binniesbabe

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The irony of it all didn’t escape you.

There you were—sat on the Dallas Wings bench, in a building you used to hate walking into, a building that reeked of old rivalries and even older grudges. Notre Dame's Purcell Pavilion. Cold lights. Smeared banners. That ever-so-sanctimonious fight song playing in the background like the world was still in 2020. You rolled your eyes once at the ceiling, once at the court, and then let the smugness return to your face.

You looked good. You knew it.

And judging by the sideways glances from coaching staff, cameras, and certain opposing players, so did everyone else.

You weren’t dressed like a player today—not in your Wings gear, not in sideline sweats. The team doctors had benched you for precaution’s sake. Mild shoulder sprain, nearly healed, but not worth aggravating just before the regular season started. You had protested, briefly, then gave up the fight once you realized you could milk this little moment for everything it was worth.

So, you dressed accordingly. Black tailored, wide-legged pants that flowed like silk but cut sharp at the waist. They pooled lightly over your sleek black Diesel pumps, glinting every time you crossed your legs. Paire with a fitted black button-up that hugged your frame just right. Thin vertical white stripes guided the eye in all the right directions. Only two buttons were fastened at the center, offering a perfectly curated glimpse of your midriff and just enough cleavage—pushed together with the help of your favorite and most dangerous bra.

You looked like someone’s scandalous boss. Someone’s very expensive mistake.

Your hair was perfectly blown out, strands falling with soft, intentional volume around your shoulders. A pair of sleek, black rectangular glasses sat neatly on your face, giving the illusion of restraint. But the sharp wing of your eyeliner and the darkness smudged into your lower lash line betrayed you. There was nothing restrained about you. Your waterline was tightlined, your lips glossed to a sinful nude, and every time you blinked slowly—like you were bored, or scheming, or both—you felt the attention shift.

The cherry on top? A gold chain, subtle and delicate, with a single pendant glinting softly at your sternum. An “M.” Paige's middle name. Not obvious. Not something a broadcaster would call out. But you knew. She knew.

It started during warmups.

Paige should’ve been focused—on her stretches, her form, the way the ball felt rolling off her fingertips. But her eyes? They kept betraying her. Again and again, they dragged back to the bench. More specifically, to you.

Sitting pretty in your corporate siren getup like you owned the arena, not just the bench.

Your lips curved slowly into a smirk as you crossed your legs with deliberate ease, letting your heel tap once against the polished court. You didn’t wave. Didn’t wink. You just let her look at you.

Let her want.

And she could’ve kept it together—just barely—until Jewell broke formation and jogged her way toward you, momentarily abandoning her own warmup.

Your grin lit up instantly at the sight of her and you got up from the bench, meeting her in the middle.

The hug you gave each other was all warmth, history, and ease, the kind of closeness that came only from sharing victories, locker rooms, and late-night strategy talks. You and Jewell had been tight ever since the Paris Olympics, and even tighter once Unrivaled started. The matching tattoos on your ribs said enough. Little mementos inked during the off-season in a moment of camaraderie with Aaliyah and Dijonai.

She knew there was nothing to worry about. She knew.

But that didn’t stop her gaze from sharpening. Didn’t stop the sting of possessiveness from blooming low in her chest.

It wasn’t jealousy—it was something else. Something quieter but much deeper. Paige was chill, easygoing, confident. But with you? There was always that subtle current of ’mine’. Not in a way that made you flinch. In a way that made your skin spark.

Even during the locker room huddle with the coaching staff, as everyone went over last minute adjustments and rotations, Paige sat with one knee bouncing and cracking her knuckles, stealing glances at you every other beat. You were seated across the room, half listening, chin propped in your hand and legs crossed like you were made to be admired.

You were just as bad, truth be told. The jersey clung to her in all the right places, but it was the slicked back ponytail that had your thoughts drifting. Clean, no braids today, just polished and severe, framing her cheekbones and making her look like a problem. Your problem.

By the time you returned to the court, everyone hovering by the bench again as the arena buzzed with anticipation, the tension between you two felt like static—quiet, invisible, charged.

And when they called her name over the speakers, Paige Bueckers—#5, guard—you couldn’t help but smile. That slow, proud, shameless kind of smile. The kind she’d see from the court and feel all the way in her chest.

Your applause was calm. Dignified.

But the way you mouthed, ‘go get ’em, baby’?

Yeah. That was just for her.

The game tipped off with a roar from the crowd, the buzz of preseason excitement electrifying Purcell Pavilion. The whistle blew, and the ball was live, but you barely noticed the opening possessions. Your body was still, but your pulse wasn’t.

You lasted exactly two minutes on the bench.

Then you were up, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Chris, one arm folded against your hip, the other resting loosely against your stomach. Every so often, you leaned in to glance at the clipboard Belle held, studying plays like you were still in them.

From afar, for anyone not in the know, you looked every bit the sharp, young coaching mind plucked fresh from a promising start. A new assistant, maybe. Or some newly promoted coordinator. You had the presence for it. The look for it. Tailored and chic with that undeniable something—that weight in your stare, the seductive curve of your lip when the scoreboard shifted in your favor. It was just enough professionalism to keep things respectable… and just enough allure to leave people guessing.

Your presence caught attention. On the bench. On the sidelines. And definitely on the court.

Especially from her.

At the seven minute mark, the play unfolded like it had been drawn with her name on it.

There was something surreal about watching her from the sideline, removed from the action but still tethered to it by a thread that ran straight through your chest.

Paige controlled the ball at the wing, fluid and locked in, her sneakers barely squeaking as she glided past Chelsea Gray. You watched it unfold like muscle memory, like breathing. A surge toward the paint. One beat, two—then she let it fly.

Nothing but net.

She tumbled out of bounds right after, body catching the hardwood before springing back up without hesitation.

You barely registered the crowd’s reaction. Your grin was already carved across your face.

“Let’s fucking go, P!” you shouted before you could help yourself, clapping once with enough force to echo. Not a single drop of shame in your tone—only pride. Pure and wild.

Paige turned as she ran back on defense, the tiniest breathless smile tugging at her lips. She caught your eyes immediately, and lifted her hand, pointing once—index finger angled cleanly toward you.

No dramatics. No show.

Just a subtle gesture, paired with that look she always gave you when it was only you in the room.

That was for you.

And God, did it land.

The gesture, the grin, the unbothered claiming of you in front of thousands—cameras be damned—lit something low and unrelenting inside of you.

She was done hiding. Done pretending like the most important part of her world wasn’t standing right there in heels and lip gloss, looking like a threat and a promise all at once.

The Wings had come out swinging.

It was clear from the jump that this team, despite being stitched together with new parts, a new coach, and not nearly enough time, had potential. Paige was settling in fast, confident in her reads, driving with purpose. Dijonai was relentless on defense. Arike, as always, was a walking bucket.

For a moment, just a stretch of minutes midway through the first quarter, the Wings held a lead. Slender, but there.

And then it slipped.

The Aces weren’t dominant just because of talent. They were seasoned, connected, one mind split between five bodies. It wasn’t surprising, not really. But it still stung.

Timeout was called.

You were back on your feet before the buzzer even finished blaring. Chris and the rest of the staff huddled near the whiteboard, and you stepped in next to him, nodding subtly at Belle as she scribbled adjustments onto the clipboard.

But your eyes?

Your eyes were already on her.

Paige stood at the edge of the huddle, hands on hips, sweat glistening against the curve of her neck, her jersey clinging to her like it belonged there. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

You tilted your head just slightly. Let your gaze drag slowly down her form and then back up again. Measured. Deliberate. Like you were taking inventory of something expensive you already owned.

When she caught you looking, your mouth curled into a smirk—teeth just barely catching your bottom lip before you let it pop free with the faintest bite.

Then you turned away.

Didn’t even hold her stare. Just dropped back down onto the bench, crossing one leg over the other with the elegance of a woman who knew she had an audience and didn’t mind putting on a show.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her shift. One foot stepping toward you, then back. Hands flexing once at her sides.

She was losing focus.

Not enough to cost the game. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for her to feel.

Next timeout, you upped the ante.

This time, when the whistle blew and the players circled up near the bench, you leaned forward with your elbows on your knees, pretending to study the clipboard Belle held—but the angle pushed your shirt open just enough to give Paige a view you knew she couldn’t ignore.

You could feel her eyes burning a hole straight through the neckline.

Still, you didn’t look at her right away.

Not until the players started peeling off, headed back to the court.

Then—and only then—you met her gaze and mouthed a single, silent word.

‘Focus’

The nerve of you.

And that grin you wore as she turned away?

Smug. Knowing. A promise.

The next possession, Paige was a little quicker. A little more aggressive. Like she had something to prove.

And even when the Aces pulled away in the second half, she kept glancing toward the bench between plays, chewing the inside of her cheek, eyes dragging over the stretch of your legs crossed lazily, the glint of your necklace, the gloss on your mouth.

The whole night, she played with a fire that wasn’t entirely basketball-born.

You were the match.

You hadn’t made it ten steps down the tunnel before Paige grabbed your wrist.

The arena noise faded behind you, swallowed by the concrete and fluorescent lighting of the back corridors of Purcell Pavilion. You expected a word. A smirk. Maybe even just a look.

But Paige didn’t waste time.

She pulled you into a narrow alcove, one of the tucked away side halls reserved for storage or staff access—empty now, quiet and dim—and shoved you gently but firmly back against the wall. Her mouth was on you before you could breathe her name.

Open mouthed kisses trailed down your neck, hot and hungry. She peeled one side of your shirt open with practiced ease, fingers curling under the silky material until it hung loose, giving her more skin, more space, more you.

“Got me fucked up, y’know that?” Paige muttered against your skin, her voice low and wrecked with need. Her hands gripped your waist tightly—possessively—fingertips digging into the flesh just beneath your bra line, beneath your shirt, like she needed to memorize the give of it under her hands. “Sittin’ there lookin’ like you need me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You shivered, half from her words, half from the heat pooling low in your body.

You didn’t speak immediately. Just let her touch and her mouth work you over, let yourself feel the way her body pressed against yours like it was trying to replace your heartbeat with hers.

But when her teeth grazed your jaw, you finally rasped, “Maybe I do.”

It was breathless, wicked. A tease and a confession all in one. “Would that be so bad?”

Paige froze—just for a second.

Then a exhale slipped out of her throat, and she pressed even closer, her thigh slotting between your legs, her hands pulling you flush against her. “Nah,” she said, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “I’ll give you whatever you fucking want, mama. I got you.”

Your head tilted back against the wall, heart hammering. You could feel her smirk against your skin, feel the thrill building between your legs like a threat.

And then—

“Paige!”

Chris’s voice echoed from the distance, firm and searching. The second half was about to start.

“Fuck,” Paige groaned into your chest, forehead dropping against your skin. Not your shoulder, your chest. Dead center, right above your cleavage. She lingered there, unmoving for a beat too long, nose brushing the curve of you as if it was her last meal. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

“You like it,” you whispered, grinning down at her.

She exhaled hard through her nose. Then she straightened up, one hand staying anchored on your waist, the other sliding up to your face to cup your jaw.

“Just wait ‘til I get you alone,” she murmured against your lips, barely a breath between you. “We’ll see if you’re still smiling then.”

You caught her chin lightly between two fingers and swiped your thumb across her bottom lip, wiping away the gloss she’d stolen. Your smirk never faltered.

And neither did hers.

With one last stolen kiss—chaste, but full of promise—she let go, turning toward the direction of the locker room. Her gait was slower than usual, like her body wasn’t fully ready to walk away.

She didn’t look back.

But you knew she didn’t need to.

You waited another minute. Then two. Composed yourself. Straightened your shirt, adjusted your glasses, gave your reflection in the glossy wall a once-over, then returned to the court with the grace and calm of someone completely unaffected.

You weren’t fooling anyone.

Especially not her.

Paige met your eyes the second you stepped back onto the sideline. Her pupils were still blown wide, chest still rising and falling faster than it should’ve been.

She wouldn’t find peace until she had you under her.

The rest of the game passed in a blur of controlled chaos and inevitable disappointment.

You stayed glued to the bench, shoulders rolled back and legs crossed in a way that made your pants ride up just enough to show a peek of skin above your heels. Your injured shoulder didn’t hurt in the slightest—not that it mattered. The decision to sit you out was already made. So, instead of running the floor, you sat like a vision in black and gold, sipping water and watching your team try to stay afloat against the powerhouse that was Las Vegas.

It wasn’t going well.

The starters had slowly been pulled, one by one, until the floor was left to the rookies and training camp invites—girls fighting tooth and nail for a shot at the final roster. You could see it in their eyes, the grit and desperation. It was admirable.

But it wasn’t enough.

You and Paige were seated side by side now. Not a word was exchanged, not really. Just subtle glances and shared breath. Your thighs were flush against each other, warm and pressed tightly together as if the space between you wasn’t already tense enough. Paige’s knee bounced occasionally—nerves or restraint, you couldn’t tell—and her fingers curled into fists every now and then on her lap.

You felt it too.

The buzz beneath your skin. The air charged between you. Her cologne lingered from warmups, light and clean, and her jersey still clung to her like a second skin. Her slicked-back hair was starting to curl slightly at the nape of her neck with sweat. And every time she shifted beside you, you were hyper aware of how close she was.

At one point, your heel nudged against hers—lightly, purposefully—and her head turned like she could hear your thoughts. Her eyes dropped to your lap, lingered for a breath too long on the exposed sliver of your stomach and the necklace that still glinted with that tiny “M.”

It took everything in her not to slide a hand up your thigh. Not to palm the flesh there, grip and squeeze until your posture gave something away. But the cameras were still rolling. The crowd, although thinned, was still watching. Too many prying eyes.

Eventually, the final buzzer rang, and the scoreboard didn’t lie.

The Aces had steamrolled, a thirty point deficit that felt heavier than it looked. The team filed back into the locker room in silence. There wasn’t anger, not exactly. Just quiet acceptance. It was the first preseason game, and this roster was still new—a work in progress, barely stitched together.

On the bus, you made a point to walk past Paige without so much as brushing her hand. Your eyes met for a second, and you knew she was expecting you to sit beside her. You always did.

Instead, you slid into the seat next to Dijonai, plopping down casually as if it wasn’t a statement, as if your skin wasn’t buzzing from holding back the grin threatening to break free. You were well aware of the tension still simmering beneath Paige’s cool expression.

Across the aisle, Nalyssa dropped into the seat next to Paige—a convenient shuffle that almost looked choreographed. It was almost funny. A partner swap, if you really thought about it.

You leaned against the window, legs crossed again, phone in hand but eyes flickering over the top edge of your screen every few minutes to steal glances at her. Paige didn’t look at you.

But her jaw was clenched, her fingers drumming against her knee. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t send a thrill straight down your spine.

She could play it cool all she wanted—but you knew what the night still owed you.

w The bus ride back to the hotel was short, but the silence made it feel longer. The kind that stretched like pulled thread—thin, delicate, one wrong move from snapping. Conversations were hushed. Laughter was minimal. Even the rookies who'd given it everything were slumped back in their seats, drained.

You barely said a word. Not to Dijonai, not to anyone. You didn’t need to, your presence was always loud enough. Even in silence, you were impossible to ignore.

Paige didn’t glance your way. Not once. Not when you stood up as the bus slowed to a stop. Not when your perfume trailed in the air like a tether around her throat. She followed the team inside, nodding politely at the front desk staff, bag slung over one shoulder, her stride confident but tense.

You knew she was waiting. For the moment. For you.

And you gave it to her.

You didn’t rush to the elevator. Let the rest of the girls pile in first. Waited for the second one. When Paige stepped into the quieter lift without a word, you slipped in behind her.

The doors closed with a soft thud, and the silence inside was deafening.

There were only a few others around—one of the assistant coaches, a trainer, Arike. The kind of company that demanded restraint. But the heat was unmistakable. You could feel it coming off her in waves.

She stood on the other side of the elevator, back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed over her chest like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her eyes flicked toward the digital numbers above the doors. But she wasn’t really watching them. Not when she could feel your gaze on her.

You licked your lips, slow and deliberate. Just enough to draw her eyes. And when she looked, you gave her that knowing look. The one you always gave her when the air was heavy and her self-control was unraveling thread by thread.

It was intoxicating, this wordless conversation. This tightly wound tension that clung to both of you like static.

The elevator stopped. Coach and Arike stepped out, exchanging brief goodnights. The second the doors slid shut again, it was just the two of you.

Paige didn’t move. But her eyes were locked on you now. Hard.

Your back hit the wall beside her, your shoulder just brushing hers. “Long ride,” you murmured softly.

“Long game,” she said, voice low.

You could feel her gaze trailing over your profile. Your cheekbone. Your mouth. The exposed skin between the buttons of your shirt.

“And you didn’t make it any easier,” she added, her voice edged in restraint.

You smiled, just the corner of your mouth lifting. “Wasn’t trying to.”

“Oh, I know,” she muttered, eyes dropping to your cleavage.

The elevator dinged. Your floor.

Neither of you moved at first.

Then Paige exhaled quietly and stepped out, her hand brushing your lower back in a ghost of a touch—protective, possessive, and barely there. You followed, the hallway cool and quiet except for the sound of your heels on the carpeted floor.

Room 477.

She opened the door first. Let you walk in before her. The door shut with a solid click behind you both, sealing the energy between those four walls like a vacuum.

Still, nothing said. Just the sharp sound of her duffel hitting the floor and the faint rustle of fabric as she kicked off her sneakers.

You turned to her then, slowly. Your arms crossed lazily, your back leaning against the nearest wall. Your eyes never left hers.

She didn’t speak—didn’t need to.

You could see it in her posture, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to hold you or pin you.

And god, that restraint… it made your blood hum.

This wasn’t the moment for release. Not yet.

But it was close. So close.

And that made it all the more addicting.

You stood there, arms crossed, watching her.

Paige’s jaw flexed like she was chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her shorts now, and her back was to you, but you knew her tells. The slight tremble in her exhale. The way her shoulders rose and dropped a bit quicker than usual. The quiet, building storm just beneath her skin.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” you said, voice silky soft but loaded, “I’m gonna start thinking you’re mad at me.”

Paige faced you, slow and deliberate. Her eyes dragged over every inch of you—the open button shirt, the exposed skin, the curve of your body. She licked her lips, but didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, smiling lazily. “Cheering for my girl?”

Her eyes darkened.

“Nah,” she said, her voice gravel low. “Sitting there looking like you wanted me to take you right there on the bench. All those little looks. You knew I was watching.”

You didn’t deny it. Instead, you pushed off the wall and slowly made your way toward her—heels clicking against the hardwood, deliberate and slow like the start of a song that promises to break you by the end.

When you reached her, you didn’t touch her yet. You just looked up, close enough that your breath tickled her chin. “But you liked it.”

Paige’s eyes closed for just a second. Her jaw clenched.

You pressed closer. Just barely.

Then, your hands rose to her waist—slow and smooth—slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt. Your fingers dragged lightly along the ridges of her toned torso, nails grazing her skin just enough to make her hiss out a breath.

“I wanted to see how long you’d last,” you whispered, eyes gleaming. “You made it to halftime. I’m impressed.”

Her hand shot out—fast, like a reflex—and gripped your waist, dragging you flush against her body.

“You’re testing me,” she murmured, low against your ear, her breath hot and uneven. “You’ve been testing me all night.”

Your lips curved. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Paige leaned in. Her nose brushed yours, her mouth hovering just a breath away. Her grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging in like she could barely stop herself from throwing you onto the bed and showing you exactly what.

“I should make you wait,” she murmured.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against hers but not giving in. “But you won’t.”

Her mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was all tongue and teeth and frustration, a day’s worth of built up heat bursting open like a dam. She kissed you like she needed it to breathe, like she could consume you whole and still not get enough.

Her hands moved fast—one sliding up your back beneath the top, the other gripping your jaw to keep you there, pressed to her mouth. You moaned softly against her lips, your own hands tangling in the front of her tee, dragging her closer, closer, until there was nothing between you but clothes and restraint.

She walked you backward without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumbling toward the bed like you were drunk on each other.

You fell onto the mattress, breathless, her weight pressing into you—her hips pressed flush between your thighs, her hand still wrapped around the back of your neck. Her mouth never left yours for long—just enough to breathe, just enough to whisper sweet nothings into the curve of your jaw before capturing your lips again.

Her free hand moved with maddening skill, unbuttoning the only two buttons holding your blouse together with the kind of ease that made it obvious she'd done this before. Many times.

The moment your chest was bared to her, your bra doing little to shield you from her hungry gaze, Paige let out a low exhale, one that rumbled in her throat like a warning. Or a promise.

"Goddamn," she muttered, her mouth descending, kissing along the curve of your breast with open lips. She sucked at the skin just above the cup, then gently bit down, pulling a gasp out of you despite your best effort to stay composed.

Her voice dropped lower, lips brushing your skin. "Look at you. Spread out, breathin’ like you need me to touch you or you’ll lose it."

You whimpered—quiet, strained—and she smirked, her hand sliding down, hooking under your waistband.

"Don’t worry, baby," she murmured. "I got you."

Her fingers made quick work of the button, then the zipper, and you felt the subtle shift in her position—her thigh sliding between yours, pinning one of your legs down while the other bent up, braced against her hip. It gave her the perfect angle.

She slid her hand beneath the waistband of your panties, hot skin meeting hotter heat and you gasped, your hips twitching in response. Her fingers grazed your soaked cunt, still over the fabric, and she chuckled darkly at how wet you already were.

"Fuck," she hissed, dragging her lips up your neck. "All this for me? Just from a few kisses and some dirty words? You’re such a fuckin’ slut."

She rubbed slow, deliberate circles over your clothed core, her breath warm against your skin, her voice pitched so low it melted straight into your bones. “You sat on that bench looking like sex, and now you’re here, already dripping. You want me to take my time, or should I make you beg?”

You chewed your bottom lip, fighting a moan, your hands clawing at her back, nails digging in just enough to make her shudder.

"Say something," she whispered against your collarbone, teasing the edge of your bra down with her teeth. "Use that pretty mouth or I’ll stop."

"Paige..." you breathed, finally cracking. "Please don’t stop."

That was all she needed.

Her mouth returned to your breast, tugging the bra down just enough to wrap her lips around your nipple, tongue flicking, lips sucking slow and firm while her fingers over your panties pressed in harder, rubbing slow, dirty circles that made your thighs tremble.

“Good girl,” she groaned into your chest. “Keep askin’. I’ll give you every fucking thing.”

Paige’s mouth wandered, but not where you wanted it. She kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts—leaving marks with her mouth, her teeth, anything but her lips. She was everywhere but your mouth, and it drove you insane.

You chased her lips once, a quiet whimper escaping you, but she dodged with a smirk, sucking a bruise just beneath your jawline instead.

Her hand, still between your legs, rubbed those slow, agonizing circles over your soaked panties—drawing out your arousal like she had all the time in the world.

Then she stopped.

You whined, lifting your hips in protest, but before you could whine her name, you felt her hand slide under the fabric.

The moment her fingers made contact with your wetness, she let out a low laugh. A dark, smug sound that sent a shiver rolling down your spine.

“Jesus,” she muttered, teasing her fingers through your slick. “You’re fucking dripping. This all from me just talking to you and some kissing?”

You rolled your eyes and let out a breathless, flustered chuckle. “Shut up…”

She didn’t seem to like that.

Her free hand moved from behind your neck to grip your jaw, firm and fast, tilting your face toward her. The pressure wasn’t gentle, and the command in her eyes made your breath hitch.

“Don’t fucking tell me to shut up,” she warned, before finally crashing her mouth against yours.

It was rough. Unforgiving. All teeth and spit and frustration.

When she pulled back, your lips were swollen, and a thin string of spit still connected you. Her hand remained wrapped around your jaw, fingers digging in, keeping your face locked in place.

“You’re on thin ice right now,” she said lowly, the words thick with hunger and something darker. “You don’t get to run that mouth unless I say so.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as her fingers moved again, slow, pushing one long digit inside you without warning. You gasped, sharp and high, your mouth falling open as your body arched into her.

But Paige didn’t let your head fall back.

Her hand on your face held you steady, forced your gaze to stay locked on hers.

“Nuh uh,” she said, voice hoarse. “Keep your pretty eyes on me. I wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your breath hitched as her finger curled inside you, the pace slow and controlled, dragging over every nerve like she’d mapped your body out and memorized it.

“Say it,” she demanded, leaning in, lips brushing your cheek but not your mouth. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone speak. But her eyes—those hungry, sharp, unrelenting eyes—never left yours, and neither did her hand.

“…You,” you rasped. “It’s you, Daddy.”

Her smirk deepened. “Damn right.”

And with that, she pushed deeper, knowing full well you’d break before the night was over.

Paige’s eyes flicked up to yours again, still holding your gaze like a chain wrapped tight around your throat. Her finger never stopped moving, the slick sounds between your legs growing louder in the quiet room.

Then she slowed, almost to a stop, barely curling her finger with maddening control.

“You want more?” she asked lowly, like she didn’t already know the answer. “Think you can take it?”

Her voice was smooth and mocking, thick with amusement and desire. She leaned in just a little closer, eyes never straying from yours. “Be honest, baby. You really think you can handle another one?”

That teasing lilt in her voice made your jaw clench, your fingers twisting in the sheets beneath you.

You didn’t just want more—you needed it. Your body was already begging, trembling, aching for her to fill you just a little more. And she knew it.

So you didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chest rising and falling faster, lips parted, silently pleading. She already knew.

Paige laughed under her breath. “Figures.”

And just like that, her second finger pushed in beside the first. Your head snapped back with a sharp gasp, a breathy moan slipping past your lips as your back arched. Your elbows wobbled where they held you up, threatening to give out from the sudden wave of pressure and pleasure crashing into you.

But you held yourself up. Barely.

Paige's other hand finally released your jaw and braced herself against the bed, palm flat next to your hip, hovering over you like a predator.

Her fingers moved in and out of you, curling and scissoring, switching between long, languid drags and quick, pulsing thrusts that had your thighs twitching. The room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of your arousal, and the only thing louder than that was your breath—ragged, shallow, desperate.

But still, your eyes never left hers.

Even as your legs began to tremble, your focus stayed locked on her. Eyes wide, pupils blown, your bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were holding back from begging or crying out. You looked wrecked, completely overtaken by lust, and it made her lose her rhythm for a second.

Her gaze dipped from your face to your heaving chest, down to the way her digits pumped into your sopping pussy, then back up again.

“Fuck…” she whispered, her pace speeding up before she could even stop herself. It was instinctual. Animalistic.

For a moment, she lost herself in you. In the way you looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive. Like nothing existed except her hands on your body, and the high you were chasing.

But then, she caught herself.

She blinked hard and slowed down—too fast. You felt it immediately.

“No—no—" you whimpered, hips twitching, your body already so close you could taste it. But she didn’t stop gradually. She stopped completely.

Fingers still buried inside you, she stilled them, refusing to move. You were practically vibrating, your body locked in that terrible, beautiful edge of no return.

Your head fell back in frustration, eyes squeezing shut. “Whyyyy…”

Your voice was cracked and desperate, a pathetic little whine that only made her smirk.

She slowly slid her fingers out of you with a wet, sinful sound. And then, holding your stare again, she brought her fingers to her lips and licked them clean.

“Tastes like heaven,” she murmured, letting her tongue run over the pad of each finger.

Then, smirking down at you—panting, trembling, and glistening between the legs—she said lowly, “You know damn well why, mama.”

She leaned in close, lips just brushing yours but not kissing. “You don’t get to come ‘til I say you can.”

And you swore you could’ve come from just those words alone.

Paige sat you upright with a quiet kind of urgency, the heat in her eyes doing more than words ever could. Her fingers curled around the edges of your button-up, tugging it off your shoulders and down your arms until it slipped free. She tossed it somewhere behind her without a second thought. Then came the gentle taps on your hips and you instinctively lifted them, letting her drag your pants and underwear down and off in one smooth pull. Her movements were sure, practiced, reverent.

