aeyi

As a demigod who had spent the better part of her life dreaming about the day she’d be offered a quest, you often thought about which god would challenge you and in what form your assignment would come to be.

You thought that, maybe, your quest would come from Caroline Ducharme, the goddess of the hearth, home, and family. She was known for finding demigods in need of a place to belong and assigning them a quest that usually focused on helping others. One of your friends and fellow demigod from the Academy, Kelis Fisher, was approached by Caroline some months ago and was tasked with putting together a food pantry in her hometown. Upon successful completion of her quest and once Kelis had made it through the final interviews with the rest of the Olympians, she was granted full godhood and now presides over a few aquatic domains.

If not selected by Caroline, you’d also thought that your quest might come from Paige Bueckers, the goddess of victory. She seemed to select demigods who had unshakable determination in all endeavors and hearts made of gold rather than flesh – demigods who took care of their communities and the people in it not for glory, but for the simple belief that if you could make an impact in someone’s life, then why don’t you?

The list goes on – Diana Taurasi, goddess of storms, thunder, and lighting. Maya Moore, whose realm was judicial and fair. You had options. The tricky part was that the Olympians did, too.

The Academy was designed to welcome in all demigods of varying backgrounds and lineages, aimed at being a safe space when the world was less than. Not all demigods were assigned a quest nor did everyone fully ascend. Godhood was a privilege and an honor, reserved for the demigods who’d proven themselves, whether it be through the Academy or by external merit. You were among the top of your class, excelling in academics and altruism, but you were what many might have referred to as a late-bloomer; despite possessing all of the qualities that would have favored one for godhood, you were still vying for a chance.

But, maybe, godhood wasn’t something that was in the cards for you. If godhood was something that was granted based on how badly someone wanted it rather than the content of their character, then the world would be thrown into an imbalance. You wanted it terribly, but you were also humble and knowledgeable enough to understand that you might have to forge a different path, one that had little to do with the ichor in your veins.

Still, you persisted. You used your abilities to help others, to make the Academy better, to protect the mortals who were none the wiser to the world beyond their wildest imaginations. You became less focused on whether or not you’d ever receive a quest and more on what you could do now to make an impact on the world around you. Regardless of whether or not you could ascend, you were set to graduate in the spring and you would find other ways to be you.

The universe, however, seemed to have other plans – as it usually does. It’s a warm, bright day in March and you can all but feel the shift. If you weren’t so accustomed to being near the divine, you’d miss the subtlety, the way the air hums with energy. You can only describe it as standing directly next to a buzzing electrical current, not able to stand too close to it or you wouldn’t survive the shock.

It draws your attention immediately. You were working on a project for your theology ethics class – something about whether or not it was truly ethical to inform mortals on a mass scale that the divine walked amongst them. You’d never felt a pull as strong as the one you’re feeling now and it was pretty much a universal truth that Taurasi was one of, if not the strongest of the Olympians. 

You wait. Your palms are already a little damp, struck by the knowledge that there’s a god nearby and they’re here for you. To think that you were so close to finally getting a quest after all this time had you ready to run a few laps around the block.

Then, the knock comes at your door, and you stand immediately, hoping that you don’t look too disheveled. You didn’t know who it could be. You didn’t know what they would ask of you, although you really hoped that it wasn’t a “you’re the chosen one” situation where you had to save the world – not that you’d deny the quest. It would just be…really difficult.

You stand before your door with your heart in your throat. Your hand shakes as you reach out for the doorknob, and you’re keenly aware that the moment you open up, your entire life is going to change. That thought fills you with more excitement than anything else.

You open the door.

You’re not prepared at all to find Azzi Fudd, the goddess of love, standing on your welcome mat with an expression that looks shockingly like hope. She’s taller than you, which makes you crane your head just so you can maintain eye contact – the new generation of Olympians didn’t care for the drop to your knees and stare at the ground thing, and she’s wearing a gorgeous, lilac purple dress with a plunging neckline. There’s a slit at her hip, exposing a bronze, muscled thigh, and her curls, while pinned up, are loose and free, as if she didn’t have to try before she readied herself for the day.

