smile at her, “finally done.”
“yeah, no thanks to you,” your girlfriend snorts as she nuzzles into your neck, nose brushing against a ticklish spot, making you giggle.
although you did try to convince her to just hire professionals to move your belongs, paige insisted on doing it all herself. she didn’t see the point in paying someone else to do something she was fully capable of, she explained, despite having beyond enough to afford the help. in other words, your girlfriend is ridiculously stubborn.
“my job was to provide moral support,” you defend yourself, voice going a bit breathy as paige starts to kiss on your neck. you carried a few boxes from the foyer to the living room, handed paige things whenever she needed them, went out and grabbed chicken nuggets and milkshakes from the nearest chick–fil–a for you both— a+ girlfriend behavior, in your humble opinion.
paige hums, raising her head to look at you, a smirk already playing at her perfect pink lips. “you could provide some oral support,” she quips, and it’s extremely corny, but her voice is so low and gruff and stupidly attractive. it sends heat straight to your core, regardless. “least you could do, since i already did all the work today.” you roll your eyes and smack her on the shoulder.
“oh, really?” you say.
“mhm,” she nods, eyes fixated on your lips. “want that pretty mouth all over me.” then, she pulls you into her lap and kisses you again, hands immediately claiming their place on your ass as her tongue pushes its way into your mouth.
you can’t help but arch into her, moaning into the kiss. admittedly, you did find it sexy, watching her carry in all those heavy boxes from your seat at the kitchen island, her skin shiny with sweat. she’s so strong, so hard hardworking. thinking about it makes fire coil in your gut, heat rushing to the same place between your legs.
paige’s hands grip your body tighter, grinding your hips down against her. you break the kiss to plant your lips to her jaw, kissing down to her neck, sucking where you know she’s most sensitive. you’re satisfied with the soft noise paige makes in response, head lolling back to give you more access.
you mark her throat twice more, then lean back, hands smoothing down her shoulders, until they find the hem of her sports bra. paige helps you pull it off of her, flinging it across the room, neither of you caring where it lands. then, she pulls your shirt over your head, helping you get out of your bra. you’re both eager to get out of your bottoms, paige shimmying out of her shorts and boxers while you unbutton your cut–offs, slipping them down your legs and kicking them aside.
moments later you’re on the floor, kneeling between her legs, face–to–face with her bare cunt. paige is relaxed into the couch, one arm stretched along the back of it, while her other hands comes down to cup your face. it always gets her so turned on, seeing you on your knees for her, all obedient.
“my good girl, hm?” she hums. you shiver at the pet name and nod, leaning in to press kisses to the insides of her muscular thighs. “so pretty… prettiest in the fuckin’ world,” she praises, thumb stroking over your cheekbone gently.
you feel your own cunt pulse at the sound of her voice. eager to please, you dive in, licking a stripe up her pussy, watching for a reaction. she manages to hold the eye contact as you drag your tongue from her entrance to her clit over and over again, thighs tensing and sucking in a sharp breath. then, coming up, you close your lips around her clit, sucking on the swollen bundle of nerves, and release it with a soft pop! “shit,” she hisses, eyes fluttering shut, then gasps when you kiss her there.
“tastes so fucking good, baby,” you moan, moving your tongue in circles. your words have even more slick dripping out of her, and you slurp it up, as if you’re starving.
she groans softly, hand moving to the back of your head, tangling into your hair as she rocks her hips up against your mouth. “yeah, you like that? want my cum in your mouth?” she asks breathily, staring down at you, mesmerized by the sight of you lapping at her pussy.
you nod eagerly, spurred on by the thought of her finishing for you, wanting so badly to hear her cry out and see her face twist with pleasure. you quicken your pace, flattening your tongue against her and shaking your head, then sliding into her entrance. her cunt flutters, thighs twitching around your face, the grip on your hair getting tighter.
“k–keep doing that—” she cuts herself off with a pretty moan, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “fuck, i’ll give you whatever you want.”
you thrust your tongue in and out as fast as you can manage, despite the way your jaw starts to hurt, because every sound paige makes, every twitch in her abdomen, every roll of her hips makes it worth it. it gets you that much worked up, the fabric of your panties stuck to your skin with how wet you are, clit brushing against the thin lace and throbbing.
you can tell paige is getting close before she says so. her breathing is ragged, head thrown back, free hand now gripping onto one of the throw pillows. “gonna cum. fuck, don’t stop.” she pants, eyes rolling back. you add your fingers to the mix, rubbing fervently at her clit while you fuck her with your tongue, wanting to get her there.
and then the evidence of her orgasm is spilling into your mouth, droplets slipping past your lips and running down your chin, dripping onto the sofa. you don’t stop with your ministrations— not until you’re certain she’s finished and you’ve swallowed all that you can.
you sit back on your heels afterward, resting a hand on paige’s knee and catching your breath. paige also has to take a breather, eyes shut, body having gone slack against the couch.
when she blinks her eyes open, it’s like her strength is renewed by the near sight of you. as if you weigh nothing at all, she reaches forward, lifting you off of the ground and laying you down on the ouch, climbing over you to slam your lips together in a searing kiss. she wastes no time, tearing your panties off of you.
you feel your cheeks flame as the cool air hits your skin. you’re soaked, clit pink and puffy, aching to be touched. it’d probably be embarrassing if it was for anyone else, but paige just groans at the sight of your drenched cunt, dragging her middle and ring fingers through your slick folds, massaging your clit. then, without warning, she pushes them into you.
instantly, you’re hit with a towering wave of pleasure, washing over you so suddenly it catches you off guard. “oh, my god—” you gasp as paige starts to thrust, her fingers feeling like heaven as they drag against your slick walls. “yes, baby, that’s so good.”
your spine curves deeply, lifting above the cushion, moaning loudly each time plunges into you. her thrusts are erratic, fucking into you messily, curling and scissoring her fingers, stretching you out. you grab onto her arm, nails digging into her bicep, hips bucking in an attempt to match her unsteady pace. you need this, faster and harder and deeper. “please,” you mewl.
before you can even really get into it, that familiar tightness only just appearing in the pit of your stomach, she’s suddenly retracting her fingers from your body. you’re left layering there confused, betrayed, the ache returning to your core in seconds, clenching desperately around nothing.
your mouth opens, but she speaks before you can complain. “i’ll be right back, don’t move.” she orders, before disappearing into your new shared bedroom.
thankfully, she isn’t gone too long. you barely have enough time to catch your breath and steady yourself before she returns, moments later, with the strap secured to her hips, the only thing she has on other than socks.
she joins you on the couch again, settling between your legs, knees planting into the cushions. she grabs you by the hips and pulls you close, then takes the toy into her hand by the base, slapping it against your clit a few times. you choke on air, reaching out to grab onto her waist. “paige,” you whine.
“shh, i got you,” she tells you, sliding the tip up and down your slit teasingly. “gonna make you feel so good, babe. have you creaming all over my dick.”
you’re almost relieved to hear that. “please,” you beg, legs wrapping around her hips, trying to bring her closer. “i need you.”
the stretch is delicious, burning in the best possible way. “fuck,” you cry, feeling tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
paige holds you down with a firm hand on your hip, watching the toy disappear inside you, inch by inch. “so fucking tight,” she mutters, slowly pulling back out, the silicone dragging along your walls. “swear i can feel you squeezing me, baby.” you whimper at that, spine arching, nails digging into her sides.
she lets you adjust, starting off slow and careful, searching your face for any signs of discomfort as she gently fucks you. right now, you just look fucked out, lips parted as you breath laboriously and eyes shut, but still begging for it like whore. paige thrusts with a little more vigor this time, driving the strap into you.
you moan, loud and unbidden, head pushing back into the throw pillow. she’s so big, filling you completely, just the way you need it. she leans forward, body hovering over yours now with her forearm braced just above your head, fucking you deeper, tip brushing against that gummy spot deep inside every time she plunges back in.
if your new neighors are home, you’re pretty sure they can hear everything. hell, the whole floor probably knows what’s going on in your unit. the sounds filling your apartment are filthy— the obscenties leave your mouth, your pussy squelching, skin slapping against skin in a steady rhythm. your hands slide up to paige’s back, clinging to her, hips rolling to meet her thrusts.
paige tilts her head down, pressing her mouth to yours at the same time as she reaches down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit easily, stroking rapidly with her middle and ring fingers. you instantly know you aren’t going to last much longer, feeling the tightness reappear in the pit of your stomach, boiling hotly. your lips leave paige as a loud moan forces its way out of your throat, cunt fluttering around the strap.
“yeah, that’s it,” paige encourages you, slamming into you, fingers working you past the edge. “go ahead and cum on my cock. know you can do it, just gotta let go for me.”
with a broken, high–pitched moan, you cum hard, feeling it ebb through you. paige fucks you throat it, continuing to thrust as your body shakes, nails dragging down her skin, leaving pink welts in their wake. you can barely hear her cursing at the stinging pain, ears ringing and vision blurring.
your body goes limp against the couch, attempting to catch your breath. paige pulls out and collapses beside you, also panting. you can’t help but laugh weakly when your eyes meet, feeling completely spent.
“it’s officially our place, now,” paige comments, and you snort.
you glace around at the living room, noting the assortment of boxes and things that still need to be unpacked. “not until we get all this shit put away,” you reply.
“yeah, that can wait until tomorrow,” then, paige reaches over and her thumb is suddenly on your clit again, rubbing you in light circles. your eyes flit to hers, gaze inquiring, though you can’t help the soft moan that tumbles past your lips. “think you can give me another?” she asks, smirking— though, it’s not even really a question. you will, before the night is over.
you just laugh breathily. “our neighbors are going to hate us.”
𑣲 pairings : personaltrainer!paige x unhappily married!female!reader
𑣲 warnings : smuttt, cheating, body insecurity, angsty ending, english isnt my first language
𑣲 summary : your husband leaves for another business trip, leaving behind a cold house and a parting comment that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. you show up to your session in the biggest, most stretched-out hoodie you own. but paige has been watching you for weeks, counting the seconds until the heavy tension between you finally snaps. and today, she absolutely refuses to let you stay small.
𑣲 a/n im posting these in order! ill write a serie when i hit 100 followers im at 64 rnnn so drop your recs
wc : 2k
the house is too quiet. it’s always too quiet when he’s away on business, but honestly, it’s not much louder when he’s home. just the heavy, suffocating weight of passive-aggressive remarks and the way his eyes pass right over you like you’re a piece of furniture he’s tired of looking at.
you’re staring at yourself in the mirror of the home gym, wearing the biggest hoodie you own. you feel invisible.
then the front door clicks, and paige walks in.
paige is a storm of energy. she smells like crisp laundry, cool air, and a faint hint of sweet sweat. but today, the air between you feels thicker than usual. there’s been this... thing between you two for weeks. lingering glances in the mirror, hands that stayed on your hips a second too long after a set, the way her voice softened whenever you talked about your life. a heavy, unspoken tension that’s been building with every single session.
she drops her gym bag with a heavy thud, her bright eyes locking onto you instantly, carrying that same electric weight. but then her eyes trail down to your oversized hoodie, and her eyebrows knit together. "okay, what’s with the tent today? we’re doing deadlifts and core, you’re gonna trip over yourself."
"i just... wanted to stay covered today," you mutter, pulling the sleeves over your hands, looking away. "not really feeling great about how i look."
paige stops unpacking her resistance bands. she stands up straight, the casual nonchalant persona dropping completely. the tension that’s been simmering between you for a month suddenly feels like it’s boiling over. she walks over to you, stopping right in your personal space. she’s taller, broader, radiating a steady, athletic heat that makes your chest tight.
"lose the hoodie," she says. it’s not a request. it’s that commanding, low voice that usually makes you complain, but right now, it makes something melt in your stomach.
your hands tremble a little as you grip the hem, pulling the heavy cotton over your head. you’re left in just a sports bra and tight leggings, immediately crossing your arms over your stomach, bracing for the phantom critique of your husband's voice in your head.
paige doesn’t say anything at first. she just steps closer, her hands reaching out to firmly grip your wrists, gently but unyieldingly pulling your arms away from your torso. her palms are warm, slightly calloused from the weights.
"who told you that you needed to hide?" paige asks, her voice dropping an octave. her thumbs brush over the inside of your wrists, her gaze piercing right through you. "because whoever it was is a fucking idiot."
"paige—"
"look at yourself," she orders softly, stepping behind you and forcing you to look at the mirror. she presses her front against your back, her solid, toned chest anchoring you. her large hands slide down to your waist, her fingers digging into your hips. "look at how strong your back is. look at your waist. you’re gorgeous, and you’re letting some blind asshole make you feel small in your own house."
your breath hitches. the sheer contrast of being seen, deeply seen and handled with so much deliberate intent after weeks of wanting her breaks something loose inside you. a quiet, frustrated gasp escapes your throat.
paige freezes. in the mirror, you see her eyes darken. all that built-up tension snaps in an instant. her grip on your hips tightens, pulling you back flush against her thighs.
"oh," paige murmurs, her breath hot against the shell of your ear. "you like how that feels? me touching you like this?"
"yes," you whisper, the honesty tearing out of you because you’re so starved for it.
paige doesn’t hesitate. she turns you around in her grip, her athletic strength making it effortless. before you can think, she has you backed up against the cool glass of the gym mirror, her body pinning yours in place.
"good girl," she roughs out, her mouth dropping down to claim yours. it’s a heavy, possessive kiss that tastes like absolute certainty. she kisses you like she’s been waiting to break you open for weeks.
her hands slide under the hem of your sports bra, lifting it up and discarding it on the floor. before your arms can drop to cover yourself, her hands move down to the waistband of your leggings. with a smooth, firm tug, she slides them down over your hips, taking your underwear with them. she guides your legs out of them, leaving you completely bare against the cool mirror, completely exposed under her intense gaze.
when you try to look down, suddenly self-conscious again, paige grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back up to her.
"don't you dare look away from me," she commands, her voice thick with a sudden, feral heat. "look at what you're doing to me."
she handles you so well, lifting you onto the edge of the workout bench. she positions herself between your thighs, her hands tracing down your legs, parting them wide. every touch is a reclamation.
"he’s a fool," paige growls against your skin, her fingers finding you, slick and completely ready for her. she slides two fingers inside you with a heavy, deliberate push that makes your hips arch off the bench. "you belong right here under me. let me take care of you baby."
she starts a relentless rhythm, her fingers moving inside you with an unmatched stamina that quickly sends a shockwave of heat straight to your core. your hands grip the edges of the bench, and her big muscled arms, your knuckles turning white as you try to hold onto reality, but paige is entirely consuming.
"look at yourself," she commands, her voice a low, gravelly rumble against your neck as she hooks one of your knees over her forearm, opening you up even deeper. "watch how beautifully your body takes me. see how much you need this."
you force your eyes open, looking at the glass. you see yourself—flushed, breathless, legs parted wide, and completely unraveled by the woman who has been consuming your thoughts for weeks. paige’s mouth finds yours again, smothering your breathless gasps into a deep, bruising kiss while her thumb works your clit in perfect synchronization with her fingers.
the friction is dizzying, the pace scaling higher and higher until your vision starts to blur at the edges. you’re trembling, completely at her mercy, your hips instinctively rolling into her hand, begging for the release that's coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.