Her mouth found the curve of your neck again, soft lips pressing against your pulse as she reached behind you with one hand, unclasping your bra with that same cocky ease you’d never admit drives you crazy. The straps slid away, and she tossed that too, her breath warm against your collarbone as she pulled back just enough to take you in—fully bare now, save for the necklace with her initial that rested right above your chest and your heels, which she deliberately hadn’t touched.

“Y’look so fucking good wearing my name.”

She stood up straight, eyes lingering for a second longer before she reached over her shoulder, tugging her own shirt off. Her muscles flexed subtly with the motion, her nike sports bra clinging to her frame, rising just a bit with each heavy breath. Her shorts still sat low on her hips, but she didn’t touch them yet.

Instead, her hands found your waist again. She dragged you closer to the edge of the bed, her palms firm on your skin, possessive. Your knees parted naturally, thighs relaxing around her shoulders as she dropped to her knees—slow, like she had all the time in the world. Her arms wrapped under your thighs and she pulled you forward until you were right where she wanted you. Her face hovered close, her nose brushing against the inside of your thigh, eyes flicking up with that look—the one that made your breath catch every single time.

"Look at you," she murmured low, almost in awe, her voice rough. “prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Her grip on your thighs tightened slightly, anchoring you in place. You could feel her breath against your skin, warm and teasing. Every part of you felt like it was pulsing in anticipation—mind hazy, legs tense, spine arching ever so slightly as your body leaned into the gravity of her.

"You wanna act like a brat," she whispered, her voice husky and dangerously calm, "so now you’re gonna take everything I give you, right?”

And all you could do was desperately nod.

She didn't move yet, not really. She just stayed there, admiring you, kissing the inside of your thigh once, twice, with maddening restraint. Teasing. Waiting.

And then her grip shifted again, just slightly, as if she were finally ready to devour you whole.

The air in the room was thick with heat, not from the summer night, but from the slow, delicious burn building between you and Paige. Her palms pressed against your thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your soft skin as her eyes roamed over your body with dark intent. From her position on her knees, she looked like worship and sin all at once.

She didn’t rush. Paige never did. She took her time, like she wanted to commit every inch of you to memory.

Her lips ghosted over the inside of your thigh, moving higher, then lower again, teasing. She nipped gently at the sensitive skin, just enough to make your breath hitch—and then soothed it over with the flat of her tongue, a silent apology that somehow only made the ache worse. Your hips shifted slightly, not enough to beg, but close.

Her arms tightened under your thighs as she pulled you a little closer still, locking you into place. Her breath was hot and steady, and her lips so close—so achingly close—but still not where you needed them.

“You’ve got no patience,” she murmured, mouth brushing your skin, her voice thick with a grin you couldn’t see but could feel. “You sit all pretty on the sidelines all game, teasing me... and now you want it all at once?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t, really. Your throat felt tight, your body strung out with anticipation. You didn’t need to speak anyway. She could feel the way your thighs trembled slightly beneath her grip, the way your hips bucked without realizing, the way your fingers clutched the bedsheets behind you.

Paige pressed another kiss higher up your thigh, dangerously close, then paused. Her gaze lifted, locking onto yours with that same fire that had been there since tipoff.

"Use your words" she breathed, low and commanding. "Tell me what you want."

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough. “You.”

She smirked, not cocky, but hungry. “Yeah, mama?” Her tone was thick with heat, her lips brushing against your skin between every word. “You’re gonna get me.”

And then she dipped her head again—slowly, reverently—as her grip tightened and she finally closed the space between you.

Your breath caught in your throat the second Paige finally moved. Her mouth found you like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it, licking a stripe up your folds—slow at first, like she was savoring something forbidden. Her grip under your thighs remained firm, keeping you right where she wanted you, like she didn’t trust you not to squirm away from the intensity she brought with every calculated kiss, every hot breath against your skin.

She moved with intent. No rush, no hesitation, just pure control. The kind of control that had your head tilting back, eyes fluttering closed, and one hand coming up to grab the sheets as your body tried to process it all.

Then came her voice, low and muffled against you, still cocky even down on her knees. “Mm... this what you wanted?” Her voice alone had your stomach tightening. “You were damn near begging for it without saying a word.”

You whimpered in response, because yes, this was exactly what you wanted. Maybe more than you could admit.

Shuffling your feet, you managed to kick your heels off.

She didn’t let up. The hand that had held your thigh adjusted, her fingers brushing over your skin possessively, thumb stroking idle circles into your hip while she worked you over, relentless and deliberate. Lips wrapped around your lips, tongue teasing your entrance, slurping up everything you gave her.

You were soaked, needy, and trembling, your body starting to rock toward her without thought—like your hips had a mind of their own, chasing the high she was expertly building.

Then, just when your breaths were getting short and your grip on the sheets was threatening to rip the fabric, Paige pulled back, just slightly.

Your eyes snapped open in protest.

She looked up at you through her lashes, chin glistening, lips swollen, and all she did was smirk. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, voice dark and dripping in amusement. “You knew I was gonna take my time.”

Still kneeling, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and climbed up slowly, hands gliding up your sides before she leaned in, the weight of her body settling comfortably against yours again. Her mouth hovered just beside your jaw, her breath warm and teasing.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss right beneath your ear. “Not even close.”

Then, her mouth found yours, and this time, she didn’t hold back.

You could still taste yourself on her lips—warm and sweet, a reminder of how she’d had you moments ago. The kiss between you turned greedy, tongues tangled in a dance of desperation. You tugged at her waistband, your fingers curling under the elastic with an urgency you didn’t bother to hide.

Paige grinned against your mouth, the cocky tilt of her lips a stark contrast to her breathlessness. “Damn, baby. Slow down,” she murmured, voice teasing and low. “I’m not going anywhere.” But she gave in, tugging them down and kicking them off.

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to respond—instead pulling her mouth back to yours, swallowing whatever quip she might’ve had lined up next. The two of you shifted, clumsily but in sync, toward the center of the bed. Your back hit the pillows, hair spilling across the sheets like a halo, while Paige loomed above you in her boxers and sports bra, every inch of her radiating heat.

The ache between your thighs was still there, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and before you could stop yourself, the thought was already spilling into the space between you. You bit her lower lip, sharp enough to make her pull back with a dramatic wince, though the glint in her eyes betrayed how much she liked it.

She licked her lips slowly, gaze dropping to your flushed, eager face. “What was that for?”

“Wanna try it” you murmured, fingers brushing the edge of her waistband again. “On you.”

Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity igniting behind her eyes. “Try what on me?”

You exhaled, slightly exasperated. “You know what. Your ‘mousekatool’ as you call it. Don’t make me spell it out.”

That earned a quiet snicker from her, and her head dipped as if to hide the grin spreading across her face. “You mean my strap?” she teased, voice pitched low with faux innocence.

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Yes, Paige. The strap.”

She tilted her head, amused and entirely too smug. “Who says I brought it this time?”

“You always bring it,” you countered without missing a beat, your tone equal parts accusing and needy. “You bring it everywhere. Don’t lie to me.”

She smirked, fingers idly tracing along your thigh, like she was in no rush at all. “Maybe I like being prepared,” she hummed, leaning in to press a kiss just beneath your jaw. “You been thinking ‘bout it?”

“For a while,” you confessed softly, voice almost shy beneath the tension in the room. “Like a lot.”

She paused for a beat, her breath fanning against your skin as her lips curved into something darker, softer. “Yeah? How long’s a while?”

You rolled your eyes again, clearly not in the mood for her games, and gave her shoulder a small push.

But Paige only laughed under her breath — a low, husky sound—before finally nodding, the shift in her expression signaling a silent ‘okay’. Her gaze held yours for a beat longer, just long enough for your breath to hitch, before she pushed up off the bed to retrieve what you both knew she had packed.

The anticipation thickened the air, the weight of the moment drawing everything tighter. She was quiet as she moved, deliberate and smooth, her back flexing beneath the dim light while you watched her, bare and wanting and more than ready.

And she could feel it too, the heat that simmered in your stare, the tension in your posture, the glint in your eye that made it abundantly clear. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to take control.

When Paige returned, the familiar shape of it in her hand, your smirk was immediate—small, sly, and a little too eager. You reached for it without hesitation, and she let it go just as quickly, the edges of her mouth curling in a low chuckle.

“You waste no time, huh?” she murmured as she watched you from the foot of the bed, eyes hooded, mouth still glistening faintly from you.

“Could say the same about you,” you replied, voice light but your fingers focused as you stepped into it, adjusting the straps and tightening where it needed with a practiced ease. Confidence hummed beneath your skin, electric and heavy, and you didn’t bother hiding it.

Once it sat snug and secure against you, you tilted your chin, nodding toward the bed, a silent instruction.

And to your pleasant surprise, Paige obeyed.

No eye roll, no sarcastic comment. Just a quiet spark of something between amusement and anticipation in her expression as she crawled backward, settling herself against the pillows. Her breathing was calm, but you knew her well enough to spot the tension—the subtle way her fingers curled into the sheets, the way her eyes tracked your every movement just a second longer than usual.

She was curious, excited. And nervous.

The realization that she’d never let anyone else do this, never even entertained the idea, filled your chest with a kind of fierce pride. It wasn’t just trust.

You climbed onto the bed slowly, knees on either side of her hips. The sight of her spread out beneath you, still in her sports bra and chest rising and falling, was enough to make your breath catch. You tapped her hip gently.

“Lift,” you said, quiet.

She obeyed again, and you tugged her boxers down with care, dragging the fabric past toned thighs, revealing her inch by inch. Her skin was warm beneath your palms, and when you looked up at her again, her gaze was already locked on yours—unreadable, but heavy with something unspoken.

You leaned forward, catching her mouth in another kiss. Slow at first, exploratory. But it didn’t stay soft for long. Soon it was hungry again, mouths open, lips swollen, tongues sliding in sync. You deepened it purposefully, pouring reassurance into every motion, letting your hands slide over her. Grounding her, and reminding her this was you.

Her legs shifted slightly beneath you, and you felt it. The tension in her thighs, the way her fingers grazed your arms, seeking anchor. So you kissed her harder. One hand cradled the side of her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone, while your hips stayed still for now—letting her adjust, letting her breathe.

You didn’t need to rush.

This was new. But it was yours to explore together.

Paige's breathing had shifted, deeper and slower, like she was trying to brace herself for something unfamiliar. You hovered over her, letting your eyes roam, deliberately dragging your gaze down the length of her body. The contrast was striking. Strong, confident Paige, laid bare in front of you, chest rising and falling with anticipation she hadn’t put words to yet.

You let your fingertips trail down her sides, a whisper of a touch. Featherlight at first, just enough to draw goosebumps along her skin. Her stomach twitched beneath your hand when your palm flattened just above her navel.

“You good?” you asked, voice hushed but edged with something firmer, more grounded.

She gave you a small nod, eyes burning into yours. “Better than good.”

That was all the confirmation you needed.

You kissed her again, but not her mouth this time. You pressed your lips to her neck, slow and indulgent, tasting the skin there. Down to her collarbone, where your tongue traced the curve, your hands moving to her hips to keep her steady. You heard the slight hitch in her breath when your lips dipped even lower, pressing along the top swell of her chest, still caged beneath her sports bra.

You smiled against her skin. “This in the way?”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh, lips quirking. “What do you think?”

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped your hands under the band and dragged the fabric up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. The second she was bare to you, you didn’t even look. You leaned in, kissing the top of her breast first, then lower, letting your tongue sweep over skin that was already flushed and warm. Her hands found your back, blunt nails digging slightly when your mouth closed around her nipples, drawing a soft, reluctant moan from her.

She arched into you without thinking, chest pressing against your mouth, and you took your time—suckling gently, then switching sides, giving her equal attention until her grip on your shoulders turned into a quiet plea.

“Mama.”

“Mhm?” you murmured against her.

She gave a small shake of her head and exhaled a half laugh. “Teasing me already?”

You kissed your way back up her collarbones, up her throat, and then caught her mouth again, messy and hungry. She could taste your hunger on your tongue and it only made her pull you closer.

One of your hands slipped between her legs, stroking over the inner thigh, slow and measured. You were deliberately avoiding where she wanted you most. She tried to shift her hips, subtly guiding your hand lower, but you held your place—firm, patient, smiling into the kiss.

“You’re not the only one who gets to tease,” you whispered against her lips.

“God,” she muttered, tilting her head back slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a beat.

You used that moment to lean in, letting your mouth hover beside her ear, voice low and deliberate. “You want it, pretty girl?”

Paige’s brows knit together slightly, breath catching again. Her hands clenched the sheets beside her. “Yeah.”

Your hand finally slipped lower, brushing softly over her core,slow and maddening, enough to make her hips twitch. You dragged your fingers in circles, watching her expression unravel in real time—almost cursing at how wet she already was.

The look in her eyes—wide, dazed, dark with hunger—made your stomach twist in the best way.

You slowly pulled your hand away, earning yourself a disappointed sigh from the blonde underneath you.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth as you casually brought your fingers to her mouth, her tongue immediately darting out to lick off her own slick. It was nothing short of intoxicating and addicting to see her like that.

You slipped your fingers out of her mouth and your hand curled around the strap, getting a feel of what had been inside of you countless of times, before slowly spitting down on it. You watched as you stroked the silicone, wetting it. Suddenly, you understood why she found so much enjoyment in it, why she always took her sweet time while you waited impatiently.

And now the roles were reversed.

Paige was just about to protest, wanting to tell you to hurry the hell up, but the feeling of the tip of her own strap circling her entrance had her swallowing her own words and her breath catching in her throat.

“Y’good, daddy?” Your voice is silky smooth and sweet like honey, a smug look etched into your features.

Paige wanted to just flip you over and have her way with you. Calling her that while teasing her after you’d practically begged her to let you fuck her? You knew exactly what you were doing.

She didn’t reply, not with words. Her hands rose up, curling tightly around your hips, nails digging into the plush of your skin.

But you didn’t react—not even when she tried to pull you closer.

You positioned the tip at her leaking entrance, the sight causing you to unconsciously lick your lips. She needed you desperately, and probably had been all day long.

Slowly, hand still wrapped around the strap, you moved your hips closer, only the tip pushing in. You watched her for a moment, eyes glued on the way her lips parted as her head tipped back. Then, your gaze traveled down, taking in the way it slipped deeper inside of her torturously slow, inch by inch until you bottomed out.

Paige gasped at the delicious stretch, barely loud enough for you to hear.

“This okay?” You felt the need to ask, to make sure she was comfortable under your care and give her time to adjust to the intrusion.

“Fuck,” the blonde cursed under her breath, her grip around your hips tightening as if you were her lifeline. “It’s good, mama. You can move.”

Nodding your head, you pulled out half way, easing back in with deliberate patience.

You shifted above Paige, the leather strap harness snug around your hips—foreign, unfamiliar, but grounding you in the moment. Your palms braced on either side of Paige's bare waist, breath catching as you looked down at her.

Paige was already flushed. Blonde hair a halo of gold across the pillow, pale chest rising and falling in shallow waves. Her legs fell open again, instinctively, as if inviting something she’d never asked for before.

Her lips parted, just barely. “You can… go slow.”

“I was planning to,” you murmured, voice low, nearly sweet. Your fingers brushed up Paige’s thigh in a soothing pass, a grounding gesture for both of you.

The first push back in was gentle. Careful. A slow rock forward as you let the strap guide you, adjusting to the rhythm, to the tension and give of Paige’s body beneath you. Paige’s breath hitched—sharp and soft at once—and her hands curled into the sheets.

Her blue eyes fluttered up, catching your gaze with something between disbelief and desire. She’d ever felt this full. Never been looked at this way.

You leaned down, lips grazing Paige’s jaw. “Still okay?”

Paige swallowed, nodding, her fingers sliding up to grip your forearm. “More than okay.”

You set a rhythm, slow and purposeful, letting each roll of your hips press deep and linger. Paige’s moans started soft, reluctant at first—like she was surprised by how good it feels. Each one drawn out, breathy, as her thighs trembled slightly with every thrust.

You watched her unravel beneath you. How Paige bit her bottom lip, how her fingers dragged along your bacm, how her lashes fluttered every time you sunk in deeper. It wasn’t just about control, it was about giving, too. Giving Paige something she never thought she wanted, and now couldn’t seem to get enough of.

Sweat beaded at both of your skin, the room warm with breath and heat and slow tension. When Paige wrapped her legs around your hips and pulled you in closer, your bodies locked together, like it was meant to feel this way all along.

“Fuck,” Paige breathed, voice wrecked. “You feel so good.”

You brushed your lips against her temple, whispering like it was sacred. “You feel even better, Baby.”

And then you rocked in again—harsher, deeper—and watched Paige slowly fall apart all over again.

The way she clung to you, the sound of her moans unraveling in your ear, the heat radiating off her body. Every time you sank into her, every time her hips tilted to meet yours, it got a little harder to hold back.

You didn’t even realize you were moving faster until her breath hitched again, more desperate this time. Her fingers dug into your hips like she needed something to ground herself, something solid while you pulled her apart.

Your eyes stayed glued to her. To the way her lips parted just before every moan. To the way her brows pulled together when your thrusts got deeper. To the way she took you, like it was too much and not enough all at once.

And then your gaze dropped, locked in on where your body met hers. How the strap stretched her glistening cunt.

You swore you could feel her. Swore you could feel every squeeze, every flutter, every reaction she gave you—even through the strap. And it drove you fucking insane.

The pace picked up, your hips rocking harder now, the sound of skin on skin thick in the air. Paige’s moans came faster, choked and breathy, and still she didn’t tell you to stop.

She didn’t want you to stop.

One of her hands slipped up to her mouth, knuckles pressed to her lips as she bit down, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep herself from falling apart too loudly.

“Don’t hide those sounds from me,” you warned, voice low and ruined, one hand grabbing her thigh to yank her closer with every thrust. “You’re so fucking pretty when you moan.”

Her eyes rolled back, her back arched, and a whimper escaped around her hand despite her best efforts.

“Look at you,” you murmured, nearly breathless yourself, the rhythm hard and steady now. “All spread out for me… letting me fuck you like this for the first time. You feel it, don’t you? You feel me in your guts.”

She nodded, mouth open but words gone, completely lost to the feeling.

And you were gone, too. Gone in the way she clutched at you, in the slick sounds filling the room, in the way she trembled every time you hit just right. You’d never seen her like this—never been inside her in this way. And it made you feel invincible.

It made you feel obsessed.

“I could stay right here all fucking night,” you whispered harshly, eyes devouring her. “You feel unreal. Don’t ever wanna stop.”

Paige let out a broken, muffled moan—legs shaking, knuckles white against her mouth, body arching into yours like she couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

And with every thrust, every cry, every sweet wrecked sound you pulled from her lips, you made her yours.

She’d taken taken two orgasms from you. Stolen them, really—left you shaking, wrung out, and aching with nothing to show for it but trembling thighs and the ghost of her mouth still between your legs. And now, with every thrust of your hips, the straps pressed hard against your core. Slick and pulsing and needy, and it was driving you insane.

Your fingers curled tight into the flesh of her hip, holding her in place, like if you didn’t keep her still you’d lose your fucking mind. Her legs locked around your waist, dragging you in deeper, and you leaned down to kiss her, messy and hungry and almost angry with how much you wanted her.

She moaned into your mouth, high pitched and breathless, and it broke something in you. The squelch of wet, filthy friction echoed between you, loud and obscene, and it made your stomach tighten. She was so fucking wet for you. You could feel her flutter around the strap again, tightening, pulling, like her body knew you now.

Her breath hitched, over and over, those beautiful little gasps coming faster, more ragged. Her thighs trembled against your sides. Her hand shot up to the pillow, grabbing desperately for something, anything, to ground herself.

“Oh my god—” she whimpered, breathless. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” you growled, not slowing for a second. “I know, baby. Look at you. So fucked out, clinging to me like this. You gonna cum all over me? Gonna soak it for me like a good fucking girl?”

Paige choked on a sob, nodding frantically as her mouth opened but no words came. Just sounds, broken, ruined little moans that made your hips stutter with the sheer heat of it.

“That’s it,” you panted, the rhythm wild now, completely consumed by her. “Take it. Take all of me. You feel that?”

“Y-yeah,” she gasped, her hand clawing at your back. “You fuck me so good—shit—baby, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your mouth dropped to her neck, biting down just enough to leave heat and pressure behind.

She cried out then, loud and raw, back arching as her orgasm hit like a fucking storm. She clung to you, muscles clenching hard around the strap as she came, soaking you with it, thighs twitching uncontrollably. Her moans turned into whimpers, then into wrecked little “oh my god”s and “don’t stop”s as her high dragged out, long and messy.

You didn’t stop, not right away. You rode it through, watched every flicker of pleasure twist across her face, obsessed with how beautiful she looked undone like this. She was yours. Wrecked by you. Filled by you.

And through it all, Paige kept whispering, voice hoarse and trembling. “So good… fuck, you feel so good… never—never been fucked like this before… you’re so fucking good, baby.”

You slowed eventually, panting against her skin, her praise still echoing in your head like a damn prayer. And all you could think—half crazed, overwhelmed, euphoric—was ‘I’d do it all over again.’ Just to see her fall apart like that one more time.

Her moans still echoed in your ears. High, strangled, ruined, and yet you still hadn’t cum.

She’d robbed your from it twice earlier, dragged those highs from you with her mouth, her fingers, her body pressed into yours like she had something to prove—then left you hanging. But now? Now it was your turn.

You didn’t give her time to come down. Didn’t even let her legs close. You fumbled with the straps, tugging the harness of and sitting back. Your thighs slipped between hers, only to be met by the hot, slick press of your cunt grinding down onto hers.

Her gasp was sharp, almost pained, but her hips lifted into yours anyway, her body betraying her sensitivity in favor of your shared need.

“Oh my god,” she whines, head rolling back as your cores met, swollen and soaked and completely unfiltered. The friction was messy, wet and loud and absolutely obscene, but you didn’t care. Neither of you did.

You moaned, high and needy, grinding harder as the sensation built—bare skin dragging against hers, nerves shot and screaming, the strap still hanging from your hips, forgotten now. It was just you and her—sliding together, chasing it, drowning in it

“Fuck, Paige—” you gasped, eyes half-lidded and locked on her flushed face. “I need—need to cum.”

She groaned, reaching for your hips with shaky hands, guiding you, matching your rhythm even though her legs were trembling.

“Take it,” she rasped, breath still ragged. “Fucking take it. You’ve earned it, baby. Cum for me, rub that pretty pussy on me until you fall apart. Don’t stop.”

You whimpered, the sound punched from your chest as you rolled your hips harder, faster, your wetness mixing with hers in a way that made everything slip and slide just right. Too much and not enough all at once.

Then—without warning—her hand slid up, two fingers pressing against your lips. You didn’t hesitate. You took them into your mouth, sucking hungrily, eyes glued to hers like she was your entire world.

Paige’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping into something deep and dangerous.

“Look at you,” she growled, the fingers in your mouth curling slightly, holding your jaw. “So desperate. So fucking wet. You gonna cum just from this? Grinding that needy little cunt on mine like a good girl?”

You moaned around her fingers, nodding, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. Your hips stuttered, rhythm breaking as the pressure built, dizzying and intense.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice a husk, her eyes wild with want. “C’mon. Show me. Take what you need, mama.”

You cried out around her fingers, your entire body locking up as your orgasm tore through you—hot and violent and blinding. You shook against her, thighs trembling, nails digging into her sides as you lost yourself, your high crashing into hers, mingled and messy and soaked with everything you’d been holding back.

And through it all, Paige just held you. Let you ride it out, while coming down herself. Her fingers slipped from your mouth, trailing down your jaw, down your neck, and she whispered,

“You’re so fucking perfect.”

Your chest was still heaving, legs quivering and damp with both your releases. She leaned in, her touch featherlight on your jaw, caressing your cheek like she hadn’t just dragged the orgasm of your life out of you.

“You good?” she murmured, voice hoarse, but laced with something dangerous underneath. Something eager.

You nodded, dazed, your lips parting to respond. But before a single word could come out, she flipped you onto your back with terrifying ease, making you gasp.

“You’ve had your fun,” she rasped, reaching behind her for the discarded strap and sliding it on like it was muscle memory. Her eyes never left yours. “My turn.”

Your breath caught. That quiet ache between your legs that had just barely dulled now flared back to life. Your heart kicked up again. You could only watch, eyes wide and pulse skipping, as she adjusted the straps against her hips, rolling them once to test the feel.

You expected her to climb over you again, to press her body flush against yours.

But instead, she grabbed your thigh, flipped you again, and hauled your hips up until your knees dug into the mattress and your chest hit the pillow.

“Wh—Paige—” you barely managed, dizzy from the motion, your ass up and exposed, slick still dripping between your thighs.

“Shh,” she said, low and firm, one hand splaying against your lower back to keep you down. “You’re ready for it, baby.”

And then she sank into you.

No warning. No teasing. Just one smooth, hard thrust that punched the air from your lungs. The stretch burned for a second, sensitive and overwhelming, but your body welcomed her fast, the slickness easing her in and making the glide so damn deep.

You gasped into the pillow, your fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Fuck!” You tried to back away from the sudden intrusion.

“Oh, now you wanna run from this dick?” she growled behind you, her pace already brutal, hand gripping the back of your neck and pinning you down. “Stay with it, ma.”

Every word was punctuated by a thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and wet, echoing through the room like sin. The bed rocked, your thighs shaking, your jaw slack as moans spilled from your lips without warning.

“You feel that?” she panted, hips snapping forward. “So tight—still sucking me in like you didn’t just come all over me a few minutes ago.”

You whined, eyes rolling back.

“Messy fucking girl,” she hissed. “Dripping all over my thighs. Can’t even think straight, huh?”

You tried to speak—tried to beg, moan, something—but all that came out were high pitched sounds, your cheek rubbing against the pillow as she fucked into you like she owned every part of you. You knew it was gonna leave makeup stains.

“You like being used like this?” she breathed. “Stuffed full of my cock like a good little slut?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, and Paige moaned behind you, a low, almost possessive sound that made you clench around the toy still sliding in and out of you.

“Yeah, you do,” she said, her voice unraveling. “So greedy. So fucking wet for me. You’d let me do this all night if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You would. God, you would.

And she knew it.

Her hand slipped down your back, finding your ass, squeezing once before giving it two sharp slaps that sent a jolt through your body.

You were loud. Too loud.

You knew it the second the heel of her hand shoved your face further into the soft pillow, muffling the wanton moans that kept slipping past your swollen lips. The hotel room felt like it was vibrating with your sounds—high, helpless, wrecked. Paige’s thrusts hadn’t let up for a second.

“Shh,” she gritted, eyes blazing as she hovered above you, sweat dripping down her chest. “You want the whole floor to hear how good I’m fucking you?”

Your response was just a choked whimper, muffled against the pillow. You couldn’t stop trembling.

She’d slid out and flipped you fast, like you weighed nothing, shoving you onto your back and sliding right back in with a single sharp thrust. She slapped a hand over your mouth, covering it. Now your legs were everywhere. One pinned tightly against your chest, the other slung up and over her shoulder, spreading you open, folding you. The angle had her deep—so deep you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but take it. You swore you could feel her in your lungs.

“Fuck, look at you,” she rasped, her eyes dragging over your face. “Mascara running, mouth open, pussy clenching like you’re trying to milk me. You can’t stop, can you?”

You tried to shake your head, tried to answer her, but all that came out was a cry into her hand.

“That’s what I thought,” she growled. “Drippin’ on the sheets, crying for my cock.”

You blinked up at her, more tears threatening to spill now from overstimulation, from how full you felt. You were so far gone it didn’t even feel real.

And then her voice dropped lower—dangerously low. Possessive.