You don’t even know if goddesses “get ready,” but that’s starting to be the last thing on your mind. If you could see your face, you’re sure that it would be something to laugh at. You hope that you don’t look too much like a fish out of water, because – Wow. Electricity can be the only fitting descriptor if the way your brain short circuits is any indication.

Azzi just looks calm. Cool. Impossibly beautiful, like she’s not ruining your entire life by standing in front of you. Considering who she is, this is probably just a normal reaction, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like a loser.

She picks up on your obvious lack of finesse. A slow, almost knowing smile spreads across her full lips, and you honest to Gods might be trembling when she says, “Hello, godling.”

Somehow, you manage to find your voice. The fact you’re able to keep it steady is impressive. “My lady,” you murmur reverently. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

If anything, Azzi’s smile seems to widen. Her perfume hits you all at once – sweet and floral, like chamomile, honeysuckle, the distinct smell of springtime air. “I was hoping you might be able to help me out with a quest,” she says, her voice soft. The request makes something unfurl in your chest, loose, unbidden hope, the knowledge that you’d been waiting so long for an Olympian to ask that of you. “I’ve never sought out a demigod before, so I hope I’m not being too presumptuous.”

That admission makes you blink, and you remind yourself to circle back around to that if you were able to find the opportunity. You swallow thickly. “Anything you need,” you confirm. “I’m your girl.”

You’re aware of how stupid that sounds, but Azzi doesn’t mind. At first, you think that she’s going to meticulously outline the quest for you – another one of your friends from the Academy, Sarah Strong, once told you about the exacting specificity of receiving a quest from Maya Moore. Azzi, however…she doesn’t ease you into it at all.

“I want you to show me what it’s like when mortals fall in love.”

You blink once at Azzi. Then twice, all of the blood immediately rushing to your ears. Your heartbeat pounds, echoing in your head, and everything slows to a halt like the scratch of a record skipping.

Over the course of several years, you’d thought about receiving your first quest. You thought about which god would honor you with their selection. You thought about how rigorous their task would have been – whether or not you would have to complete an act of charity and give back to your community on a large scale or if it would be more demanding, like taking up your sword and dealing with some sort of monster infestation nearby.

But this? Showing Azzi Fudd, the goddess of love, what it’s like when mortals fall in love? That was the last thing you’d been expecting.

“Um,” you say smartly, your head cocking to the side in overwhelmed confusion. “Me?”

Azzi’s warm, brown eyes appraise you for a few beats, as if searching for something. Her features soften, filling with understanding, and she motions to the inside of your apartment. “May I come inside?”

You almost trip over yourself in your haste to step out of her way. Azzi enters, her eyes scanning your apartment, more out of curiosity than any real kind of judgement, and you close the door behind you with a soft click. Your heart still hammers in your chest but you remember your manners as you ask, “Can I get you anything? Water, tea?”

She breaks away from where she’d been staring at a framed photo of you and a few other demigods in your Academy uniform. “Tea, please,” she responds. “With a splash of nectar if you have it.”

You just nod, not trusting yourself to respond as she continues surveying your decor. You fetch the kettle and fill it with water with trembling hands, although you take a few, centering breaths after placing it over the stovetop.

This is real, you remind yourself, locating your tea bags and the jar of nectar from the fridge. I’m about to get my first quest. Except…it’s from a goddess who, apparently, has never assigned a quest before and she wants me to show her how people fall in love. This is fine.

While the water boils, you return to your living room, finding Azzi sitting on your couch with one leg crossed over the other. She flashes you a gentle smile when she spots you. “You have a beautiful home,” she says. “Is that one of Apollo’s lyres? I’ve always loved listening to them, but I could never figure out how to play one.”

You follow Azzi’s line of sight, glancing at the stringed instrument carefully resting on a stand next to a potted aloe plant. The ease in her words and the casual interest makes some of the nerves in your body uncoil. “Yes, my lady,” you affirm, gazing at it longingly. “I’m related to him through my father’s side of the family. I got the archer and musician gene, but the healing part seemed to skip over me.”