"paige, please—i'm gonna—"
"i've got you. let go for me, baby, right now," she mutters against your lips, pushing her fingers in deeper, her thumb applying a heavy, merciless pressure that shatters your last bit of control.
a loud, undone cry breaks from your throat as your walls clamp down tight around her fingers. your entire body goes taut, waves of intense, pulsing pleasure crashing through you so hard your hips lift entirely off the bench. paige doesn't stop; she holds you through it, her fingers moving steadily through your climax, drawing out every single throb of your release until you're completely spent, sobbing her name against her shoulder as you slowly begin to come down.
by the time your breathing slows, the heavy silence of the house is entirely gone, replaced by the sound of both of your chests heaving in the quiet room.
you’re tangled together on the thick yoga mat on the floor, the oversized hoodie completely forgotten in the corner. paige’s arms are wrapped securely around you from behind, her lips pressing soft, lingering kisses into the valley between your shoulder blades.
"you're not hiding anymore," she whispers into your skin, her hand resting heavy and protective over your stomach. "never again."
but as your breathing finally evens out, your gaze drifts past paige’s shoulder, catching on the small glass dish by the sink where you always leave your wedding ring before a workout.
a sudden, cold jolt of reality hits your chest, making you come completely back to your senses. the heavy silence of the house suddenly feels real again. you look at paige—beautiful, flushed, and completely devoted—and the sudden weight of what you’ve just done, of the husband who is still coming back in two days, crashes down on you all at once. the fog of pleasure evaporates, leaving behind a hollow, aching panic.
paige feels your body go completely rigid against hers. she pulls back slightly, her brow furrowing as she looks at your face, seeing the immediate shift in your eyes. she knows that look. she knows exactly who just walked back into your head.
"hey," she says softly, reaching up to touch your cheek, but you instinctively flinch away, sitting up and pulling the yoga mat over your chest to cover yourself.
the rejection hangs heavy in the air. paige lets her hand drop, a quiet, pained understanding settling over her features. she doesn't push you. she just quietly stands up, pulling her clothes back on with a slow calmness that makes your heart ache.
she packs her gym bag in silence, the zip sounding incredibly loud in the empty room. when she reaches the doorway, she stops, looking back at you one last time. "i'm not going to be the secret you feel guilty about," she says, her voice steady but thick with emotion. "you know where to find me when you're ready to actually leave him."
and then, she’s gone. the front door clicks shut, and the silence of the house rushes back in to swallow you whole.
you sit alone on the floor, staring at the empty doorway, the coldness of reality settling deep into your bones. you look back at the little glass dish on the counter. you’re trapped. no matter how incredible paige made you feel, no matter how much she made you bloom for an hour, the truth settles over you like lead: you are damned to a life you never wanted, bound to a marriage that starves you, and you don't even know if you're brave enough to break the cage.
Where kk doesnt take well to people flirting with her girlfriend.
°•○☆○•°
You weren’t supposed to be in the live like this.
You’re sitting sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under you, half-listening as Sarah holds her phone up, already mid-laugh at something in the comments. Ice is stretched out beside her, occasionally leaning in just to read things out loud and make it worse.
KK is next to you. Close. Too close if anyone was paying attention, but no one ever really does.
Her knee keeps brushing yours every time she shifts, her shoulder warm against your arm, and it’s subtle enough to pass as nothing, but you feel every second of it.
“Come here,” Sarah suddenly says, reaching over and grabbing your arm.
You barely get a chance to react before she’s pulling you forward into frame.
“Wait, no, I’m fine right here”
Too late.
Now you’re right there, squeezed between them, your face suddenly on screen, and the second you glance at the phone, you already know.
The comments are insane.
“WHO IS THAT”
“She’s so pretty”
“Tell her I said hi”
“Drop the @”
“I’m in love”
“Oh my god,” you laugh, immediately ducking your head. “No, I hate this.”
Sarah just grins wider. “They love you.”
“Yeah, they really do,” Ice adds, leaning closer to read more. “Wait! ‘ask if she’s single’—oh they’re serious.”
You groan, covering your face for a second. “Stop reading them.”
But you’re smiling, you can’t help it, even if your face is definitely warm now.
Next to you, KK goes quiet.
Not in a normal way.
You don’t look at her right away, but you feel it. The shift in her posture, the way her leg presses a little more firmly against yours, the way she’s not laughing anymore.
More comments flood in.
“KK move I need her”
“I’ll treat her right”
“She mine idc”
“ASK HER IF SHE GOT A GF”
Ice actually sits up at that. “Oh wait, that’s a good one—do you?”
You freeze for a split second.
It’s tiny, but it’s enough.
KK notices.
Sarah notices too, but she just watches, amused, like she already knows how this is about to go.
You open your mouth, about to say something vague, something safe, but then–
“She’s taken.”
KK doesn’t even hesitate.
Her voice cuts clean through everything, calm but firm enough that it lands.
The room goes quiet for half a second.
“OH???”
“BY WHO”
“WAIT WHAT”
“EXCUSE MEEE”
“KK KNOWS SOMETHING”
You turn to her so fast your shoulder bumps hers. “Seriously?”
She finally looks at you, and there’s something in her eyes that makes your stomach flip.
“What?” she shrugs. “They were doing too much.”
Sarah lets out a laugh. “You’re so obvious.”
“I’m not,” KK shoots back, but she’s already looking away again.
Ice grins. “Nah, you definitely are.”
The comments keep going, faster now, more curious, more chaotic, but KK doesn’t say anything else.
She doesn’t need to.
The rest of the live kind of drifts after that. Sarah keeps talking, Ice keeps joking, you try to act normal, but you’re hyper-aware of everything now.
Of her.
Of how close she is.
Of how she still hasn’t looked at you again.
And then finally, it ends.
Sarah drops her phone onto the couch, still laughing. “That was actually insane.”
You reach for her wrist, quick and quiet. “Come here.”
Sarah notices, of course she does, but she just smirks and looks away like she didn’t.
KK lets you pull her down the hallway without a word.
The second you’re in your room, the door clicks shut behind you, and you turn around to face her.
“What was that?” you ask, your voice lower now, but not angry. Just… a lot.
She leans back against the door like she owns the space, like she’s completely unbothered.
“They were annoying.”
“That’s not—KK.”
You step closer, crossing your arms like that’s going to help you stay composed.
“You just told everyone I’m taken.”
“You are.”
The way she says it makes your chest tighten.
You exhale, shaking your head a little. “Yeah, but you didn’t say by who.”
Her eyes flick up to yours again, sharper now.
“I didn’t need to.”
There’s a pause.
The air shifts.
You can feel it building again, that same tension from earlier, but stronger now without the camera, without the noise.
“You got jealous,” you say quietly.
Her jaw tightens just a little.
“They were talking about you like—” she stops, exhales, then looks back at you. “I didn’t like it.”
You step closer without thinking.
“You don’t like people flirting with me?”
“No.”
It’s immediate.
Honest.
Your heart stutters a little at that.
“KK…”
She pushes off the door, closing the distance completely now, her hand finding your wrist again, then sliding up your arm slower this time, like she’s not rushing anymore.
“I don’t like them acting like you’re free,” she says, voice lower now. “Like you’re not already mine ”
“Yours?” you ask softly.
Her eyes flicker.
“Yeah.”
You don’t realize how close you are until your breath mixes with hers.
“You could’ve just said it,” you murmur.
“No,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “This isn’t for them.”
Your chest tightens at that.
“For me?”
Her hand comes up to your jaw, fingers warm, steady.
“For me,” she repeats.
And then she kisses you.
It’s immediate, like she’s been holding back the entire time and finally doesn’t have to. Her hand stays at your jaw, guiding you closer, while your hands grab onto her hoodie, pulling her in like you need her just as much.
It’s not rushed, but it’s intense, every second deliberate, like she’s making a point without saying a word.
You melt into it, stepping forward until she has to adjust, one hand sliding to your waist to keep you there.
When you finally pull back, it’s only for a second, your forehead resting against hers, both of you breathing a little heavier.
“Still think I was doing too much?” she murmurs.
You let out a small laugh, even though your heart’s still racing. “Yeah. A little.”
She smiles, just barely.
But her grip on you tightens.
“Don’t care.”
And then she kisses you again, slower this time, but just as sure, like she’s not proving anything anymore.
genre | friendship, fluff, game day, texting, smut
word count | 3.6k
warning | smut, fingering, use of a toy, lots of messaging sorry
a/n | i’m obsessed w paige’s mirror pics like i hadddd to write about them! and you guys also loved my last paige one shot, i guess i’ll feed you guys before bed 🤗
⸻
game days always started earlier than they needed to.
you’d been awake for maybe twenty minutes when your phone buzzed beside you.
you reached over without opening your eyes, expecting some random notification.
instead, you saw a message from paige.
paige: are you awake
you smiled.
you: yes ma’am
paige: good
you opened your eyes.
you: why?
paige: i need you to be honest
you sat up slightly.
you: about what?
a picture appeared.
it was paige standing in front of her mirror, already dressed for the game.
you smiled immediately.
you: paige.
paige: what
you: you know you look good
paige: i need an actual answer
you: yes paige it looks so so so good
paige: okay but like actually
you giggled.
she’d already taken the picture she liked. she just wanted somebody else to confirm it.
you: actually actually
you: post it
paige: hmm
you shook your head.
you: why did you ask me if you’re gonna argue with me
paige: i’m not arguing
you: you’re literally contemplating about it
paige: maybe
another picture came through of her in the outfit from last game.
“oh my gosh.”
you: okay wait
paige: what
you: this one might be better
paige: SEE
paige: this is why i asked you
you laughed under your breath.
you: don’t get excited
paige: too late
you looked at both pictures again.
you: first one is like an 8.5
paige: ONLY 8.5?
you: second one is a 9
paige: wow
you: don’t let it go to your head
paige: too late again
you rolled your eyes.
then another picture came through.
you: no paige delete
paige: oh my gosh
you: i’m serious
paige: what’s wrong with it
you: everything
paige: you’re so mean
you: i’m saving you
paige: okay my consultant
you: exactly, thankya
paige sent another.
then another…
and somehow, ten minutes later, you were sitting in bed with five different mirror pictures of paige in your camera roll.
you: how many pictures did you take
paige: enough
you: clearly not
paige: okay but which one
you went back through them.
one was good, one was better, one was immediately disqualified, and then there was the last one.
you stopped scrolling.
you: wait
paige: what
you: THIS ONE
paige: really?
you: yes
you: this is the one
paige: okay
paige: posting just for you
you smiled.
a few seconds later, you refreshed instagram.
there it was, exactly the one you’d picked.
you: look how everyone is talking about the one i picked
paige: don’t start
you: you’re so welcome
paige: thank you for your professional services
you: i’ll invoice you later
paige: please do
paige: wait
paige: do you like it with the caption
you shook your head and dropped your head back against the pillow.
⸻
you’d seen the comments.
you’d seen people reposting it.
you’d even sent her a screenshot of one particularly funny comment.
you: people agree with me btw
paige: obviously
you: humble queen
paige: always
you: good luck today, baby
paige: thank youuu
paige: i’ll text you after
you: okay
you stared at the message for a second before adding:
you: have fun too
paige: i’ll try
you smiled.
⸻
the game itself went by quickly.
you weren’t at the arena, but you kept checking the score whenever you remembered.
you watched little clips when they popped up.
sent paige a quick message during a break.
you: how’s it going?
you didn’t expect an immediate response.
instead, one almost an hour later:
paige: we’re good so far
paige: i’m so tired tho
you: you got it, trust
paige: i hope so
you: i’m so proud of you
paige: thank you, y/n
you smiled at your phone before another message came through.
paige: also
paige: you were right
you knew exactly what she meant.
you: about the picture?
paige: yes
you: obviously
paige: everyone’s been talking about it
you: seeeeee
paige: okay don’t make this your personality
you: too late
⸻
the game ended with a win.
you found out through your phone first.
then you immediately opened you guys message thread.
you: GOOD GAMEEEEE
a few minutes passed.
nothing.
you figured she was busy, celebrating, talking to teammates, whatever happened after games.
so you put your phone down and went back to whatever you’d been doing.
⸻
it was later when you heard the front door open.
you looked up.
“paige?”
“yeah.”
you smiled.
“good game.”
“thank you.”
you heard her drop her bag somewhere near the entrance.
then footsteps.
she appeared in the room a few seconds later, looking exhausted.
you looked at her.
“long day?”
“very.”
she dropped onto the couch.
you laughed.
“you survived.”
“barely.”
you climb over her without saying anything else. your knees sink into the cushions on either side of her hips and you settle right on top of her.
she barely has time to look up before your mouth is on hers.
she kisses back slow at first, then deeper when your tongue brushes hers. a soft groan slips out of her when your hips roll down.
you feel her hands find your waist, holding on tight.
“your eyes are so pretty,” you whisper against her lips.
she exhales a shaky laugh. “thank you.”
you kiss her again, slower this time, letting it drag out. her breathing gets heavier.
you feel her chest rise and fall under you, still warm from the game.
your hands slide under the hem of her shirt and you lift it up, pushing the fabric until her sports bra is exposed. you tug that up too, freeing her tits. your palms cup them, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they stiffen.
paige lets out a soft moan, head tipping back against the couch.
“fuck,” she breathes.
you keep playing with her, rolling and pinching gently, watching her face. her thighs shift under you. you can feel how worked up she already is.
your mouth finds her neck next, kissing down to her collarbone while your hands stay busy.
when you finally move lower, your fingers hook into the waistband of her shorts. you glance up at her, waiting.
“yeah,” she says, voice low. “please.”
you tug her shorts and underwear down together, leaving them around one ankle. your fingers slide between her legs and she’s already wet.
you circle her clit first, slow and steady, then dip lower to push two fingers inside. paige groans, hips lifting to meet you.
“you’re so tight,” you murmur, curling your fingers just right. “been thinking about this all day.”
she moans again, louder this time. “feels so good. don’t stop.”
you pump your fingers in and out, thumb rubbing her clit in time with each thrust. her hands grip your shoulders now, nails digging in.
you keep talking to her between kisses on her chest.
“you played so good today. looked so fucking pretty in those pictures. couldn’t wait to get my hands on you.”
her breathing stutters. “thank you. thank you for this.”
you pull your fingers out after a few more strokes and reach for the drawer beside the couch. the vibrator’s already charged.
you press it to her clit first, letting it buzz against her while your fingers stay inside.
paige’s whole body jerks, a broken moan tearing out of her throat.
“shit—fuck, that’s—”
you turn the setting up one notch and watch her fall apart under you.
her thighs shake. her head tips back, mouth open, eyes half-lidded. you lean in close, lips brushing her ear.
“let go. i’ve got you.”
she comes with a long, low groan, hips grinding down against your hand and the toy.
you don’t stop until she’s twitching, over-sensitive, pushing weakly at your wrist. then you ease off, kissing her again, slower this time.
paige’s arms wrap around you, pulling you down until your chest is pressed to hers. she’s still catching her breath.
“thank you,” she whispers again, voice hoarse. “needed that.”
Summary: Paige Bueckers has been your best friend for years always there, always close, always quietly watching you give yourself to a man who didn’t know what to do with a body like yours.
Warnings: SMUT. Fingering, oral (f receiving), toy use (vibrator), squirting, power dynamics, possessiveness, light choking/restraint, recorded consented sexual content, aftercare,
It’s 1:38 a.m. when you call her. You don’t even say hi.
“…he couldn’t even find it.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then Paige sighs. “I told you.”