“I could fuck a baby into you like this, mama,” she murmured, eyes locked to where she was sliding in and out of you. “Folded in half, stuffed so deep you’d take every last drop.”

Your entire body tensed at her words, another sharp cry muffled against her hand.

“Oh, that got you,” she cooed, rolling her hips slow and deep, pressing until your breath caught and your toes curled. “You want me to fuck you full, huh? Knock you up?”

You whined, your hands scrambling up to her wrist, not to pull her hand away—but to hold her there, like the weight of it grounded you.

She leaned in, sweat-slicked chest and hard nipples brushing yours, her palm still sealing your mouth as she whispered filth in your ear.

“Everyone down the hall could hear you if I let go,” she breathed. “You want them to know what I’m doing to you? Want them to hear you beg me to cum inside? To fill you up so good you’ll still feel it tomorrow?”

You couldn’t take it. Your back arched, tears spilling now from the intensity of it all. Her words, her thrusts, the way your body had no control anymore.

“You gonna cum for me again?” she growled, pace turning brutal. “So messy, so loud, soaking my cock like it was made for that pretty pussy?”

You screamed into her hand as your climax hit you hard, your body locking up, shaking beneath her like you’d been electrocuted. Every muscle trembled, your cunt pulsing around the toy like it was real, like your body couldn’t tell the difference.

“Fuck,” she moaned, watching you fall apart. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Take it.”

Your cries were muffled, desperate, ruined. And still, she didn’t stop. She fucked you through it, deep and filthy, until you went limp beneath her, completely wrecked, your leg falling from her shoulder as she finally slowed down, panting hard above you.

And when she finally removed her hand, your lips were glossy with spit, your cheeks stained with black streaks, your voice barely a whisper.

“Paige…”

“Shh,” she whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “Just lay there. Let me take care of you.”

And with one last kiss to your temple, she finally pulled out, leaving you gasping, trembling, your entire body a soaked, overstimulated, satisfied mess.

You were still catching your breath, chest rising and falling as Paige finally stilled above you. The sweat on her skin shimmered under the dim bedside light, her golden hair clinging to her temples, and her lips were parted—soft, flushed, as if she’d just confessed something without meaning to.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until she reached up and thumbed away the tears under your eyes. Her touch was gentle now, tender and careful, as if she was worried she’d break you after what she’d just done.

“Hey,” she whispered, brushing her thumb along your jaw. “You okay?”

You gave a dazed little nod, voice barely audible. “Mhm… Just… That was crazy, what the fuck.” You let out a long exhale.

Her chest lifted with a soft laugh, but there was something else behind it. A vulnerability. A truth trying to sneak through between the lines.

She helped you sit up slowly, her hands never leaving your skin. She unstrapped herself and tossed the harness aside, then climbed back onto the bed to cradle you in her lap, letting your legs rest over hers. You could still feel her heartbeat beneath your cheek as you curled into her, warm and safe.

You were quiet for a while—until you felt her lips near your ear.

“I’d do it,” she murmured, voice thick and quiet.

Your brow furrowed slightly, still dazed. “Do what?”

She pulled back just enough for her eyes to meet yours.

“Put a baby in you,” she said, dead serious. “If I could… I would’ve done it right there. Fucked it into you like I meant it.”

A breath caught in your throat, the ache between your legs flaring back up even though you were exhausted and sore. Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

“Cute.” You grinned bashfully, eyes still glassy. “I’d let you.”

And you meant it—God, did you mean it. If biology didn’t care, if the world didn’t matter—you’d let Paige Bueckers ruin your body, mark your life, and carry her forever in you. You’d wear her love, her heat, her name, like it was carved into your bones.

She kissed you softly after that, nowhere near as greedy or hard as before. Just lips to lips. Reverent. Slow. Worshipful.

“C’mon,” she murmured eventually, slipping out from under you and reaching for a robe. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let her guide you into the hotel’s oversized bathtub, both of you sinking into the steaming bath she’d set up. She sat behind you, your back against her chest, arms looped gently around your waist.

She washed you with care—her fingers massaging your scalp, rinsing off the sweat, the stickiness, the smeared makeup. All the marks she’d left.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asked quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You shook your head. “No, you didn’t… Did I?”

She chuckled, warm breath against your cheek.

“Nah,” she whispered. “You were perfect.”

You smiled, closing your eyes and sinking further into her hold.

And there, in the soft glow of the bathroom lights, skin clean, hearts raw, and bodies tangled up beneath the water—you stayed. Letting love settle in the places lust had already scorched. Letting her hold you like she never planned to let go.

Because she didn’t.

Nights like this are rare now. Usually there is always something waiting for you—another demo to approve, another performance clip your team wants you to repost, another interview quote turned into discourse by strangers with too much time and a Wi-Fi connection. Your life has gotten so loud that quiet feels expensive.

You have been famous long enough now that people think they know exactly who you are. To them you're the girl who writes her own songs, turns every crush into a hit, and somehow manages to make yearning sound glamorous instead of embarrassing. They call you a hopeless romantic like it’s both a compliment and a warning. Your fans make jokes that you could make eye contact with someone in a grocery store and have three unreleased bridge ideas about them by the time you get home.

The joke is funny because it isn’t entirely wrong. You do fall fast sometimes, just not in the crazy, delusional way strangers online accuse you of, but in the way that life catches your attention so sharply it’s hard not to lean toward it. You notice things like the way people laugh when they stop trying to sound cool and the way a voice changes when someone starts talking about the thing they love most.

You also know the way desire can start as something so small it almost feels harmless. So when your phone lights up on the bed beside you with a text from your manager that says, you need to see this, and then a link follows, you don’t think much of it at first. You assume it is another dance clip, another celebrity using one of your songs for publicity. But then you press play.

It’s Alysa Liu on the ice, and the first thing you register is that she doesn’t skate like someone trying to impress people. She skates like someone who loves it too much to care about anything else. You don't even realize the fact that it’s your song opening through the arena speakers, one you wrote yourself in the middle of a stupid, dizzy, embarrassingly happy crush and then somehow turned into one of the biggest songs of your career. A song your fans have loved for years, partly because it’s catchy and partly because it became one more piece of the mythology around you—the hopeless romantic, the girl always half in love with life, with people, with possibility.

Alysa is using that song, your song, but she is not precious with it. She doesn’t treat it like something sacred she’s too intimidated to touch. She uses it like she understands it. Every little rise in the melody finds its way into her body. The sharpness of a turn, the ease of her landing, the little flashes of mischief in her expression when she hits a beat just right, it all feels natural, like she picked the song because it belonged to her and because she trusted herself enough to make it hers for four minutes.

By the time the program ends, you’ve sat up fully in bed without realizing it, your pillow pushed aside, your legs folded under you now. The video ends on crowd noise and your own faint reflection in the black screen for half a second before it replays.

Your manager texts again. Cool right? She picks her own music a lot. Thought you’d like this.

You type back, Who is she? and then immediately delete it because that makes you sound insane, considering of course you know who Alysa Liu is in the vague public way everyone knows who Alysa Liu is. Olympic figure skater. Blonde and brown halo rings. A little unpredictable, in a way people find charming because she seems so entirely herself.

So instead, you send, Wait I love this???

Your manager reacts with a laughing emoji and says, careful. another crush incoming?

You roll your eyes at that, but you replay the video anyway.

Then you do what anyone with a phone, a bed, and poor self-restraint does… you open the internet and start digging. At first it’s almost innocent. You watch another program, then another. Then you find interviews, and that is where it really gets bad for you, because skating is one thing, but a personality is what gets you.

Alysa has this way of talking that feels disarmingly unfiltered without ever seeming careless. She doesn’t sound rehearsed in that glossy media-trained way you know too well, the way people in the public eye learn to answer questions without saying anything at all. She sounds like she means what she says. In one clip she shrugs off a question about pressure with this half-smile, loose and unbothered, like she genuinely refuses to let fear dictate too much of her life. In another she talks about wanting to enjoy things while they’re happening, not just chase the next achievement. You know what it means to be young and publicly ambitious, to have strangers package your life into eras and outcomes and comeback narratives before you’ve even had time to live it. So there’s something magnetic about a girl who seems to move through all that noise with this philosophy of just doing what she loves, fully, while she can. No regrets, no dragging herself halfway into things.

You click through clips of her laughing mid-answer, squinting under arena lights, making jokes with that effortless comedic timing that can’t be taught. In one interview she says something a little offhand and funny, and the interviewer breaks before she does, like Alysa’s sense of humor always lands half a beat later because she says things so straight-faced.

You grin at your phone, then immediately feel ridiculous for grinning alone in bed at a figure skater you have never met. But still, you keep going.

Her Instagram is somehow worse. Or better. You haven’t decided. It is one thing to think someone is cool when they are framed by competition footage and media clips. It is another to see the smaller pieces: blurry photo dumps, friends with their arms slung around each other, weird angles, a caption that makes no effort to sound polished, the kind of face card that would be obnoxious if she didn’t seem so unpretentious about it.

She is annoyingly pretty in a way that doesn’t seem engineered. Pretty in motion, pretty mid-laugh, pretty with no obvious awareness of how devastating she looks to everyone else.

There are training clips, medal photos, candid shots where she’s clearly being silly on purpose, and then posts that catch you off guard because there’s a kind of openness in them, a lightness. She looks like somebody who actually has fun being alive. You find yourself lingering on one video longer than necessary because her voice in it is lower and more amused than you expected, and when she smiles off to the side at someone behind the camera you feel a stupid flutter low in your stomach that makes you physically put your phone down for a second.

“Oh, brother,” you mutter to the empty room, dragging a hand down your face before picking it right back up again. There is no one there to witness your loss of dignity, which is the only reason you continue.

You go onto TikTok next, which is a mistake so immediate it almost feels karmic. There are edits of her everywhere. Some are sincere, all soaring music and slow-motion spins. Some are dumb, built around the fact that the internet has agreed she is someone who makes everyone a little bit stupid. The comments are full of people openly folding.

She’s the coolest girl alive. I’d let her ruin my life. No actually why is she soooo fine.

One edit uses a clip of her smirking after a skate and you laugh out loud, quiet but real, because the top comment just says she knows exactly what she’s doing to us and three thousand people have agreed.

Eventually, because the internet is the internet and your name is unfortunately always invited into rooms you never entered, you come across the ship edits. At first you almost scroll past because you assume they’ll be dumb in a way that makes you cringe, but then one catches you off guard.

It opens with the first notes of the song she used for her program, cuts between clips of you performing it on stage and Alysa skating to it under arena lights, and then layers in random little visuals—your smile from an interview, her laughing in a press conference, both of you looking over your shoulders in separate clips as if by some accidental cinematic miracle it almost looks like you’re turning toward each other.

There is absolutely no evidence, no interaction, no meeting, not even a shared event. Just editors with too much imagination and apparently a very specific belief that the universe should get on with it already.

The caption says something like she wrote this song about Alysa and Alysa knows it, trust me, now someone do your job and make this happen.

You snort, but you watch the whole thing. Then another. Then another. One uses a soft love song and comments underneath are losing their minds in a way that is strangely endearing instead of invasive.

They would be so cute together. I just know she’d fall for Alysa in like ten seconds. Someone show this to her manager like rn. The love album for Alysa would go platinum. I wonder if she knows Alysa skated to her song.

You should feel weird about it, probably. You should close the app and reclaim at least a scrap of your pride. Instead you’re lying there with your chin tucked into your pillow, smiling despite yourself, reading each comment like they are passing notes directly to you. Because there is something harmlessly adorable about it. People are not making up scandals or forcing some bizarre narrative. They just think two girls who seem bright and soft and a little intense in complementary ways might fit together.

And worse—most humiliating of all—you can see it for one fleeting second. It's not in some wedding bells, soulmate, psychotic way. It's a silly little vision.

The two of you side by side somewhere real and ordinary, close enough to be sharing the same private joke, Alysa with that loose grin she gets when she’s amused, you trying and failing to play it cool. The image arrives so easily it startles you.

You drop your phone onto your chest and stare at the ceiling for a minute, letting out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Your room is quiet again except for the faraway hum of the city and the faint sound of your air conditioner kicking on.

“This is actually stupid,” you say softly to yourself, though there is no heat in it, just disbelief.

You turn your head and look at your phone like it has personally betrayed you. A crush is too dramatic of a word, you tell yourself. You have not met Alysa Liu. You do not know Alysa Liu. All you know is that she picked your song, skated the hell out of it, seems funny and smart and way too pretty, and lives according to a philosophy you admire enough that it makes something in you ache a little. That is not a crush. That is appreciation. Professional curiosity. Artistic respect. Normal interest.

Except none of those explanations really account for the giddy warmth still fizzing low in your chest, or why the ship edit comments made you bury your face in your pillow for a second just to hide your smile from absolutely no one.

Your fans would never let you live this down if they knew. They already joke that your type is anyone talented and emotionally interesting within a ten-mile radius. The idea of them finding out you spent part of your night watching edits of yourself with a figure skater who used your song would probably become fandom folklore by morning.

You can almost hear it already; she definitely saw the edits and fell in love immediately. you guys know how she gets. She writes one bridge and suddenly they’re married.

That thought should embarrass you more than it does but it just makes you grin into the dark, because there is something sweet about being known that well by people who have watched you turn feeling too much into a career.

When you finally force yourself off the apps, it takes effort. You exit TikTok, then Instagram, then go back to the original video one more time because now that you know more about her, the program feels different. Then you lock your phone and set it face down on the nightstand before it can tempt you again.

In the mirror across the room, you catch a glimpse of yourself climbing under the covers with this faint, private smile still lingering around your mouth, and you roll your eyes at your own reflection.

“Get a grip,” you murmur, though your voice comes out fond instead of stern.

You reach up and switch off the lamp, and the room drops into darkness. Alone with your thoughts, you admit at least that it is not a crime to admire someone. It is not even a crime to think a girl you have never met might be a little extraordinary, pretty and funny and cool and maybe the kind of person who makes a room feel more alive just by stepping into it.

As you settle deeper into the pillows, the night folding around you, your brain replays fragments against your will. You see her skates carving across your song, hear her laugh in that interview, remember the dumb sweetness of those comments, picture the silly little image of the two of you standing side by side as if it’s already happened somewhere.

You know it’s silly. You know you are being just self-aware enough to be embarrassed and just entertained enough not to stop. And when sleep finally starts to pull you under, your last coherent thought is helplessly simple, warm with possibility in a way you would never say out loud.

You really do think the two of you would be cute together.

———

Ten minutes before a concert consists of a kind of manufactured chaos that has become so normal to you it almost feels comforting.

People are everywhere, but with purpose. Someone is adjusting a headset near the side curtain. Someone else is carrying garment bags past your dressing room like their life depends on it. Your band is doing last checks, your dancers are stretched and glowing with that pre-show adrenaline, and the hallway outside hums with footsteps, voices, clipped instructions, the distant swell of a crowd that has already started chanting your name in waves.

You stand near the lit mirror in your quick-change area with a mic pack half clipped on, rolling your shoulders back, then forward, trying to keep your body loose.

Your glam is done, your hair falls exactly how it is supposed to, your stage outfit catches the light every time you move, and still none of that steadies your nerves the way people think it should. The ritual before a show is always the same: water, vocal warmups, pacing, a little joking around to keep yourself from overthinking, then the strange internal switch where you stop being a person in a hallway and become the version of yourself built for an arena.

Your manager comes hurrying now to you with that particular look on her face that means she knows something you don’t. You don’t think much of it at first, you're too busy humming through a run, one hand pressed lightly to your chest, the other holding your in-ear pack away from your dress while a stylist fixes something near your shoulder.

Your manager waits until the stylist steps away, then crosses her arms and goes, with far too much satisfaction, “Guess who’s in the VIP section tonight.”

You glance up instantly, already smiling. “Oh my god, don’t tell me Ariana Grande,” you say, too fast, eyes widening. “Yo, I’ve been dying to see her.”

Your manager laughs in your face, actually laughs, and shakes her head. “No, not Ariana. Think Olympic gold medalist.”

And just like that, everything in you stops. You go still so abruptly that the girl fixing your hair pauses with her hand midair.

“What,” you say, but it comes out quiet, not because you didn’t hear her, but because you did.

Your manager just lifts her brows, enjoying this entirely too much. “Mhm.”

For one long second you can only stare at her, mind doing that horrible blank-and-overheated thing at the same time.

Alysa is here. Alysa Liu, who a couple nights ago had been nothing more than a late-night internet rabbit hole and a stupidly compelling face on your phone screen and an embarrassing little fantasy you had laughed off into your pillow, is apparently somewhere beyond those walls in real life, in a VIP section at your show, breathing the same air as you.

Your first thought is confusion. You didn’t invite her. You don’t know her. None of your close friends had mentioned bringing her. Your second thought, much worse, is an electric burst of awareness that she is going to watch you perform. Not as a clip online later, not as a stranger in a crowd of twenty thousand, but here, tonight, in one of the sections close enough that she’ll actually be able to see you.

“Why would you tell me that now?” you groan, pressing both hands over your face for a second before dragging them down your cheeks. “You are evil. That is genuinely evil.”

Your manager, who has known you long enough to be immune to your dramatics, just grins and says, “Just don’t mess up out there.”

You make the most wounded sound imaginable and point at her like you have been personally betrayed. “You cannot say that to me ten minutes before I go on stage.”

She only pats your arm like she’s soothing a child and says, “You’ll be fine. Just thought you’d want to know.”

Then she disappears back into the movement of backstage before you can say anything else, leaving you standing there in a full body buzz that feels almost identical to what happened in your bed that night, except stronger now, heavier and warmer and threaded through with the unreal knowledge that this is no longer hypothetical.

Somewhere out there is the girl whose interviews you watched until one in the morning, whose Instagram you scrolled with your face half-hidden in a pillow, whose edits made you grin like a loser alone in the dark. And now you have to go be effortless in front of her.

The seconds leading up to your cue are always sharp, but tonight they feel almost surreal. You line up in the wings, your heartbeat pounding so high in your chest it almost makes the room feel thinner, and for once it is not only the crowd doing this to you.

Usually the nerves are broad, impersonal, part of the ritual—thousands of eyes, the pressure of the show, the knowledge that every note matters. Tonight all of that is still there, but it has narrowed itself around one person. Somewhere in VIP, Alysa is waiting.

You try not to think about whether she looks the way she did in those videos, whether she’s dressed up, whether she came because a friend of a friend invited her or whether she even knows you know she’s there.

Your intro starts. The arena erupts. The stage manager counts you in, and the moment you step out under the lights your body does what it was trained to do. The performance takes over. Your nerves don’t disappear, but they alchemize into something brighter. You hit your opening exactly, and from there the entire show clicks into place with a cleanness that almost feels supernatural. You are locked in from the first number onward with your voice controlled, body loose, every mark found without effort, every joke to the crowd landing the way it’s supposed to.

The audience is deafening, LA especially loud because half the room knows every word and the other half wants to prove they do too. Your friends and industry peers are somewhere in the front sections, but you only let yourself think about that during transitions, because if you linger on it too long you’ll spiral. A few times, against your better judgment, you glance toward VIP while the lights are blown out enough to make details difficult.

During one song you nearly smile in the middle of a line for no reason at all, just because the idea of Alysa hearing you sing words you wrote alone in your room years ago feels suddenly intimate in a way you didn’t prepare for. It does not throw you off, though. If anything, it sharpens you. By the time you reach the last stretch of the set, you know you are having one of your better shows. It doesn't feel perfect in a robotic way, but because you are so alive inside it. Every emotion is sitting right at the surface, making everything bigger—your voice, your smile, the way you reach for the crowd on instinct. There's one person to thank for that.

When you thank the audience at the end, breathless and glowing under the final wash of light, wishing them a good night with your chest still heaving from the last song, the applause that comes back feels almost physical. Then you run off stage grinning, high on adrenaline and sweat and relief.

The moment you get backstage, your close friends close around you in a blur of arms and perfume and loud congratulations. Someone grabs your face and says, “You were insane tonight.” You hug them one by one, laughing, still buzzing so hard from the stage that your hands feel a little shaky.

For a few minutes you let yourself just be in it. The post-show high is one of the only things in your life that still feels childlike because it's this rush of having done the thing, of having survived it and maybe even been great, of being immediately folded into the people who know you best.

You’re halfway through making a joke with one of your producer friends when your manager appears again at your shoulder and says, “All your other guests are in your dressing room waiting.”

You nod without really thinking about it. In your head, that means the people you personally invited, the friends that aren't that close but close enough with a few extra familiar faces your team let into VIP because that always happens in LA. Alysa, if you think about her at all in that moment, exists in some separate category in your brain, filed under your team messing with you or a coincidence or maybe not someone who would actually come backstage after.

You wipe under your eyes, adjust your outfit a little, and head toward your dressing room with your pulse finally beginning to settle into something like normal. And then you walk in and see the line of people waiting to hug you, and it’s all fine, all exactly what you expected, until it’s not.

You go down the line, smiling and warm and still a little breathless, hugging your friends one after the other, thanking them for coming, letting their praise wash over you in pieces. The room is bright, crowded in that cozy post-show way.

By the time you get near the end of the line, you see your friend Laufey there and your whole face softens because of course she came.

“Thanks for coming,” you say as you step toward her, already leaning in for a hug.

She smiles, sweet and calm as ever, and hugs you back. “Of course. You were amazing.” Then, with the kind of casualness that changes your whole life in a single second, she turns slightly and says, “You know Alysa, right?” And there she is, standing just behind her.

Everything else falls away so fast it feels actually stupid. The room doesn’t literally stop, of course. People are still talking, moving, laughing. But to you it narrows so completely around the two of you that the rest might as well be underwater.

Alysa is real in the way all internet crushes fail to prepare you for. Not larger than life, exactly, but sharper. She’s dressed simply enough that it comes off better than if she had obviously tried too hard, and there is something about the way she stands—easy in her own body, one hand tucked half into her pocket, expression hovering between amused and just a little careful—that makes you understand why every comment section on the internet loses its mind over her. She has the same face you stared at in your room, the same mouth that always looks like it’s one second away from saying something funny, the same eyes that somehow manage to be both observant and unreadable at first glance.

You feel your own body react before your brain catches up. Heat floods your cheeks, your stomach flips so sharply it nearly makes you dizzy. And because this is exactly the kind of moment where your social instincts betray you, you smile, step forward, and go in for a hug at the exact same time Alysa extends her hand.

It happens in one humiliatingly clear beat. Your arms begin to lift. Her hand comes out. Both of you freeze, realizing it at once. You pull back with an audible little “Oh—” and switch toward the handshake at the exact moment Alysa, clearly registering your movement, abandons the handshake and leans in for the hug instead. For a split second you almost collide in the middle of both decisions.

Then you both stop again, look at each other, and laugh. Alysa’s shoulders dip with it, her cool expression cracking just enough to reveal nerves underneath, and that alone is so weirdly endearing that your embarrassment loosens immediately.

“Wow,” she says, smiling, voice low and dry. “Strong start.”

You laugh harder, ducking your head. “I know. Sorry. I’m actually normal, I swear.”

“No, yeah,” she says, still grinning.

The room around you seems to brighten at the edges again, but only barely, because then you do finally manage the hug—quick, warm, real—and the second you feel her arms close around you your whole brain short-circuits in that embarrassingly soft way it has when you like someone.

She smells clean, a little like outside air and something faintly expensive, and because the hug is brief you barely have time to register any of it before you pull away. But it’s more than enough.

“Thanks for coming,” you say, and you can hear the slight breathlessness in your own voice no matter how hard you try to sound casual. “Seriously. I, um—I saw the program. To my song. I thought it was really great.”

Alysa’s expression changes at that, the cool teasing giving way to something more direct. “I love that song,” she says. “So thank you for making it.” You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide and fail completely.

From there, the conversation slips away from everyone else almost naturally. You don’t even realize you’ve both angled slightly off from the group until a minute later, when the room has become nothing more than background noise and Alysa is standing close enough that you keep losing your train of thought over it.

Up close, her nonchalance reads differently than it did online. It’s still there—she has that same easy cadence, that same deliberate lack of trying too hard—but now you can see the effort beneath it. Not in a fake way but it's just like she knows she’s nervous and is choosing to lean into deadpan humor, so she doesn’t show too much. Once you notice it, it’s impossible not to like her even more for it.

There’s a tiny delay before some of her replies, a small shift of her weight when you hold her gaze too long, a brief glance down that gives her away before she recovers and says something cool. And it makes something in you unclench because, instantly, your brain goes, oh. She’s just like me. Or at least close enough.

So you talk at first about the obvious things—her program, your show, how she ended up here.

“Laufey invited me,” she admits, tilting her head toward where your friend is now talking to someone else across the room.

“Invited is generous,” Laufey calls from somewhere behind her without turning around, which makes Alysa roll her eyes a little.

“Okay,” she says, glancing back at you. “I asked to come.”

“That's very sweet. I would've just given you a ticket if you slid in my DMs,” you say, and she smiles.

You ask if performing to someone else’s song ever feels weird, and she says, “Not if it’s good or if I really relate to it. Then it kind of does half the work for you because someone else so perfectly encapsulated your thoughts for you”

You laugh and say, “That is a dangerous thing to tell a songwriter,”

She shrugs like she doesn’t care, though her mouth curls at one corner. “I can take it back if you want.”

“No,” you say quickly, too quickly, and she catches it.

There’s a brief beat where she just looks at you, amused, and you can feel your blush deepen. You glance down at your shoes and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, only to end up twirling it around your finger a second later without meaning to.

The more you talk, the less the room exists. Alysa has this unnerving ability to make a sentence sound light and loaded at the same time. She asks questions in a way that feels genuinely interested, not performative, and when you answer she listens with her whole face.

You catch yourself looking at her mouth when she talks and immediately force your eyes elsewhere. Then you realize you’ve looked at the floor for too long and look back up too fast. She notices that too.

“You always this awkward after shows,” she asks, tone so even it takes you half a second to realize she’s teasing, “or should I feel special?”

Your mouth falls open a little. “Oh my god.”

She laughs, softer this time. “That was mean. Sorry.”

“A little bit,” you say, trying and failing not to smile. “I’m not awkward. I’m just—” You stop, because nothing you were about to say sounds convincing. Tired, maybe. Overstimulated. Flushed from the stage lights. All technically true and none of them the real answer, which is that you have spent the past several days half-crushing on the idea of her and now she is standing three feet away in your dressing room being funny at you in real time. So instead, you give her a look that makes her grin again, and she mercifully lets you off the hook.

But the ease of it all—the teasing, the eye contact, the way she keeps leaning slightly closer without seeming to notice—is making you giddy in a way you can’t hide. You keep biting your lower lip just to have something to do with your mouth. You keep smoothing your hands over the sides of your outfit though there’s nothing wrong with it. Twice you catch yourself smiling down at your feet for no reason at all, just because she said something dry and clever and looked secretly pleased when it made you laugh.

She tells you a story about choosing program music and how people think there’s always some grand artistic explanation when sometimes the truth is just that she liked the song and wanted to skate to it.

“I love that reasoning,” you say. “I like when people care about something to stop acting cool about it.”

Her face shifts then, just slightly, something more open moving under the composure. “That’s nice,” she says. “Unfortunately, I’m actually pretending to be cool right now because I care too much. I think you’d find me uncool if I wasn’t trying.” The confession is so quiet, so matter-of-fact, that it catches you off guard into a real laugh.

You tilt your head and look at her fully. “No way.”

“Mhm.” “I don’t believe you’re pretending. Maybe you’re just cool.”

“That’s because I’m doing a good job.” The line is delivered perfectly, but there’s a tiny tell after it—a glance away, a brief exhale—and it is so unexpectedly sweet that you feel your whole chest go warm.

“You kind of are,” you admit.

“Kind of?” she repeats.

“Okay, no, you are,” you say quickly, smiling. “But now I know the secret.”