When your eyes find Azzi again, she’s already staring at you, gentle curiosity and mischief swimming in her gaze. “So,” she muses, “no remedy for a broken heart?”

“I try not to cause them,” you offer. That draws a full bodied laugh from her, the sound so beautiful and real, and you think that you might like it better than any song you’d ever plucked. Gingerly, you lower yourself into the armchair across from her, and you study her features carefully. “So…you want me to show you how mortals fall in love?”

Azzi nods once, her gaze going somewhere faraway for a moment. Then, she sighs, carefully folding her hands over one another. “Ironic, isn’t it?” she murmurs. “The goddess of love wondering what love is like?”

“To see it and to feel it is different,” you ponder.

Azzi nods again, her expression thoughtful. “Exactly. Often, it’s like being on the outside looking in, which doesn’t make sense at all considering I have the key. But…things have changed so much since I first assumed godhood. People pray to me, hoping for good fortune before proposals. They hope for reciprocated feelings, to find someone that understands them. They thank me.” She swallows. “It can be…lonely. To hear of other’s successes and triumphs in love, their failures, to be the deity with her hand in that domain yet no hand in hers.”

Your head cocks to the side, something like understanding swelling in your chest. “You want to experience that,” you finish. “You want to be loved.”

“I do,” she confirms. Her tone shakes with something like vulnerability and it’s then that you realize how important this is to her. “I understand that this is a lot to ask of you. It’s deeply personal, and–” A fierce blush settles on her cheeks, her throat bobbing with nerves, “–and I’d never considered if you had… a lover, already. So–”

“I don’t,” you interrupt quickly, your cheeks burning, too, and the embarrassment is almost enough to make you forget that you’d just cut Azzi off.

She offers a gentle smile, her shoulders relaxing. “This doesn’t have to be anything,” she says after a beat. “Your consent matters to me, and I’m not intending for this to end with you at my side as my consort. I just want to see what it’s like to be courted, to fall in love as real people do, even if it’s temporary.”

Before you can stop yourself from saying it, you blurt out, “Why me?” You rush to clarify, not catching the openness and lack of offense on Azzi’s face. “I’m honored, my lady, that you would come to me, but I don’t…” Your hands gesture uselessly, the words dying on the tip of your tongue. “I’ve never really…dated before. I could never give you the experience you deserve.”

Azzi is silent for a few beats, clearly thinking about her words, and her tone is hardly above a whisper when she finally responds. “I think that’s exactly why I need you to help me,” she says. “I don’t want to go to someone who’s done this – courting someone – a thousand times already. That’s when it becomes performative, a role to play. I want to experience the firsts, the uncertainty, the confusion. I want the unique and the real. The messy.”

She pauses, her eyes locking with yours. “And you, godling…” she trails off for a beat, her tone softening. “There’s this light about you. There’s a kindness, a humility, a gentleness. I’ve never seen it in anyone else before, and you, your goodness, it makes me less fearful to try.”

You know that your cheeks are possibly the darkest shade of red they’ve ever been. You falter, unable to find the right words, but Azzi cuts in again. “Again, you are allowed to say no,” she murmurs. “I will find a different quest for you. I would not disrespect you by refusing to let you ascend just because you set a boundary. Or, if you need time to think about it, I can return here in–”

“I’ll do it,” you confirm, not giving yourself the chance to overthink it. Azzi glances at you, a mix of surprise and relief on her features, but surety is on yours. “I accept your quest, my lady.”

A slow smile curls on Azzi’s lips, gratitude laced in the movement – and it’s in that moment that you realize that this is easily the most insane thing you’ve ever done in your life.

So, that was actually a lie because somehow, it got more insane.

You were very aware of the fact that in this…partnership, you were supposed to be courting Azzi. That meant that you were the one who needed to plan the first date. Truth be told, you were like a fish out of water in so many different ways. How were you supposed to plan a date worthy of the literal goddess of love?

Before she left, you, stupidly, asked for her number – then almost face-palmed because why would a goddess have a phone? Even more surprisingly, she’d just pulled out a pink iPhone to allow you to punch your own number in and you had to calm yourself down before you said something even more stupid like, “Do all of the Olympians have phones and why is the goddess of victory’s saved contact, ‘Paige (Doodie Head)?’”