You let the phone fall back against the pillow as you groan, frustration raw in your throat. “No, you don’t get to ‘I told you’ me right now, Paige. I let him try. I tried. And he still—God, he said, ‘is this it?’ Is this it, Paige.”
You hear a shuffle, like she’s already getting up. “I’m on my way.”
She’s in your bed twenty-five minutes later. Hoodie, sweats, lips pressed together like she’s doing everything in her power not to laugh in your face.
“You know I’m not gonna say I told you so, right?”
“You literally already did.”
“Okay, but I didn’t say it like this,” she teases, flopping down beside you. Her thigh brushes yours under the blanket. “I just… don’t understand how a man could be that proud and that uncoordinated at the same time. Like pick a struggle.”
You groan again, but this time she pulls you in close, arm around your shoulder, chin nudging your temple.
“I mean… we could always make him a video.”
You freeze. “…what?”
“A tutorial,” Paige says casually, like she’s suggesting a YouTube skincare haul. “You lay back, I show him what you like, and then he doesn’t have to embarrass himself again. You win, he learns, everybody’s happy.”
You turn to stare at her. Her face is neutral. Too neutral.
“You’ve never touched me like that.”
She shrugs. “Don’t need to.”
Your mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”
Her smirk creeps in, slow and dangerous. “You forget who taught you how to kiss? Who talked you through your first orgasm over FaceTime? Baby, I know you better than you know you.”
Your legs clench on instinct. Paige doesn’t miss it. She leans in, voice low.
“He was licking you like an ice cream cone, huh? That slow, nervous shit like he’s scared of it.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to. She nods knowingly. “You like pressure. Tongue flat. You need rhythm, not flicks. And you hate when people ignore your clit to ‘explore.’ You want eye contact. Hair pulled. You want someone who’s not afraid to hold you open and make a mess.”
You swallow hard. “How the fuck do you know that?”
Paige just grins. “Because I know you.”
Later That Week
You hear from someone else first. Your boyfriend’s in the locker room talking big loud and confident, claiming he had you “screaming.” Word gets back to Paige in minutes.
She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t get loud. She just walks up to him after your game, chewing gum real slow. One hand in her pocket, chin tilted up.
“She told me what happened,” she says, eyes locked on him. “And whatever you think you did? You didn’t.”
He stammers. “You….you weren’t there.”
“I didn’t have to be,” she says, smirking. “She calls me after. Every time. Gives me play-by-plays. Like a coach.” His face goes pale.
“I could show you,” Paige offers, voice like syrup. “It’s easier than you think.”
She pats him on the chest, leans in, and whispers, “But you’ll never do it like me.”
That Night
You let him explain. You give him grace. You pretend like your best friend didn’t verbally gut him in public. But you’re lying in bed with your phone when Paige texts you:
He still doesn’t get it. I could teach him.
Or you could just let me show you.
It’s what you’ve always wanted, anyway.
You stare at the screen for a minute. Then you type.
Come over.
10:07 p.m.
Your apartment smells like vanilla. You’ve been pacing since she sent that text: “be there in 10.”
When you open the door, Paige is already smirking. Not the usual lazy, cocky thing she throws around when she’s being cute. This one’s different. Meaner. Hungrier. She’s in a black tee, hair in a bun, lips glossed. And when she steps in, she doesn’t hug you. Doesn’t say hi.
Just closes the door with her foot, eyes running over your body.
“So.” Her voice is low. Controlled. “You ready for your lesson?”
You scoff, turning to walk toward the couch, trying to play it off—trying.
“Thought it was a lesson for him.”
She follows close behind, and you feel her hands brush your waist as she leans in.
“Nah,” she whispers, her breath warm on your neck. “I lied.”
You freeze. Paige’s fingers slip under your shirt like she’s done it a thousand times. “This one’s for me.”
It doesn’t take long before you’re on your back, legs spread, shirt somewhere behind the couch. You expected teasing. A slow buildup. Maybe even some nerves.
But no. Paige is starving.
She kisses down your chest like she knows what she’s doing because she does. Licks that little spot under your left breast that always makes you gasp. She grins when you do, like she’s ticking boxes on a list she made years ago.
“You’re wet already,” she hums, dragging two fingers down the center of your panties. “You been thinking about this, huh?”
You don’t answer. She laughs, mean and quiet. “Yeah. Thought so.”
Then she’s pulling them off slow enough to watch your face, fast enough to make you squirm.
When she goes down, it’s with purpose. Paige spreads you open with both thumbs like she’s reading a map, tongue already pressed flat and heavy against your clit before you can even brace for it. No warmup. No warming you up. Just hot, slick, pressure. The kind your boyfriend never understood.
“Right here?” she murmurs, tongue circling slow, two fingers keeping you wide. “Yeah… you like that. I know.”
You whimper. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just shifts slightly and locks her arms under your thighs like she’s settling in.
Paige eats you like she’s proving a point groaning into it, tongue dragging, lips wet and greedy. When you try to close your legs, she pushes them back open, firm and calm.
“Nuh uh,” she says, voice muffled. “Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
And fuck she’s good.
She alternates between fast and slow, teasing and deep, like she’s learning and testing and knowing all at once. And you can’t even think straight. You’re gripping her hair. Breathing too fast. Already damn near there. Then she lifts her head.
“You wanna know what he was doing wrong?”
You groan. “Paige, I—”
She slides two fingers in like it’s nothing. Like she knew you’d be dripping enough.
“Everything.”
Her fingers curl just right, her palm hitting your clit with every thrust. She’s watching you now, eyes locked on your face, lip caught in her teeth like she’s studying for a final exam.
You cry out, arching up, chasing that pressure. She leans in close, licking her lips.
“You close already? Damn. Thought you were tougher than that.”
You slap her shoulder weakly. “Fuck you….”
“You’re trying baby.” She grins and twists her wrist. “But your pussy says different.”
You’re about to break literally shaking when she stops. You almost scream. Then she tilts her head.
“Can I record?”
You blink. “What?”
She’s dead serious. “Just for me. Won’t show nobody. I just want to watch you fall apart on my fingers again.” You whimper, pulling her back down by the back of her neck.
“Girl, yeah, whatever just don’t stop.” Her smirk grows wide and feral.
She pulls her phone out with her clean hand, props it low beside your thigh, and goes back in like she’s got something to prove to the camera now too. Fingers deeper. Tongue back on your clit.
This time she moans into you low and guttural. You lose it. Your hips stutter, thighs clench around her head, and you’re crying out her name like it’s always been her. Because it has.
You ride it out on her mouth, fingers buried in her hair, body twitching. She doesn’t stop until you pull her away, gasping. Even then she licks her lips, leans back on her knees, and watches you try to breathe again.
“Lesson one…” she says, still panting slightly. “Let somebody who actually gives a fuck touch you.”
You blink up at her, dazed.
“Lesson Two.”
Your breathing’s just starting to even out when Paige stands. Pulls you gently by the wrist.
“C’mon,” she says, like this is part of the curriculum. Like this is normal. “We’re not done.”
You follow, legs unsteady, mind still gooey from the first round. She’s shirtless now, hair wild, and walking you across the room toward your vanity.
The second you realize what she’s doing, your stomach flips.
“Paige—”
“Shh.” She stops you right in front of the mirror, hands skimming your waist from behind. “You look so fucking good like this.”
You do. Flushed skin, kiss-bruised lips, thighs still trembling. You look wrecked. Paige stands behind you, taller, toned, lips glistening with your slick. Her eyes meet yours in the reflection—hungry.
“Bend over.” You hesitate. Only a second.
She grips your hips and bends you herself, slowly. Hands splayed against the edge of the vanity now, your ass pressed back into her.
“You ever even look at yourself when he touched you?”
You shake your head. She smirks. “Didn’t think so.”
Then her arms slide around your neck. Her chest flush to your back. One arm anchors you across your collarbone, the other slips straight between your thighs.
“You’re gonna watch me make you cum,” she says, low and serious, like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. “Eyes open, baby.”
Two fingers slide in without resistance. You gasp.
She’s deeper than before. Angled perfectly. Her pace is slow at first, deliberate, and you feel every stroke like she’s dragging your soul out one inch at a time.
“Goddamn,” she murmurs into your ear, watching the way your mouth drops in the mirror. “You see how good you look? Look at how you open for me.”
You do. And it’s filthy.
The squelch of your pussy. The shine on her fingers. Your thighs tensing, face scrunched up as she fucks into you with that smug-ass expression, like she’s been waiting years for this moment and she has.
“You like that?” she whispers. “That pressure right here—” Curl. You cry out, hips jolting.
“Ohhh yeah. There she go.”
Her fingers are soaked now. She brings her thumb up to rub slow, tight circles on your clit while still fucking you deep. When you look away, overwhelmed.
“Uh uh.” She grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes up. “Keep watching. Watch what I do to you.”
She’s close now. Practically pressed against you. Her mouth brushes your ear with every breath.
“You think he could ever get you like this? Bent over, begging? Look at how needy you are, baby.”
You moan, body trembling. Your own reflection is ruining you Paige’s fingers moving like they’re guided by god, your face all fucked-out, her body wrapped around you like possession.
Then her pace shifts fast, steady, ruthless. You whine, trying to lift up from the vanity, but she holds you down with her forearm across your chest, lips grazing your jaw.
“Don’t run,” she growls. “This the part where you take it. And you do.
Legs shaking. Mouth open. Crying out her name. She doesn’t let up, doesn’t flinch, just keeps fucking into you like she already knows how many strokes it takes to break you.
You cum hard, body convulsing, knees buckling. She holds you through it, still pumping gently, still whispering in your ear.
“Good girl… There you go. Just like that. Look at you, baby.”
When your body finally gives out, she lifts you like nothing and sets you on the vanity stool. Crouches in front of you. Smiling.
You’re barely breathing when she lifts you onto the vanity stool. Thighs trembling, mouth slick with your own whimpers. She’s still crouched in front of you, chin glistening, fingers dripping, eyes dangerous.
“Too much?” she asks, smiling. You nod.
She tilts her head. “That’s cute. You think I care.”
Then she kisses you. Slow and deep like she’s trying to taste your orgasm still lingering on her lips. Her hands slide up your thighs, and you think she’s just holding you close.
You’re wrong. Because suddenly those fingers slip right back in. Two, maybe three. No warm-up this time. Just a slick, greedy slide that makes your hips jerk and your lips fall open mid-kiss.
“F-fuck, Paige—”
Her grin widens. She kisses the corner of your mouth, then down your jaw. She’s still on her knees, looking up at you with that cocky, knowing expression.
“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” she whispers. “Every time you came crying about how he didn’t know what he was doing… I’d go home and cum to the thought of this.”
You can barely hold eye contact, your hands gripping her shoulders like lifelines.
“Look at you,” she coos. “Still trying to act like you’re not mine now.”
Then your phone starts buzzing on the vanity. It’s him. You don’t even move, but Paige does. Calm as ever. Fingers still pumping slow and deep, she leans up and answers.
“Hello?”
Your eyes go wide. “Paige—”
She presses her palm to your clit, quieting you instantly with a firm stroke.
“Yeah,” she says into the phone, tone friendly. “She’s a little busy right now.” A pause. You can hear his voice confused, unsure. Asking what’s going on.
Paige looks you dead in the eye and curls her fingers hard. Your head snaps back, mouth open in a silent scream.
She covers the mic and mouths, “Don’t hold back.”
Then back into the phone, “Oh, that noise? That’s her.”
She flicks your clit again, harder this time, until your hips buck. “Yeah,” she breathes, grinning. “I’m showing her how to cum for real. Something you clearly never learned.”
You can hear him trying to talk over her, voice panicked and rising, but Paige is already back on you her tongue on your neck, her hand fucking up into you harder now, faster, trying to rip the sound out of you.
“You wanna say hi?” she teases, moving the phone toward your mouth. “C’mon. Tell him who’s got you like this.”
You moan—high, wrecked, involuntary. She laughs, actually laughs, and talks right over you.
“She’ll call you back when she’s done dripping all over my fucking hand.”
She ends the call. And doubles down. Literally.
Her pace turns filthy, fast, wet, relentless. Her palm slaps against you with every thrust, and her mouth is back on yours, stealing breath and sanity.
You scream into her kiss, clutching her hoodie, cumming harder than before. Paige just keeps going until your thighs are shaking around her wrist.
When you finally collapse into her chest, panting, she strokes your sides like she just gave you a massage.
“Lesson three,” she whispers. “Delete his fucking number.” You nod, boneless. Breathless. Ruined. She grins, kisses your cheek, and says “Now turn around. I’m not done grading you.”
Your body is limp when she finally pulls her fingers out, glistening and smug like she just conquered something and she did.
You’re draped across her, shaking, gasping into her neck, and still… still needing more.
“Paige…” Your voice is barely there. “Please…”
She doesn’t speak right away just runs her hand down your side, trailing between your legs like she’s memorizing every tremble.
Then, gently, she cups your face and makes you look at her.
“You want more?” You nod quickly, almost frantically. She leans in, lips brushing yours like a secret.
“Then you’re gonna let me show you everything.”
You’re not sure when or how you got to the bed. All you know is her voice and her hands guided you. Now you’re spread out again, thighs aching, breath shaky, as she kneels between your legs like she belongs there.
Paige looks too calm like she’s in her element, dark eyes flicking from your face to the drawer next to the bed.
“You still got that purple one?” she asks. You blink.
“Your vibe,” she clarifies, smirking. “You think I didn’t know? Girl, your man couldn’t make you cum. Of course you got backup.”
Heat flares in your chest, between your legs. You nod, wordless.
She reaches over, opens the drawer without asking, and pulls it out like she’s done it before. Her brows lift slightly. “This the one?”
You cover your face for a second, flustered, but nod again. She grins, climbs back between your thighs, and kisses the inside of your knee before switching the toy on. A soft hum. Then louder.
“Sit up,” she says. “I want you to watch.”
You prop up on your elbows just as she presses the vibrator to your clit. Your head drops back with a gasp.
“Nuh uh,” Paige says, not even looking up. “Eyes on me. Watch what I do to you.”
The first pass is light just enough to tease, to make your thighs twitch. But when she adds pressure.
“Fuck,” you breathe, one leg kicking slightly. You reach down and grab behind your own thigh, holding it open.
That makes her smile.
“Yeah,” she says softly.
Her eyes stay glued to your pussy the whole time—studying it. Worshipping it. She alternates pressure and rhythm like she’s done this before, like she’s studied you before. And every time your hips jerk or your thighs twitch, she notices.
“Oh, you like that speed?” You nod quickly.
“And this angle, huh?” You moan.
She licks her lips. “Let’s try something.”
And then she leans down. Flicks her tongue around the toy, just teasing the slick edges of your clit while the vibe presses steady into the center.
You nearly scream. Your leg shakes so hard you drop it. She grabs it and throws it over her shoulder with ease.
“Keep still,” she says, licking her lips again.
She eats your pussy around the vibrator. Her mouth catching the mess it makes. Her tongue flat. Her moans soft and greedy like she loves this.
You can’t breathe. Your eyes roll back. You claw the sheets.
“Paige—Paige I—”
“I know,” she purrs, pulling back just long enough to look you in the eye. “Let it happen.”
She pushes the toy slightly lower while her tongue flicks your clit. You break.
Your hips lift. Your moan turns high and choked. Your whole body snaps forward like it’s too much too much pressure, too much sensation, too much her.
And then You squirt. A lot. It hits her hand, her arm, the sheets. She doesn’t care. Just watches it happen like she’s proud of you. Mesmerized. Smiling.