She looks back at you then, and the eye contact holds just a little too long. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess you do.”

You would probably have stayed there all night if the room had allowed it. That becomes obvious to both of you by the time someone from your team appears at your elbow to say they need you for a quick photo with a sponsor rep who’s about to leave. At almost the same moment, there’s movement from the rest of your guests as people start gathering bags and saying their final goodbyes, the loose signal that the night is winding down.

The interruption feels unfair in a childish way. You look from the staffer to Alysa and back, visibly pained enough that Alysa’s mouth twitches.

“You should go,” she says, but she says it with the same slight hesitation you’re feeling, and it softens the blow only a little.

“I know,” you say, and then immediately glance down again because you sound like someone being told to leave recess. Your fingers are back in your hair, twirling a strand slowly around one finger while your other hand hangs uselessly at your side.

Alysa shifts her weight once, then makes a decision. You can see it happen in real time; you see the moment where she seems to gather herself and lean into the cool demeanor on purpose because she clearly wants to get this right. “Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Yeah,” you answer too quickly, then flush and soften it. “Yeah, of course.”

She slides one hand into her pocket, then back out again, like she didn’t know what to do with it. “Could I get your number?” A beat. Then, with forced casualness so transparent it’s almost unbearably charming: “Maybe take you out sometime?”

The line itself is fine enough, but you can hear the nerves just under it, the careful flattening of her tone, the way she’s trying not to come on too strong and accidentally landing somewhere even sweeter because of it.

And because you are, unfortunately, exactly the kind of person built to be devastated by earnestness in a good outfit, your heart just folds. You smile so hard you have to look down.

“Yeah,” you say, softer this time. “Yeah, definitely.”

When you take your phone, your hands are not shaking exactly, but they are close enough that you’re very aware of them. Alysa hands hers over and the brush of your fingers is brief, almost nothing, but it still makes your stomach flip. You put your number in while twirling that same piece of hair again, a habit you know makes you look about sixteen, but at this point you are beyond managing optics. When you hand the phone back, Alysa glances at the screen, then up at you.

“So this has been real,” she says, like she’s half joking and half checking.

You bite your lip, cheeks hot. “I mean, unless this is fake.”

That gets a real laugh out of her, bright and surprised. “Right,” she says.

The second hug is less awkward because now both of you know what the other is doing. It still isn’t smooth, exactly. There’s still that slight mutual hesitance of two people who have moved very quickly from strangers to something else and are trying not to rush while also clearly wanting to. But it’s warmer, more certain. Your arms settle around each other in a way that feels oddly natural for something so new. Up close again, you can feel the faint rise and fall of her breath, can feel how she lingers for just a second longer than politeness requires.

When you pull apart, both of you are blushing, and that might be the most disarming thing of all. Alysa, who has spent the past twenty minutes pretending to be cooler than she is, has pink high on her cheeks now, and she seems to know you’ve noticed because she gives you this small, crooked look like don’t say anything. You smile back with the exact same expression, because you get it.

“I’ll text you,” she says.

“Please do,” you answer.

The staffer at your elbow makes an apologetic face, still waiting, and somewhere behind Alysa someone is calling her name too, but for a second neither of you move. Then she nods once, almost to herself, and steps backward toward the door. You watch her go in the most embarrassing way possible, with eyes following, smile you cannot hide, fingers still touching the strand of hair you’ve practically destroyed by now. And when she disappears into the hall with one last glance over her shoulder, the room rushes back in all at once.

Underneath all of it is this bright, fizzy certainty that won’t quiet down.

She came to your show. She asked for your number. She asked you out.

And worst of all for your dignity, every ridiculous, lover-girl, fall-too-fast instinct in you is already standing at the altar.

------

A few days later, the show is over, the city is different, and the strange suspended feeling that had taken hold of you since meeting Alysa still has not let up. Tour has finally loosened its grip enough for you to come up for air, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, your evening belongs to no one else. Just a date.

Alysa had texted you with the kind of false ease you already recognize in her now—something lowkey tonight?—and then followed it with a place that made you pause, not because it was glamorous, but because it wasn’t.

It was a bar tucked into a side street, the kind of place that didn’t trend, didn’t get tagged by every aspiring influencer in the city, didn’t scream for attention. The photos online looked dim and slightly worn in the way places only get when they’re actually loved by the people who go there.

You had smiled at your phone for a full minute after the text came in, then typed back something cooler than what you felt. Sounds perfect :)

In truth, Alysa could have texted you a pin to a junkyard, some random skatepark, a gas station parking lot, and you probably would have found a cute outfit and gone anyway. That is humiliating to admit even privately, but it is true.

By the time you get there tonight, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself and stepping from the Uber with your heart already tapping too hard under your ribs, you know the place barely matters. She picked it, and you were always going to come.

Inside, the bar is exactly what you hoped and maybe a little better. Warm in the way crowded places get when people have been sitting close for hours, talking over low music and the clink of glass. There’s a soft amber cast over everything, old wood burnished by years of elbows and spilled drinks, little pools of dim light over the tables. People are with each other, leaned in, laughing, halfway through stories. The air smells like citrus peel, beer, and something fried from the kitchen. It feels private even though it isn’t. That alone is new enough to make you breathe a little easier.

This kind of date doesn’t usually happen to you. Usually if someone takes you out, there’s an edge to it before you’ve even arrived—will there be paparazzi, will someone leak it, will the restaurant seat you in the front window because your face is good for business, will the person across from you look more excited by being seen with you than by actually getting to know you. Even the nicest dates you’ve been on in the past have sometimes come with a strange layer of staging, as if being around you turns everything into a set.

But Alysa is already there when you walk in, tucked into a booth in the corner like she belongs in places like this, one arm resting along the back cushion, a beer in front of her, head lifting the second she spots you. And something about how unceremonious it all is—her just being there with a little smile that turns into a real one when she sees you—makes you feel instantly, stupidly fond.

You slide into the booth across from her, cheeks already warm, and she gives you this once-over that is not subtle enough to miss.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is easy, but there’s that tiny carefulness under it again, that trace of nerves she tries to smooth out.

“Hey,” you say back, and already your body feels too aware of itself, of your hands, your knees under the table, the fact that you suddenly don’t know how to sit like a normal person.

The first few minutes are a little awkward in the harmless way first dates are supposed to be, which actually calms you more than perfect ease would have. It means this matters to both of you and that neither of you is gliding through the moment untouched.

A server comes by, Alysa asks if you want anything, and when you order a dirty Shirley she pauses just long enough for you to catch it.

“What?” you ask, smiling suspiciously.

She shakes her head, mouth twitching. “Nothing.”

“Say it.” “I just wasn’t expecting that.” “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” she says, lifting one shoulder. “Something less… pink.”

You laugh, leaning back against the booth. “Okay, well, sorry I contain whimsy.”

That gets a real laugh out of her, quieter than yours but warm, and from there the conversation begins to loosen. Your first drink takes the edge off, not enough to make you sloppy, just enough to make your shoulders drop. Alysa sips her beer, fingers wrapped around the bottle neck, and starts talking with the same rhythm she had backstage—dry where it counts, observant, never trying too hard to be interesting and therefore somehow always interesting anyway.

She asks you about tour in a way that makes it clear she actually wants to know so you tell her about the weird disorientation of living out of a suitcase, how every city starts to blur unless something specific catches and brands itself into your memory. She tells you about training and travel, about how competition cities can do the same thing if you don’t force yourself to notice the small stuff. You talk about where you grew up, both of you skimming the surface in that first-date way that isn’t dishonest so much as gently protective. Alysa tells you a story from when she was younger that makes you laugh into your straw, because she tells it like it’s no big deal even though the whole point of the story is that she’s been chaotic since birth.

You tell her something from your own childhood about singing too loudly and too seriously in places that did not call for it, and she says, “So nothing’s changed,” with such a straight face that you have to look down at your drink to hide your grin.

That becomes the rhythm of the night. You talk, and every so often Alysa slips something in under the conversation—a compliment so casual you almost miss it, a teasing line delivered like an afterthought, a look that lingers one beat too long.

It helps that the bar itself seems built to make things feel softer around the edges. Conversations around you rise and fall like weather. Sometimes someone near the jukebox laughs too loudly and the whole room turns briefly toward the sound before settling again. A song changes overhead and another one slips in. It all folds around the two of you without interrupting the little world building itself at your table.

By the time your second drink arrives, you’ve stopped worrying about how you’re coming across and started simply enjoying her. Which is dangerous. A tiny buzz settles low in your body, just enough to make you less guarded, and now when Alysa flirts, you stop pretending not to notice.

When she tells you she always thought your interviews were funnier than people gave you credit for, you smile and say, “So you’ve been watching my interviews?” and she gives you a look over the rim of her bottle and says, “Maybe.”

The banter comes easier now, and with it comes something warmer, stranger. You start catching yourself watching her when she’s mid-sentence, not even because of what she’s saying, but because of how she says it. Every small thing feels unreasonably vivid. At one point she says something complimentary about a song of yours, but she says it with that same unshowy sincerity she’d had backstage, and it makes heat run all the way through you. You look down at your drink immediately, smiling at the ice like it personally did something charming. Alysa notices. You know she notices but she doesn’t call it out, just looks quietly pleased with herself for a second and then keeps talking.

Sometime in the middle of all that, Just Like Heaven by The Cure comes on over the speakers and Alysa glances upward, listening for half a second before her face changes with recognition.

“Oh,” she says, smiling. “I love this song.”

It takes you a second to place what she means because you are too busy looking at her face when she says it, but then you hear it too. The chords thread through the bar, familiar and romantic and a little melancholy.

She says a few of the words under her breath to prove her point—spinning on a dizzy edge, I kissed her face and kissed her head, dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow—just enough to show she knows it well, and then she looks back at you with that faintly amused expression like she expects you to make fun of her for it. Instead you just smile.

Something about the way she says those lines, so lightly, while sitting across from you in this dim little bar, makes the song hit differently than it ever has before. You’ve heard it a thousand times. You’ve probably loved it for half your life. But right now, with Alysa leaning toward you over a sticky wooden table, beer bottle turning slowly between her fingers, the room all warm blur and shadow around her, you understand it in a way that feels almost embarrassing.

You understand how a person can look unreal simply because you want them badly enough. How being with someone can feel so exactly right that your body starts to distrust it, starts waiting for the trick, the reveal, the point where you wake up. You understand so completely what Robert Smith means when he sings, I opened up my eyes and found myself alone alone alone above a raging sea that stole the only girl I loved and drowned her deep inside of me. You're almost ready for her to disappear.

You look at Alysa and think, with this bone-deep clarity that nearly startles you: this is insane. This is too good. She is too pretty under this terrible bar lighting, too funny without trying, too easy to talk to.

The whole night has gone with such improbable smoothness that you almost can’t believe it belongs to your actual life. It feels curated by a version of you with much better luck. A dream you would have mocked yourself for having a week ago.

Alysa is saying something else now, a quiet joke about how everyone who knows her knows she gets attached to songs like a freak, and you laugh, but part of you is still caught on the image of her across from you, the song threading between you, the weird rush of feeling more alive than you’ve let yourself feel in a long time. The kind of alive that makes your chest feel almost tender.

When you finally have to get up to use the bathroom, it’s mainly because you need the bathroom and because you need thirty seconds to stand somewhere else and get a grip on yourself.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, sliding out of the booth.

Alysa looks up immediately. “I’ll come with you.” She says it casually, like it’s nothing, but something in you lifts at the offer anyway.

The back of the bar is narrower and dingier than the front, all scuffed walls, old flyers layered on top of each other, a flickering light near the hall to the bathrooms that should probably be fixed but somehow only adds to the charm. There’s a short line, which under any other circumstance would be annoying, but tonight feels almost comically perfect.

You and Alysa end up standing close because there isn’t room not to, shoulders nearly brushing, the crowd pressing and shifting around you in slow little movements. The smell back here is less romantic—soap, old tile, spilled liquor—but somehow even this feels gilded by your mood.

Alysa is close enough now that when she leans toward your ear to keep talking over the noise of the bar, her voice lands warm along the side of your face. It shouldn’t be such a big deal but it really is. You are trying very hard to stay in the conversation and not focus too much on the fact that if you turned your head even a little, your noses would probably bump.

She pushes her hair back and glances toward the line like she’s judging how long it’ll take, and under the dingy yellow light she looks unfairly good but not in some polished way, just real. The shape of her profile. The slope of her nose. The way she laughs softly at something you say and dips her head for a second like she doesn’t want to laugh too hard at her own joke.

The whole thing is so absurdly, painfully lovely that your mind flashes back to that night in bed, to your phone screen glowing in the dark, to that silly split-second vision of the two of you side by side that had made you smile into your pillow like an idiot. And now here you are. Standing with her in a cramped line at the back of a crowded bar, dressed up enough to look like you meant to impress each other, her shoulder practically against yours, her face lit gold and shadow, and some stunned part of you thinks, oh. This is it, I called it.

“You good?” Alysa asks after a beat, and you realize you’ve gone quiet.

“Yeah,” you say, then smile because that sounded too immediate. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

Alysa studies your face for one second longer than necessary, then smiles too, softer now. “You don’t look sorry.”

By the time you make it back to the booth, something in you has tipped fully over into certainty. You are gone for her in a way that is difficult to pretend around now. The rest of the date moves with that knowledge humming under every small thing.

You notice everything. Her hands first and how expressive they are even when she’s trying to seem laid-back, how her fingers trail through the condensation on her glass absentmindedly while she talks, drawing shapes that vanish as quickly as they form. Then the smiley piercing, there and gone whenever she laughs, making your stomach do that humiliating little flip every time. Once, under the table, your feet touch by accident and both of you still for half a second like the contact sent a current through the wood.

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time, then laugh, and neither of you moves away as quickly as maybe you should.

You know the bar closes at eleven. You knew it when you got here because you checked the hours like a freak earlier, and now that fact has started ticking quietly in the back of your mind. Every time you glance at the clock behind the bar, your chest tightens just a little. The night is moving, time is not on your side. And because you are you and you have always been prone to wanting more of a good thing than is reasonable, you catch yourself having ridiculous thoughts. You hope Alysa doesn’t finish her beer too fast. You hope the bartender disappears for a while when you ask for another round. You hope somehow the night will forget to move forward if you just keep the conversation alive.

Alysa is telling you about some current pop news you’d both been laughing about over text earlier in the week, and she says something so stupid and perfectly timed that you laugh loud enough to turn a head at the next table.

“You’re really funny,” you tell her before you can stop yourself.

Alysa raises her brows. “Really?”

You nod, lower lip trapped by your teeth.

She glances down at her bottle, then back up at you. “You’re easy to make laugh.”

“That’s because you keep saying things.” “Should I stop?” “Please don't.”

Alysa smiles then, a real one that opens her face completely, and for a second you are so charmed by it you have to look down at your hands just to steady yourself.

Eventually there is nothing left to do but let the night end. The staff slowly start their closing time routine—wiping down sections too early, the music shifting lower as conversations begin to thin. Alysa does, in fact, finish her beer, and you hate how disappointed a tiny part of you feels watching the bottle go empty.

“Guess they’re kicking us out,” you say, trying for lightness.

Alysa looks around, then back at you. “Looks like it.”

Neither of you moves right away. The pause stretches, not awkward exactly, just heavy with the fact that both of you are aware of what ending the date means.

Finally Alysa slides out of the booth and you follow, gathering your jacket, smoothing your hands down your clothes.

The air outside hits cool after the warmth of the bar. The sidewalk is damp in places, somewhere down the block a couple is arguing softly, someone else is laughing too hard at something on their phone. The city hasn’t ended just because your date is technically over, but it feels quieter than before, narrowed down to you and Alysa standing just outside the door, neither quite ready to leave.

The bar behind you hums with the last of its life, and you can still feel the shape of the whole evening lingering on your skin like heat. You look at Alysa there under the streetlight, hair slightly mussed from the night, expression softer than when the date began, and the same thought returns with almost painful force: you do not want this to be over. Not yet. Not when everything has gone this well.

She glances at you, then down the street, then back, like she's thinking about her next move. You realize dimly that your own pulse has picked up again.

You tuck your jacket a little tighter around yourself and say, because you need to fill the space before you embarrass yourself by just staring at her, “I’m actually really glad I didn’t drive here. I probably shouldn’t be driving right now.”

Alysa looks at you as if checking the evidence, and her mouth twitches. “No shot you’re drunk off two Shirley Temples.”

Your jaw drops. “They were dirty.”

That gets her. She laughs, head tipping back slightly, the sound low and easy and stupidly satisfying to have caused. “Oh, sorry,” she says, still smiling. “Two dirty Shirleys. My bad.”

“Thank you,” you say, trying for dignity and failing because you’re smiling too hard. “That is an important distinction.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” The teasing settles over both of you so naturally that when you start walking, neither of you actually says where. You just fall into step together instinctively, like the night has not yet given either of you permission to stop.

Alysa’s car is parked a couple of blocks away because the street had been packed when she got there, and that becomes enough of a destination to keep moving toward without having to talk about the fact that you’re both clearly dragging this out.

Alysa says, “I can drop you off, by the way,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like of course the night should not end at the curb outside a bar if there is still even a flimsy excuse to spend more time together.

“Yeah?” you ask, and then soften the eagerness in your voice with a little smile. “Okay. I’d like that. Thanks.”

Her hands are shoved in her pockets against the chill, shoulders relaxed, steps unhurried. Yours stay out, swinging lightly by your sides in a way that would be normal if you weren’t so aware of them. But you are aware of them. Painfully. Some embarrassingly transparent part of you is half hoping she’ll notice, half hoping she’ll decide for you. You hate how obvious your own body feels. So, to compensate, you talk.

You ask questions the way you have been all night, but now there’s something looser to it, something more deliberate in how you keep the conversation alive. You ask her if she’s ever been to Japan, because you remember something she mentioned earlier about competitions overseas and because it gives you another chance to hear her talk. Alysa answers earnestly, which you’ve learned is her default even when the questions are random. She tells you a little about the trip, about what she remembered most, about a snack she got weirdly obsessed with.

Then she throws it back at you and asks if you’ve ever taken the Eurostar to France, and you laugh because that is the sort of specific question you’d ask when you don’t want a conversation to die.

“No,” you say. “But now I kind of want to just so I can report back to you.”

“Please do,” she says. “I need a full review.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you,” she says dryly. “Honored.”

The whole walk becomes that. One silly question opening into another, one answer becoming a doorway to learning more about each other. Favorite city. Worst press interview.

The thing is, now that the date itself is technically over, your restraint has gotten a little sloppier. Not reckless, just more honest in the tiny ways that count. You let your laughter come easier, fuller. When Alysa says something particularly funny, you lightly shove her arm with the back of your hand, the gesture playful, casual, but you let your touch linger half a second longer than strictly necessary. Just enough to make it feel like a hint rather than an accident. Just enough that if she wanted to, she could do something with it.

Alysa glances at where your hand had been, then back at your face, and for one suspended beat you think maybe she understands exactly what you’re doing because her hand is out of her pocket now. That thought alone sends a bright rush straight through your chest. So you keep dropping little breadcrumbs because you are, at heart, a girl with poor impulse control when you like someone.

You tell her, maybe a little too softly, that you could listen to her talk about literally anything. You admit that the lowkey bar was a really good pick and that she had apparently judged you better than you’d judged yourself. It is all so stupidly nice. The city around you blurs at the edges and somehow the only thing that feels sharply in focus is her shoulder beside yours and the fact that your hands keep drifting a little too close.

Once your fingers brush by accident, and both of you keep talking. Then it happens again. And again. Each time, that tiny contact sparks up your arm like a dare. You start thinking about it too much, which is exactly when Alysa—finally, like she’s decided to stop pretending not to notice—lets her fingers slide between yours.

Your heart does something so dramatic it almost annoys you. For a second your whole body reacts before your face does: chest tightening, stomach dropping and lifting at the same time, some electric little shock running all the way down to your knees. You are glad it’s dark because you can feel your expression trying to betray you. There is a shit-eating grin clawing its way up your face and you have to fight to keep it from fully taking over.

You manage something like composure by looking down at your joined hands instead, then ahead, then finally at Alysa. She is looking straight ahead too, like this is no big deal, like she always takes girls’ hands on sidewalks after excellent first dates. But there is a softness at the corner of her mouth that gives her away. Your hand fits so naturally in hers it feels strangely like fate.

The conversation slows a little after that—not because it gets awkward, but because hand-holding changes the air. It makes everything quieter, more charged, less in need of constant filling. Still, neither of you fully lets the talking stop.

As you near her car, you reach into your bag and pull out a little pack of mint gum, more out of habit than plan, pop one into your own mouth, then hold the pack out to her.

“Want one?”

Alysa takes her hand back only long enough to grab a piece. “Thanks.”

“Blue’s the best one,” you say automatically as she peels the wrapper back.

Alysa looks at the pack. “Obviously.”

You blink. “You agree?”

“Yeah. Green’s fake.”

You stop mid-step to look at her. “Thank you, because nobody gets that.”

“It tastes too… sweet,” she says, like she’s really considered it. “Blue is better.”

“This is huge for us. I can tell we'll get along great,” you tell her gravely.

“I know,” she says. “I was hoping we had some shared values.”

And just like that you’re laughing again, starting an entirely unnecessary conversation about gum rankings as if it matters, as if this is not transparently just another way to avoid the end of the night.

Alysa’s car has little details inside that make your chest ache in that tender, nosy way that comes with being allowed into someone else’s personal space for the first time. A small photo tucked near the windshield—her siblings, you assume, because the affection in the picture feels too easy to be anything else. A ridiculous little dancing cactus wobbling on the dashboard every time she takes a turn. A hoodie thrown in the backseat. A charging cable that looks like it’s been through war. The whole thing makes her feel even more real, which somehow keeps not helping.

You keep talking because silence feels dangerous now, like if it settles for too long you might start saying things you mean too much. So you point at the cactus and ask, “Does he have a name?”

Alysa glances over and deadpans, “That’s my son.”

You laugh immediately. “No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“Alysa.”

“Okay, fine. He doesn’t have one.” She glances over at you for a brief second.

“That’s so sad.”

“You can name him if you want.”

You look at the cactus with comical focus. “I need time.”

“Take all the time you need.” Alysa’s looking over at you at red lights now and then, not long enough to be irresponsible, just enough that every time you catch it your face warms again.

You answer one of her questions while looking out the window, then turn back and ask another while tracing the outline of the photo with your eyes, careful not to pry too hard. She tells you a little about her siblings when you ask, easy and fond without going too deep. You tell her about some weird little object in your apartment she’ll laugh at, then immediately have to process the fact that you have just casually implied a future in which she sees your apartment.

The thought blooms so fast in your head it nearly makes you go quiet. Because that’s the problem, really. The speed of it. The way each small kindness from her seems to lodge somewhere permanent in you.

This is your first date, a few days after meeting, and already your brain has become reckless with possibilities. You’re not just thinking about how pretty and sweet she is. You are thinking about what it would mean if this lasted. If this became a thing. If there were more nights like this, more booths in corners, more car rides, more stupid debates about mint gum.

You are thinking, horrifyingly and sincerely, that you want to go steady. That you want to be able to introduce to people with this is Alysa and have everyone understand what that means. That you want to go out officially, not because the public part matters most, but because the private part already does and you want it to keep existing.

You want more. More conversation, more hand-holding, more of her looking over at you like she’s trying not to smile. And layered under all of that is the steadily growing thought of kissing her. Of what it would feel like. Of how good it would be and how, if you are being embarrassingly honest, the wanting does not stop there. The ideas of make outs turning into clothes tossed to the floor come in flashes and then pass, making you blush in the passenger seat like a teenager. You know it's insane but that doesn't make you want it any less.

When you pull into your building’s parking garage, the ride feels offensively short. The engine clicks softly as Alysa parks, and for a second neither of you moves to unbuckle. The lighting in the garage is harsher than outside, white and flat, but even here she manages to look unfairly good, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other dropping to unclip her belt.

“I can walk you up,” she says, as if she has all night. As if she has not already given you more of it than you had any right to hope for.

“Okay,” you say again, because that is the only word left in your vocabulary when she offers you things you want.

The elevator ride up is quieter, but not uncomfortable. Your reflection in the mirrored wall shows your cheeks still faintly pink, your mouth curled in a smile you keep trying and failing to suppress. Alysa stands beside you with her hands back in her pockets, looking calm enough that if you didn’t know her a little better already, you might think none of this was affecting her.

But you do know better now. You notice the way she shifts her weight when you look at her too long. The way she glances at your mouth and then away. The way her jaw tightens once, subtly, like she’s managing something.

By the time you’re walking the short hall to your apartment door, your mind has become almost unusable. You are aware of the soft sound of your shoes against the carpet and this impossible, bright awareness of Alysa right next to you. She just looks so pretty and the line of her profile somehow makes your chest feel tight and weird in the best possible way.

Every step closer to your door now feels like a countdown. Your body feels full of feeling in a way that is almost ridiculous. You want to kiss her. The thought is so simple and so strong now that it stops feeling abstract. You want to kiss her, and once you let yourself say that much, everything else rushes in behind it again. You think of how good it would be to make out until you forgot how late it was. How easy it is, horrifyingly easy, to imagine wanting more than that if she wanted it too. You want her. You want this to last past one date and some cute texts. You want the thing after this. The part where you keep choosing each other and keep ending up this close.

At your door, the whole walk catches up to you. You stop, turn, and suddenly feel every single thought you’ve had pressing visible color into your face.

“Well,” you say, and immediately hate how breathless it sounds. You lift your keys a little, dumbly. “This is me.”

Alysa nods once, hands still in her pockets, expression softer now than it had been outside the bar. “Right.” There’s a brief pause, neither terrible nor easy. Then she says, “I had a really good time tonight.” And because she says it plainly, without trying to make it sound cooler than she means it, your whole chest goes warm again.

You nod quickly. “Me too.”

Alysa smiles at that, small and private. “Good.” Then, because life is cruel, she starts to angle away just enough that your body understands before your brain does that this is the part where she says goodnight and leaves. “Okay,” she says, and there’s gentleness in it, maybe even reluctance, but it still feels like a little drop under your ribs. “Goodnight.”

You nod because what else are you supposed to do, trying not to let the disappointment show too obviously. “Night.”

She turns, takes maybe two steps, and your heart sinks in that sudden, stupid way it does when something good ends a second before you were ready. You are already bracing yourself for the inevitable post-date spiral, you fumble with your keys, when Alysa stops. There’s a beat where her back is half turned to you, her shoulders rise with a breath, and then she looks over again. Something in her expression has shifted something more decided than before.

“I don’t know if this ruins my whole cool thing,” she says, and there’s the faintest self-conscious edge to it now, the kind she only shows when she’s being real on purpose, “but I really want to kiss you right now.”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh,” you say, because again, apparently your vocabulary has abandoned you entirely. But the sound is eager. Startled, yes, but eager in a way that makes Alysa’s face soften immediately.

Still, she misreads your shock just enough to start backpedaling. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she says quickly. “I know we just met and stuff. I just wanted to let you know—”

And because you are socially awkward in precisely the way that flares most under emotional pressure, because the thought of her finishing that sentence and walking away feels physically unbearable, you do the least graceful and most honest thing possible: you cut her off by kissing her.

You just step forward and close the space and put your mouth on hers because you cannot stand one more second of talking around it. And maybe because you moved first, or maybe because she had already decided she wanted this too, Alysa catches up instantly. Her hands come to your waist almost on reflex, warm and sure through the fabric of your clothes, pulling you just a little closer, while your own arms lift and settle around her neck.

The kiss itself is sweet before it is anything else. Soft, a little tentative for half a heartbeat, and then not tentative at all once both of you realize the other is really here, really kissing back. Alysa’s mouth is warm and tastes faintly like mint. Yours probably does too. Your whole body seems to go bright with sensation at once with the press of her hands at your waist, the careful angle of her head, the way your heart is beating so hard it borders on ridiculous.