Either way, Azzi left your apartment with a smile, another thank you, and a coy remark to not keep her waiting. Her perfume lingered in the air long after the door shut behind her and it took all of your sensibilities to not bury your face in your hands and scream.

But this was your quest. It was the one thing you’d spend your life dreaming of from the moment you learned that there was divine ichor coursing through your veins. Even if your task wasn’t one you’d ever considered, you hadn’t put all this work in to give up now. As much as you hated the concept of needing help, you were smart enough to know that you were in way over your head, so you opened up a familiar group chat and hit the dial button.

It hardly takes fifteen minutes, but there’s another round of knocks at your door, and you open it to find KK Arnold and Ice Brady waiting on the other side. You’d met the both of them through the Academy and you’d been friends since freshman year. KK was distantly related to the goddess of mischief, Ate, and Ice, fittingly, could follow her lineage back to the god of the north winds, Boreas, who was known for his frigidness.

If you were being honest with yourself, you’re not even sure why you called them. It would have been much more practical to ask Ayanna Patterson, who was the smartest person in your friend group (and whose wisdom probably had less to do with the blood she shared with Athena and more to do with an unfortunate consequence of hanging out with idiots) or even Morgan Cheli, who hails from Eros’s lineage. Morgan might have been the most qualified, but here you are.

“I can’t believe you finally got a date,” KK chatters excitedly, already walking inside. Ice has the decency to smile at you in greeting before walking in, too. “Like, I thought you were gonna stay locked in for the rest of your life. No time for romance.”

“Thanks, KK,” you grumble.

Ice clears her throat. “Who’s the lucky lady?” she asks. “What’s the vibe? Romantic dinner, then a cute moonlit walk through the park? Arcade?”

That’s the part where you wince slightly, a hand rising to rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I need you guys to not freak out,” you beg. “Like…this is serious.”

“Oh, she’s in love,” KK coos, then she nods seriously. “Don’t worry, girly pop. We gon’ get you a wife.”

You sigh. Honestly, you should have known better. Deciding to rip the bandaid off, you say quietly, “It’s Azzi. Azzi Fudd.”

Ice and KK blink at you in tandem. They glance at each other, then back at you. Ice raises an eyebrow. “Like, the goddess of love, Azzi Fudd?”

You bounce on your heels. “That’s the one,” you confirm. “It’s, uh, my quest. To date her.”

Both of your friends stare at you wordlessly for a few beats before they burst out into laughter. Your cheeks burn with heat, but you’re more irritated than anything else now.

But…you also recognize that this situation is kind of absurd and if the roles were reversed, you’d probably be laughing, too.

Eventually, their laughter subsides when they realize you’re not smiling, and KK’s jaw all but hits the ground as she says, “Shit, you’re serious?”

You nod. “She wants to know how mortals fall in love,” you inform them. You don’t tell them everything else, like how Azzi confided in you and how genuinely important it was to her, so you keep it at that. “And, like, I’ve never even done that before! I’ve never dated before! How am I supposed to woo the goddess of love with my nonexistent love life?”

“Be yourself?” Ice offers hesitantly. You level her with a deadpan look and she raises her hands in surrender. “Look, what I’m trying to say is she’s probably not expecting you to know everything. She’s probably hoping for that. Mortals, and, well, people in general, they just kinda…go with the flow. They’re not perfect either, and falling in love is, like, a journey thing. Not a destination.”

“Right,” KK agrees. “There’s no right or wrong way to date. You just have to try, be genuine, and know that it’s different for everyone else. Pull out her chairs and open her doors. Listen to her. You’re you so you’re probably gonna say some stupid shit–” you glare at her, “–but that’s just part of the process.”

“And be intentional,” Ice adds. “Make sure it’s meaningful. You’re trying to, you know, fall in love without actually falling in love, so, like…do what you’d do if you were actually trying to make it to the altar.”