“There she go,” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles again while your thighs twitch. “Been waiting to see that.”
You’re shaking. Crying maybe. Still gasping for air. But she’s not done. She leans back in mouth on your soaked clit, tongue lapping slow and deep and loving every drop.
She finally lets go of the toy, tosses it to the side like it served its purpose. Now it’s just her mouth. She groans into you, eyes fluttering closed, mouth full of you messy and loud and nasty.
You don’t even know if you cum in her mouth or just keep riding the edge, but it doesn’t matter. She’s not coming up for air. She’s been waiting for this. She’s going to take her time.
You’re still trembling when she finally pulls away. Mouth wet. Fingers drenched. Eyes glowing like she just won a championship.
She presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hipbone before crawling up your body, light on her feet, her hoodie half-off and damp at the hem from you.
You feel her hand press gently to your cheek.
“You alive?”
You nod, barely. She chuckles, like you just passed some impossible test. “Good girl.”
Then effortlessly, she lifts you. Carries you to the pillows and lays you on your side like you’re made of glass.
She disappears briefly, and you hear the sink running. A few seconds later, a warm towel presses between your legs, slow and careful, like she knows you’re sensitive now. She cleans you without saying a word no teasing, no smirks just small circles, gentle hands, reverent touch.
When she’s done, she grabs your water bottle off the nightstand and taps it against your lips.
“Drink,” she murmurs, arm sliding under your shoulders to lift you. “You gon’ need it.”
You sip slow, and when she’s satisfied, she eases you down again—this time against her. Hoodie still on. Legs tangled with yours. Your head resting on her chest.
The silence settles in warm.
Her fingers trace slow lines on your back, and her breathing’s steady almost like she didn’t just put you through five orgasms and a clean-up that looked like a post-game locker room mop-up.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Her phone lights up on the nightstand. You both glance at it. It’s him. Name lit up bold. Notifications stacked like a man who knows something is wrong but doesn’t know what.
She reaches for the phone, unlocks it with her thumb, and stares for a second, then hits the little microphone icon and starts a voice note.
“Yo,” she says, calm as ever, voice low and a little raspy from moaning your name all night. “My bad. She’s… out.”
She pans the phone over your sleeping form, gets just enough of your bare shoulder and the edge of her hoodie wrapped around you. Then taps send.
Sets the phone back down. Pulls you in tighter.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers against your hair. “He won’t call again.” You hum, half-asleep already.
She smiles. In the dark, with you curled into her chest, wrecked and warm, she kisses your forehead and says “Told you I’d teach you.”
free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 mom!paige! the life of paige bueckers, her lovely wife and their two kids -- dax and jelly bueckers
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 descriptions of motherhood, temper tantrums, angst at some points, more fluffy than anything.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 3.3k
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | this is a new au i want to start!!! ive always loved the concept of mom paige and now IM OBSESSED. i could not decide between girl mom paige, or boy mom paige then realized... i have free will! why not have both??
pls send in your thoughts about this AU so far!!! id love to hear them<3
You learn the sound of your footsteps before you learn the sound of the house.
Dax’s footsteps are fast and uneven, like he’s always half a second away from tripping over himself. Jelly’s are lighter and more chaotic, punctuated by sudden stops when she decides she is done walking. Paige moves differently, measured even when she’s rushing, every step purposeful and familiar in a way that makes your body relax before your brain catches up.
Right now, it’s all three.
You’re awake before the sun, not because you want to be, but because someone is whisper-yelling your name from the hallway.
“Mama,” Jelly stage-whispers, which is just yelling with intention. “Mama. Mama. Mama.”
You roll onto your side, eyes half-open, just in time to see her small silhouette in the doorway. Her blonde hair sticks up in three different directions, clutching her favorite stuffed animal (some unidentifiable creature that used to be a bunny before years of love).
“What’s wrong?” you murmur, arms already opening.
She waddles toward you and climbs onto the bed like she’s scaling a mountain. “No sleep,” she says seriously.
Behind her, Dax appears, already fully awake, vibrating with energy. He’s tall (too tall for almost eight) and somehow managed to outgrow the pajama pants you bought him two months ago. He’s dribbling an imaginary basketball, whispering play-by-play commentary under his breath.
Paige leans against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, watching all of it with a soft, tired smile she doesn’t realize she’s wearing.
“Good morning,” she says.
Dax grins. “Mom, can we go outside later? I want to practice crossovers. Coach said-”
Paige raises an eyebrow. “It’s six in the morning.”
“So?” he says, like this is the dumbest question she’s ever asked.
Jelly, meanwhile, has burrowed into your chest, fingers fisted in your shirt. “Mama,” she says again, content now that she’s found her spot.
Paige watches that too. Always does.
She doesn’t say anything, but you see it: the way her shoulders tense just slightly, the way her smile falters for a fraction of a second before she smooths it out. You’ve learned her tells over the years, learned them through college games and injuries and press conferences and pregnancies and late-night conversations whispered into pillows.
Paige Bueckers is an incredible mom.
She just doesn’t always believe it.
Your first pregnancy with Dax hit when Paige was at the absolute peak of her career. Endorsements, travel, expectations stacking higher and higher. She was home less. Tired more. Still attentive, still loving, but stretched thinner than she liked to admit.
She knew what to do.
From the moment Dax wrapped his tiny fingers around hers, Paige was locked in. He became her little shadow. He learned to crawl by chasing after her shoes. His first word was something dangerously close to “ball.” By the time he was four, he could name more NBA/WNBA players than most adults.
They were best friends in a way that made you smile. Inside jokes, secret handshakes, hours spent watching game film together while you pretended not to notice Paige explaining defensive schemes to a preschooler.
Dax adored her, and Paige soaked it up like proof she was doing something right.
Jelly was different from the start.
Angelica (Jelly) Bueckers was born during a strange, liminal time in Paige’s career when she was already great, already known, but still hungry, still climbing. She was terrified she’d miss something important. Terrified she’d be gone too much, that she wouldn’t know what to do.
You carried Jelly slower than Dax. Heavier. More aware of everything that could go wrong. Paige hovered when she could, hands always on your back, your stomach, your shoulders. When she couldn’t be there, she called, left you voice memos she recorded in empty locker rooms.
Jelly came into the world screaming like she had somewhere else to be.
She never stopped moving after that.
She learned to walk early, then immediately decided walking was for losers and took off running. The apartment became a hazard zone with coffee tables, corners, anything she could climb. By the time she was eighteen months, you and Paige were touring houses with yards because Jelly needed space to sprint like her life depended on it.
That’s how you ended up here.
A big house, huge backyard, grass worn down in uneven patches from little feet and basketball drills and Paige chasing both kids until she pretends she’s out of breath just to make them laugh.
Jelly loves Paige.
She just loves you differently.
You’re comfort. You’re the one who knows which cup she wants, how she likes her blanket folded, which song calms her down when she’s spiraling. Paige is excitement - games, noise, energy, the parent who riles her up and then hands her back to you when she crashes.
Paige knows this.
Some days, it eats at her.
Later that afternoon, Paige sits on the back steps with Dax, a basketball between them. He’s chattering a mile a minute, demonstrating a move he learned from watching highlights. Paige nods, engaged, correcting his footwork with gentle taps.
You’re inside with Jelly, who is mid-tantrum because you gave her the wrong snack.
“No,” she says for the fifth time, tears welling dramatically. “Mama. No.”
You crouch in front of her. “This is the snack you asked for.”
“No,” she insists, even though you both know she does want it.
From the doorway, Paige watches.
She doesn’t interrupt, rarely does when it comes to Jelly and you. She lets you handle it, even when it hurts a little to feel unnecessary.
Later, after both kids are finally asleep, Paige sits at the kitchen table, staring into nothing.
“You ever feel like,” she starts, then stops.
You wait.
She exhales. “Like I’m failing her.”
Your chest tightens. You move closer, resting your hands over hers. “Who?”
“Jelly,” she says immediately. “I mean... both of them, sometimes. But Jelly especially. She doesn’t want me the way she wants you.”
“She’s three,” you say gently. “She wants comfort.”
Paige nods, jaw tight. “I know. I just-” She shakes her head. “I’m gone so much. What if she grows up and I’m just… background noise?”
You squeeze her hands. “Paige. She’s going to grow up thinking her mom is the coolest person alive.”
Paige laughs weakly. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” you say. “Right now, I’m the safe place. You’re the fun one. One day she’s going to realize you’re the one who taught her how to be brave.”
Paige looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes soft in a way the world never sees.
“You’re really good at this,” she says quietly.
“At being a mom?”
“At being… us,” she says.
You smile. “So are you.”
Down the hall, Jelly sighs in her sleep. Dax mutters something about basketball dreams. The house settles.
The car ride home is quiet in a way that makes your chest ache.
Dax sits in the backseat, slumped low, hoodie pulled over his head even though it’s not cold. His basketball bag is wedged at his feet, zipper still half open, a stray sock hanging out like it gave up trying. Normally, he’d be talking - replaying drills, complaining about refs, asking if Paige saw his text about a move he nailed in warmups.
Today, nothing.
You glance at him in the rearview mirror. His jaw is tight, eyes are glossy, fixed on the window like he’s daring himself to blink.
“How was practice?” you ask gently, even though you already know.
He shrugs. “Fine.”
It’s the flattest word in the English language.
You pull out of the parking lot, waiting. Eight-year-olds can only hold it in for so long. Sure enough, two minutes pass. Then three. Then-
“I didn’t get first string,” he says suddenly, voice cracking despite his best effort to keep it steady.
Your heart sinks. “Oh, buddy.”
“They put Tyler in,” he continues, words tumbling out now that the dam’s broken. “Coach said it’s not permanent and that I just need to keep working but I already work hard. I do extra drills. I listen. I don’t mess around like some of the other kids.”
His voice wobbles, and he presses his sleeve hard against his eyes, furious with himself for it.
You signal and pull over into a quiet side street, putting the car in park. You twist in your seat to face him. “Dax,” you say softly. “Not getting first string doesn’t mean you’re bad.”
“Yes it does,” he snaps, then immediately looks guilty. “Sorry. I just-” He swallows. “I wanted Mom to see.”
That’s the part that gets you.
Paige is in another state tonight. Away game. You’d FaceTimed her before practice, her already in team gear, telling Dax she was proud of him no matter what. You can picture her now - all locked in, no idea her son is unraveling over a gym rotation chart.
“I know,” you say quietly. “She’ll still be proud.”
He shakes his head hard. “You don’t get it.”
You reach back and rest a hand on his knee. “Help me get it.”
He hesitates, then blurts, “She’s really good at basketball. Like, really good. What if I’m not?”
The question hangs there, heavy and unfair and too big for an eight-year-old to carry.
You open your mouth, ready to reassure him, to tell him all the right things but before you can, he sniffles and adds, voice barely above a whisper, “I just want Mom.”
That stops you cold.
You don’t take it personally. You know this moment belongs to Paige. You pull your phone out without another word.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s call her.”
Paige answers on the third ring, breathless. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”
She’s still in uniform, hair damp, locker room noise echoing behind her. You angle the phone so Dax can see her.
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at her, lips pressed together, eyes shiny.
Paige’s expression changes instantly.
“Hey,” she says softly. “Ducky?”
He winces. “Don’t call me that.”
She smiles, gentle. “Mm. That’s how I know it’s bad.”
She looks at you. You mouth, first string. Paige nods, jaw setting with quiet understanding.
“Hang on,” she says, already moving. “Let me step out.”
You watch her weave through the locker room, push open a door into a hallway. The noise fades and she props the phone up somewhere and crouches so she’s eye-level with the screen.
“Okay,” she says. “Tell me everything.”
Dax takes a shaky breath. “I didn’t get first string and Coach said it’s fine but I think he’s just saying that, and Tyler’s not even better than me, he just... louder. And I practiced really hard and-” His voice breaks. “What if I’m just not good?”
Paige doesn’t interrupt, lets him get it all out, nodding along, eyes locked on his like nothing else in the world exists.
When he finally runs out of words, she speaks.
“Hey,” she says gently. “Do you know who Michael Jordan is?”
Dax sniffles. “Yeah, obviously.”
Paige smiles. “Did you know he got cut from his high school basketball team?”
Your eyebrows lift slightly. This was the story everyone heard in elementary and middle school, the one that plays at every assembly. Even though it’s not entirely true, everyone believed it as a kid. It’s like a rite of passage.
Dax’s eyes widen. “He did?”
“Yep,” Paige says, solemn. “Didn’t make the team. Went home. Cried. Thought he wasn’t good enough.”
Dax leans closer to the phone, hooked.
“And then,” Paige continues, “you know what he did?”
“What?”
“He worked. Every single day. He practiced harder than everyone else. And he became Michael Jordan.”
Dax is quiet for a moment, absorbing this. “So… getting cut doesn’t mean you’re bad?”
“No,” Paige says firmly. “It means you’re being challenged.”
He frowns. “But what if I never get first string?”
Paige tilts her head. “Then you keep showing up, keep loving the game. And one day, you look back and realize this was just a step, not the whole story.”
He picks at a loose thread on his hoodie. “It still sucks.”
She laughs softly. “Yeah. It really does.”
That honesty seems to help more than anything. He exhales, shoulders relaxing just a little.
Paige watches Dax through the screen for a second longer than she needs to. He’s still hunched, shoulders pulled inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. She recognizes it instantly. She’s worn that posture before.
“Hey,” she says, quieter now. “Can I tell you something?”
Dax shrugs. “Okay.”
She takes a breath. You can see it - this isn’t a canned speech. This is her choosing honesty.
“When I was in college,” she starts, “I was playing the best basketball of my life. Like… everything was clicking. I felt like I was on top of the world, I was number one in the country.”
Dax’s eyes flicker up.
“And then,” Paige continues, “I hurt my knee. Bad. ACL. Doctors, surgeries, months where I couldn’t even run.”
Dax frowns. “That’s the big one, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. “The really big one.”
He swallows. “Were you scared?”
Paige nods immediately. “Terrified.”
She leans closer to the phone, voice steady but raw. “I thought it was over. I really did. I thought, that’s it, that was my chance and I blew it. I watched my team play without me, watched other people get better while I was stuck doing exercises that felt stupid and slow.”
Dax picks at the string on his hoodie again. “Did you cry?”
She smiles sadly. “A lot. Like… a lot.”
That earns the tiniest ghost of a smile from him.
“And you know what the worst part was?” she adds. “It wasn’t the pain. It was the voice in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough anymore.”
Dax looks up fully now. “The voice that says mean stuff?”
“Exactly that one,” Paige says. “The one that lies.”
She lets that sit for a second.
“But I kept working,” she says. “Even when it sucked. Even when I didn’t believe it would matter. And now” she shrugs lightly. “I’m playing in the WNBA. People call me one of the best.”
Dax’s eyes widen. “Yeah. You are.”
Paige’s smile softens. “And that didn’t happen because everything went perfectly. It happened because things went wrong and I didn’t quit.”
He thinks about that, chewing on the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s processing something big.
“So,” he says slowly, “not getting first string doesn’t mean it’s over.”
“No,” Paige says firmly. “It means you’re in the middle of it.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the gym.
“And Dax,” she adds, voice warming. “You’re my kid. I know how you work. I’ve seen you practice in the backyard until you’re drenched in sweat. I’ve seen you mess up and try again instead of giving up.”
She grins. “That’s not luck. That’s you.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
She smiles. “And hey.”