It is exactly as good as you knew it would be and somehow still better, because no imagination had included the reality of her holding you like this, of her thumbs shifting lightly against your sides, of the tiny breath she lets out against your mouth halfway through like she’s relieved you did this.

When you pull apart, it is only by a few inches, both of you still in each other’s space, and both of you are blushing hard enough that if the hallway were brighter it would probably be humiliating. You can’t stop smiling. Alysa, annoyingly, also looks a little smug under her own blush.

“Wow,” she says softly, looking at your face. “Cut me off. Rude.”

You laugh, breathless. “You were talking too much.”

“That so?” Her hands are still on your waist.

You can feel how much she liked it despite the teasing. It’s in the way she hasn’t let go. It’s in the way her eyes keep dipping to your mouth before returning to your eyes. It’s in the pink high on her cheeks that makes her look younger, softer, and somehow even more unfairly pretty. So you’re not embarrassed, not really. Too dazed to be, too happy.

“I had to make a judgment call,” you say, trying for composure and sounding giddy anyway.

Alysa huffs a quiet laugh. “Good judgment then.”

The second goodbye is somehow even harder because now you know exactly what leaving feels like. But this time there’s no uncertainty sitting under it. Just the stunned, happy aftermath of having done the thing you’d been thinking about for the last couple of days like it might kill you.

Alysa finally lets her hands slide from your waist, slowly enough that you notice, and steps back just enough to make it real.

“Goodnight,” she says again, but now it sounds fond, a little wrecked at the edges, like she’s carrying the same buzz you are.

“Goodnight,” you answer, and your voice is still softer than usual, all your thoughts melted down into something warm and stupid and sincere.

She smiles one last time, then turns and actually walks away, and this time you let her because she kissed you and because you can still feel it like a live thing on your mouth. You wait until she disappears down the hall before unlocking your door, and the second you step inside your apartment the entire night comes crashing over you at once.

The quiet is almost violent after so much feeling. You lock the door behind you, drop your bag somewhere near the entry without even looking, and make it approximately three steps toward the couch before your knees stop being fully reliable. So you fall onto it in a graceless little collapse, tip sideways into the cushions, and cover your face with some pillow because there are simply too many emotions happening at once to process upright.

A sound comes out of you that is halfway between a squeal and a laugh and the beginning of a scream. Your whole body feels hot and floaty and charged, like you might actually combust from the force of your own happiness. You kick your feet once against the couch like a complete idiot, then bury your face deeper into the pillow and laugh again because there is no one here to witness the full extent of your humiliation.

She kissed you. No, worse—you kissed her. On the first date. After holding her hand on the sidewalk and talking about nonsense and thinking, in increasingly alarming detail, about kissing her and maybe kissing her a lot more than was responsible. And now that it’s happened, all you can do is lie there grinning helplessly, your lips still tingling, your chest so full it aches a little, and think with the kind of lovesick certainty anyone who knows you would roast you alive for:

You are already falling way too fast, and you do not care at all.

------

the way im so down to tap into olivia rodrigo x reader but i dont think the market exists for that yet,,, UGHH,,, but im using drop dead to manifest a cute date for myself and yall should too

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tag list :P

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Somewhere between the opening ceremony and the last medal ceremony, between the distance and the argument and the quiet hurt neither of you knew how to say out loud at first, something cracked open and forced both of you to look at your relationship more honestly than you ever had before. Alysa had always loved you in that intense, slightly stubborn way she loved everything important—deeply, seriously but privately. She assumed you knew. She assumed the way she showed up for you in small ways was obvious enough. The Olympics were the first time she realized that love doesn’t count for much if the other person can’t see it. She realized you shouldn’t have to guess how important you are to someone; that she couldn’t keep waiting for you to make the first move in public, couldn’t keep acting like your relationship was something that only existed when no one else was looking. And you learned that pulling away when you were hurt didn’t protect you the way you thought it did—it just made both of you lonely at the same time. So, you talked, probably more honestly than either of you ever had, and when you came out the other side of that, something between you felt steadier. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't magically become easy, but you two were finally on the same page.

After the Olympics, when everything slowed down and the world stopped watching quite so closely, you both disappeared a little. Not entirely because you still had the mandatory press tour, still showed up to events when you had to, still smiled on red carpets and answered questions and even went to the Met Gala together that year like the world expected you to. But most of your time was spent at home, off the grid, just being normal with each other for once. Alysa started talking more at night when you were both half asleep, the kind of honest conversations that only happen in the dark when no one is performing for anyone else. She got better at saying what she felt instead of assuming you already knew. And in public, she stopped waiting. If she wanted to hold your hand, she just reached for it, if she wanted to touch your back, she did. If she wanted to kiss you goodbye, she didn’t check who was looking first. It wasn’t performative, it was just her finally understanding that loving you wasn’t something she needed to hide so carefully.

Since the Olympics, neither of you had felt lost in the relationship and neither of you spiraled wondering where you stood. You both knew.

Then Novemebr came, and with it, competition season again.

November in Nevada feels wrong.

Alysa notices that first thing in the morning when she wakes up in the hotel room and stares at the ceiling for a second too long before reaching for her phone. The air is dry in that way desert air always is, the sunlight too clean through the curtains, everything outside too beige and still compared to the places both of you usually end up this time of year. It isn’t bad exactly. It just feels off today.

That’s the word that follows her around all morning. Off.

It starts as one of those vague feelings she’d normally ignore. Alysa is used to nerves. Used to waking up with adrenaline already humming somewhere under her skin before competition days, used to the particular strangeness of hotel rooms and weird sleep and training schedules and too many people talking at her before she’s fully awake. But this doesn’t feel like skating nerves.

Warm-up goes fine. Better than fine, actually. Her body listens. Her jumps are there. Timing feels good. Nothing is fighting her. So technically, she has no reason to feel weird. And yet?

She’s sitting on the side of the rink after practice, jacket half-zipped, texting you while a coach says something to someone behind her that she doesn’t even process, and the feeling creeps back in again. Not sharp exactly but persistent, like a thread tugging somewhere low in her ribs.

You’re in Colorado for the U.S. Grand Prix. Big air and Slopestyle. She’s in Nevada for the ISU Grand Prix. Entirely different worlds, same day, same stupid sport schedules that have made long distance into something neither of you even question anymore. You’d both texted this morning the usual. Good luck. Don’t fall. Eat something.

Alysa stares at your last message for a second before typing something back.

Alysa:

i think u should retire after this szn lol

She only adds the lol because otherwise it sounds too much like what it is: serious. And she already knows how you get about this topic. You hate when she gets too visibly worried about snowboarding, and you hate even more when she sounds like she’s trying to police it. You say it makes you feel like she doesn’t trust you. Alysa always says that’s not the point. You always say then stop acting like it is.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

You:

whyyyyy

Alysa presses her lips together and types back with one thumb.

Alysa:

idk i hate that ur always in danger

This time the response takes a second longer.

You:

do u not trust me that im the goat

Alysa:

not that i just worry abt u

You:

dw abt me im a tough guy

Alysa’s face goes flat in that way it always does when you say something so ridiculous with complete confidence.

Alysa:

ur not a guy

You:

dont tell me who to be

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s already typing back—something sarcastic, ok tough guy—when someone calls her name sharply enough to drag her back into the room.

“Alysa.” She looks up. One of the staff is gesturing at the rink. It’s time. Her phone screen goes dark in her hand. She slides it into her jacket pocket and stands. The weird feeling doesn’t leave. It just gets shoved down under muscle memory and competition routine, under the part of her life that has always known how to take up too much space and force everything else out for a little while.

A few hours pass. Her event goes well like really well. Clean enough that everyone around her is pleased, coaches calmer, the post-skate blur moving in that familiar wave of press and congratulations and quick comments from the press. Alysa nods through it all, answers what she has to answer, changes out of skates, gets halfway back to herself physically.

But the off feeling is still there. Which is what bothers her. If it had been about her skating, it should’ve gone away by now. Instead, by the time she’s in the locker room, jacket back on, hair slightly flattened at the crown from costume changes and adrenaline settling out of her bloodstream, the weird pull in her chest feels stronger. Not enough to name but enough to make her uneasy.

The TV mounted in the corner of the locker room is off when she walks in. She stops and looks around for a worker. “Can someone turn that on?” she asks, already shrugging out of one sleeve of her jacket before stopping halfway. “I need the snowboarding stream.”

Something in her tone must make it clear she’s not asking lightly, because a minute later the TV flickers to life with the slopestyle broadcast. Colorado fills the screen—bright snow, mountain shadows, announcer voices with that too-lively sports cadence.

Alysa stands there with her arms crossed and her thumb hooked against her lower lip, half biting at the nail without realizing she’s doing it. You’re not up yet.

Amber notices her first. Of course she does. She comes in mid-conversation with someone else, takes one look at Alysa standing there like her entire soul is apparently tethered to the TV, and just smiles. “Oh my god,” Amber says under her breath. “You’re in deep.” Alysa barely reacts. Amber steps closer, leaning in enough to catch the broadcast too. “She’s like a professional, you know.”

Alysa waves one hand at her without looking away. Not even dismissive so much as absent. Like please go away, I’m busy.

That gets a laugh out of Isabeau when she walks over a second later. “How many times have you seen her do this and she’s fine?”

Alysa still doesn’t turn. “Doesn’t matter. Just want her to be okay.”

Amber’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. She admitted she has feelings!”

“I’ve never denied it.”

“No,” Amber says. “But you used to act like you were too cool to have emotions.”

Alysa finally glances at her for half a second, expression blank. “Shhh.”

Alysa tunes the conversation around her out again almost instantly. She can feel both skaters still standing near her now, can hear the low amusement in their breathing, but they become part of the room’s background noise the second the broadcast shifts.

“Up next,” one of the commentators says, brightening audibly, “the reigning Olympic gold and silver medalist from earlier this year in February. She’s back here in Colorado defending a second-place finish from last season, and expectations are, understandably, very high.”

Your name appears on screen as Alysa goes perfectly still.

The camera cuts to you at the start area, board clipped in, shoulders bundled up against the cold. It zooms in enough that Alysa can see the small details she always notices first—the way you mess with the board strap when you’re waiting too long, the slight press of your lips together when you’re thinking, the expression you get when you’re annoyed but trying not to let it show too obviously.

And right now? Your face is scrunched. You bend down, fiddle with your binding or strap or something near your front foot. Then you say something to your coach. Even without sound, Alysa can tell from your mouth and the way your brows lift that it’s a complaint, or at least a concern. Your coach kneels immediately and starts messing with the same spot.

Alysa narrows her eyes and the feeling in Alysa’s chest sharpens.

Amber notices the change in Alysa’s posture. “What?”

Alysa doesn’t answer right away. “Something's wrong.”

Isabeau looks at the screen. “What is?”

“She’s worried about something.”

On screen, your coach finishes adjusting whatever it was, pats the board once, and stands. You get up too, test the weight of it, rock once, then settle.

The announcer is still talking about your Olympic results, about style and consistency and how you’ve become one of the women to watch in the discipline. Alysa barely hears any of it now. Her whole body is tuned to the image of you on the screen.

Then you drop.

The first section goes clean. You ride the rail with the kind of confidence Alysa has seen so many times it should maybe stop making her nervous and somehow never does. Body low and balanced, easy in that infuriating way top athletes can make dangerous things look almost casual. You come off the feature clean and head into the first smaller jump. You land it perfectly.

Alysa exhales once, not relief yet but getting there.

The broadcast follows you down the course, camera wide enough to keep your whole line in frame. You’re moving well, you're fluid, fast. By the time you set for the final jump, one of the announcers is already talking about how strong the run is shaping up to be, how this could put you in a really good place if you land.

Alysa’s stomach drops before anything even happens. It's a pulse of dread so sharp it makes her fingers curl into her sleeves.

Then...the takeoff. And immediately it's wrong.

Your body leaves the lip and Alysa knows before the spin fully sets. The timing is off by a fraction and somehow that fraction changes everything. Your hand goes for the board and misses. Or finds it too late. There isn’t enough air under you, not enough control, and suddenly the thing Alysa hates more than anything in this sport happens... your arms start flailing, signifying loss of control.

The second she sees your arms break wild like that, something in her body gives way.

It happens in almost unbearable slow motion after that.

You come down wrong—too far forward, too little control, body pitched in a way that is all panic and physics and no recovery. The board clips. Your upper body whips. Then your head and shoulder slam into the snow first with a sickening kind of force that seems to travel straight through the TV. Your helmet flies off. Actually flies off.

Alysa’s heart doesn’t just drop—it feels like it disappears altogether.

Your body ragdolls down the rest of the landing, limbs loose in that horrible, unnatural way that tells everyone watching you were no longer in control of what happened almost immediately.

Amber gasps and covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh my god.”

Isabeau’s head snaps toward Alysa instantly, concern already all over her face before Alysa even realizes she’s reacting. Alysa doesn’t move. She can’t. For one impossible second it feels like her entire body has been nailed to the floor. Cold all over. Nausea so immediate and violent it makes her throat tighten. Her vision goes weird at the edges, not blurry exactly but it's too sharp in the center and not enough anywhere else.

On the TV, the broadcast zooms out, then back in, then out again like the camera operators themselves don’t know how close is too close for something this bad. You try to sit up. Alysa sees it, sees the motion, desperate and instinctive, and then sees you collapse back flat again. There’s red on your face now.

Alysa feels like she’s actually going to throw up.

One of the announcers is still talking, voice lower now, stripped of the usual performative excitement. “That is a very, very hard fall. You can see immediately the concern here—especially with the helmet coming off. That is not something you ever want to see.”

Medics are already on you, running, sliding into frame. One drops to a knee at your side, another signals farther up the course. You move again—trying to sit up, maybe just reacting—and a medic immediately presses a hand toward your shoulder, guiding you back down.

The announcer keeps going, carefully now, “Her day is definitely over. Such a sad way to get this event started. Hopefully she’ll be alright.” Your board is somewhere behind the medics. The snow around the impact zone is scuffed and ugly. Your helmet is farther away than Alysa can stand to look at.

It doesn’t feel real. Not in the normal way bad things don’t feel real at first. In the specific way that Alysa’s brain rejects the image because it has already spent all day trying to tell her something was wrong and now that something is wrong, it’s too much. Too exact. Too cruel.

This is it. This is the shape of every worry she’s ever had about your sport, every stupid argument, every time she texted be careful and tried to make it sound like a joke because she didn’t want you rolling your eyes at her. This. The image of you hitting hard enough that your helmet came off.

She can hear her own pulse in her ears now. Fast and ugly and wrong. Her jaw hurts, her shoulders hurt. Everything in her body is braced so hard it’s almost painful but she can’t look away. And for a few endless seconds, that is the worst feeling she has ever known.

------

The two-hour flight to Colorado is the longest two hours Alysa has ever lived through.

She doesn’t remember packing her bag. She doesn’t remember the drive to the airport and she barely remembers boarding the plane. The last clear image in her head before everything turned into motion and noise and fluorescent lights was the TV in the locker room and your body hitting the snow and the helmet flying off and the red on your face.

That image won’t leave. It loops behind her eyes the entire flight.

She sits by the window but doesn’t look out of it once. Her phone is in her hands the entire time, screen lighting up every few minutes with messages she barely reads. She opens the messages, closes them, opens your contact, closes it again because there’s nothing to text. She doesn’t even know if you have your phone. She doesn’t know if you’re awake. She doesn’t know if you’re in surgery. She doesn’t know anything except what she saw.

Head first. Helmet off. Blood. Airlift.

She had snapped out of that frozen trance in the locker room the moment she saw the helicopter arrive on the broadcast and watched them lift you onto the stretcher. Something in her brain had switched from watching to moving. She grabbed her bag, called her manager, said she needed the next flight to Colorado, didn’t care about logistics or cost or schedule. Now she’s sitting on the plane and the movement is the worst part because she can’t do anything.

She just sits there with her hands locked together so tight her knuckles ache, elbows on her knees, head bowed slightly like she’s praying even though she’s never really been the praying type. Her brain is running through every possible version of what could be happening to you right now.

She knows crashes. She’s seen crashes. She’s watched enough snowboarding and skiing over the years to know what bad looks like and what really bad looks like. The crash could have been worse, she tells herself. She’s seen worse. She’s seen people not move at all. She’s seen people get stretchered out unconscious. She’s seen limbs bend in ways they shouldn’t. But you moved, you tried to sit up. That has to mean something. Then another memory slips in—some skier she’d read about years ago. Hit her head, stood up, talked to people. Then collapsed minutes later from internal bleeding.

Alysa’s stomach twists so hard she presses her fist against it.

No, this isn’t that. It can’t be that.

You’re tough. You’ve crashed before. You’ve gotten up laughing with blood on your lip and snow in your hair and told her you were fine while she yelled at you for scaring her. You’ve broken things before and walked it off like it was an inconvenience instead of an injury. You’re okay. You have to be okay. She repeats that in her head like it’s a fact she can force into existence if she thinks it enough times.

The plane hums quietly around her, people sleeping, people watching movies, flight attendants moving up and down the aisle like this is a normal day and a normal flight and nothing important is happening at all. But for Alysa, the world has narrowed down to one thing: Getting to you.

And until she sees you with her own eyes, she will sit here in this quiet, aching, suspended space between not knowing and knowing, between fear and relief, and she will wait. This is what loving you has always meant, even before she realized it. It's not just medals and jokes and lazy kisses and inside jokes with nights on the couch. It also means sitting in fear, holding her breath, refusing to look away from the possibility of losing you. It's her choosing you over everything else without even thinking about it.

This flight isn’t travel. It’s a vigil. And she will sit here, hands clasped, heart in her throat, and keep awake until she gets to you.

------

When the plane lands, she’s off before most people have even unbuckled their seatbelts. She orders an Uber from the curb and spends the entire drive staring out the window without actually seeing anything. Then the hospital lobby smells like antiseptic and coffee and too many people waiting for too many different reasons.

Alysa walks straight to the front desk. “I’m here for—” she says your full name, voice tight. “What room is she in?”

The woman at the desk types something, then looks up. “Are you family?”

Alysa doesn’t hesitate. “I’m her girlfriend.”

The woman softly says, “We’re only allowing two visitors at a time right now, and there are already two people with her. You’re going to have to wait.”

Wait. The word hits Alysa like a physical object. She has been waiting for hours already. Waiting on a plane. Waiting in a car. Waiting without knowing if you were conscious or breathing or in surgery or—

“I can’t wait,” Alysa says, voice dropping. Not angry or loud, just so desperate. “Please. Can you tell whoever’s up there that I need to see her? Do you know who’s up there so I can tell them myself?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out names.”

Alysa leans forward slightly, both hands flat on the counter now. “Please,” she says again, and she is actually begging now, voice shaking just slightly. “I need to get to her.”

The woman studies her for a second, clearly feeling bad but also clearly stuck in hospital protocol. Then she lowers her voice slightly. “Off the record,” she says quietly, “one of them seemed like a coach.”

Alysa nods immediately, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her hands are shaking so badly she almost drops it. She calls your coach.

A few minutes later, she sees two people walk into the lobby—your head coach and his assistant coach. The assistant coach gives her a small, sympathetic smile and sits down in one of the waiting chairs. Your head coach walks straight over to Alysa. “Come on,” he says gently.

They walk toward the elevators together, and Alysa starts talking immediately. “What happened? Is she awake? Did she hit her head really bad? I watched they airlifted her—was she unconscious? Did she—” She’s firing questions so fast she barely breathes between them.

He lets her talk for a few seconds, probably because he knows she needs to get it out. Then he presses the elevator button and finally says, “Alysa. She’s okay.”

The words hit her so hard she almost doesn’t understand them at first.

“She’s very lucky,” he continues. “Grade two concussion. Broken nose. A lot of bruising along her back and ribs. But no spinal injury, no internal bleeding, no skull fracture. They’re keeping her overnight for monitoring because of the concussion, but she’s going to be okay.”

Alysa feels like someone just let her breathe again after she’d been underwater for hours. Her chest actually hurts with how hard the relief hits.

She nods once, but she can’t speak for a second. Her throat is too tight. Her eyes burn suddenly and she blinks hard, looking down at the floor of the elevator like she needs to get control of herself before she walks into your room.

The doors open and he leads her down a quiet hallway, then stops at a door and pushes it open gently. You’re sitting up in the hospital bed. That’s the first thing Alysa registers. You’re upright and awake. Not hooked up to a million machines, just sitting there in one of those hospital gowns with a blanket over your lap, shoulders slightly hunched like you’re uncomfortable. There’s a metal splint across your nose, taped in place, and the bruising is already starting under your eyes—dark and spreading, the beginning of two black eyes that will probably look awful in a few days.

You look miserable. But you’re alive. Alysa’s heart physically aches at the sight of you.

She doesn’t say anything when she walks in. She just closes the distance immediately and grabs your hand like she needs to confirm you’re actually real and not something she imagined.

You smile at her, slow and a little lopsided, eyes half-lidded and heavy from the concussion. You squeeze her fingers weakly. “Told you I’m tough,” you mumble.

Alysa lets out a short laugh, but it’s not really laughter. It’s relief and disbelief and leftover fear all tangled together. “You’re insane,” she says quietly. “I was so worried.”

You nod slightly. “I was a little scared too,” you admit. “But I’m okay. Or that’s what they’re telling me.” You look at her for a second, then say, very softly, “Can I please kiss you?”

Alysa’s heart does something painful again in her chest. She wants to kiss you so badly it almost hurts. But the splint on your nose, the bruising, the way you’re clearly in pain even sitting still—it makes her hesitate. She doesn’t want to accidentally bump your nose or hurt you more.

You see the hesitation immediately. “Please,” you say again, voice quiet but stubborn. Then you add, “I heard you aced your program. I wish I could watch it but they took away screens from me.” You pause, then look at her with a small, tired smile. “But I don’t need to watch a replay to know you looked pretty and landed all your jumps perfectly. Unlike—” You trail off and look away.

And Alysa’s heart actually breaks all over again in that moment. She knows that look, that quiet frustration. The part of you that isn’t just hurt physically, but hurt that you didn’t land the run, that you didn’t get to finish, that you crashed in front of everyone. Your ego is bruised too, and she can see it all over your face even through the swelling and the exhaustion.

She can’t let you feel rejected on top of everything else.

So she sighs softly and leans in very carefully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw gently so she can control the angle, and she kisses you as carefully as she can. You kiss her back immediately, eager and a little clumsy because you’re trying not to move your face too much. But when your nose brushes her cheek, you wince sharply and Alysa pulls back right away.

“Okay, no,” she says softly. “We’re not doing that right now.”

“I’ll get over it,” you mumble. “We should try again.”

She shakes her head and sits down carefully on the edge of the bed instead, still holding your hand. “You’re concussed and your nose is broken,” she says. “You’re not doing anything.” You sigh dramatically and lean your head back against the pillows.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Alysa just sits there with your hand in hers, thumb rubbing slowly over your knuckles like she needs to keep reminding herself you’re actually here. She looks at the bruises under your eyes. The tape across your nose. The way you’re moving slightly slower than usual. And she thinks about the crash again, the way your body hit the snow, the helicopter, the blood. Her stomach twists again.

“I hate your sport,” she says quietly.

You open one eye and look at her. “You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

You look at her for a long moment, really look at her, like you’re seeing how shaken she still is even though she’s trying to act calm now. “Come here,” you mumble.

She leans closer and you rest your head carefully against her shoulder, avoiding your nose. For the first time since the crash, Alysa finally feels like her heart is beating normally again. She’s still scared. Still angry at the mountain and the snow and the jump and the physics and everything that could have taken you away from her in a single bad rotation.

But you’re here.

-------

Alysa leaves the hospital feeling like she’s been peeled open. There’s nothing neat about it. It feels messy like the last several hours scraped something raw inside her and even though you’re okay—even though she saw you, touched you, held your hand, heard your stupid voice making stupid jokes with a splint on your nose—her body still hasn’t caught up to that fact.

It does not want to let go of you.

When visiting hours end and your nurse comes in with that apologetic, practiced tone hospitals use when they have to interrupt people in the middle of relief, Alysa’s first instinct is to ignore her. Her second instinct is to say no. Her third is to bargain. She manages none of those, because you get there first.

“You have to go,” you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion and the concussion and whatever pain medication they’ve given you. “You have a final.”

Alysa’s hand tightens around yours immediately. “I don’t care.”

You blink at her slowly, that half-lidded look on your face somehow both pathetic and still annoyingly smug. “You do.”

“I literally don’t.”

“You will when you’re not sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable.”

Alysa narrows her eyes, but there’s no force in it. Not with you looking like that. “You’re concussed and still talking too much.”

“And you still have to go.”

Your coaches agree with you, obviously. So do hers, over the phone, in that infuriatingly reasonable way adults in sports always do when they’re trying to make logistics sound more important than love. The final is tomorrow. She can still make it back. She should still make it back. You’ll be discharged soon anyway and flying home to California with your own people. The best thing she can do right now, apparently, is leave.

Alysa hates every second of it. She hates standing up from the chair by your bed. Hates pulling her hand out of yours. Hates the way you try to smile at her like you’re the one comforting her.

“Go win,” you say quietly.

She leans down and presses the gentlest kiss she can manage to your forehead because it’s the only place she can do it without risking your nose. “You’re the worst,” she mutters.

Your mouth twitches. “Oh, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smile properly at that—tired, bruised, eyes heavy, but still you. And that’s the image Alysa has to carry with her all the way back to the airport, all the way onto another plane, all the way back into the bubble of competition like she didn’t just spend the day thinking she might lose you.

By the time she gets back, she feels hollowed out.

The arena the next morning is too bright. Too normal. Coaches and skaters and staff moving around like the world didn’t tilt violently off-axis yesterday. Alysa goes through the motions because she knows how to. Her body is so trained for this that it will keep performing routines even when the rest of her is somewhere else entirely.

People know, of course they do. Not every detail, but they heard or saw the crash. And there's the not-so-rumor that she disappeared across state lines for a few hours and came back overnight. A couple of people ask gently how you are. Alysa answers them. That, all by itself, feels new.

Before, she would’ve gone closed-off instantly. A short “she’s okay” and then silence sharp enough to end the conversation. Not because she didn’t care. Because she cared too much, and letting people see the shape of it always felt like exposure. Like weakness or giving away something private. Now she doesn’t have the energy for that kind of self-protection. Or maybe she just doesn’t believe in it the same way anymore.

So when people ask, she actually answers. “She’s okay,” Alysa tells one of the coaches passing by. “Concussion. Broken nose. Bruised up pretty bad, but okay. They kept her overnight, but she should be flying home now." And every time she says it out loud, it makes it a little more real in a good way. Home. Safe. Not still lying in that snow. Not frozen forever in the image her mind keeps trying to replay.

Still, the pressure under her ribs doesn’t lift all the way.

She’s in the locker room tying her skates when Amber sits down beside her. No jokes first. No teasing. It's that calm, open presence Amber slips into when she knows someone is hanging on by more threads than they’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Amber says quietly.

Alysa keeps her eyes on the laces for a second too long. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” The question sits there. It's so simple, so genuine. Amber leans her elbows on her knees, looking at Alysa without forcing eye contact. “That was really scary,” she says. “And I know you traveled all night so you must be exhausted.” A beat. “It’s okay if you’re not totally okay.”

It's like whenever someone asks if you're okay, it snaps any ounce of self-restraint all at once. There’s no sudden sob, no full collapse. It’s more like the thing holding her together quietly gives way. Her hands stop on the laces. Her shoulders cave in a little. Then she turns, almost blindly, and lets herself fold into Amber. Amber catches her immediately. Firm arms. One around her shoulders, one hand at the back of her head for a second before moving down to rub her back, there's no surprise like she expected this.