“Be smooth,” KK jumps in. She stands on the tips of her toes and charmingly wraps an arm around Ice’s shoulders to make a point, but Ice shoves her away from her with a look of disgust. Admittedly, it makes you laugh a little, the tension easing from your body. KK narrows her eyes at Ice, rubbing her arm dramatically. “Okay, maybe not that smooth. But treat her right.”

Ice nods diplomatically. “Just think, what would KK do? Then do the complete opposite of it.”

You crack a smile as KK gasps indignantly. Before they can break out into an argument, you gesture for their attention. “Okay, that was all common sense, but what do we do?” you point out. “How do you take a goddess out on a first date and have it mean something?”

“It should definitely be an activity the both of you can do together,” Ice suggests. “Like, something you’re interested in or something she’s interested in, but it shouldn’t be something you can’t have a conversation over. That’s why movie dates suck.”

“You also can’t go on a date without food,” KK states. “Like, if I went out and just did a whole bunch of work and my date won’t even feed me, then there will be no second date. There will be lawyers and law suits.”

Ice and KK start bickering about the types of food and whether or not BBQ is an acceptable first date option, but you think back to Ice’s statement about doing an activity that the both of you are interested in. You hardly knew Azzi besides her name and the insecurity that she’s supposed to be the embodiment of love yet she has no idea what that is supposed to look like.

Then, you remember the way she’d stared at your lyre, the interest in her gaze and how she mourned her inability to play one. You smile to yourself, suddenly lighting up with an idea, and all you know is that you need to get KK and Ice out of your apartment immediately.

You clap your hands together in finality, drawing their attention. “Okay. Great conversation. Thank you for the help. I need to plan now.”

Blessedly, both Ice and KK take your less than subtle hint without any offense, and they both leave you with hugs and good luck before they head out. Then, you make a few quick phone calls, ensuring that everything you need would be available. You shoot a text to Azzi next:

You: how does 6pm on Friday sound for our first date? i can pick you up.

Azzi’s reply comes surprisingly quick, and it reads:

Azzi Fudd: Not a second later, godling. See you soon.

You try – and fail – to suppress a grin, and you send her back a heart emoji before shutting your phone off.

The days leading up to your date with Azzi had been full of half-assed attempts at studying, several hours worth of overthinking about what you would say to her and what you’d do, and even more hours spent browsing online department stores to try and find the best thing to wear for the date. You don’t think you’d ever been this nervous and excited over an event before nor do you think you’d tried this hard to get something right before, but Friday night was big for you in a lot of ways.

It was about more than your quest at this point. It was about helping Azzi out, about wanting to give her the best experience you possibly could with your own lack of experience with dating. You realized that Ice and KK did have a point – it was about the journey, about showing Azzi what someone would do for someone that they were genuinely interested in. You were going to make this date and the entire experience memorable for her. That was the one thing you could promise to her and yourself.

Azzi texts you her address on Friday morning, and you suppose getting reality checks regarding how modern the gods actually lived was just going to become something that was common. You’re already dressed and ready with light makeup done by 5pm, too anxious to have gotten much done that day, and you make sure your lyre is packed delicately in its case and tucked into your backseat before you leave.

You first make a stop at a local flower store, one that’s akin to a hole in a wall. It wasn’t very well known unless you were a demigod or a mortal with a keen eye for flora. You knew the owner of the shop, Napheesa, whose green thumb came from Demeter, and that she was probably the best person to buy quality flowers from.

You explained the situation to her – well, most of the situation as you didn’t want to make a habit of telling everyone you were about to go on a date with the goddess of love, and Phee walked you around her shop as she carefully bundled her flowers into a meaningful bouquet. Red and white gerbera for passion and new beginnings; dark, crimson roses for a classical take on love; and irises for elegance, wisdom, and faith. Phee winked at you while ringing you up at the counter and you’re pretty sure you were blushing on the way out.

With your flowers and lyre ready, you made your way to Azzi’s place – a cozy, lived in home nestled in an area that was the perfect blend of rural and urban. You tuck the flowers behind your back as you walk across the stone pathway leading to her front door. One last glance at your watch reveals that you’re five minutes early, so you take a deep breath and press your finger to her doorbell, hearing it ring out in the house.