“What?”
“You’re still my favorite basketball buddy.”
He groans. “Mom.”
She grins. “Sorry. My tall, dramatic, very good-at-basketball Ducky.”
“I hate that name,” he mutters.
She laughs. “Sure you do.”
You watch him the whole time. How his breathing evens out, how the weight seems to lift just enough for him to sit up straighter.
“I love you,” Paige says softly.
“Love you too,” he replies, quieter now.
She looks at you. “Thank you.”
You smile. “Always.”
The call ends. Dax leans back in his seat, exhausted but calmer.
After a minute, he says, “Mama?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we practice later?”
You glance at the basketball bag, then back at him. “Yeah,” you say. “We can.”
He nods, finally letting his eyes close as the car starts moving again.
The house is loud in a good way.
It smells like grilled food and sunscreen and the faint sweetness of whatever dessert someone brought without telling you what it was. Music hums low through the speakers Paige set up in the backyard, people are everywhere, clustered around the grill, stretched out on patio chairs, leaning against the fence.
This is the first big thing you’ve hosted here. A housewarming, technically, though it’s really just an excuse for Paige’s teammates to come over and see the place and eat too much food. They’ve taken to the house like they belong in it - shoes kicked off by the door, laughter echoing down the hallway.
Jelly is in heaven.
She’s darting between people, ponytail bouncing, cheeks flushed from excitement. She loves Paige’s teammates - her “aunts,” as Dax calls them. They scoop her up, spin her around, let her steal food off their plates. She giggles loudly, and for a while everything is perfect.
Dax is outside with a basketball, of course. A small group has formed around him, cheering dramatically every time he makes a shot. He’s eating it up, chest puffed out, basking in the attention.
Paige stands near you, drink in hand, watching it all with a soft expression she doesn’t bother hiding.
“Look at this,” she says quietly. “We did this.”
You smile. “We really did.”
It happens fast.
One second, Jelly is laughing, being passed from arm to arm, her voice bright and high. The next, there’s a sharp change in pitch - a cry that cuts through the noise like a siren.
You and Paige both turn at the same time.
Jelly stands in the middle of the yard, hands clenched at her sides, face crumpling as tears spill over. One of Paige’s teammates crouches in front of her, concern written all over her face, but Jelly steps back, shaking her head violently.
For a split second, it seems like she might come to you. She looks in your direction, eyes searching.
Then-
“Mommy!”
The word is loud. Desperate, broken in half by a sob.
Paige freezes for exactly one heartbeat.
Then she’s moving.
She crosses the yard in long, fast strides, not running but close, urgency radiating off her. You stop short instinctively, watching as Paige drops to her knees in front of Jelly.
Jelly launches herself forward, arms wrapping around Paige’s neck, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt like she’s afraid Paige might disappear if she loosens her grip. Her face presses into Paige’s shoulder, sobs hitching and wet and unrestrained.
Paige gathers her up without hesitation, one arm under her legs, the other secure around her back. She stands, rocking gently, murmuring nonsense words and reassurances into Jelly’s hair.
You see it then - the way Paige’s body softens, the way she tucks Jelly in close like it’s muscle memory.
“It’s okay,” Paige whispers. “Too loud? Too much? I know. I know.”
Jelly clings tighter, sniffling, her little hands fisted in Paige’s hoodie.
Around you, the noise dips, people pretending not to stare but watching anyway. Someone turns the music down a notch. The moment is quiet in a way that feels intimate.
Paige doesn’t rush it, doesn’t try to pass Jelly off, just holds her, swaying slowly until the sobs ease into hiccupping breaths.
Eventually, Paige carries her back over to you and sinks down onto the outdoor couch beside you. Jelly stays glued to her, cheek pressed against Paige’s chest, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
Paige adjusts her grip, settling Jelly more comfortably, one hand rubbing slow circles into her back.
Paige glances at you, something tentative in her expression. “I mean... she just-”
You cut her off gently. “She knows I’m here.”
Paige searches your face.
“She just wanted her mommy,” you add, smiling softly. “That’s all.”
Paige’s lips curve into a small, almost disbelieving smile. It’s subtle, but you see it. The way her shoulders relax, the way she exhales like she’s been holding something in all along.
Jelly sighs, finally calm, still clinging but peaceful now.
Paige presses a kiss to the top of her head, eyes shining just a little.
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The apartment felt too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed down on your chest like a weight. The argument from earlier still lingered in the air like smoke that refused to clear. It had started over something that felt so small at first…Caitlin texting that she’d be “a little late” for the dinner you’d spent the afternoon preparing. Then “a little late” turned into two hours, and when you called she answered with that distracted tone she got when she was deep in film study or extra shooting drills.
“You don’t get it,” she’d said sharply when you finally snapped about feeling like an afterthought. “This is my job. This is how I make it. I can’t just clock out like everyone else.”
“And I’m not asking you to quit basketball,” you’d shot back, voice rising. “I’m asking you to show up for me sometimes. For us.”
The fight had escalated fast after that. Harsh words about priorities, about her being married to the game, about you feeling invisible. Caitlin had slammed the door on her way back to the facility, muttering something about needing space to clear her head. You hadn’t heard from her for the rest of the evening except for one short text hours later…“I’ll be home late.”
Now it was well past midnight. The dinner you’d made sat cold and untouched in the fridge. You were curled up on the couch in the living room, wearing nothing but one of her old Iowa Hawkeyes hoodies. The TV was on low, some mindless show playing that you weren’t really watching. Your phone lay face down on the coffee table, notifications silent.
The sound of keys in the lock made your stomach twist.
Caitlin pushed the door open slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever waited inside. She was still in her Fever practice gear…navy sweats that hung on her hips and a long sleeved dry fit shirt that clung to her toned shoulders and arms. At 6’0, she filled the doorway, her long brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with a few loose strands framing her face. Her cheeks were still slightly flushed from the drive, and there were faint shadows under those sharp green eyes. She looked tired. Worn down in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion.
She kicked her shoes off with a soft thud. For a long moment, she just stood there, scanning the room until her gaze landed on you. The usual confident, almost cocky energy she carried everywhere was muted tonight. Her shoulders were tense, jaw tight.
You didn’t look up immediately. You kept your eyes on the TV, arms wrapped around one of the throw pillows like it could shield you from the conversation you both knew was coming.
Caitlin cleared her throat. “Hey.”
Her voice was quieter than normal, that familiar midwestern accent a little rough around the edges from the long day.
You hummed in response, still not meeting her eyes.
She sighed heavily, running a hand through her ponytail and tugging the hair tie out. Dark waves spilled over her shoulders as she crossed the living room in a few long strides. She stopped a few feet away from the couch, towering over you, but she didn’t sit down right away. Instead, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, athletic legs planted wide like she was guarding someone on the court.
“Look… I know you’re still mad,” she started, rubbing the back of her neck. “And you’ve got every right to be. I fucked up tonight. Big time.”
You finally glanced up at her. Caitlin’s expression was raw…frustration aimed mostly at herself, a flicker of worry creasing her brow. This wasn’t the Caitlin Clark who dropped logo threes with a smirk or trash talked opponents without breaking a sweat. Right now she looked vulnerable in a way she rarely let anyone see.
“I got caught up in extra film with the coaches,” she continued, voice low and careful. “Then I stayed to get up some extra shots because I missed a couple easy ones in practice today. I told myself it’d only be twenty minutes… and then it was two hours. I should’ve called. I should’ve come home when I said I would.” She took a small step closer, her green eyes searching your face. “I hate that I made you feel like you don’t matter. Because you do. You matter more than any game, any practice, any stupid drill. I just… I suck at balancing it sometimes. The pressure out there is insane, and I take it out on the wrong people. On you.”
The apology hung between you, sincere and a little clumsy. Caitlin wasn’t great with words when emotions ran this high, but she was trying.
She hesitated, then slowly lowered herself to one knee in front of the sectional so she was closer to your eye level. One of her large, calloused hands reached out and gently rested on your knee over the soft fabric of the hoodie. Her thumb started tracing slow, soothing circles.
“I missed you all night,” she admitted softly. “Even when I was being an idiot and staying late, I kept thinking about how I should be here with you instead. Eating that dinner you made. Listening to you talk about your day. Just… being with you.”
The knot in your chest started to loosen, but you still didn’t speak right away.
Caitlin’s hand squeezed your knee gently. “Can I sit with you?” she asked, almost hesitant. “Or… can I touch you? I don’t want to push if you’re not ready.”
You nodded once, the smallest movement.
That seemed to be all the permission she needed.
In one smooth, effortless motion, Caitlin rose to her feet and scooped you up off the couch. Her strong arms wrapped around your thighs and back as she lifted you against her chest like you weighed nothing. You let out a surprised breath, instinctively grabbing onto her shoulders. Her body was still warm from practice, solid muscle shifting under your hands, the faint scent of her sweat mixed with the clean smell of her body wash clinging to her skin.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, lips brushing against your temple as she carried you down the short hallway toward the bedroom. Her voice was low and rough with regret. “I hate fighting with you. Especially when it’s my fault. I don’t ever want you to feel invisible. Not with me.”
She pushed the bedroom door open with her shoulder and carried you inside, the only light coming from the bedside lamp you’d left on. The big bed looked inviting, sheets still rumpled from the morning. Caitlin laid you down gently in the center of the mattress, her long frame hovering over you for a moment as she braced herself on her forearms.
For a heartbeat, she just looked at you…green eyes dark with a mixture of remorse and building hunger. Then she leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, careful kiss. It started soft, almost tentative like she was afraid you might pull away. When you didn’t, when you kissed her back the kiss deepened. Her tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance and you granted it. The taste of her…mint from the gum she’d probably chewed on the drive home, mixed with the lingering salt of her skin.
Caitlin’s hand slid under the oversized hoodie, warm palm gliding up your bare side, calloused fingertips grazing your ribs and the underside of your breast. She pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth, voice husky. “Tell me if you want me to stop. But god… I really want to make this right. I want to show you how much you mean to me.”
You answered by pulling her closer, fingers threading into her messy hair.
That was all the encouragement she needed.
Caitlin tugged the hoodie up and over your head, tossing it aside. Her gaze raked over your now bare upper body, darkening with clear want.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” she breathed, leaning down to press open mouthed kisses along your collarbone. “Even when you’re mad at me… still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She kissed lower, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin of your neck, then harder…deliberately leaving a mark that would be visible tomorrow. “Gonna make it up to you tonight,” she promised, voice vibrating against your throat. “Gonna take my time. Make you feel so good you forget we were ever fighting.”
Her hands continued their movements, peeling away the rest of your clothes with practiced movements until you were completely bare beneath her. Only then did she sit back on her heels and strip off her own shirt and sports bra, revealing her toned athletic body…lean muscle carved from years of training, abs flexing with each breath, small breasts with nipples already tight from arousal and the cool air of the room.
You reached for her, but Caitlin gently caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. Her smirk finally made a tentative reappearance, that signature cocky glint returning to her green eyes. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Let me take care of you first, baby. You were right to be pissed. Now let me prove how sorry I am.”
She released your wrists only to trail kisses down your body…slow, reverent presses of her lips to your sternum, your stomach, the tops of your thighs. When she finally settled between your legs, spreading them wide with strong hands, she looked up at you through her lashes, green eyes locked intently on yours.
“Keep your eyes on me,” she said softly, the same commanding tone she used when she was running the offense on the court. “I want to see every fucking second of you falling apart.”
Then her mouth was on you.
The first long, slow lick dragged from your entrance all the way up to your clit, hot and wet and filthy. Caitlin groaned loudly against your pussy the second she tasted you, the sound vibrating straight through your core. “Shit, baby… you’re dripping for me already. Such a messy little pussy even when you’re mad at me.”
She dove in deeper, tongue flat and broad as she licked through your folds like she was starving. Two long fingers pushed inside you without warning, stretching you open with a wet, obscene sound. She curled them instantly, stroking that spongy spot inside you with ruthless precision while her lips wrapped around your swollen clit and sucked hard.
You cried out, hips jerking, but her free hand pinned your lower stomach down, holding you exactly where she wanted you. “That’s it, take my fingers,” she growled between messy licks, voice thick and filthy. “Gonna fuck this tight pussy until you’re shaking. Gonna make you cum so hard you forget every angry word I said earlier.”
Her fingers pumped faster, curling…the slick sounds of her thrusting mixing with the wet noises of her mouth devouring you. She alternated between long, slow drags of her tongue and quick, relentless flicks over your clit…never giving you a chance to catch your breath. Every time your walls clenched around her fingers she moaned, the vibration making your thighs tremble.
“Look at me,” she demanded, green eyes blazing up at you as she sucked your clit into her mouth again, hollowing her cheeks. “Watch me eat this pretty pussy like it’s mine. Because it is. Every fucking inch of you is mine.”
You were soaked, her chin and lips shiny with your arousal as she worked you relentlessly. She added a third finger, stretching you fuller…the burn so good it made your back arch off the bed. Caitlin fucked you deeper, harder, her tongue never stopping its assault on your clit while her fingers curled and rubbed that perfect spot over and over.
“Cum for me, baby,” she rasped, voice rough.
“Flood my mouth. Let me taste how sorry you want me to be. I want to feel this greedy cunt squeezing my fingers when you break.”
The orgasm slammed into you violently. Your thighs clamped around her head, a broken, loud moan of her name tearing from your throat as your walls pulsed and gushed around her fingers.
Caitlin didn’t slow down…she kept fucking you through it, tongue flicking furiously, drawing out every wave until you were whimpering, oversensitive, hips twitching uncontrollably.
Only when you were gasping and trying to twist away did she finally ease her fingers out, replacing them with one last slow, soothing lick before she crawled back up your body. She kissed you deeply, shoving her tongue into your mouth so you could taste how filthy you were on her. “Good fucking girl,” she praised, voice husky and satisfied, nipping at your bottom lip. “So perfect for me. Even after I’ve been an idiot.”
You were still riding the aftershocks, body trembling, when you pushed at her shoulders, flipping your positions with a surge of energy. Caitlin let you, a surprised laugh escaping her as her back hit the mattress.
“My turn,” you said, voice breathy but determined.
“Time to remind you exactly who you come home to.”
Her smirk widened, hands settling possessively on your waist as she looked up at you with dark, hungry green eyes. “Yeah? Then prove it, baby. Show me.”
Genre: enemies to flirting to losing your mind, paige is a little shit, slow burn but not really, tension so thick it’s basically a third character, paige is failing bio and somehow it’s your problem, cocky athlete x academically unhinged girl, tutoring sessions turned emotional warfare, dirty shirley temples, smut incoming
Description: Paige Bueckers is failing biology, and you're the unlucky tutor assigned to drag her out of academic disaster. What should be a simple arrangement becomes anything but, thanks to her complete lack of focus, relentless flirtation, and the infuriating way she manages to get under your skin—and into your head.
Between chaotic study sessions, surprise bar encounters, and more sexual tension than should legally exist between two people trying to discuss mitochondria, it’s clear that the real test isn’t the midterm. It’s whether you can make it through the semester without either making out with her—or killing her.
One thing’s for sure: Paige isn’t the only one getting schooled.
WC: 9.6k (and growing)
Notes: im back?
The library is way too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own breathing sound deafening, where every shuffle of paper or tap of a pen echoes like a gunshot. It’s the kind of silence that should be perfect for studying. Should be.
Except Paige Bueckers is sitting across from you, and Paige Bueckers doesn’t give a single shit about studying.