Alysa cries quietly. She doesn't make a noise, really, as tears slide down her face while she tries to breathe through the pressure in her lungs and can’t quite get a full breath for a few seconds. Her face is tucked against Amber’s shoulder, one hand twisted in the fabric of her own warm-up jacket, trying to get enough control over herself not to shake apart entirely.

Amber doesn’t rush her, doesn’t say it’s okay in that empty way people sometimes do when they’re uncomfortable with someone else’s fear. She just holds on and keeps rubbing Alysa’s back in slow circles like she knows Alysa needs steadiness more than reassurance right now.

When Alysa finally pulls back a little, it’s only enough to wipe at her face with the heel of her hand. Her skin feels hot and awful, her nose burns. Her chest still hurts with the memory of the panic. “I was so scared, Amber,” she says, voice rough and embarrassingly thin. “I’ve never felt that sick in my life.”

Amber nods once, eyes soft but not pitying. “I know.”

Alysa swallows hard. “I was waiting for some headline to announce she didn’t make it before I got there.” Her mouth twists. “Like I kept thinking my phone was gonna light up and it was gonna be… I don’t know.” She shakes her head because she can’t even finish that sentence without feeling like she’ll throw up again. “It felt like torture.”

Amber keeps listening, lets the words come.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Alysa says. “I was just sitting there on that plane and all I knew was what I saw on TV and it was just her hitting the snow over and over again in my head and I—” She stops to catch her breath, presses her lips together hard enough to steady them. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

There it is. The thing that used to stay buried inside other sentences, under jokes, under coolness. Under Alysa pretending not to be the kind of person who needs someone that badly.

Amber’s expression doesn’t change much, but her hand presses once, firmly, between Alysa’s shoulder blades. “You won’t ever have to find out,” she certain. “She wouldn’t leave you like that. She’s a fighter, and she’s tough, okay? She’s okay.” Then, more gently, “She’ll be waiting for you after this. At home. And then you’ll be there taking care of her.”

The picture of that lands softly in Alysa’s heart. It doesn't completely erase the fear. Alysa nods slowly, sniffles once, annoyed at herself. Wipes the rest of her face and exhales like she’s trying to clear the last of it out of her body.

Amber squeezes her once more—quick, solid, no lingering weirdness—then leans back enough to look at her properly. “Want me to stay?”

Alysa shakes her head. “No. It’s okay.” Her voice is still scratchy but more stable now. “I’m done.”

Amber lifts one eyebrow like she doesn’t believe that for a second, but lets it go. “Okay.” They stand. The rhythm of competition starts to gather around them again—coaches moving, names being called, the low scrape of blades somewhere beyond the room.

Then Alysa’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls it out automatically, expecting maybe one of your coaches updating her with something else. Instead she sees your name and her heart jumps into her throat.

You:

Hey, Alysa. Good luck today on your final.

Alysa stares at the screen, eyes narrowing at the formality of your text. But before Alysa can respond, another text comes through.

You:

This is her coach typing for her, she can’t look at her phone.

Alysa’s mouth finally lifts. Of course. Of course you’re concussed, probably squinting at light, probably under strict instructions not to be on screens, and you still found a way to make sure she got a message before her final. Of course you made your coach type for you like some absurd little dictator of affection still thinking about her. Something warm and painful moves through her all at once.

She types back more slowly than usual.

Alysa:

tell her thank u and i love her

A new bubble appears almost immediately but disappears for a minute, only for a voice memo to appear. She clicks play and the sound of your raspy voice comes through the speaker.

He won't say this for me, I don't know why. But I think you're so hot and I'm so in love with you. And I really miss you so I can't wait to see you again. I also can't wait to get my phone back and watch how hot you look in that little red-- it cuts off and Alysa's sure it was your coach who took away the little screen time you had for abusing your privileges.

Amber groans. “You’re both embarrassing.”

Alysa can feel something in her chest settling now. The fear isn't gone, maybe it won’t be for a while. Maybe every time you drop into something dangerous from now on, a part of her body will remember that crash before anything else. But right now, you’re home and you're still you, waiting for her.

So Alysa draws in one deep breath, squares her shoulders, and starts toward the rink because she still has to skate.

------

The bronze medal feels heavier than Alysa expects. Not physically—the medal itself is lighter than gold, obviously, smaller—but everything attached to it feels heavy. The last 24 hours, the flights, the hospital, the fear that still hasn’t fully left her body, the program she skated on almost no sleep, running on adrenaline and dread and the image of you sitting in that hospital bed with a splint on your nose telling her she still had to compete.

Her skate wasn’t bad but it wasn’t her best either. She felt it the moment she stepped onto the ice. That slight lag between thought and movement. The triple Axel that she usually snaps into clean and confident felt hesitant on takeoff. She landed it, but she knew it wasn’t sharp. The rest of the program she fought for—not elegantly, not effortlessly like the day before—but stubbornly, the way you snowboard. Like she was finishing it out of principle more than joy.

Still, the score from the previous day carried her. When the final placements came in and she landed in third, she didn’t feel disappointed so much as relieved it was over. But landing podium also means more days. More photos, more press, more gala rehearsals, more smiling when all she really wants to do is get on a plane and go sit next to you on a couch and make sure you’re actually still okay and not just pretending to be.

The medal ceremony feels like it happens to someone else. She stands on the third step, medal around her neck, smiling when she’s supposed to smile, waving when she’s supposed to wave, but her mind keeps drifting to California.

After the ceremony she barely gets time to breathe before someone is guiding her toward the press area. It's the usual semicircle of reporters and recorders and people leaning forward waiting for sound bites. Except this time, she can tell immediately something is different. There are too many eyes on her with too many cameras pointed directly at her instead of rotating evenly between the medalists.

She knows they don’t just want to talk about skating tonight, they want to talk about you.

She sits down, adjusts the medal slightly so it stops hitting the table, and fumbles with the microphone stand a little because her hands are still slightly shaky and she’s more tired than she’s ever been at a competition.

The first question comes quickly. “Alysa, first of all, congratulations on the bronze. You looked a bit hesitant on your opening triple Axel today. Was it difficult to stay focused on your own programs while knowing what happened in Colorado? And to add, how is she doing? Have you spoken to her yet?” It's not even subtle or attempts to be.

Alysa glances down at the microphone for a second, then back up. She clears her throat a little. “Uh, thanks,” she says. “Yeah… she’s doing better. It really is just lucky that she didn’t suffer any major injuries besides a concussion and a broken nose.” She pauses for a second, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table. “I actually saw her last night, which is why I guess I looked hesitant out there. I was feeling a little more tired today.” It’s a very honest answer but she doesn’t have the energy to manufacture polished media answers right now.

Another reporter jumps in. “Did you consider withdrawing from the event after what happened?”

Alysa doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” she says immediately. “I was very close to withdrawing today. But everyone was in my ear about being here and putting down a score,” she continues, then adds, without really thinking about how it sounds publicly, “especially her. So here I am.”

A few reporters exchange glances before another question comes from the other side. “Do you wish you placed higher? Do you feel like there’s something you would’ve done differently in the program if you were more focused?”

Alysa leans back slightly in her chair and shrugs, the medal clinking softly. “No,” she says. “I haven’t even really thought about how I looked out there. I’m not really attached to any scores or anything.” She pauses, then adds, very matter-of-fact, “But I couldn’t disappoint my team or my girlfriend, so what happened happened.” The word girlfriend leaves her mouth before she fully processes it. There’s a half-second where she realizes what she just said in front of a room full of reporters and cameras. She feels heat rise into her face immediately, a light blush spreading across her cheeks.

Pre-Olympics Alysa would have never said that so casually. Pre-Olympics Alysa would have dodged the question or would have said someone important to me. She used to be so careful about protecting the privacy like it was something fragile that would break if people looked at it too closely.

That slowly changed in the 3-day distance between you after the opening ceremony and it gradually changed after that long emotional talk in your dorm in the Olympic village.

Now, it officially and completely changed when she thought she might lose you on a mountainside in Colorado and realized she does not care who knows anymore. She has one thing she is actually afraid of losing. And it’s not medals.

Another reporter raises a hand. “How did you feel when you first heard about the crash?”

Alysa exhales slowly through her nose. Her fingers lace together on the table for a second before she answers. “It was definitely scary watching it live,” she says quietly. “I guess I’m kind of trying to block that out right now, so…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.

The room goes quiet for a second, respectful. It's like everyone suddenly remembers that behind the medals and rankings and headlines, these are just people watching people they love get hurt in real time sometimes.

Finally, mercifully, someone asks a question directed at one of the other medalists about their program layout, and the attention shifts slightly away from Alysa. She can breathe again.

She answers a few more skating questions after that but her answers are shorter now. She's polite, but distant. Her energy is gone and her mind is already somewhere else.

Back when she first started dating you all those years ago, she treated your relationship like something she had to keep separate from skating. Like there was Alysa the athlete and Alysa the girlfriend and those two people shouldn’t overlap too much in public. She thought she was protecting something, protecting privacy. Protecting the image of being calm and detached and unaffected. But now she sits at this table with a bronze medal around her neck and realizes something very clearly:

She was never detached. She was just scared of people finding out how easily she could crumble if it came to you. But the truth is out there now and the truth is simple; she doesn’t want to pretend otherwise anymore.

She can lose competitions she can miss jumps. She can place third or fifth or get disqualified. She can live with all of that. But she cannot live in a world where she pretends you are not the most important thing in her life just to look more composed in a press conference.

So when the press conference finally ends and someone thanks the athletes and the microphones click off and the cameras start lowering, Alysa stands up, adjusts the medal once more, and exhales slowly. She doesn’t care what the headlines say tomorrow, she just wants to go home.

-------

By the time Alysa finally gets back to California, the last couple of days feel like it lasted a year. Everything blurred together into one long stretch of noise and fluorescent lighting and people asking questions she didn’t really care about answering. The only thing that felt sharp and real through all of it was you: in a hospital bed, or on a phone screen through your coach’s texts, and in the back of her mind every time she stepped on the ice.

So when she unlocks the apartment door and steps inside, the quiet almost surprises her. There aren't any crowds here, no cameras or even sound--partly because you're still concussed. She's finally home.

She drops her bag by the door and takes a few steps into the living room, and that’s when she sees you on the couch.

You look worse than the last time she saw you. The bruising under your eyes has fully bloomed now—dark purple and blue spreading across your cheekbones, the broken nose splint still taped across the bridge, faint yellowing bruises starting to show along your jaw and temple. You’re sitting up, head resting against the couch cushion in sweats and one of her hoodies, looking like someone who got into a fight with a mountain and technically won but at a cost.

And then you see her. Your entire face lights up so fast it’s almost painful to watch. Your smile spreads wide and bright and immediate, and then you wince slightly because smiling that wide probably pulls on your bruises and your nose, but you don’t even try to hide it.

Alysa feels something in her chest loosen for the first time in days. She walks over slowly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, and stops in front of the couch for a second just looking at you. Taking in the bruises, the splint, the way you’re sitting carefully like your ribs probably hurt. She also notices the way you still somehow look happy just because she walked into the room.

She sits down next to you carefully, not too close at first, like she’s still half in hospital-mode where everything about you is fragile. She reaches for your hand which you let her take it immediately, your fingers sliding into hers like they’ve been waiting for that specifically.

“I really missed you,” she says quietly.

You squeeze her hand. “I missed you more.”

She huffs a small laugh. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” you say. Then you look at her properly, eyes softening. “And I’m so happy for you. Bronze isn’t bad for running on a few hours of sleep.”

Alysa smiles a little at that, the corner of her mouth lifting. She brings your hand up slowly and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles. You close your eyes at that, like even that small contact feels like something you’ve been waiting for.

“I’m really happy you’re back,” you say quietly.

Alysa leans back into the couch slightly, still holding your hand. “Oh yeah?” she says lightly. “Your coach wasn’t cutting it for you?”

You snort softly. “No. I couldn’t convince him to let me do a single thing.”

“But you’ll convince me?” Alysa asks, raising an eyebrow slightly.

You open your eyes again, a tiny smile tugging at your mouth, but you don’t answer that question. You just look at her for a second, studying her face like you’re making sure she’s actually here and not about to disappear onto another plane again. “Can I have a kiss?” you ask quietly.

Alysa immediately shakes her head. “We can’t. You’ll hurt your nose.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You squeeze her hand. “Please?”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re concussed and manipulative.”

You tilt your head just slightly, that stubborn look she knows too well. “Please?”

Alysa exhales slowly through her nose, already losing the argument. She leans in very slowly, one hand coming up to gently cradle the side of your face, careful to avoid your nose and the bruising. The kiss is soft and careful, short. Just lips touching and lingering for a second longer than necessary because neither of you wants to be the one to pull away first. When she pulls back, she stays close enough that your foreheads almost touch.

You open your eyes again and look at her, then say, very casually, “I wanna watch the replay of my run.”

Alysa immediately leans back like you just suggested something insane. “No.”

You frown slightly. “Why not?”

“We are not watching that. Ever.”

You shift a little on the couch. “I think I looked cool for the most part.”

“Please,” Alysa says, shaking her head. “We can’t watch that. I don’t want to see it.” Her tone is different now; it doesn't sound joking or teasing. It's something sad sitting underneath the words.

You notice immediately so you don’t push it. Instead you just nod slightly and say, “Okay.” Then after a second, softer, “Can I watch your program then?”

Alysa sighs, leaning back into the couch. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says. “Or the day after.”

You nod again, like that’s fair. Your eyes close after that, not fully asleep, just tired. Healing-tired. Concussion-tired. Everything-hurts-and-I’m-trying-not-to-complain tired. Alysa shifts a little closer and gently leans her head against your shoulder, careful not to jostle you too much. Your hands are still intertwined between you on the couch.

“Did you eat yet?” she asks quietly.

You hum softly. “Yeah.”

“You tired?”

Another small hum. “Yeah.”

So you just sit there. It's rather conservative to what you're both used to. There are not tight hugs or intense make out sessions or making up for lost time. It's just quiet hand holding. And yet somehow it feels bigger, much more important. Like all the things you didn’t say during the worst week of both of your seasons are sitting quietly in the space between fingers and shoulders and the way neither of you lets go first.

Alysa stares ahead at nothing in particular, feeling the warmth of you next to her, the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the slight squeeze of your fingers every few seconds like you’re making sure she’s still there too. She thinks about how close she came to a world where this couch would be empty.

Her grip on your hand tightens slightly without her meaning to. You squeeze back immediately, eyes still closed.

And for the first time in days, Alysa finally feels like she can sit still without waiting for something bad to happen next.

BONUS:

Three weeks into recovery, the apartment has fallen into a very specific rhythm. Lights dimmed more often than not because of your concussion. Curtains are half closed. The TV volume is always low. Alysa's moving around quieter than she normally would. Your world has shrunk down to the couch, the bed, short walks around the block, doctor appointments, and Alysa. Mostly Alysa.

Your nose is finally healing enough that the splint is gone, the bruising has faded from dark purple to that ugly yellow-green stage, and the swelling has gone down enough that you don’t look like you lost a boxing match anymore. You still can’t snowboard, still can’t train, still can’t look at screens too long, still get headaches if you move too fast.

But you can kiss now without feeling like your face is going to fall off. Which has quickly become your favorite development.

It’s mid-afternoon, the curtains slightly drawn so the room is filled with that soft, grayish light that makes everything feel slower. You had gone on a walk that morning—Alysa insisted on it, said you needed fresh air and sunlight and “normal human activity”—but by the time you got back you were exhausted in that deep, concussed way where your brain just feels heavy. So you convinced her to lay down with you.

Now you’re both on your sides in bed, facing each other, blankets half tangled around your legs, her arm resting loosely across your waist. You’re close enough that your knees keep bumping every time one of you shifts slightly. You’re talking about nothing important. Like literally nothing. Groceries, a movie you half watched last night, your coach sending you rehab exercises you don’t want to do. It’s quiet and slow and comfortable in a way that feels like something you waited weeks for.

Alysa is halfway through telling you about something Massimo and Philip said at practice when you just lean forward and kiss her. For a second she just kisses you back automatically, like muscle memory, soft and familiar. Your hand slides up to her jaw, thumb resting just under her ear, and the kiss lingers a little longer than a casual one should.

When you pull back slightly, you’re still close enough that your noses almost touch. She looks at you for a second like she’s trying to act unimpressed, but her hand slides up your side a little under your shirt anyway. You kiss her again before she can say anything. This time it’s slower. You don’t rush it. Your lips just move against hers gently at first, soft and careful, even though you don’t need to be anymore. Her hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading there like she wants to keep you close without pulling too hard.

You kiss like that for a while—slow, lazy, unhurried. The kind of kissing where no one is trying to get anywhere, just staying there because it feels good and safe.

After a few minutes, the kisses get a little less careful. Like you’re both remembering what this feels like after weeks of hospital rooms and flights and distance and being scared and not being allowed to touch each other properly.

Your hand slides from her jaw into her hair. Her hand moves from your waist to your back, fingers pressing lightly through your shirt. You kiss her again and again, sometimes slow and lingering, sometimes a little hungrier like you’re making up for lost time.

Every once in a while one of you smiles into the kiss for no reason. At one point she kisses you and you make this soft little sound without meaning to, and she pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You know we can't do anything,” she says quietly.

“Shush,” you murmur, already leaning in again.

You kiss for so long that time starts to feel weird and stretchy, like you’ve been there for ten minutes or an hour and it doesn’t really matter which.

Eventually Alysa pulls back a little more, resting her forehead gently against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier than you were before. “We have all the time in the world, you know,” she says softly. "So, we don't have to have all our kisses right now."

You look at her, eyes still half-lidded, and smile a little. “I know.” Then you kiss her again, quick this time. “But this is just my favorite thing in the world,” you add quietly. Then after a beat, “Well… it’s my favorite thing that I’m allowed to do.”

Alysa rolls her eyes immediately. “You’re being silly.” But she’s already leaning in again before she finishes the sentence, and you meet her halfway.

You're two people lying in a dim room in the middle of the afternoon, kissing like you’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing else you’d rather do. And after everything that happened, that feels like the best possible ending to the worst few weeks of both of your lives.

------

was this too much? idk sorry. if u think abt it,,,, alysa having that weird feeling in the beginning was kinda like her spidey senses going off so does this count as a spidey update too??? (im at a crossroads w spide!alysa which is why i'm here with this instead)

--—-

tag list :P

------

It had been exactly three weeks since the world as you once knew and trusted it, began to unravel. Twenty one days of confusion and disbelief, of trying to stay sane when sanity had no currency anymore. Fourteen days of staring into the static, wondering when the shift began—was it the broadcasts? The power outages? The first time someone knocked and didn’t sound quite human? You’d stopped trying to answer that. It didn’t matter now. Nothing did, except survival.

It had been Thirteen days since you last stepped outside. Thirteen days of stale air clinging to the corners of the house, of half empty cans stacked on the counter, of curtains nailed shut so tightly not even sunlight could beg its way in. You’d let a few people inside during the first days. The crying ones, the shaking ones, the ones who swore they were safe, but you’d learned quickly that mercy was a luxury. That trust had teeth.

Ten days of silence, broken only by the hum of your breath and the slow, metallic ticking of the clock that no longer kept real time. Ten days of speaking to yourself in whispers just to remember the sound of a voice.

The televisions had gone dark on the Seventeenth day. Before that, the channels had been full of screams and flickering news anchors, their faces pale and frantic. They warned about the Visitors, about how they looked like us, talked like us, even begged like us—but their eyes never quite met the camera. And then one by one, the screens went white. You left them that way. You couldn’t bear to see your reflection staring back at you through the screen.

Now, you were in the living room again, crouched beside the wall. A rag clutched in your hand, damp with bleach and something darker. You scrubbed in circles, over and over, though most of the blood had already faded into the paint—thin, rust colored ghosts that wouldn’t leave, no matter how much you tried to erase them. The smell had almost gone too. Almost.

The last one hadn’t gone quietly. They never did. But at least they didn’t linger long. The convenient thing about Visitors, if convenience could still exist in a world like this, was that their bodies didn’t stay. They faded. One moment, there was the ruin of a body on the floor, a grotesque stain of what used to be human. The next, there was nothing but the echo of it. Like they were never there at all. Like you’d imagined it.

You’d turned down two more since then, two people at the door, their knocks too steady, their smiles too wrong. You’d watched them through the peephole until they left, slow and patient, their shadows stretching across the porch long after the sun had disappeared.

Still, you couldn’t help but think: maybe you shouldn’t rely on looks. Because sometimes, the eyes lied. And sometimes, the monsters looked more human than you did.

You were nearly finished scrubbing when the knocks came. Two sharp raps, quick and confident.

You froze, the damp rag dripping pink water down your wrist. The sound vibrated through the hollow quiet of the house and for a moment, you thought you’d imagined it—another trick of a tired mind too long without real voices. But then it came again.

Knock. Knock.

You let out a breath that trembled at the edges. Of course. Another one.

You were already frustrated. Two others had shown up earlier, disturbing you while you were trying to erase the last of that crimson red from your wallpaper. Their knocks had left a ringing echo behind, long after you’d sent them away. You didn’t have patience for a third.

Still, seeing as the stains were mostly gone and you’d reached the point where bleach couldn’t help anymore, you dropped the rag into the bucket and stood.

The house groaned faintly with your movement. Outside the windows, the light was that same green yellow hue the sun had taken on since the world began to turn wrong. Through the slats, you could still see the silhouettes of the FEMA agents out back—or what was left of them. Their bodies had begun to stiffen, lying half buried in the dry grass like halloween decorations you couldn’t bring yourself to remove. They were proof that you’d made the right choices. Or something close enough to it.

You walked to the door, every step creaking under your weight. Another knock came, slower this time, almost polite.

Through the peephole, you didn’t see what you expected.

A woman. Young, maybe your age. Blonde hair tied back in a bun that looked too deliberate for this world. Clothes not quite clean but not ruined either. A little dirt on the fabric, a faint sheen of sweat on her temple, and that was it. No bruises. No frantic eyes. No trembling hands.

She was composed. Attractive, even. That alone made your pulse pick up.

“Do you want me to knock some more to get your attention?”

Her voice came through muffled but clear enough to feel. Confident, even light, like she’d rehearsed it.

You hesitated, pressing your forehead lightly to the cold door. “Well, you got it now,” you said after a pause. “What do you want?”

The woman smiled. It was small, just a ghost of a smirk that made you wish she’d keep talking.

“What do you think?” she said. “Shelter. Same as everyone else who’s knocked before. I’d prefer not to die out here, you feel me?”

Her voice—low and smooth, that soft rasp around the edges—slipped through the door like warm smoke. It wasn’t exactly deep, but it carried weight, resonance. There was something quietly husky about it, a closeness that made it sound like she was right behind you instead of outside.

It distracted you. More than it should have.

“And how do I know you’re not a visitor?” you asked finally. “You don’t exactly look like someone in distress, you feel me?”

Her smirk deepened as she dipped her head, trying—and failing—to suppress a quiet laugh. The sound prickled the air.

She didn’t look desperate. She didn’t act like someone who’d been running or hiding. That alone was reason enough to keep the door shut.

“How long have you been out there?” you asked, rubbing at a spot on your wrist that wouldn’t come clean.

“Like a day or two,” she said with a shrug. “Hard to tell now with the sun doing whatever it’s doing.”

Her tone was even and casual. Too casual.

You studied her a little longer through the fisheye lens, eyes tracing the clean line of her throat, the dirt smudged collarbone that disappeared into her shirt. You swallowed.

“Who were you with before you came here?”

“No one. That’s why I left.” She shifted her weight, resting one hand against the doorframe. “The area I was in was too dangerous for anyone to come knocking on my door. Can’t let them catch you alone, remember?”

The way she said ‘them’ made your stomach twist. There was something rehearsed about it, like a line learned by heart. You couldn’t tell if that made her more or less convincing.

She tilted her head slightly. “So… you home alone?”

Her voice lowered as she said it, softer and slower, like she knew it was an intimate question. It felt like she was staring straight through the door, through the peephole, through you.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” you said. “Who knows.”

You tried to sound nonchalant, but your pulse had started to pound. Something about her presence was getting under your skin.

“I would know,” she said, her smirk returning, “if you’d just open the door.”

You forced a scoff, trying to regain control. “I don’t think I will. How do I know you’re human?”

“You keep asking questions,” she said, her voice a quiet hum, “but your hand’s already on the lock, ma.”

Your brow furrowed and you looked down.

She was right. Your hand was on the lock. You didn’t even remember moving it there. Your fingers clutched the cold metal so tight your knuckles had turned white.

A chill ran down your spine. “How do you know that?” you whispered.

“If you’re so sure I’m not human…” she paused, her voice dipping lower, almost tender, “then why do you sound so tempted to let me in?”

You couldn’t answer. The question hung in the air between you like static.

You exhaled slowly and turned the lock. It clicked, soft and final. You told yourself you were just tired of the silence. That it was safer to have someone—anyone—inside than risk facing another night alone.

The door creaked open, just enough to let the light catch her eyes. They were blue. Clear, unsettlingly so.

“‘Cause I need someone inside with me, I guess,” you muttered.

That seemed to be good enough for her.

Paige smiled—small, knowing, almost kind.

And as she stepped forward into the sliver of light, the air in the house shifted.

It wasn’t colder. Just… alive again.

You led her inside, slow steps, eyes never leaving her back. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound almost too final for comfort. You made sure to stay close enough to watch her movements, far enough that she couldn’t reach you first if she turned. Your hand hovered near the gun tucked at your waistband, the safety off, and bullet ready. You didn’t plan to shoot, but the plan never mattered when it came to the Visitors.

She didn’t hesitate. Not once.

Paige walked through your home like she’d been there before—each step steady and unafraid. She didn’t scan her surroundings like most survivors did. She didn’t whisper or tremble or stare at the boarded up windows.

She just knew where to go.

You followed her into the living room. The air there was stale, mixed with bleach and something copper underneath. Paige stopped in the middle of it, hands in her pockets, tilting her head slightly like she was listening to the house breathe. Then she dropped herself onto the couch, sprawled out, legs open, and completely at ease.

“Might as well just rip that bit of wallpaper off,” she said casually, chin tipping toward the faded stain you’d been scrubbing for hours. “Smell won’t go away.”

Your grip on the gun tightened. She hadn’t even looked at it.

“How’d you know it was there?” you asked quietly.

Paige finally looked up at you, blue eyes meeting yours in a way that felt wrong. They were soft and cold at the same time, too steady to belong to someone human. There was something hungry in the stillness of her gaze.

“Lucky guess.” Her lips curved up again into that faint, lazy smirk.

You didn’t respond, because you didn’t trust your voice not to shake. You wanted to break eye contact, to move, to breathe—but you couldn’t. She looked at you like she was peeling your skin away layer by layer, and part of you wanted her to keep going.

“Paige,” she said after a long silence, her voice low and rough around the edges.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“My name.” She leaned back slightly, still staring up at you from the couch. “It’s Paige.”

You blinked. Of course it was. That should’ve been obvious, but somehow, your brain lagged. You couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or something she was doing to you.

“Cool,” you murmured, voice flat, trying to sound unaffected. But she was still watching you, pupils dilated just enough to make you uneasy.

You wondered, for one awful second, what her skin felt like. If it’d be warm. If she’d flinch at your touch.

You shook the thought off hard enough to make your jaw ache. No. You couldn’t want anything right now. Not when wanting got people killed.

She tilted her head again, like she could hear your thoughts knocking around inside your skull. “You’re not gonna test me?”

Your pulse stuttered. She said it too easily, too sure of herself, like she already knew the answer.

You kept your face blank, forcing your voice into something cold. “Don’t get too excited about it. Or too comfortable.”

Her grin widened just enough to show a sliver of teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You turned away before she could say anything else, your fingers twitching near your gun again. The hallway light flickered overhead. You stopped by the radio, twisting its knob, smacking the side and hoping for a voice, static, something. But there was nothing. Just that endless, pulsing hum beneath the silence.