You can hear movement from inside. You watch as the door handle turns and how she slowly comes into view as she opens the door. Your mouth dries immediately, all of the thoughts in your brain coming to a screeching halt as you take her appearance in. She’s dressed in a white sleeveless top, cut at the waist to reveal the definition in her stomach and the piercing at her navel, and a complimentary pair of dark slacks.

It’s like you’ve never seen a gorgeous woman before, but there’s just something about Azzi that makes your brain short circuit in the best way possible. Suddenly, you’re not sure if you can do this – show her what it’s like to fall in love, because you’re pretty sure that she’s going to kill you before you get to the part where you tell her that the sun rises and sets with her smile.

Thankfully, she doesn’t let you flounder for too long, smiling gently at you as she greets you with a kind, “Hello, godling.”

You don’t even register the smile of your own growing on your face. “My lady,” you say in respectful greeting. “You look amazing.”

Her features soften with something like shyness, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth as she tries to stop her smile from growing too wide. “Is this the part where you inflate my ego with pleasantries?” she teases. “It might be working.”

“That comes later,” you promise. “I like to start with the truth first…then flowers.” To emphasize your point, you reveal the floral arrangement you’d hidden behind your back, holding it out for her. Azzi’s face genuinely lights up at the sight, her cheeks flushing red. Her fingers brush against yours as she accepts the bouquet.

“These are gorgeous,” she murmurs, pressing her nose to them and inhaling. Her smile widens.

You’re unable to tear your gaze away from her as you agree, “They are.”

Azzi meets your gaze again, then opens the door wider to let you in. You follow her wordlessly. “Let me put these in a vase and then we can go.” You make a soft noise to acknowledge her and trail after her, taking in the decor. It’s…strangely normal, which is something you wouldn’t have expected from a goddess. You expected something lavish, grand, but this feels like Azzi.

She calls out to you from the kitchen, her voice carrying over the sound of running water. “Is it customary for mortals to not tell their date where they’re going or am I just special?”

You barely resist a smile as you walk a little closer to the kitchen so she can hear you. “Not that I’m disagreeing with the latter–” Azzi laughs at that, “–but it is normal. It’s supposed to be a surprise. I can tell you, if you’d like.”

Azzi flashes a grin over the bouquet of flowers as she carefully submerges the stems in the vase. “Full experience, right? I trust you to not make me regret it.”

“I’m honored.”

She wraps up with the flowers and slides into a pair of sandals as you hold the door open for her. Azzi locks the door quickly, since goddesses, apparently, aren’t impervious to burglaries, either, and you escort her to the passenger side of your car where you hold that door, too. She thanks you and you round the car to slide into the driver’s seat.

On the way to your date location, the both of you fill silence with conversation that shouldn’t feel as comfortable as it does. It’s easy to forget that she’s a goddess, not out of disrespect, but because she’s so gentle and down to earth that you think she’s more like you than you’re like her. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed or smiled as much as you did in the span of a twenty minute car ride, but Azzi is proving to be full of surprises.

You learn that she loves reading – she has an impressive collection of books back at her house that she’d spent the bulk of her immortal life acquiring. She loves the classics but is a self-admitted sucker for the modern rom-coms and horrors. You would have never expected her to be someone who enjoys Stephen King, but you find that you enjoy being surprised by her. You also learn that when she’s not tending to her domains and doing what she can to influence the love lives of demigods and mortals alike, she has a pretty nasty jump shot, which honestly blows your mind.

Talking to her comes naturally. She seems genuinely interested in what you have to say and asks you questions about your life, too – what growing up a demigod was like, how you learned you were one in the first place. Your parents thought they would be able to tell you when you were old enough to know what being half-god meant, but they quickly realized they would have to tell you sooner rather than later when they found you at six years old with your father’s bow in hand and all of the apples in the house speared to the bullseye of a target.

By the time you make it to your date location, your cheeks hurt from laughter and you have half a mind to convince her to stay in your car and just talk for hours. You promised her a date, and a good one, at that, so you shoot her a teasing look and tell her not to touch the door handle as you round the car to grab the door for her.