Instead, she’s leaned back in her chair like she’s lounging courtside instead of being one bad test score away from academic probation. She’s got her long legs stretched out beneath the table, sneakers tapping lazily against the floor. Her hoodie—way too oversized for someone whose entire existence is dedicated to agility and precision—is slouching off one shoulder, and she’s twirling a pen between her fingers like she’s dribbling down the court with a shot clock winding down. The sleeves are bunched up just enough to show her forearms, strong and lined with faint muscle from years of training, but the only thing working right now is her mouth.
Grinning. Smirking. Teasing. Doing everything but reading the goddamn textbook in front of her.
“Alright, Paige,” you sigh, pushing your notes toward her for what has to be the third time. “We need to focus. You will fail this class if you don’t start studying.”
Paige doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t move an inch beyond a lazy stretch that makes her hoodie ride up just slightly, flashing the waistband of her shorts. Her smirk deepens like she can feel you noticing.
“Yeah,” she drawls, tilting her head, “but then I’d have to take it again next semester. Which means more quality time with my favorite tutor.”
You stare at her. She stares back. The kind of look that feels like a staredown before tip-off except way less athletic and way more are you seriously this insufferable?
She holds the eye contact, easy as anything, while you struggle to remind yourself that she is only your student, not a professional flirt sent to ruin your life. Her eyes gleam in the dim library lighting, playful and sharp at the same time. Her lashes are unfairly long, brushing against her cheeks when she finally blinks.
Your heart rate picks up. Not from that. From the academic crisis happening right now. Obviously.
“You’re not failing on purpose, right?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.
Paige tilts her head, pretending to ponder, lips pursing slightly. “Hmm. No, but if I did, would that be kinda cute?”
You groan dramatically, dragging a hand down your face. “I am this close to committing academic misconduct and just taking the test for you.”
Paige gasps. Actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in faux offense. “Wow. I knew med school was intense, but I didn’t realize you were out here ready to commit federal crimes for me.”
“That’s it,” you announce, pushing back from the table. “I’m done. I quit. Find someone else to teach you about mitochondria.”
You barely make it an inch before Paige reaches across the table and hooks two fingers around your wrist, tugging you back down like you weigh nothing. Her grip is firm, all strength and control—like she’s grabbing a rebound, like she’s got her hands on the game ball in overtime. Your pulse jumps again, this time definitely because of that.
Her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before she releases you. But she’s still watching you, expression softening just slightly around the edges. “C’mon, stay,” she says, voice lower now, like a secret. “I promise I’ll actually pay attention this time.”
You cross your arms. “Oh? And what changed?”
She leans forward this time, elbows on the table, chin propped on one hand. The lighting catches the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. She’s smiling, but it’s something different now—something slower.
“Figured out that if I fail,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “I won’t have an excuse to see you anymore.”
Your brain does a full system reboot. Error. What the fuck did she just say?
“Wh—Paige.”
She just winks, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip for half a second before her grin spreads, slow and satisfied. “What? That was cute, right?”
You grab your pen and point it at her accusingly. “You are so goddamn lucky you’re good at basketball, because if you had to rely on your brain—”
“I’d still get by,” she interrupts smoothly, shooting finger guns at you. “People tend to go easy on the charming ones.”
Your mouth actually falls open. Not on purpose—just an involuntary reaction to the sheer, unbelievable audacity of this girl. She’s failing biology, hasn’t written down a single note, and still has the goddamn nerve of a mathlete coasting through an easy A.
You snap your jaw shut, you refuse to let her see how flustered you are. You refuse. “Okay, charming one, then explain the process of cellular respiration.”
Paige squints, lips pressing together as she sucks in a breath through her teeth, nose scrunching like she’s really trying to make something shake in that head of hers. “Uh… it’s when cells… respire?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through your teeth. “We are so, so fucking doomed.”
She just laughs, kicking her feet out beneath the table, accidentally knocking her knee against yours. “Relax,” she says, her grin widening. “You love tutoring me.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah,” she nods, completely sure of herself. “You totally have a little crush on me.”
You let out a dry, incredulous laugh—one of those sharp, breathy ones, all eyebrows raised and head bobbing. “Yeah, sure.”
She shrugs, tapping a finger against the open page of her biology textbook like she might actually start paying attention. Then, without looking up—
“Nah, I know.”
You blink. Paige blinks back.
The air between you tightens like a taut shoelace, pulling, pulling—dangerously close to snapping. You could be the bigger person here. You could roll your eyes, let it go, return to the noble pursuit of keeping Paige Bueckers from academically imploding.
But something about the way she’s looking at you—too smug, too sure—strikes a competitive nerve in you. And you’re not about to lose anything to her. Not a game, not a staredown, and sure as hell not a battle of wits.
So you shift in your chair, tilting your head, letting your lips curl just slightly. “Oh, you know?”
Paige leans back again, arms crossed, shoulders loose. She’s cocky, sure, but there’s something anticipatory in her gaze—like she knows you’re about to challenge her and she’s thrilled about it.
“Mhm.” She nods, casual as ever. “Crystal clear.”
You hum, feigning thoughtfulness, tapping a finger against the open textbook. “Wow. Must be nice. I thought you struggled with retention, but here you are, remembering things that have literally never been said.”
She gasps. “Rude.”
“You’ll get over it,” you deadpan.
Paige, of course, does not let it go. She tips her chin up, meeting your gaze with something wicked and playful tangled in the blue of her eyes. “Okay, fine. You don’t have a little crush on me.”
You exhale, relieved.
“But you definitely think about me when I’m not around.”
Your breath catches. Paige sees it. Her grin stretches wider, knowing, smug.
Oh, you are not letting her have this.
You scoff, shifting back in your chair, fighting the warmth creeping up your spine. “Paige, you are in my life solely because you can’t pass basic biology. I think about you in the same way people think about a fire alarm that won’t stop beeping.”
“Ah, so constantly?”
You scowl. She beams.
“That’s fair,” Paige shrugs, stretching her arms over her head, and the movement makes her hoodie ride up again, flashing a sliver of tanned stomach. “I am pretty unforgettable. Even when I’m annoying.”
“Especially when you’re annoying,” you mutter.
Paige smirks, but then, as if sensing your growing frustration, she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes and dragging her textbook closer. “Alright, fine. I’ll study.”
You narrow your eyes. “For real?”
She winks. “Scout’s honor.”
“Paige, you were never a scout.”
“Prove it.”
You sigh but relent, watching as she flips open the book and actually—miraculously—starts reading the page in front of her. You take a sip of your now-cold coffee, reveling in the small victory.
For a blissful forty-five seconds, Paige is silent. Then—
“So, like,” she starts, “mitochondria. That’s the powerhouse of the cell, right?”
You pause. Blink. Lower your coffee. “Yes?”
Paige throws her hands in the air. “Let’s gooo. I’m a genius.”
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Paige, you have three weeks until your exam. We need to cover way more than that.”
“Okay, okay,” she soothes, putting her hands up in surrender. “Next question.”
You flip to another page, glancing up briefly to make sure she’s paying attention.
She’s not. She’s looking at you.
You pause, caught off guard by the way she’s watching you—not with teasing amusement or lazy smugness, but with something softer. Warmer. Curious.
“Paige,” you warn, shifting uncomfortably.
She blinks, then grins again, but there’s something slightly less sharp about it now. “Nothing, nothing,” she mutters, shaking her head, flipping a page in her book. “Just thinking.”
You hesitate, unsure if you want to ask, what about? But you don’t.
Instead, you clear your throat, turning your attention back to the book. “Okay. Explain the process of osmosis.”
Paige tilts her head dramatically. “Is that, like, when you just chill through life and things come to you naturally?”
“Oh my god, no,” you deadpan.
She grins. “Damn. Thought I was onto something.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “We are so fucked.”
Paige just laughs, bright and easy. “Nah. You’d never let me fail.”
She says it like it’s a fact. Like she knows, without a doubt, that you’d never let hers fall behind. And the worst part is she’s most definitely right.
She twirls her pen between her fingers, spinning it effortlessly like a basketball rolling off the tips of her hands. It’s hypnotizing, actually—the smooth rotations, the lazy way her fingers flick with just enough control to keep it from dropping. She’s been doing this for the last ten minutes, and not once has she even pretended to read the page in front of her.
Meanwhile, you’re hunched over your notes, taking deep, steadying breaths. You tell yourself you won’t let her test your patience today. You won’t get dragged into her game. You won’t—
“Paige,” you say, voice strained.
“Hm?” she replies, still flipping her pen effortlessly.
“Please read.”
Paige hums noncommittally. Turns a page without reading it. You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. “Paige.”
She finally looks up, resting her chin on her palm, eyes bright with amusement. “What? I’m absorbing information. Through osmosis.”
You close your eyes, count to three. Consider what your life would be like if you had literally any other tutoring assignment.
“You are so lucky you’re athletic,” you mutter, flipping the page back to where she was actually supposed to start reading. “C’mon. Photosynthesis. What do you know?”
Paige stretches her arms behind her head, her hoodie riding up slightly—distractingly—before she drops back down with a smirk, looking at you like she’s about to deliver the most groundbreaking scientific revelation of all time.
“Plants… make food?”
Your eyelid twitches.
“Correct,” you deadpan. “And they do that through—”
“The power of love,” Paige interrupts, placing a hand over her chest. “And sunlight.”
You grip the edge of the table. Consider flipping it over. “Yes. Because that’s what biology is. Disney magic and good vibes.”
Paige grins. “Exactly.”
You open your mouth—probably to unleash a scathing lecture about the sanctity of science—when a shadow hovers at the edge of the table. You glance up—because you always have to glance up when people stop by your study sessions with Paige—and find a girl, probably a freshman, clutching her phone like it’s a sacred artifact.
She shifts on her feet, looking like she’s debating whether she should even speak to Paige. You can already see where this is going.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” the girl says, eyes darting between you and Paige, before ultimately landing—unsurprisingly—on Paige. “Could I, um, get a picture? If that’s okay?”
Paige doesn’t miss a beat. She shifts effortlessly from Slacker Paige to Cool Superstar Paige, flashing an easy grin as she leans back in her chair like she expected this. Like this is as common as someone asking her to pass the salt at dinner.
“Of course,” she says, voice warm, inviting, polished. She stands smoothly, rolling her shoulders back, exuding that same relaxed confidence she has right before sinking a step-back three.
You, meanwhile, remain seated, taking a slow sip of your coffee, already resigned to your fate as Paige Bueckers’ unofficial designated library bodyguard.
It’s routine at this point. The public adoration, the excited stammering, the sheepish thank you so much before they rush off like they just met royalty. And then Paige slides back into her chair, knocking her knee against yours like she doesn’t have an entire fan club scattered across campus.
“Where were we?” she asks casually, flipping her pen again.
You don’t even blink. “You were pretending to study, and I was contemplating my life choices.”
Paige snorts. But before she can respond, another person approaches. You glance up again, already prepared, already so tired. This time, it’s a guy—tall, student-athlete vibes, definitely not looking at you.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly nervous despite the fact that Paige is already smiling at him like they’re old friends. “Could I get a picture real quick?”
Paige grins. “Yeah, of course.”
You take another sip of your coffee. Stare blankly into the abyss. Same process. Paige stands, poses, flashes her million-dollar smile. The guy stammers out a thanks and hurries off.
You exhale. Set your coffee down. “You done?”
Paige barely has time to smirk before two more people shuffle up, practically vibrating with excitement. She notices your unimpressed expression and loses it, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay, now it’s funny,” she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Now it’s funny?” you echo flatly.
She grins. “Yeah. You look miserable.”
You scowl. Paige beams. Another five minutes pass before the final wave of admirers disperse, and Paige—finally—sinks back into her chair, looking far too pleased with herself.
“I should start charging,” she jokes.
You arch a brow. “Should I start charging? I’m the one sitting here like an unpaid security detail.”
Paige grins, drumming her fingers against the table. “You could be my manager, you know. We’d be an iconic duo.”
You scoff. “We’re not even an iconic study group.”
“Yet,” she corrects.
You roll your eyes but, reluctantly, glance at the time. The session should go another thirty minutes, but between Paige’s inability to focus and her impromptu meet-and-greet, you’re pretty much out of patience.
“Fine,” you sigh, shutting your book. “We’ll pick this up next time.”
Paige fist-pumps like she just nailed a game-winner. “Let’s go.”
You raise a hand. “But—”
Paige groans.
“You actually have to study next time,” you warn, pointing a finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “No excuses. No distractions. No impromptu fan club meetings.”
You let out a slow breath, collecting your things, already knowing that next time will be just as chaotic. But, somehow, you don’t hate the idea.
You barely make it two steps out of the library before Paige falls into step beside you, hands tucked into the front pocket of her hoodie, head tilted toward you like she’s waiting for something. You don’t say anything. Neither does she. But she’s still there, walking at your exact pace, still spinning that damn pen between her fingers like she’s making it her personal mission to erode the last of your patience.
After half a block of this nonsense, you finally huff. “Why are you still here?”
Paige smirks, eyes twinkling. “Wow. I thought we were friends, and you hit me with why are you still here? I think I need to sit down. That was devastating.”
You resist the urge to shove her into a trash can. “You should sit down. With a biology textbook.”
“That,” she sighs dramatically, “sounds like a you problem.”
You groan, but the corners of your lips twitch—just slightly. She glances at you again, side-eyeing, like she’s waiting for you to say something else. You don’t. So, instead, she nudges your arm with her elbow. “You heading back to your dorm?”
“Yep,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Where some people go to actually study.”
Paige grins. “Fun. I was gonna hit the gym.”
You pretend to be shocked. “No way. The gym? You? Unheard of.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Crazy concept. Gotta keep these knees in top shape so I can keep playing dumb for you in the library.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips do twitch again. When you reach the intersection where you usually part ways, Paige hesitates—just slightly. Her foot taps against the pavement, and she glances at you, like there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t.
But then the crosswalk light changes, and she just flashes her usual grin. “Alright, I’ll see you next time. Can’t wait to waste more of your valuable time.”
You shake your head, already walking away. “You are a waste of my valuable time.”
Paige calls after you, voice dripping with smug amusement. “Admit it! You’d be bored as hell without me!” You don’t respond. Maybe, just maybe, she has a point.
You barely manage to kick the door shut behind you before dropping your bag to the floor, the weight of the entire goddamn week peeling off your shoulders like an old sticker. Your body feels wrecked—like you just played all four quarters of a game you weren’t even supposed to be in. Midterms, tutoring, the endless cycle of pretending you have your shit together when in reality, you’re two missed assignments away from a full-on breakdown.
Your roommate’s bed is empty, the perfectly made sheets an immediate giveaway that she’s already at her boyfriend’s place for the night. Which means the dorm is yours. Finally. A rare and precious occurrence, like a solar eclipse or a professor canceling class with a two-minute email. You grab your laptop from the desk, already knowing exactly how you’re gonna spend the next five hours: Desperate Housewives. Your guilty pleasure. Your lifeline. Your emotional support chaotic suburban drama. You settle onto your bed, wrapping yourself in a blanket cocoon, cracking your knuckles in preparation for an evening of zero responsibilities—when your phone rings.
You groan dramatically, not even bothering to check the screen before answering. “No.”
There’s a pause, then Jordan’s voice comes through, unimpressed. “Bitch, you don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“Yes, I do,” you sigh, rolling onto your back. “And the answer is no.”