You could feel her gaze still on you from the couch. Heavy. Like hands pressing against your back.

Your throat felt dry when you finally slipped into your bedroom and locked the door behind you.

For a long time, you just stood there, staring at the handle, half expecting it to turn on its own. But it didn’t. Not yet.

You exhaled slowly and let yourself collapse onto the bed. The sheets were warm. The world was quieter than usual, and still you could swear you heard her voice under your skin.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to shake it off. Trying not to think about her, about her voice, her eyes, her smirk. But it didn’t work.

You didn’t know if you’d ever sleep again.

And deep down, you weren’t sure if you even wanted to.

You didn’t expect to wake up the next morning, if you were being fully honest with yourself. You weren’t even sure what you expected. An attack in the dark? A stranger’s breath against your neck? The sound of your front door swinging open to the things outside?

But it definitely wasn’t waking up to your clock blinking 12:38 PM in a lazy, casual way. Like the world wasn’t ending. Like everything was normal.

Your brain was groggy, like you’d been drugged. You rarely slept deeply anymore—your dreams were usually too violent, too loud. Lately, every time you closed your eyes, the Visitors showed up. Sometimes they watched. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they smiled.

But today? Nothing. Just blankness and a faint ache behind your eyes.

You pressed your palm to your forehead as you sat up. You tried to search your mind, forcing it to rewind the night, but all you found were flashes. White teeth, blue eyes, fingers wrapped around your wrist. A laugh. Or a growl. Or breathing. You weren’t sure.

It made your chest tighten.

You stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. The faucet sputtered before releasing a cold, biting stream of water. You splashed your face repeatedly until your skin stung.

When you finally looked into the mirror, your breath snagged in your throat.

Your reflection wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t right either.

Your eyes were bloodshot and glossy.

Your skin drained of warmth, like light reflected off porcelain instead of flesh.

You leaned closer and noticed the way your pupils looked a fraction too dilated. Like prey.

Or like something nocturnal.

Your tongue felt thick in your mouth as you finished brushing your teeth and stepped out into the silent hallway.

Silent, except for the soft creak of the house breathing around you.

You forced your feet to carry you past the living room and past where you last saw her.

You slowed.

She was still there. Exactly as you left her—same posture, same casual sprawl, same hands loosely resting on her thighs like she had nowhere else to be. Her focus was fixed dead ahead at the wide open window.

A window you were certain you’d latched last night.

Your heart crawled up into your throat. You didn’t want to look outside, didn’t want to risk seeing them… The ones that scanned houses for movement and begged in voices that mimicked people they’d devoured.

So you kept your gaze locked on Paige.

“Good morning.” Her voice drifted out smooth and quiet—too quiet—like she didn’t need volume to reach you.

“Did you sleep well?”

You froze, body angled halfway behind the doorframe like a child hiding from a ghost. You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You just hummed a weak, unsure noise that barely qualified as communication.

She didn’t look at you, her attention stayed on the sunlit horror beyond the glass.

Were you missing something? Was she seeing movement? Shadows? Someone staring back?

Your fingers twitched.

Then, slowly, she turned her head.

When her eyes met yours, every muscle in your body seized. Blue. Too blue. Unblinking.

Like she wasn’t looking at you, but into you, carving your secrets out from the inside.

“Oh, I’m sure you did.” Her tone curled at the edges in a knowing, delighted way.

It felt like a pressure wrapped around your ribs, squeezing so tight your next breath came out as a shaky exhale. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up one by one.

The room was warm, but you suddenly felt cold.

You backed away before you even realized you were moving, retreating step by slow step until the living room disappeared from your view. Paige didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.

Her gaze still clung to you.

You pressed your shoulders against the wall and tried to calm your breathing, but clarity refused to come. Something about her was wrong. Too sure of herself, too calm, too comfortable in the nightmare your home had become.

You knew you should test her. You knew you should be ready to kill her. You knew you should never, ever turn your back on her.

And yet, despite the dread going down your spine, you couldn’t shake the twisted comfort that came with her presence. Like if something terrible tried to break in, she’d already be waiting for it.

Whether to protect you—or to join it—you still couldn’t tell.

You sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine on one side and your loaded gun on the other, lined up perfectly to your dominant hand in case survival demanded speed again. You stared at the gun as though you were seeing it for the first time, even though it had been your closest companion these past weeks. Your heartbeat counted the moments you had used it and the number of times you wished you hadn’t.

If someone had told you a month ago that you’d be using it to blow ‘people’s’ brains out—watching blood and something more metallic splatter across your walls and into the carpet threading like spilled ink—you would’ve laughed. Maybe even offered to walk them into a psych ward yourself.

But here you were three weeks later. Too many dead. Most were visitors, but two had still been human. Just as breakable and just as terrified. Warm blood, warm eyes, warm voices. They haunted your dreams, or they had, until today. Maybe they were grateful now. Maybe freeing them from this nightmare was the closest thing to mercy left. It was the *‘Thank you’*s that scared you the most.

“You seem like you’re having fun.”

Her voice—uninvited, too casual for the apocalypse—rang through your kitchen.

You jerked violently at the sudden voice. Paige’s voice. Your hand flew for the gun, knocking the wine glass over with a sharp crack. Dark red splashed across the table and floor like spilled blood. The stem shattered, pieces glittering like tiny teeth.

Your pulse hammered against your throat.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she leaned against your doorway with an almost bored amusement, eyes dropping to the spill and the shattered glass, studying the scene like a painting.

“Fuck…” The word left you in a whisper only loud enough for you to hear. Yet her lips twitched like she’d heard every atomic vibration of it.

She stepped further in, every pace deliberate, almost predatory in its calm. Then she crouched before you, kneeling right at your feet as if she belonged there, and began examining the mess.

“It’s okay. Accidents happen,” she murmured. “At least you’re not hurt.” She looked up at you through her lashes, voice soft and warm with something like kindness.

And suddenly your lungs forgot how to work.

You looked down at her. Too close. Too calm. Her head tilted up, eyes locking onto yours. That stare hit you like a hand around your throat—gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to own.

Intimidation, heat, fear, curiosity, and something unnamed and feral braided itself around your spine. Her blue eyes were too vivid, too hungry, and that’s when you noticed how red the whites were. Strained, sleepless, and feverish. It didn’t automatically make her a visitor right? Yours looked the same by now.

Then her cold hand, impossibly cold for weather this hot, for a sun still scorching outside, closed around your bare knee. But the chill wasn’t what you fixated on. It was the softness. The tenderness. As if you could shatter under the slightest pressure. A touch meant to reassure, but it felt like she was staking a claim.

“Are you feeling alright, pretty?” she asked, voice light and almost sing song , like someone practicing affection rather than feeling it. Was she flirting? Or was she simply the type who made endearments sound like threats wrapped in silk like those comforting southern women you loved so much?

You nodded without realizing you’d forgotten to breathe. Though you didn’t remember deciding to nod.

Her fingers tightened—painfully and possessively—as her gaze swallowed you whole. You felt skinned open beneath it.

“Breathe for me,” she murmured, unconcerned and commanding. “I don’t want you turning purple.”

Your whole world narrowed to her. Her voice, her eyes, her face. The way she spoke as if you were fragile and she was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. Your lungs obeyed before your brain did. Inhaling sharply and exhaling slowly, because logic had drowned somewhere between her pupils.

She smiled. A small, sharp curl of lips, satisfaction disguised as something kind.

“Good girl,” she cooed, quiet and intimate, before withdrawing her hand and calmly picking up shards of glass with her bare fingers, collecting them like precious stones. She didn’t bleed.

She rose, tossed the shards into the trash, and wandered out of the kitchen without another word.

Only when she vanished did you look down at your knee. Her grip had left a blooming red imprint—a perfect ghost of her hand.

So much for not wanting you to turn purple.

The day slipped by in fits of avoidance. You kept your distance from Paige, not because she moved much—she didn’t—but because proximity made your head fog and your pulse stutter. She sat in the same places, watched the same corners, said almost nothing. One thing nagged at you all afternoon though: she hadn’t eaten. Not once. She hadn’t asked for a thing. It should have alarmed you, but you swallowed that alarm because you needed her there. You needed a body inside the house, a voice that answered when you spoke. Needed someone who hadn’t yet learned to kneel at the door and beg for mercy.

Then the knocks came again. Not loud, not frantic—just the pattern you had learned to dread. You’d memorized his rhythm like a warning sign carved into your bones. Three short. Pause. Two long. Pause. A single, final rap. The sound cut through the house, and the silence folded up around it until everything felt smaller.

Your heart turned into a fist of ice in your chest. You’d never had only one other person inside when he chose to call. Your feet moved of their own accord, each step heavy with dread, and sweat slicked yoir palms as you pressed your eye to the peephole. The backyard beyond the glass was the same ruined picture it always was. brown grass and the useless silhouettes of bodies, but he was there too, waiting in the ruin, pale as paper under the sick sun.

“So, you’re still holed up here I see,” he said, his voice sliding through the door like something made to unsettle. It always did. It hit at a frequency that didn’t belong in human throats. “I was outside your window last night. Wanted to show you something, but you weren’t looking.”

You felt the memory in your bones. Last time you’d peeked, he’d stood like a statue for hours, knife in his hand and a head dangling over the other like a grotesque trophy. You could still picture the way the jaw had flopped. The way the eyes seemed to blink when the wind hit them. The thought curled low in your belly and you were grateful you’d slept so hard that night. If you’d been awake, you knew you’d have looked. You would have seen.

“What a shame. Maybe next time,” you managed, keeping your voice steady if not steady feeling.

“A shame indeed.” He flashed that grin—wide, too white, dolphin teeth catching the greenish hue of the evening. The light painted him as something carved of bone and hunger. You could see the shallow rise and fall of ribs beneath stretched flesh or whatever had once been skin. There were hollows under his eyes where sleep had not been welcome for a long time, but his grin made you colder than any lack of rest.

He leaned into the dramatics then, dragging his next word on purpose, a deliberate mocking hum of air. “Listennn. You alone?”

You closed your eyes and let the world press in for a second. He only had the power you gave him. Breathe. Name your ground. “No. I’m not alone. Sorry to disappoint.” Your voice didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded almost small.

The grin dropped. The light left his face and something flat and staring replaced it. He spoke like a judge with nothing but years of cruelty to recommend him. “You know things will never go back to the way they were, right? Life’s changed. You’ve changed. Just give up already.”

You didn’t dignify him with an answer. Silence felt like better armor than words.

“Next time we meet, you might not be as lucky,” he said, and then his silhouette receded. He walked away with a predator’s slow, deliberate gait. The yard swallowed him.

You let the breath you hadn’t known you were holding out, a sound that was half curse and half release. “Stupid fucking cunt,” you spat into the quiet as if the house itself had offended you.

When you turned back to the room, Paige was inches from you. She’d moved without sound. For a moment you thought you’d blinked and she’d moved that close, and the suddenness of it made you gasp. Your shoulder hit the door as she stepped forward, and instinct—hot, metallic—rose up like bile.

“Who was that?” Her voice was too casual, low and almost playful. You couldn’t tell if she was asking because she didn’t know, or because she already knew everything he did.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, cutting the question off. You tried to slide past her, to create space, to make the walls between you feel thicker, safer.

Her hand firmly closed around your wrist and rhe pressure stopped you like a clamp. It wasn’t a rough hold. It was a possessive one.

Everything snapped back into survival mode. Your fingers found the gun so fast it felt like muscle memory on autopilot. You pulled it free and, without thinking beyond the immediate need to make her release you, pressed the barrel under her chin. The cold metal kissed sensitive skin. There was a second—nothing but the small mechanized click of your breath—that felt like the last possible moment between deciding and acting.

“If you don’t let go of me right now, I will literally paint this door with your fucking blood and brains,” you said. Your voice was steady. It had to be. You had to sound like any hesitation would be lethal. “Okay?”

She did not blink in fear. She did not crumble. If anything, the expression that slid across her face was amusement edged with something darker. Your brain supplied explanations for weeks of sleep deprivation, hormones, fatigue, and the way grief rewires hunger but you also felt the prick of something else, an edge of arousal or approval in the way she held herself under the threat.

“My bad, ma.” She let go as if releasing a leash, palms lifted, the grin in place like a secret. The grin did not falter when the cold of the barrel rested at her jaw. She seemed to inhale the steel and your skin tightened at that sight.

You pressed the gun until the metal pressed hard enough to numb the skin, watching her reactions like someone monitoring a live experiment. Her pupils didn’t dance, they dilated in a slow, patient way that looked indulgent. She did not flinch from the threat. She seemed to enjoy the proximity as much as she enjoyed watching you try to be cruel.

Your eyes challenged ans hers dared. The room held both of you taut, a wire tuned to snap. It felt like being observed by something both animal and scholar at once. Curious and amused.

For a breath, you wondered whether you wanted to pull the trigger. Not to hurt her. Not yet. The thought was obscene and electric and half terrifying. You could feel the weight of what killing did, how it would stain the walls again, how it would cost something inside you until nothing remained. You also felt that awful, parentless loneliness and the knowledge that this man outside would be back. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps with more. The calculus told you to keep her alive.

She held your gaze and smiled, like a tutor who’d been watching you solve an equation and was curious to see if you’d do it on your own. Then she stepped aside, fluid and calm , leaving the space between you humming with unsaid things.

You lowered the gun slowly, your hands shaking with the effort of restraint. Her imprint on you, both literal and otherwise, burned like a brand you hadn’t agreed to.

Outside, the house settled. The night covered the yard. He disappeared into the ruin and the sound of him walking away carved out a hollow that no noise could fill.

Inside, Paige watched you with the faintest slant of hunger in her eyes. The night had grown heavy with threats and near consequences and you were exhausted from being expected to choose between them. You thought about the headaches, the dream choked nights, the faces of those two people who’d been unmistakably human until the moment you had stupidly decided they weren’t. You thought about mercy and survival and whether the two were even words that belonged in the same language now.

You sat there, palms damp, and felt the house close around you. She had not moved to comfort you. She had not promised protection. She had simply been there, as if closeness were a right she’d always held.

You could not tell if she was protecting you, testing you, or simply hungry in the way that had nothing to do with dinner.

Either way, you were running out of choices.

You felt like you were rotting from the inside out. Not the sudden, cinematic kind of fear, but a slower decay. Doubts eating at you the way soil eats a body left to itself. Paranoia didn’t arrive as a burst. It was a small, persistent worm behind your thoughts, gnawing at instincts until they blurred.

There was something off about her. Then there wasn’t. The longer you stared, the less the pieces fit together. Her presence made your rules look like riddles written in a language you no longer spoke.

Goosebumps prickled across your arms. Your foot tapped a nervous rhythm against the bedroom floorboards as you sat hunched on the vanity chair. The mirror before you caught half your room and all your unraveling: a messy scatter of papers pinned with notes, diagrams, timelines, survival protocols in your handwriting. Everything you thought could keep the world organized. Patterns. Signs. Names. You read them as if they might translate the stranger sitting in your living room. They offered nothing.

You lifted your head and watched your reflection. When had your face stopped belonging to you? Your eyes, once wide and incandescent with stories, stared back smaller, rimmed with red and glassy with exhaustion. Your lips, once soft and full, had cracked and lost color as if the blood itself had thinned and fled. Dark crescents pooled under your eyes like ink spilled overnight. The apocalypse had been an unkind mirror.

You could not stand it any longer. You needed to know. You needed proof you could point to when instinct screamed otherwise.

The chair legs scraped the floor with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. You grabbed your gun and yanked the bedroom door open, the snap of wood echoing. The hallway swallowed you as you moved fast, boots thudding, breath short. Your hands were steadier than you felt.

“Get up. I wanna test you.” The words left your mouth with a force you barely recognized.

She looked at you the way someone inspects an insect through a glass jar. Paige’s blue eyes lifted slowly. the bloodshot whites framed them like bruises. A small smirk played at one corner of her mouth. She let her arm fall off the back of the couch before sliding up to her feet, coming toward you like a tide.

She was too tall up close. The air contracted around you in her shadow. You should have felt in control. You did not.

“Yeah? What you wanna test?” she said, voice low and amused, as if you’d invited a game.

You gripped the gun with practiced care, forcing your tone to steel. “Show me your hands.” You pointed the barrel lightly, not aiming to kill yet, just to command.

Paige cocked a brow like the request entertained her. She held her hands out without hesitation. They were unnaturally clean and oddly cold to the touch. No dirt trapped under the nails, no scrapes or splinters, no telltale signs visitors often carried. They might have been washed minutes ago, or they might have never touched the ground. You couldn’t tell which made you feel worse.

You probed her palms, fingers mapping planes of skin that didn’t betray work or travel or suffering. The cold seemed to sink through your glove and into bone. For a second you wondered if you were the one who had been outside too long, if your temperature had become unreliable.

“You happy?” she teased when you finally let go, a lazy challenge wrapped in a grin. “Or you want to touch my hands some more? Maybe something else?”

You rolled your eyes, the sound of it hollow even to yourself. People made jokes in the face of dying, it was the most human thing she’d shown so far. You wanted to be angry, to call her out for the ease with which she toyed with the edges of your patience. Instead you barked, “How about you touch some grass.”

She shrugged, casual and unnerved. “I would, but I can’t really go outside, you know?” The shrug was effortless. Her nonchalance irritated and terrified you in equal measure.

You felt the tug of exhaustion hardening into something more like resignation. Sleep had seemed a gift last night—you’d never slept more soundly in weeks —and you wanted that shelter again. You turned away, each step back to your room a small surrender, the gun still heavy at your side.

Maybe you’d sleep like a baby again, you thought absurdly, as if last night were proof you could trust the world for a few hours. As the door clicked shut behind you, the house settled into its usual thin breathing. Outside, the ruined day folded away. Inside, you could still feel the echo of her hands against your skin and the cold press of her gaze through the walls.

You lay down with the gun on the nightstand and tried to will your eyes to close. The mirror in your head replayed her hands, her smirk, the way she had not flinched. Somewhere under the exhaustion, something deeper and quieter had shifted. You could no longer tell if you feared her because she was dangerous, or because she was altering the shape of you, softening edges you had sharpened for survival.

Either way, you were tired. You let darkness take you, and for a moment thought you might sleep.

Sleep had finally dragged you under after nearly an hour of tossing and turning, the heat suffocating, sweat sticking your tank top to your back. The blanket—usually your nightly armor—lay abandoned at your feet. A month ago, you couldn’t even think about sleeping without it tucked up to your chin. Now? A flimsy sheet meant nothing. Your gun was the real comfort.

Or it used to be.

You’d rolled onto your back, another new habit you never liked, but exhaustion didn’t leave room for preferences. What woke you wasn’t noise, or a nightmare, but the air. Warm. Too warm. And breathing against your skin.

You tried to ignore it, tried to sink deeper into sleep. Tried to pretend there wasn’t something in the dark with you.

“Don’t scream.”

The whisper grazed the edge of your ear, a breath hotter than the room, and your eyes snapped open.

Paige hovered over you in the darkness—a silhouette with sharp features and red rimmed eyes glowing faintly like something not meant to see daylight. A strangled scream jumped from your throat but was crushed beneath her palm before it could live. Her other hand pressed into the mattress beside your head, caging you completely.

Your heart slammed painfully, like it wanted to punch free of your ribcage.

When did she get in here? Why didn’t you hear her move? How long had she been watching you sleep?

“Shhhh…” she breathed, voice threaded with a disturbingly tender cadence.

“You’re okay. Just stay quiet for me, mama.”

Your skin burned where her body brushed yours—too close, too intentional. You nodded, because what else could you do with her weight pinning you down?

That’s when the tapping started.

Soft. Sharp. Rhythmic.

Tap… tap… tap…

Against the window and against your sanity.

You flinched, your entire body seizing up, but Paige didn’t so much as blink.

Her lips curled. Amused.

“He said he brought you a present,” she murmured, like sharing a secret.

“Wanna see?”

Your lungs froze mid breath and the bile in your throat tasted metallic. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Paige removed her hand only to slip her arms under you, one beneath your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you like your fear weighed nothing. Your arms clung around her neck automatically, your body acting purely on survival instinct.

She carried you toward the window.

The curtains loomed like a sealed tomb.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her breath brushing your cheek. “All you have to do is look. Then it’ll be over.” A lullaby wrapped in a threat.

Your trembling fingers reached for the fabric .A slow drag… a hesitant parting…Eyes squeezed shut because maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you would never be ready.

Her voice was soft, yet commanding.

“Open them.”

Your eyelids obeyed, but your mind regretted.

Outside stood him—the pale man.

That grotesquely familiar smile stretched wider than human skin should allow.

In his hands, dangling like a grotesque trophy. Your neighbor’s head. Mouth frozen in a silent scream. Blood dripping in slow, syrupy lines.No eyes left to cry for help.

The tap… tap… tap…was the head knocking against the glass as he proudly lifted it higher.

A sound ripped from your chest—not quite a scream—a sharp inhale that punctured your lungs like knives. You buried yourself into Paige’s neck, face pressed to her cold skin, needing to hide from the world, from him, from everything.

“Shhhh…” Her hand slipped into your hair, stroking. “So good. It’s over now.

You’re safe with me. He can’t hurt you.”

You hated that it helped. Hated that her voice made the terror ease. Hated that she was the only thing between you and a nightmare wearing human skin.

“Why are you doing this?”

The words were muffled into her collarbone, small and fragile.

Paige shifted you in her arms, cradling you closer like a child clinging to their monster.

“To show you he can’t touch what’s mine.”

She walked you back to the bed and sat down, keeping you in her lap like you were an extension of her body, like letting you go wasn’t an option she’d ever consider.

Your fingers fisted the back of her shirt.

You weren’t clinging for affection — you were clinging for survival.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, chin resting atop your head. “See? Nothing can get to you while you’re with me, pretty.”

Her arms wrapped around you like protection. Like restraint. Like a promise. And for the first time since the world fell apart, you weren’t sure which one you wanted.

You woke up like someone had just pulled you out of a nightmare by the throat, gasping and sitting up so fast that your vision spun. For a second, you didn’t even realize where you were. The ceiling above you looked warped in the half light seeping through your curtains, your chest heaving, lungs fighting for air that didn’t seem to reach all the way down. Sweat clung to your back and gathered at the base of your neck, slicking the tiny hairs there until they stuck to your skin. The sheets were a tangled mess around your legs. You could feel the faint tremor in your own hands when you pushed yourself upright.

Everything seemed normal. Your eyes darted around the room, frantically scanning every corner, every shadow, every faint outline that could’ve been her. But Paige wasn’t there. The curtains were still drawn. The window still closed. No blood. No sound. Just the low hum of the refrigerator somewhere beyond the walls and your own pulse hammering against your ribs.

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe it. Maybe last night really had been a nightmare, maybe sleep deprivation and paranoia had finally blurred the line between real and unreal. The thought almost made you laugh—almost.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the floorboards cold beneath your feet as you pushed yourself to stand. Every muscle in your body felt wired, your nerves still buzzing from something you couldn’t see. You hesitated before leaving the room, every step toward the door slower than the last, and when you finally peeked into the living room, the empty couch made your stomach twist. The blanket you’d tossed to her the night she arrived was folded neatly on the armrest. The indentation where she usually sat was gone.

She wasn’t there.

Maybe she’d finally left. Maybe you’d wake up tomorrow and it would be like none of it ever happened.

“Looking for someone?”

You froze. The voice came from behind you, quiet but heavy enough to stop your breath. The air in the room shifted instantly, and you turned, too fast, too clumsy. Paige stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe like she’d been there for a while, watching you.

She looked different. Her eyes weren’t as red as before, though the veins around them still lingered faintly. Her skin had a strange glow, not like health but like light bouncing off polished marble—unnatural, too clean. Her hair looked softer, like it had just been brushed, and for one absurd second, you wondered if she’d been standing in front of your mirror this whole time, staring at herself.

You couldn’t speak. Your voice felt caught somewhere between your throat and your chest, so all you did was shake your head, your breath coming out uneven.

Her gaze was steady, patient, unnervingly calm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said softly, her lips twitching into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Relax. You’re safe.”

You didn’t believe her, but the words still had that low hum of comfort that made your brain want to listen. She stepped closer—too close—and your instinct was to move back, but she only brushed past you with the faintest touch at your arm, warm and deliberate, her fingers grazing your skin long enough to make your stomach clench. “C’mon,” she murmured, her tone laced with something almost playful. “You need food. You haven’t eaten.”

Her hand pressed gently against the small of your back, guiding you forward. You told yourself to shrug it off, to resist, to step away, but you didn’t. Somehow, your body didn’t listen. There was something in her touch that rooted you in place, like fighting it would only make it worse.

The smell hit you first. Not strong, but enough to jolt you. Pancakes. Sweet, faintly burnt, mixed with the bitter aroma of coffee. The table was set with a plate, a fork, and a mug. It looked wrong. It looked like a scene from a life that wasn’t yours anymore.

“Sit,” she said, pulling the chair out for you as if this were some casual morning in a world that hadn’t ended. “You need to eat something.”

You sat because you didn’t know what else to do. The chair creaked softly under your weight, and the smell of the food—too normal, too human—made your stomach churn with both hunger and suspicion. Paige sat opposite you, resting her elbows on the table, her posture lazy but her eyes sharp. She didn’t blink much, just watched as you hesitantly picked up your fork and began cutting into the pancakes, the edge of the knife scraping against the plate.

Her attention was suffocating. You could feel her gaze dragging across every small movement. Your hands, your throat, the way you chewed too quickly.

After a moment, she tilted her head slightly. “Anything on your mind?”

You stopped mid-cut, knife hovering over the pancake. The question felt loaded and too casual to be harmless. You swallowed hard before answering, voice low and uncertain. “Last night… why did you do that?”

Her brow furrowed, and the change in her expression was subtle but calculated. The confusion she wore looked almost genuine. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone light. “What did I do?”

Your heartbeat picked up again, the unease crawling back up your spine. “When came into my room,” you said slowly, each word deliberate, like you were testing how real they sounded out loud. “You know what happened, don’t make me retell it.” You continued , the memory flashing sharp and cold.

She blinked at you. Then that faint, amused smirk curved her lips again. “Why would I come into your room at night?” Her voice softened, mocking affection lacing through it. “Were you having a wet dream about me?”

The sound you made wasn’t quite a laugh, but not quite denial either. “What? No. What the fuck.” You meant to sound offended, but it came out shaky. Her smirk deepened slightly, satisfaction flickering behind her eyes. The air between you tightened. She didn’t have to say anything else, you could already feel her winning whatever silent game she was playing.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe the nightmare had just been that—an ugly, feverish dream. You were tired. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept properly in days. Maybe this was what losing your mind felt like. “Nevermind,” you muttered, forcing a small laugh as you dropped your gaze back to the plate. “I probably just imagined it.”

Paige hummed, low and pleased, before leaning back in her chair. “That happens sometimes,” she said, almost kindly. “Dreams can feel real when you’re running on empty.”

You stabbed another piece of pancake, this time bringing it to your mouth quickly, pretending the conversation hadn’t scraped open the back of your mind. She kept watching you though, silent and still, eyes glimmering with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t hunger for food. It wasn’t even lust, exactly. It was closer to ownership, the way a collector looked at something rare.

After a while, you tried to fill the silence. “Why didn’t you make any for yourself?”

Her grin widened slightly, the faintest glint of teeth showing as her tongue darted across her lower lip. “I already ate,” she murmured, voice velvet soft.

You nodded absently, but the words sat wrong in your head, echoing. Something about the way she said it—slow and casual, but deliberate—made you feel like she wasn’t talking about breakfast at all.

Evening fell like a blackout curtain.

You sat curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it could hide the shaking in your hands. The gun rested beside your thigh, silent and useless unless your instincts decided to wake up again.