She thanks you with a soft brush of her fingers against your wrist and you think that you almost keel over, but you manage to remember where you are. You make sure to grab your lyre case from the backseat as you fall into step with her.

Azzi hums next to you, taking in the building before you. “Why does this feel familiar?” she asks.

The building in front of you is a large, spherical dome made of glass. It’s not necessarily a temple, but it’s a location known to all of the descendants of Apollo. It attracts the sunlight and strengthens your connection to the godly ichor in your veins, usually serving as an ideal place to study or work on your skills. Inside, it’s always the perfect temperature, warm enough to feel like a summer day but never abrasive enough to burn or make you sweat.

“This is Apollo’s Atrium,” you say, pressing your hand to the biosensor at the door. It opens with a soft hiss and you pull the door open, gesturing Azzi inside. “Well, one of them, at least.” You both step inside and you relax, feeling at home instantly. It’s warm, welcoming, and you can tell that Azzi is feeling it, too. “These places are designed for his descendants. The glass soaks in all of the sun and the building is enchanted to funnel it directly in here, which makes it easier for demigods, specifically young ones, to connect with Apollo and hone their powers.”

“And you brought me here,” Azzi murmurs, something like awe in her voice as she takes in her surroundings. You scratch the back of her neck, because, yeah. You did. It wasn’t rare for descendants of Apollo to bring other people here, but it was usually reserved for people they were close to considering the Atrium was such a sacred place. You hadn’t thought twice before letting Azzi in, though.

You don’t think too hard about that.

“When you’re dating someone or welcoming them into your life,” you say, drawing Azzi’s attention, “you usually show them pieces of you. Things that matter. And, well…this Atrium means a lot to me. I figured I’d show you a piece of my home.”

Azzi stares at you unblinkingly for a few beats. The expression on her face is unbelievably shocked, a little tender, and it makes something in your chest expand a few sizes too big and press against your ribcage. You think that you’d like to evoke this expression from her a lot – but you push that idea to the back of your mind.

“Thank you, godling,” she whispers after a few breaths. “I appreciate your generosity.”

You flash a gentle smile at her, then gesture to the center of the atrium, where there’s a blanket spread out with a basket of goods in the middle. You remind yourself to thank Allie Ziebell, another descendant of Apollo, as she was the one who helped you set this up while you were fetching Azzi from her place. “Would you like to sit, my lady?”

Azzi nods once and you lead her over. She carefully lowers herself to the ground, trying not to mess the blanket up too much, and you take a seat next to her, making sure to leave a few inches of space so as to not overwhelm her. You leave your lyre at the edge – knowing that would come later, and you reach out for the basket.

There’s a bottle of wine nestled at the top with two matching glasses, which you pull out cautiously. The basket consists of a few carefully wrapped cheeses, meats, crackers, and fruits, and Azzi watches you with curious eyes while you set out a plate for the both of you.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” she notes, her tone appreciative and full of wonder, as you carefully pour the wine into her glass.

You hold the glass out to her, your fingers brushing in exchange, and you smile softly at her as you pick up your own. “I wanted to make it memorable for you,” you murmur, meaning every bit of it. You raise your glass to tap it against Azzi’s. “To showing the goddess of love what love looks like?”

Azzi huffs out an amused sort of laugh, the dimple in her cheek popping, and she clinks her glass against yours. “To learning what love looks like.”

The both of you take slow sips from the wine, savoring its flavor, and the goddess’s brow raises, pleased. You mentally pat yourself on the back for your selection.

You think that you could get used to this – this feeling of peace, comfort, and ease, the earnestness of two people trying something new for the first time. You think that you could get used to Azzi, too, but that’s a thought that’s dangerous. This is your quest, a date that’s also…not a date. You couldn’t fall too much for the feeling, even if the way Azzi smiles at you makes you want to.

Still, you knew you were going to make this work for her. You wanted her to know what it was like, and perhaps a smaller part of you wanted to know what it was like, too. There would undoubtedly be a few parts that you messed up or didn’t get right immediately, but the both of you were learning. Messing up is part of it.