“You’re being difficult,” she complains. “Come out with me.”
“No.”
“C’mon. It’s Friday night. You have no excuses.”
“I have the best excuse. I’m too fucking tired.”
Jordan makes an exaggerated scoffing noise. “Tired from what? Sitting across from your little basketball girlfriend and watching her pretend she doesn’t know how to read?”
You freeze. “She’s not my—”
“Uh-huh.”
You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jordan.”
“[Redacted],” she mimics in a deep, mocking tone. “Come out. I’ll buy your first drink.”
“You say that like you’re doing me a favor. It’s literally one drink.”
“Okay, and? You’re broke.”
She’s got you there.
“I have plans,” you try again.
“What plans? Watching white women commit crimes in wedge heels?”
You frown. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Because I know you.”
You press your lips together, because yeah. She does.
Jordan senses weakness and pounces. “You never go out anymore,” she whines. “It’s tragic. I’m watching my best friend turn into a sad little academic goblin. When’s the last time you flirted with someone for fun?”
“I—” You pause. And that’s enough for Jordan.
“Oh my god.”
“I don’t need to flirt with random people, Jordan,” you argue.
“Okay, then come to keep me company. Emily’s bringing her crypto bro boyfriend and I need a buffer. You owe me.”
“For what?”
“For being my best friend, dumbass.”
You let out a long, slow exhale. Your bed is so soft. Your show is right there. Your roommate isn’t gonna be back till morning, which means you could fall asleep watching hot moms commit felony-level fraud and no one would judge you. But Jordan is relentless. And also, maybe, just maybe, she’s right.
“Ugh, okay, fine, one drink,” you say finally.
She screeches. “I’LL BE THERE IN TWENTY.”
“Wait, what the— twenty?!”
“You don’t get time to back out, babe. Love you! Bye!”
The call disconnects. You stare at your ceiling for a long moment before groaning into your pillow. Guess you’re going out. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your closet like it personally wronged you.
Twenty minutes. Less than that now. Jordan is on time when it comes to dragging you out of your self-imposed hibernation, so you don’t have the luxury of procrastinating. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you debate your options.
Jeans? Safe. A dress? Too much effort. Skirt? Trying too hard.
You pull open a drawer, fingers brushing over the usual suspects: black tank, oversized tee, hoodie. The same exact shit you wear every day. You tug at the hem of your pajama shirt instead, already debating if you could get away with staying in. Jordan would literally break into your dorm if she had to.
You settle on something in the middle—black jeans that just hug your waist enough to be flattering without suffocating you, a tight long-sleeve that makes your arms look good, and sneakers. Cute but low effort.
Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror above your desk, and your mind does that thing. That thing where you start thinking in spirals, words layering on top of each other like a too-thick coat of paint. Jordan always looks good when you go out. The hot friend, effortlessly wanted. Guys slip her their numbers, girls compliment her makeup, and you? You’re there. Background noise. The best friend, the safe choice, the one people never approach first.
Your hands move on autopilot, pulling your hair into something presentable, smoothing out wrinkles in your shirt. Your brain moves just as fast, thoughts piling up. When’s the last time someone wanted you? Really, genuinely wanted you?
Not for help on an assignment. Not for a favor. Not as a buffer against some awkward third wheel situation. Your fingers tighten around the mascara wand as you swipe it over your lashes, the thought hitting heavier than it should.
And then there’s her. Paige. Paige, who everyone wants. Paige, whose name alone makes people light up, whose smile makes the world lean in closer. Paige, who has the kind of effortless pull that shouldn’t be real, the kind that isn’t real, except it is—because it’s her.
You imagine what it must be like. To be wanted by everyone. To have people go out of their way just to see you. To be loved by an entire fucking world that doesn’t even know you. To have that kind of pull. You shake your head, dabbing concealer under your eyes, fixing nothing. Paige doesn’t have to think about this. About being ignored. About whether or not someone is really interested or if they just need her for something else. Paige is easy to love.
Your hands are steady as you apply lip gloss, but your thoughts aren’t. Because you know what’s worse? Worse than not being wanted? Feeling like you could be—if only you were someone else. A sharp knock-knock-knock at your door makes you jump, snapping you out of whatever existential spiral you were just sinking into.
You check the time. 7:59. Jordan, always on time when it comes to dragging your ass out of the house.
“Bitch, open up,” she calls through the door, impatience already seeping through her voice. “I know you’re in there, don’t make me break in.”
You roll your eyes, grabbing your phone off the bed before opening the door. Jordan doesn’t even wait for an invitation. She just steps in like she owns the place, eyes immediately scanning you up and down.
“Oh, thank god,” she exhales dramatically, throwing herself onto your bed like she just finished a marathon. “For a second, I was scared you were gonna pull some bullshit and answer in sweats.”
“I was considering it.”
“And I would’ve dragged you outside as is.”
She props herself up on her elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look good, though. Like, sexy but nonchalant. Very ‘I don’t try but I still eat men alive.’”
You snort, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull your sneakers on. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
Jordan flips onto her back, legs kicking lazily. “Hot girl vibes activated. I’m proud.”
You ignore the way that your brain still insists on running her words through some dumb internal filter. Hot but? Sexy but? There’s always a but. Still, you appreciate the compliment.
Jordan rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Okay, so what’s our game plan?”
You raise a brow. “Game plan?”
She grins. “Are we flirting for fun tonight? Making out with strangers? Taking free drinks and saying thanks but no thanks?”
You scoff, standing to grab your jacket. “You’re doing all of that. I’m drinking one drink, pretending I enjoy being in public, and then leaving.”
Jordan makes a dramatic gagging noise. “You’re so lame, it physically hurts me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You throw on your jacket, checking yourself one last time in the mirror before turning back to her. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Jordan squints. “You know, for someone who never goes out, you could at least try to fake some excitement.”
You sigh, grabbing your phone. “Fine.” You flash her your most half-assed smile. “Yay. Alcohol.”
Jordan stares at you for a long beat. Then she cackles.
“I hate you,” she wheezes, hopping off the bed and slinging an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, grumpy girl. Let’s get you drunk.”
You let her steer you out the door, already bracing for whatever the night has in store.
The bar hums with low conversation, the steady pulse of bass from the speakers vibrating against your ribs. The air is thick—spilled beer, cheap whiskey, the faintest trace of cologne as someone brushes past you. It’s crowded, bodies pressing in too close, the kind of warmth that clings to your skin, dampens the edges of your sleeves.
You plant your elbows on the bar, exhaling slow. Jordan’s already disappeared into the crowd, her voice lilting somewhere behind you, laughing too loud at something she probably doesn’t even find funny. You don’t bother looking back. You just need a drink, something cold in your hand, something to make this whole night feel less like a mistake.
The bartender moves in front of you, nodding once in acknowledgment, and you order—automatic, easy, something you don’t have to think about. While you wait, you glance around, taking in the room.
It’s packed, but that’s expected. The usual Friday night chaos—people gathered in clusters, leaning into one another to be heard over the music. A group near the dartboard erupts in laughter, a guy raises his arms in exaggerated victory, another flips him off good-naturedly. At the other end of the bar, a girl tugs her friend closer, whispering something into her ear, their giggles swallowed by the noise.
And then— a flash of blue. You don’t think anything of it at first. Just a hoodie, nothing more. But then there’s another. And another. A guy walks past, a UConn logo stretched across his chest, the lettering cracked and faded from too many washes. At a nearby table, someone’s peeling the label off their beer bottle, the cuff of their UConn crewneck pushed up to their elbows. A girl at the bar turns her head, revealing the unmistakable emblem stitched into the side of her cap.
Your drink lands in front of you with a soft clink. You reach for it, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass, but your eyes are still moving, scanning. Near the pool table, someone slams a cue stick down, shaking their head. “Bro, that was insane.”
“I told you,” another guy laughs, taking a swig of his beer. “They were fucking unstoppable.”
A bartender walks by carrying a tray of shots, and someone calls out, voice sharp with excitement—
“To the Huskies!”
A cheer rises, loud and immediate, glasses raised, grins splitting across faces. Your fingers tighten around your drink. Another voice cuts through—closer, rough around the edges like it’s been shouting for hours. “Bueckers was on fire.”
Your stomach tenses. A television flickers in your periphery, mounted above the bar, the broadcast running highlights on a loop. A flash of white jerseys, a blur of movement, the unmistakable arc of a three-pointer sinking clean through the net.
Your gaze catches on the name emblazoned across the back.
BUECKERS. 5.
Your drink sits untouched in your hand. A hand lands on your shoulder, nails cool against your skin. Jordan’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation, bright, energized.
“There you are,” she says, leaning in so you can hear her. Her breath is warm against your ear, smelling faintly of whatever sugary drink she got roped into first. “Why do you always ditch me the second we get here?”
You lift your glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “I didn’t ditch you. You ran off.”
Jordan grins, squeezing your shoulder before letting go. “Details.”
She slides onto the stool beside you, propping her elbows on the bar, the sheer confidence in her posture making it clear that she’s already in her element. You can tell from the way her shoulders are loose, from the easy way she scans the room—she’s here to enjoy herself. She tugs at the collar of her cropped tank, a calculated movement, and you don’t miss the way a pair of eyes flicker toward her from across the bar.
Of course. It never takes long. The girl is pretty—high cheekbones, sharp jaw, hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. She’s nursing a drink in one hand, the other tracing idle patterns into the wood of the bar. She’s been looking, you realize. Long enough for it to mean something. Long enough for it to be deliberate.
And Jordan? She notices. She always notices. You watch as she tilts her head slightly, lips curling at the edges, all slow-building amusement. Not an invitation. Not yet. Just an acknowledgment. I see you seeing me. And just like that, the girl moves.
She slides closer, just one seat between her and Jordan now, her presence a hum of subtle perfume and confidence. You feel the shift immediately, the way the space around them tightens, charged with something unspoken. You take another sip of your drink, eyes flicking between them. Jordan doesn’t look over right away. She lets it build, that delicious tension she thrives on, makes the girl wait for it. And when she finally turns her head—slow, purposeful—it’s a hook.
“Hey,” the girl says, voice smooth, honeyed.
Jordan’s lips part slightly, amused. “Hey yourself.”
There it is. The shift, the moment the conversation has already decided what it’s going to be. The girl twirls the stem of her glass between two fingers, considering. “You’re a little hard to miss.”
Jordan lifts a brow. “Yeah?”
The girl nods, a smile playing at her lips. “Saw you the second I walked in.”
You huff a quiet laugh into your drink. Jordan flicks you a glance, but she doesn’t look away for long. She’s locked in now, her full attention settling on the girl beside her.
“That so?” she murmurs.
The girl leans forward slightly, just enough that Jordan can smell whatever floral-citrus perfume she’s wearing. “Mhm.”
Jordan takes her time responding, letting the moment stretch, her fingers tapping lazily against the bar. “And what’d you think?”
The girl laughs, low and knowing. “I think I liked it.”
Jesus. You shake your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. This is Jordan’s playground, and she’s barely even started. Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts in.
“There you are, finally.”
Emily. And, by default, her crypto bro. You turn just in time to see her sliding in beside you, her expression teetering between fond exasperation and mild relief, like she was worried you wouldn’t actually show. Her boyfriend—god, what’s his name again?—is hovering a step behind her, already half into whatever overpriced IPA he’s nursing.
“Thought you were gonna bail,” Emily says, bumping your arm.
You shake your head. “Almost did.”
She laughs. “Would’ve sent Jordan to physically drag you out of bed.”
“She already threatened to.”
Jordan, not even looking at you, raises a hand and flicks her wrist. “And I would’ve done it with love.”
Emily grins before turning to Jordan, about to say something else—until she sees the girl. And immediately, her expression shifts.
“Oh,” she says, blinking once. Then, lips curving slightly, she leans in, dropping her voice just enough for you to hear. “She’s hot.”
Jordan doesn’t turn her head, but her smirk deepens. “I know.”
The girl doesn’t flinch, unfazed by the blatant cockiness, the sheer Jordan-ness of it all. If anything, she looks more intrigued.
“God, you’re unbearable,” Emily mutters, sipping her drink.
Jordan, at this point, is fully ignoring all of you. She’s gone, deep in the slow back-and-forth of a conversation that’s teetering right on the edge of something. You watch, mildly entertained, as the girl tucks her hair behind her ear, as Jordan lets her gaze flick lower, just for a moment, before meeting her eyes again.
Classic. You’re about to tune them out entirely, return your focus to the drink in your hand, when—
The door swings open.
And just like that, the energy shifts. You don’t see them at first. You feel them. A ripple through the crowd, a flicker of awareness in the way people turn their heads, in the subtle glances exchanged between strangers. The volume dips for half a second—not silence, just a shift, a momentary lapse before everything surges back up again.
Your eyes track toward the entrance—toward the new arrivals pushing through the threshold, stepping into the bar with the ease of people who know they’ll be noticed. White sneakers. Loose sweatpants. Jackets slung over shoulders. And that unmistakable color.
UConn blue.
Jordan is still locked in, her conversation with the pretty girl unfolding in the slow, deliberate way that only happens when both people know exactly what they’re doing. It’s all prolonged eye contact, subtle shifts in body language, the kind of flirting that exists in the pauses as much as in the words. Emily is barely paying attention, absorbed in some argument with her boyfriend about blockchain or whatever the hell it is he does. You’ve stopped listening.
Which means you’re just… there. Third-wheeling at a bar, drink half-finished, barely contributing to the conversation. The worst part is, no one even notices. Jordan, obviously, is in her own world, and Emily is too preoccupied with rolling her eyes at her boyfriend to remember you exist. You take another sip of your drink, letting your eyes wander.
The UConn girls have spread through the bar now, weaving into the crowd like they belong there. You recognize a few faces—players you’ve seen on highlight reels, names you don’t know but should. There’s a looseness to them, an ease, the kind of relaxation that only comes after a win.
You wonder, absently, if Paige is here. Not that it matters. The thought makes you shift slightly, pushing down something vague and uncomfortable. You finish off the last sip of your drink and set the glass down a little too hard, the soft clink barely audible over the noise.
“I need to piss,” you mutter, mostly to no one.
Jordan doesn’t react, too busy letting the girl touch her arm in that slow, lingering way that means she’s definitely coming home with her later. Emily gives a halfhearted wave, her focus still locked on her boyfriend, who is currently explaining something with way too much hand movement.
You slip into the crowd, navigating the maze of bodies with the kind of single-minded determination usually reserved for final exams and finding your phone when it’s on silent. The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floor, thrumming up through your sneakers, settling somewhere in your chest. Every step feels like walking through molasses—people shifting, swaying, arms brushing against yours in that careless way that comes with alcohol and too many bodies packed into one space.
You make it to the hallway leading to the bathrooms and nearly sigh in relief. It’s quieter here—not quiet, but enough that you can hear yourself think. The walls are still pulsing faintly with the music, the distant echo of a chorus threading through the air, but it’s a reprieve from the chaos of the main bar.
And then you see the door. Locked.
Holy fuck, you’re about to piss yourself. You try the handle anyway because maybe the universe will be kind, but no—solid, unmoving. Leaning against the opposite wall, you exhale sharply, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. Fine. You’ll wait. Not a big deal.
Except time starts dragging. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, tapping your fingers against your thigh. One minute passes. Two. You check your phone, even though you just checked your phone.
Okay. You can handle this.
Except—five minutes in, it’s not just uncomfortable. It’s annoying. Who the fuck is in there? Writing a novel? Performing a one-act play? Curing a disease?