Paige lounged across the room, leaning against the wall as though she were posing for a painter. She flipped lazily through one of your notebooks—the ones filled with warnings and timelines and desperate ideas for survival—smiling faintly like she was reading a romance novel instead of your unraveling sanity.

“Your handwriting is cute when you’re scared,” she mused without looking up.

Before you could snap at her you heard three knocks. Calm and polite. Too normal for this world.

Everything inside you froze.

A male voice followed.

“H-hello? I… I heard someone inside. Please, I’m just looking for somewhere to stay for the night.”

Your breath hitched. He sounded like a real person. Normal and reasonable. You were already halfway to the door when Paige’s voice cut through the air like a wire tightening around your throat:

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud, nor was it forceful, but it made you stop nonetheless.

Paige pushed off the wall and approached like she had all the time in the world. Her fingers brushed your elbow as she came to stand behind you.

The voice outside spoke again, tired and hopeful.

“Please. I’m clean. I haven’t seen anyone in days. I won’t be any trouble.”

Your chest constricted. You swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the lock.

“See?” you whispered. “He’s human.”

Paige leaned down, her breath ghosted across the back of your neck, warm and intimate in a way that felt wrong.

Wrong because you leaned into it.

“You’re smart,” she whispered. “Your instincts kept you alive this long.” Her hand slid down your arm, fingers tracing the tendons of your wrist. “So why aren’t you listening to them now?”

You blinked. Confused. “What—?”

“You’re shaking,” she murmured. “Not because of him… but because of the idea of trusting him.”

You looked down, your hand on the lock trembled violently.

She was right. She was right—wasn’t she?

Another knock. Softer this time.

“I’m not dangerous,” the man said, voice cracking. “I just—I’m so tired. You don’t even have to let me stay around you. Just… just a roof.”

Your heart ached. God, you knew that kind of tired.

Paige moved closer—her chest pressed to your back now, one hand gently closing over yours on the lock. Her touch was cold and tender at the same time, like a soft shackle.

“That’s the problem,” she whispered.

“They always say the right things.”

You stared into the peephole.

A man stood there, mid 40s, worn jacket, dirt streaked face. Panting like he’d been running for miles. He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a school teacher. A dad. A neighbor.

Your voice was barely audible. “He just needs help.”

Paige’s fingers slowly interlaced with yours on the doorknob.

“And what about you?” Her tone sharpened, a whispered blade. “Who helps you when you let in the wrong person? Who saves you if he decides you’re just another meal?”

Your lungs stuttered and your hand slipped off the lock.

Paige hummed a pleased little sound behind you—almost affectionate—as she slid her arm around your waist and pulled you back against her, guiding you away from the door like you were something fragile made of wet paper.

Outside, the man sighed, the sound heartbreakingly human.

“…Okay,” he murmured. “I understand. I’ll keep moving.”

You listened to his footsteps fade into the dark.

Paige nuzzled her chin into your hair, her voice velvety sweet as she spoke. “You made the right choice. You trusted me.”

Her grip tightened—not painfully, but like she was securing ownership. “See how safe you are, when you listen?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth hit you. You didn’t know if you were safe from the world outside or from the woman holding you so close.

Paige smiled against your skin, feeling that thought run through you like a shiver.

“There we go,” she cooed. “It’s just us now.”

And God help you, a part of you felt relieved.

You sat in front of your vanity, the soft glow of the dim lamp barely reaching the edges of the room. Your fingers closed around the handle of the hairbrush, lifting it to your tangled strands. Slowly, you pulled it through your hair, and with each stroke, more and more strands clung to the bristles like fragile threads slipping away. You watched them fall, limp and lifeless, and a sharp stab of panic fluttered in your chest.

Your eyes, rimmed red and sunken from sleepless nights and endless tears, locked on your reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at you was a stranger—pale, hollow, lips cracked and dry, the faint shadows under your eyes like bruises no one else could see. The skin was dull, sallow, and even your once favourite silky nightgown couldn’t make you feel anything but exposed.

You sighed, shaky and defeated, trying to find a trace of the pretty girl you used to be. The one who loved this ritual, who smiled at her own reflection with hope and light in her eyes, but she wasn’t there anymore. Just a ghost trapped behind glass.

Your hand lifted and smeared cold and heavy foundation onto your skin like armor— uneven and thick, like war paint against a battle no one else could fight for you. Eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss, blush… you did everything just like before, forcing the motions out of muscle memory. But the reflection didn’t change. It only highlighted how far you’d fallen from the girl you knew.

Tears pricked at your eyes and stung, but you blinked them back. Your fingers reached for a makeup wipe, hovering over your face as if it might erase the pain beneath. But you hesitated, staring hard at your own reflection, memorizing every cracked line and hollow cheek. You wanted to be you again. You wanted normal and you wanted to stop feeling like you were unraveling thread by thread, slipping into a darkness that you could no longer fight.

The quiet pressure of those emotions swelled inside, rising like a storm threatening to break free. Before you knew what you were doing, you stood abruptly, grabbed the empty glass from the nightstand, and with a scream that came from deep inside your soul—raw and ragged—you hurled it across the room. The glass shattered against the wall near the door, shards scattering across the floor like fragments of your fractured self.

Paige appeared quietly in the doorway, watching you with that unnervingly calm expression of hers. You didn’t notice her at first, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, hands running frantically through your hair, tugging and pulling as if trying to rip the confusion and pain from your mind.

Her voice finally broke through the chaos, soft and measured, as if she were soothing a child instead of the storm that raged within you.

“Hey, hey. Calm down, it’s okay,” she said, stepping fully into the room with deliberate grace.

Your breath hitched, tears streaming down your cheeks, eyes bloodshot and wild. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you nibbled on your nails, searching desperately for something solid to hold onto, some last sliver of sanity.

Paige moved forward, reaching out to rest her hands gently on your shaking shoulders, guiding you towards the bed like you were a fragile thing made of glass. You stumbled slightly and sank down onto the mattress, knees hitting the frame with a hollow thud. Your breath was ragged, chest heaving.

Her hands slid behind your head, fingers threading through your hair, stroking slow and possessive. The touch should have comforted you—maybe it did—but there was something else beneath it. Something like ownership.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice soft but with an edge that demanded honesty. Not curiosity. Not kindness. Just ownership.

You clutched at her arms, desperate to anchor yourself to something real, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this anymore, Paige. I fucking can’t. I can’t.”

Her brows knit together in a show of concern, eyes softening as if she truly felt for you. But you knew better. It was a performance, a calculated tenderness that only made you more vulnerable.

“Can’t do what?” she murmured, voice like honey, coaxing.

You panted through your nose, lips trembling as you finally met her gaze, eyes raw with exhaustion and defeat.

“Living like this. I’m not me. This isn’t me, okay? Do you understand that? I’m not me anymore.” Your voice cracked, the words spilling out like a confession to a lover or a crime to a judge.

“I used to be pretty. Sweet. Kind. I was full of life. And look at me now,” you said, a choked sob wracking your body as your fingers tightened on her arms. “I’m wilting away. I don’t even look human anymore. I don’t feel human.”

Paige’s hands came up to cup your face, cold yet eerily soft, gentle enough to soothe but firm enough to remind you she was in control. Her gaze locked onto yours, her small smile curling at the edges—sympathy and something darker entwined.

“That’s good,” she said, voice low and velvety. “Humans are weak. You’re evolving.”

Her thumbs traced slow paths down your cheeks, wiping away the mascara-streaked tears with deliberate care. “And you’re still pretty, baby. So, so fucking gorgeous.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because somewhere between the exhaustion and the brokenness, between the need to resist and the hunger for comfort, a part of you began to listen. To fall. To lean in.

And Paige was there, always there, ready to catch you.

Paige slid behind you on the bed without a sound, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her knees came up on either side of your hips, closing you in place like she’d been waiting for this exact position. Her chest pressed against your back, not fully—she was savoring the inches she hadn’t claimed yet.

Her hand wrapped around your jaw, gently but with direction, turning your face toward the mirror as if you didn’t deserve to look away from what you were becoming.

“Look at you,” she whispered into your hair, her breath threading through the strands. “You can’t tell me that’s not beautiful.”

She brushed your hair to the opposite side with slow, deliberate fingers. The gesture was caring to anyone else, but to you, it felt like preparation. Her face hovered over your shoulder, cheek almost touching yours as she inspected the reflection like it was her masterpiece.

“Why would you want to look human?” Her voice dropped, low and darkly proud. “You look so much better like this.”

Your eyes—once warm, once full of sunlight—looked almost glassy under the dim lamp glow. Lighter. Sharper. Foreign. You hadn’t noticed it happening, you’d been too busy falling apart everywhere else.

Her lips ghosted the tender skin beneath your ear.

“This is who you’re meant to be, pretty,” she murmured, each syllable sliding down your spine. Then with a kiss against your cold neck, “Mine.”

A shiver raced through you, not entirely fear.

Her mouth moved up your throat in patient ascension. The soft pressure of each kiss carried a silent threat. She could devour you if she wanted to. And she did want to.

Her hands glided down your arms, her fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake until she reached your wrists. She lifted them, placing your hands gently on your thighs—palms down, fingers spread—as if arranging a porcelain doll she owned.

Her thumbs stroked the inside of your wrists once… A reminder that all she had to do was close her fingers to make escape impossible.

Then she rose gracefully, lifting her weight from the bed only to reposition herself in front of you. The mirror vanished behind her. Only her existed now, her eyes, her breath, and her hunger.

She caught a tear on her thumb, smearing mascara like war paint across your cheek. Her gaze ignited with something triumphant.

“You’re exhausted,” she said, voice velvet and poisonous. Her hands cupped your cheeks, holding you steady, holding you still. “Let me think for you.”

Her eyes dropped to your lips—raw from weeks of chewing on your own panic—then back to your eyes, locking you in.

“Just give in.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your pulse thundered beneath your skin. Every warning instinct in your body screamed at you.

But you nodded.

Because you were too tired to fight.

Because a terrifying part of you wanted this.

Paige’s grin was slow, predatory, and victorious. She leaned in, lips brushing yours, almost nothing, almost everything. “Good girl.” Her mouth finally met yours, soft at first. Testing. Tempting. Your lips moved without hesitation, like your body already belonged to her even if your mind refused to admit it. Her hand slid to the base of your throat, fingers resting lightly as if measuring your pulse. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just reminding you how easily she could.

It made your breath hitch and it made her smirk against your lips.

Her other hand found your bare thigh, fingertips dragging upward, slow enough to make you shake. She nipped at your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open and when her tongue slid against yours, you melted, every defense collapsing into heat and want.

You kissed her like she was oxygen.

She kissed you like she was claiming territory.

Your hands—still placed obediently on your thighs—twitched with the urge to grab her, hold her, cling to something. Paige noticed. Paige loved it.

“You’re so adorable,” she breathed, swallowing your quiet, desperate sounds like they were her new favorite melody. Her tongue tasted fear and surrender and a hunger you didn’t know you had.

Then—just when you thought she would pull back—her teeth sank into your lip. Hard. Sharp. Breaking skin. A bloom of pain burst, metallic warmth following.

You gasped, but didn’t pull away.

She exhaled a shaky, delighted laugh against your mouth. Then licked the blood from your lip like it was something earned.

“God,” she whispered, voice raw with restraint she was losing by the second. “You taste like you were made for me.”

Her grip on your throat tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to promise she could.

And you didn’t flinch. You leaned into it.

That was all she needed to break.

Her mouth crashed back to yours, harder and hungrier, every kiss a command, every touch possession.

You were gone and Paige finally let herself enjoy it.

Paige kissed you like she was drinking you, deep and greedy, her tongue claiming space that wasn’t hers but she took anyway. Every needy breath that slipped from your mouth, she swallowed like a reward.

Your self control snapped.

Your hand left your thigh and slid over hers, not pushing her away, but inviting. Encouraging. Begging without words. Your other hand slipped up into her hair, fingers threading through soft blonde strands as you tugged her bun loose. It fell around her shoulders in pale waves, a wild halo that made her look more dangerous. More unreal. More like the creature she was becoming.

And she let you.

A low, practically feral sound rumbled from her chest as she leaned into you, guiding you back until your back hit the mattress and your head sank into the pillow. The room tilted, the world narrowed, but she stayed in focus. Always her.

Her hand never left your throat, thumb resting over your pulse like she was counting how fast she was ruining you.

She broke the kiss only to hover above you—her cocky, devastating smirk curving at the corner of her mouth. Her blue eyes, glowing faintly with that same eerie light from the night before, dragged over your face like a caress.

The reminder struck you fast and cold. That wasn’t a nightmare. None of this was a nightmare. It was worse, and better than that.

Her grip eased from your throat, palm trailing down your chest in slow circles, slipping under your nightgown with a confident, possessive slide. Her fingertips traced your hipbone, claiming skin inch by inch.

“Tell me you need me,” she murmured, mouth brushing yours again but not quite kissing. Her voice was velvet and knives, soft enough to melt you, sharp enough to cut into the last of your resistance. “Tell me you want me to take care of you.”

Her hand squeezed your thigh, urging them apart just a little. Not enough to be explicit, but enough to make you shake. Her lips skimmed your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing where her hand had been moments before.

“You’ve been so strong,” she whispered against your skin, tone dripping with dark sweetness. “So stubborn.” Her tongue flicked the edge of your pulse. “It’s cute.”

Her free hand slid into your hair, pulling just enough to expose more of your neck, her mouth trailing down greedily. “But you’re done fighting, aren’t you?” A kiss. “You want someone to take over.” Another. “You want me to take over.”

Her hand on your hip drifted inward, dangerously close to where you trembled for her. She didn’t touch—she hovered —letting the anticipation ache. Her nose brushed yours as she returned to your lips, eyes locked on yours like she was inside your head, answering thoughts before you could think them.

“That’s why you opened the door.”

Her thumb pressed lightly beneath your chin. “That’s why you almost begged when I kissed you.” Her smirk grew. “That’s why you’re under me right now… so fucking desperate.”

Your back arched as she finally— finally—let her body settle against yours fully, the heat between you snapping like electricity.

“Say it,” she coaxed, voice lower, darker, undeniably aroused. “Say you need me.”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of your nightgown, her mouth ghosting the corner of your lips, close enough to drive you insane and far enough to deny satisfaction.

“I wanna hear it,” she purred. “Wanna hear you give yourself to me.”

You could feel her smile against your cheek.

“Be a good girl…”Her hand slipped just a bit higher, enough to make your breath stop.“and admit you’re mine.”

Your lips parted, but the words that tried to crawl out of you weren’t the ones she wanted. “Paige, I—” you started, voice trembling and thin from everything pressing down on you. But she didn’t let you finish. Her mouth crashed onto yours again, swallowing the syllables before they could take shape. The kiss was hotter this time— hungry, claiming, like she wanted to eat every protest straight from your tongue. Her hand at your thigh pushed upward with intention, fingers flexing into skin she clearly wanted to bruise.

The sound that escaped you was embarrassment disguised as a gasp, and it made her smile into the kiss. She drank you in like you were something sweet she’d earned. When she pulled back, just barely, your heart chased her lips without permission and you moved before you even realized you were doing it.

Paige noticed. Oh, she noticed. Her hand slid higher still, brushing the softest part of you through the thin fabric of your nightgown. You jerked beneath her, breath catching in your throat, but she only tightened her hold around the back of your neck, guiding your gaze to hers.

Those impossibly blue eyes held you in place like a hand around your heart. “Aw, look at you,” she whispered, words curling into your mind like a possession spell, “you’re clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.” Her nose brushed yours as she nudged your legs further apart, taking what she wanted without force—just the certainty she’d be obeyed. “‘Cause I am,” she added, soft but deadly, sealing it like a truth you were never allowed to question.

You opened your mouth again, maybe to fight, maybe to beg—you didn’t even know anymore—but the only thing that came out was her name. “Paige…” It wasn’t a plea or a warning. It was a submission dressed up like fear.

Her fingers finally slipped beneath the hem of your nightgown, skin to skin now, the heat of her palm burning into your hip like a brand. She tilted your chin up with her other hand, forcing you to hold her stare. “There she is,” she murmured, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “My pretty girl. My exhausted girl.” Her thumb pressed beneath your jawline, just shy of your pulse. “You’re tired of being human, aren’t you? Tired of pretending you don’t want this.” She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear, breath hot and possessive. “Just say it.”

You swallowed hard, chest rising sharply against hers. It felt like breathing through wire. Your body betrayed you — arching, seeking, desperate. Every inch of you screamed yes while your mind scrambled for something to hold onto and found nothing left. Not even yourself.

Her lips trailed from your ear back to your mouth, a slow drag that sent your stomach dropping like a stone. “Say you need me,” she repeated, voice almost gentle now, like a reward waiting to happen. “Say you want me.” She pressed a soft, unbearably slow kiss to your lips, one that felt like permission to fall apart. “Say you’re mine.”

Your last bit of reason cracked under the weight of desire and exhaustion and loneliness. You exhaled her name again— softer, broken—and nodded against her mouth as tears warmed your cheeks. “ I need you,” you whispered, and it sounded like confession and surrender in the same breath. Paige smiled. Not kind but not cruel, just certain. Because she had you now.

“Good girl,” she breathed, before kissing you again, deeper and harder, like she intended to keep that promise.

Paige’s hands began their descent like she was mapping a territory she intended to conquer. Her palms glided along your throat first—not squeezing, but measuring, feeling the flutter of your pulse, counting each beat that belonged to her. She dragged her thumbs down the line of your collarbones, over the swell of your chest, circling lazily around each hardened peak just to feel the way you gasped and arched up into her touch.

Your nightgown clung to her knuckles as she moved lower. Over your ribs, one by one, like she was checking what was still breakable. She paused briefly beneath your sternum, her hand flattening against the trembling rise and fall of your breathing. Savoring the panic. The want.

Then she reached your stomach—her fingertips dipping into the soft give of skin there—until finally, *finally*, she gripped your hips like she was claiming a meal.

The whole time, her mouth was fused to yours. The kiss was messy and consuming, all tongue and teeth and hunger. She pulled tiny, helpless sounds straight from your lungs and swallowed every one like she was starving for them. By the time she pulled away, your lips felt bitten, used, and bruised.

She pushed your nightgown up, slow and with purpose, until cool air brushed the purple lace panties you’d put on hoping to feel like a normal girl again. But under her stare, you felt anything but normal.

Paige looked down at you through her lashes, lips slick and parted, and the smirk that curled there was pure appetite.

“God…” she breathed, desire dripping from the word, “aren’t you just the cutest thing ever.”

Her thumbs pressed into the dips of your hips before sliding out to squeeze the soft flesh there, greedy and admiring at the same time. She alternated between kneading and stroking, watching the way your stomach jumped with every touch, how your thighs tensed and tried not to move.

Your eyes couldn’t leave her. She looked so painfully human like that—flushed cheeks, tousled hair, parted lips—yet every instinct in your body screamed that she was not. Something in those too bright eyes, that edge of hunger just below her skin… it called to you. It promised that if you gave up humanity for her, she would devour the parts of you that hurt.

Her mouth returned to your skin, lower this time. She kissed the place just under your jaw, slow and soft for a moment before her teeth sank in with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. She sucked a mark there, pulling heat to the surface in a bruise that felt like a brand.

Her hand drifted down, exploring again. Your stomach, the waistband of your lace amd lower.

She cupped you through the fabric.

You gasped, quiet and soft, and Paige’s lips split into a pleased smile against your neck. She pressed more firmly, testing how soaked the lace already was, humming when she found her answer.

“Got you this wet already?” she murmured into your skin, voice vibrating where her mouth pressed. She licked the new bruise slowly, savoring the taste of you like it was a delicacy. “Just for me.”

Then her knee slid between your thighs and nudged—not gentle, not tentative—forcing you open like a door she had every right to walk through. The muscles in your legs melted around her instinctually, granting her the access she wanted. Needed. Her thumb slid along the damp lace again, slow circles that made your hips chase the pressure without thinking. Paige’s breath hitched too, a low, involuntary sound like your need was feeding her.

Her teeth scraped down your neck, each nip more desperate, like she was trying to keep herself from biting deep enough to change everything too fast.

You felt her smile against your throat , sharp and hungry, right before she whispered against your pulse, voice trembling with restraint, “Just let me have you, pretty girl…”

Not a demand. Not even a question. Just a promise she was starving to fulfill.

Her thumb traced slow, taunting circles over the damp fabric covering your core while her mouth devoured your neck. Lips, then tongue, then teeth, as though she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to worship or ruin you.

Eventually the restraint snapped.

She bit down, not enough to break skin, but enough that the sting radiated deep and hot, electric in a way that made your back arch. You knew that mark would be there for days. She wanted it there for days.

All you could do was whimper, breath catching. You didn’t push her away. You didn’t dare. The pain was sharp, intoxicating, and a reminder that she was real and here and touching you exactly how you needed.

“F-fuck…” you breathed, lungs tight like she’d stolen all your air. “Do something.”

Paige lifted her head slowly, almost lazily, like a predator indulging a helpless little thing beneath her. Hovering over you, she looked down with a seriousness you’d never seen in her before, her expression carved from hunger and command.

“Ask nicely.” No smile. No warmth. Just power wrapped in a beautiful face.

Your throat tightened. Tears clung to your lashes from the overwhelming mix of arousal and sensation, but you forced your voice to steady, even if it only came out as a fragile whisper.

“Please…” Your fingers curled in the sheets, voice small and desperate. “Please, Paige. I need you. I need something. Anything. Please.”

Desperation tasted sweet on your tongue and she savored it. Satisfaction curled at the corner of her lips, a private little smirk that said she could do unspeakable things to you if she really wanted to. And she did. Just slowly.

She eased back, sitting on her heels, studying you with a calm intensity, as though she were deciding which part of you to consume first. Her gaze moved down your body like a hand, stripping you layer by layer even before her fingers reached the waistband of your panties.

You expected a slow slide. A tease.

Instead she ripped them.

The lace tore apart between her fists like nothing. The sound alone sent heat rushing through your veins. Your gasp hadn’t even finished leaving your throat before she was on you again, crushed lips against yours, stealing your shock and turning it into a mess of need.

When her fingers slipped lower, brushing your entrance, you could tell how embarrassingly wet you already were.

“You’re soaked, mama,” she murmured against your mouth, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You need it that bad?”

All you could do was nod—quick, eager, shameless. Your lower lip jutted out in a silent plea that only made her chuckle darkly.

She didn’t answer, she simply acted. The nightgown was tugged up and off you entirely, tossed aside like it offended her by existing between you and her hands. Then came her own shirt—over her head in one swift motion—leaving her in a sports bra and the loose shorts you’d given her earlier. They looked better on her than they ever had on you.

You stared. It was impossible not to. The smooth planes of her stomach, the toned lines of her arms, freckles scattered like constellations across shoulders you wanted to memorize with your mouth. She looked so human… frighteningly human. And yet, something deep inside you knew she wasn’t.

She crawled up your body again, and before you could brace for it—

Two long fingers pushed into you.

A stretch that bordered that thin line between pain and pleasure. You sucked in a long breath through your nose, eyes squeezing shut, everything in your body tightening around her.

The reaction only fed her more.

“You’re so gorgeous when you’re in pain,” she whispered, curling her fingers just slightly, enough to make your hips jump toward her. “Like an angel.”

The smirk on her lips said she knew exactly how untrue that word was to you, and how badly you wanted to believe it when she said it.

Her rhythm started slow, deliberate, learning every gasp you gave her. She watched you like a study, eyes tracking every shift, every flutter of your lashes, every breath that stuttered when she changed the angle.

She drank in your pain like it was pleasure. And maybe it was for both of you.

Your nails dug into her back without thought, dragging down her skin, leaving angry red trails. A thin line of blood welled under one. Paige hissrd, not in pain, but in satisfaction. She liked it. She wanted more.

You had never felt anything like this.

And she looked at you like you were the closest thing to divine she’d ever seen. Hair fanned around you like a halo, lips swollen from kisses that bordered on bites, your neck and chest marked by her possessiveness. She wanted to take her time. To savor every inch she claimed. To make sure you never forgot who made you feel like this. She wanted to ruin you, slowly and beautifully, until nothing in the universe could compare.

Her fingers never faltered, slick, sure, and ruthlessly patient as she worked you open. A third joined the others, stretching you further, and the shocked whimper that tore out of you made her pupils blow wide. It was like she needed to witness every twitch of your body, every stutter of your breath. Like she fed on it.

Paige curled her fingers again, deeper this time, angling just right as they hit that spot, and the sound that escaped you wasn’t pretty or controlled. It was raw and iInstinctive. A confession torn right from your chest.

She smiled like she owned that sound. Owned you.

Her thumb found you too, drawing slow, circling patterns over your throbbing clit that mocked the frantic hunger of her fingers. Pleasure and pain clashed and tangled until you couldn’t separate one from the other. She was savoring you—dissecting your reactions, playing with your limits—as though she had all night to dismantle you piece by trembling piece.

Your head tipped back into the pillow, neck bared like prey offering itself up. Paige’s mouth descended immediately, claiming the vulnerable column of your throat. Her tongue soothed over bruised skin for a fleeting second before her teeth sank in again, staking another claim. You cried out, legs jerking, thighs instinctively trying to clamp around her wrist, but her free hand was already there, spreading you wider, keeping you open for her.

A low purr of satisfaction vibrated against your skin.

“You’re perfect,” she murmured into the heat of your neck, reverent and dangerous all at once.

Then she lifted her head, slow and predatory, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes locked on yours with a hunger that felt like drowning. Like she was pulling the soul right out of you with nothing but eye contact.

“So fucking good for me,” she breathed, her voice softening the way a storm calms just before lightning hits. “Taking it so well, mama…”

You couldn’t speak—couldn’t think —just clung to her, nails dragging furrows down her back. Every thrust of her hand pulled the tightening cord in your abdomen closer to breaking, heat building fast and blinding.

She moved faster.

Something wild snapped loose in you. You needed to anchor yourself, needed to stop floating away , so you buried your teeth into her shoulder, biting down hard. A claim. A marking. Pure instinct.

Paige gasped, but the sound was ecstasy, not pain. Her smile spread slow and sharp, like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. Her hand fisted in your hair, pulling your lips from her skin just enough so she could speak against your mouth, jer voice low and possessive.

“Mine.” Her kisses trailed up your cheek, her breath hot at your ear as she delivered the final blow. “Only mine.”

That did it.

The rope snapped violently, pleasure crashing over you so fast your body couldn’t keep up. Your vision blurred white, muscles locking as you came apart underneath her, a trembling mess of heat and relief and desperate, broken sounds you couldn’t swallow back. You tried to muffle them by hiding your face against her shoulder, burying yourself in her scent, but your whimpers still escapedd. Every one of them claimed by her ears, her hands, her teeth.

Paige held you through the fall, fingers still deep, still guiding, still owning, like she wanted to make sure your pleasure didn’t just crest, but destroyed you.

Like she wanted this moment carved into you forever.

You were still shaking.

Not the pretty kind of trembling—no, this was the full body, bone deep shiver that came after being pulled apart too fast and too perfectly. Paige didn’t withdraw immediately. Her fingers stayed buried inside you for a lingering moment, like she wanted to feel every final pulse of your orgasm against her skin. Like letting go meant giving up control, and she wasn’t ready for that.

Only when your whimpers softened into heavy breaths did she finally slip her hand away, slow and possessive. She lifted her fingers between you both, slick and shining, and looked at them like they were something sacred. Something hers.

The sight alone made your breath catch.

Paige’s expression softened, though hunger still licked behind her gaze, and she brushed her knuckles along your hipbone, grounding you. “There you are…” she murmured, voice low and strangely gentle, like she was soothing something wild inside you. “Back with me?”

You tried to speak, but your throat felt too tight to form words. All you managed was a nod, small and shaky, but it pleased her anyway. She leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a slow kiss, not claiming this time but consuming in a different way. Addiction. Devotion with sharp teeth.