You knock once, firm but not aggressive. Just enough to remind whoever is inside that there’s a whole world out here.
No response. Another minute passes. You cross your arms, shifting again, foot tapping against the floor. Seven minutes.
You knock again. Harder this time. “Yo.”
Nothing. Oh, come on. You glance toward the men’s bathroom. It’s right there. Completely open. No line. Just an empty doorway leading to salvation. Wouldn’t be the first time. But before you can talk yourself into it, you knock again. Hard. Impatient. At this point, you’re not even polite about it—you just hit the door. “Hurry up, Jesus Christ.”
The lock clicks. A second later, the door swings open, and out stumbles a couple—disheveled, flushed, and absolutely not here to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. The girl giggles into her boyfriend’s neck, her lipstick half-smeared, while his hands are still gripping her hips like they’re considering going back in for round two.
You don’t even react. You just shove past them, slam the door shut, and finally—finally—relieve yourself. Blessed silence, aside from the muffled bass still thumping through the walls. You take a moment to breathe, running your hands through your hair, shaking off the weird tension that’s been clinging to you all night. You’re fine. It’s fine.
When you step back out, the hallway’s busier—more people filing in, laughing too loud, waiting their turn. You navigate through them, dodging the wobbly, half-drunk girl clinging to her friend’s arm, sidestepping the guy trying way too hard to look casual against the wall. You’re almost back to the main floor when—
A hand catches your wrist. Firm, deliberate. Enough pressure to stop you, but not enough to hurt. Your breath stutters—not from fear, not exactly, but from the sheer certainty in that grip. Like whoever’s holding you already knew they would.
You turn your head. And there she is.
Paige fucking Bueckers.
Loose hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing the lean muscle in her forearms. A chain glinting under the dim bar lights, catching for half a second on the sharp line of her collarbone before disappearing beneath fabric. Her hair is a little messier than usual, like she’s run a hand through it one too many times. And her expression?
Smug. Smug as hell.
“Well, well, well,” she drawls, her grip on your wrist still firm, thumb brushing once over your pulse before she finally—leisurely—lets go. “Fancy seeing you here, tutor.”
Her voice is low, teasing. The kind of tone that makes you want to roll your eyes and press your thighs together at the same damn time.
You exhale sharply. “Oh, fuck me.”
Her grin widens instantly, wolfish. “I mean, if you insist—”
You smack her arm, and she laughs. Not just a chuckle, but a full-bodied, head-tilted-back, entirely too pleased with herself kind of laugh. It’s obnoxious. It’s attractive. It’s exactly why you need to get out of this conversation immediately.
But Paige has other plans. She steps closer—just enough that you feel the heat of her body, just enough that the crowd shifts around you, forcing you to stay exactly where you are. Her gaze drops, just for a second, flickering down your outfit before dragging back up, slow, deliberate.
“You clean up nice,” she muses. “Didn’t know you owned anything other than oversized sweatshirts.”
You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t know you left the gym.”
She hums, tapping her chin like she’s considering. “True. But, you know, when you drop thirty-six points in a game, you kinda have to celebrate.”
Of course she dropped thirty-six.
“And yet,” you deadpan, “here you are. Bothering me.”
Paige grins, shifting on her feet so she’s even closer, close enough that you can smell her cologne—something crisp, clean, expensive. Unfair.
“C’mon, don’t act so surprised,” she murmurs. “You knew we’d run into each other eventually.”
You raise a brow. “Did I?”
She tilts her head, amused. “Yeah. ‘Cause you’ve been avoiding me all week.”
Your pulse skips. “I have not—”
“Oh, you definitely have,” Paige interrupts, smirking. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you switching up your usual schedule. Skipping our tutoring session on Tuesday.” She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Tragic. Really had me wondering if I did something to offend you.”
God, she’s insufferable. And yet—
“Like you care,” you shoot back.
Her eyes glint, sharp, knowing. “Oh, I do.”
Something thickens in the air between you. Something tangible, humming just beneath the surface of her cocky smirk, her unwavering stare. Her fingers twitch at her side, like she’s considering reaching for you again. You see it happen, the micro-movement, the shift of her weight like she’s deliberating. And then, just as quickly, she exhales, straightening to her full height.
“Well,” she says, her voice dipping into something smoother, softer, “if you’re not avoiding me, then I guess you wouldn’t mind grabbing a drink with me, huh?”
You blink. “What.”
She jerks her chin toward the bar. “Drink. You. Me.”
You hesitate. That same pressure returns, that feeling of everyone wants her, but somehow, right now, she’s locked onto you. Paige watches you, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “What’s wrong, tutor? Afraid you might enjoy my company?”
Your jaw tightens. “I tolerate your company.”
She smirks. “Then come tolerate me at the bar.”
Your mistake wasn’t stopping when she grabbed your wrist. Your mistake was letting her talk. Because now Paige fucking Bueckers is smirking at you like she’s already won something, head tilted, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie like she’s lounging through this entire interaction. You can already feel yourself being pulled into her orbit, and she knows it.
“A drink?” you echo, squinting at her. “You? Drinking?”
Her smirk grows. “Shocking, I know.”
“Lemme guess,” you deadpan. “Protein powder with a splash of vodka? Maybe a nice gatorade-infused tequila?”
Paige gasps—actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like you just accused her of a heinous crime. “Wow. You think so little of me.”
“I think exactly the right amount of you.”
She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. “Tragic. Here I am, just a small-town basketball star trying to enjoy a simple, wholesome night out, and my own tutor is out here slandering my good name.”
You raise a brow. “Your good name?”
She nods solemnly. “That’s right. I am, at heart, a simple girl with simple pleasures.” Then, as if to punctuate the absolute bullshit she just said, she throws an arm around your shoulder, leaning in until her lips are a breath away from your ear. “Like dirty Shirley Temples.”
You choke. On nothing. Paige pulls back, just enough to see your reaction, the sharp glint of amusement in her gaze practically sparkling.
“No fucking way,” you manage. “You drink dirty Shirley Temples?”
She grins. “Religiously.”
“That’s—” You blink, at a complete fucking loss. “That’s the most unserious drink you could have possibly chosen.”
Paige winks. “And yet? It goes down smooth.”
“Oh, I bet it does.”
She laughs, full and warm, tilting her head like she’s considering something. “Y’know,” she muses, “I like this side of you.”
You narrow your eyes. “What side?”
Paige drops her voice, lowers it into something silkier, something that slides down your spine in a way that should be illegal. “The one that flirts with me back.”
Your brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb now,” she murmurs, fingers tapping lazily against the side of your arm like she’s keeping count of your heartbeat. “You’re usually so good at keeping up.”
You hate that she’s right. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to regain some composure. “You are so full of shit.”
Paige hums. “Maybe. But you seem to love it.” And then she winks. A full, obnoxious, Paige Bueckers-grade wink.
Oh, you are not going out like this. You lean in, just barely, watching the way her smirk twitches, the way her fingers still on your arm. “Tell you what,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual, like you’re not insanely aware of how close she is. “I’ll let you buy me a drink—”
Paige perks up. “Yeah?”
“If,” you continue, “you admit that I’ve been absolutely kicking your ass in our tutoring sessions.”
Her lips part. “Oh, hell no.”
You grin. “What’s wrong? Afraid of the truth?”
She clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s personally offended. “No fucking way. That’s extortion.”
“That’s accountability.”
She squints at you. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”
Your breath catches. For a split second, you completely malfunction, and Paige fucking sees it.
She grins—huge, like she just sank a game-winner at the buzzer. “Ohhh, that got you, huh?”
You snap back immediately. “Did not.”
“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms, rocking back on her heels. “You were fully thrown off just now.”
You roll your eyes, trying to pretend like you didn’t just combust internally. “You gonna buy me that drink or what?”
Paige sighs like you’ve personally exhausted her. “Fine,” she relents. “But I’m getting you my favorite.”
You smirk. “A dirty Shirley?”
She grins. “Exactly.”
And with that, she grabs your hand—just for a second, just to tug you toward the bar, just long enough to make your pulse spike before she lets go.
The bar is packed. Bodies pressed together, voices overlapping, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the thumping bass. Paige moves through it like she owns the place—shoulders loose, hoodie slouched just right, that damn chain flashing under the dim lights. You follow, pretending your eyes aren’t tracking the way her sweatpants sit just low enough on her hips to be distracting.
She leans against the bar, elbow propped up, and tilts her head at you like she’s studying something.
You squint. “What.”
Her lips twitch. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”
“You’ve had months to do that.”
“Yeah, but you keep surprising me.” She drums her fingers against the counter, slow and rhythmic. “Like, for example, I knew you had some bite to you, but tonight? You’re really showing your teeth.”
You cross your arms. “Maybe I’m just extra annoyed by you today.”
Paige hums, tilting her head like she’s considering. Then, before you can react, she leans in—close, warm, too close—and brushes her lips just against the shell of your ear.
“Nah,” she murmurs, voice dipping low. “You like it.”
A slow, rolling shiver spreads down your spine.
Paige pulls back, just far enough to meet your eyes, her smirk lazy and so fucking smug. She knows exactly what she just did. You hate that she’s right. Before you can retaliate, the bartender appears. Paige turns, all casual ease, and grins.
“Two dirty Shirleys,” she says.
The bartender raises a brow but nods, moving to make the drinks. You stare at Paige. She shrugs. “Hey, a deal’s a deal.”
“You actually meant it?”
“Duh,” she says. “What, you think I just flirt for fun?”
Your lips part, because yes, obviously, that’s exactly what you think. Paige sees the way your expression shifts, and her grin deepens. “Aw, babe, don’t tell me you thought I was playing with you.”
You blink. “I—”
She tuts, shaking her head. “See, now I really need you to drink this, ‘cause you need to loosen up.”
The bartender slides the drinks over. Paige pushes one toward you, watching expectantly. You hesitate. Paige lifts hers and clinks the rim of her glass against yours. “C’mon, tutor. Don’t be scared.”
Scared? Oh, that does it. You grab the glass and take a sip, the sweet bite of grenadine and vodka coating your tongue. Paige watches the way your throat moves when you swallow, her lips parting just slightly.
Just like that, the game shifts. You lower the glass, eyes locking with hers.
“Not bad,” you murmur. Then, mirroring her move from earlier, you step in just enough to make her breath hitch, tilting your head slightly like you’re about to say something important—something deep, something meaningful.
And then— you drag your tongue slowly over your bottom lip and the blonde’s eyes darken. You almost laugh, but her hand suddenly brushes against your waist, just a whisper of contact, the heat of her palm radiating through your thin shirt. It’s brief—so brief you could almost pretend it didn’t happen—but the way your skin burns says otherwise.
“Shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, just for you to hear.
You smirk. “Something wrong?”
Her jaw tightens. “Not at all.”
She takes a sip of her own drink, eyes never leaving yours, throat bobbing as she swallows. The moment stretches. Then—Paige exhales sharply, like she’s shaking something off, and grins. “Alright, alright, you win this round,” she admits, nudging your arm with hers. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
You tilt your head. “Guess you’ll just have to keep figuring me out.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “God, you’re fun.”
Then, so casually, she hooks a finger into your belt loop and tugs. It’s playful. It’s barely anything. But it’s also everything. Because she doesn’t let go. You swallow. Hard.
Her voice is softer now, but the teasing edge is still there. “I like this side of you.”
You clear your throat, trying desperately to focus on something other than the warmth of her touch. “You said that already.”
Paige smirks. “Yeah. But I really like it.”
Paige is cocky. Too cocky. The kind of cocky that drips off her like it’s stitched into her damn DNA, like she was born knowing how to get under people’s skin, into their heads. And right now, she’s looking at you like she’s already inside yours, like she’s set up shop in the most dangerous corners of your mind and made herself comfortable. She still has her finger hooked in your belt loop. Just resting there, like she belongs there.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, sipping her drink, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of grenadine before it can slide past her lip.
Your jaw clenches. You look down at her grip on your jeans, then back up. Blatantly.
She smirks. “What, this?” She tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make the fabric of your jeans pull against your hip, just enough to remind you she’s right there.
You don’t move. “Let go.”
She hums, tilting her head. “Nah.”
Your fingers twitch around your glass. “Paige.”
She exhales, all mock exasperation, finally—finally—releasing her hold. But before you can celebrate your very minor victory, she leans in, voice dropping to something dangerously smooth. “Relax. You can touch me if you want.”
Your breath catches.
She laughs, tipping her drink toward you in mock salute. “You’re so fun to mess with.”
You narrow your eyes, pulse still skittering from the low, teasing way she said touch me. “You’re insufferable.”
Paige hums. “Maybe, you like it.”
And there it is. The line. The one she’s been waiting to say, the one she’s been circling since the second she grabbed your wrist.
You roll your shoulders, schooling your expression into something neutral. “You’re alright.”
Her brows lift. “‘Alright’? Wow.”
You sip your drink, unfazed. “I mean, you are failing bio.”
Paige scoffs. “Unnecessary.”
“Just saying. I don’t think geniuses need tutors.”
Paige smirks. “Nah, but they do need entertainment. And you, babe—” she tips her chin toward you, eyes gleaming, “—are so fucking entertaining.”
The casual babe nearly stops your brain completely.
You grip your glass tighter. “I should charge you extra.”
“For what? Intellectual stimulation?”
“For being exhausting.”
Paige’s grin widens. “Yet, here you are. Still talking to me.” She takes another slow sip of her drink, eyes locked onto yours over the rim of her glass. Watching you. Like she’s waiting for something.
You shift your weight, feeling entirely too seen, entirely too open under that gaze. Paige notices. Of course she does. Her lips part, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek like she’s considering something.
Then—before you can react—she leans in.
Your body locks up.
She gets close. Not teasingly close, not almost close—actual close. The kind of close that makes your heart trip over itself, the kind of close that makes your breath catch in the back of your throat.
Her lips hover right there, her breath warm against your jaw. Then, quietly, smugly—obnoxiously:
“Wanna make out?”
You freeze.
She grins. “What? You look like I just asked you to solve a physics problem.”
“Are you serious?”
Paige tilts her head. “Nah, I just like watching you panic.”
She’s so fucking unbearable. You set your glass down with a sharp clink. “You think you’re funny.”
“I know I’m funny.”
“You’re a menace.”
She beams. “You don’t seem to mind it.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heat of the bar, or the way Paige is looking at you like she wants something—like she’s daring you—but suddenly, your patience snaps.
You grip the front of her hoodie and pull. She barely has a second to react before your lips crash into hers. Paige groans. A low, gravelly sound that vibrates against your mouth, sending heat shooting straight to your stomach. And fuck, she kisses back.
All cocky, eager pressure, her hands already gripping your waist, her fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt like she wants to feel more.
The bar melts away. The noise, the people, everything—all of it fades because Paige is right here, kissing you like she’s been waiting for you to do this since day one.
You tilt your head, chasing the taste of vodka and cherry on her tongue, and Paige makes this obscene little noise before she presses in, deeper, her teeth grazing just enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, and she smirks into the kiss, like she knows, like she’s already winning again.
Asshole.
You yank at the waistband of her sweatpants, a little revenge, a little fuck you, and Paige laughs—low, breathless—before biting gently at your bottom lip, sending a full-body shiver down your spine. Your grip on her tightens.
She hums, pleased. “Knew you wanted me.”
You pull back, just barely, panting. “Shut the fuck up.”