The both of you continue to chat over the assortment of finger foods. You refill her wine, giggling when a few drops miss the glass and stain the blanket, but neither of you particularly mind it. She wipes the excess liquid from the side of her glass and slathers it on your nose, which draws an indignant squawk from your lips. You dish out payback by tossing a grape at her. It bounces harmlessly off of her forehead, but you’re both breathless with laughter, and you find it near impossible to tear your gaze off of her face.

After what feels like a few minutes but must be an hour or two, you reach out for the case next to you and gingerly pull out your lyre. Azzi’s eyes brighten at the sight. “Earlier this week you said you could never figure out how to play one of these,” you say coyly. “How about a lesson, my lady?”

She grins. “I’ll try to keep up with you,” Azzi promises, and you pass the instrument over to her.

“Wrap your left arm around the back of it,” you instruct. “Rest the bottom against your thigh.” You gesture vaguely with your hands, but she picks up on what you mean quickly, and you nod, pleased. “Try strumming it?”

She does so, and laughs when the notes ring out louder than intended. They echo in the dome, hitting your ears pleasantly, and something in your heart sings as you watch her learn the instrument that has become an integral part of your being. “Classical lyres usually have seven strings, but this one has sixteen, so it’s enough for two full octaves,” you explain. “You use a wrench to adjust the tension in the strings, which lowers or increases the pitch to different notes, but this one is tuned to a standard C major.”

Azzi raises her brows at you questioningly, and you stifle a smile. “C major just means it’s a scale, or series, of notes that are natural – no pitch modifications. If you think of the scale in terms of numbers, then this note –” you reach forward to pluck the thickest string, which hums out a low C pitch, “is one, this next one is two…” You pluck each string in succession with their number until you reach sixteen. “If you modify the pitch by tuning the string to either a sharp note or a flat note, that means the pitch is being adjusted by one half-step, so the note is somewhere in between the two. For example, D and E are notes two and three, so if you raised D by one half step, you’d get D-sharp, which you can think of two and a half, right? Conversely, lowering E by one half step is E-flat, which is still two and a half. C major means there are no half step modifications, so your notes are C, D, E, F, G, A, and B, then it repeats for the higher octave. There are some notes that don’t have intuitive sharps or flats, though. E-sharp and F-flat aren’t actual half-pitches, so what you’d consider an E-sharp is just an F-natural and an F-flat would be E-natural–”

You don’t realize how much closer you’ve moved towards Azzi in the midst of your explanation until you glance up from the lyre and find Azzi staring at you with something akin to fondness, if not a little bit of amusement, too. You flush at the sudden attention. “You’re cute when you talk about the things you’re interested in,” she whispers, her smile widening when you duck your head. “You start glowing, and I don’t mean that in the descendant of Apollo way.”

“I got carried away,” you say sheepishly. Azzi giggles at that. “Let’s try a chord or two. May I?” Azzi nods at your gesture and gently, you move her fingers towards the right strings – C, E, and G. “These three compose the C major chord. C is the root, E is the major third, and G is the perfect fifth; C was the one, so it makes sense that it’s the root, or at the bottom, and we said E and G were notes three and five respectively in the scale. We can call it a 1-3-5 chord or a major triad since this chord consists of the root, the major third, and the perfect fifth.”

“So, if you tuned the lyre a different way, you could still make another major chord, right?” Azzi asks. “You’d still have the root, the third, and the fifth, even if they’re different notes?”

You nod, beaming with pride. “Exactly. Looks like I’m teaching you a little more than just love,” you tease. Azzi rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat behind the movement. “Now, pluck those three notes.” She does so. The C major chord echoes in the atrium, reverberating off of the glass walls, and her smile widens. “Beautiful.”

You’re not really talking about the music and her cheeks flush like she knows that. Something in Azzi’s gaze sparkles as she looks at you, although you’re not prepared to confront that thought head on. You clear your throat to regain some sense of dignity and gesture to the instrument again. “Another chord?” you ask. Azzi nods.

You teach her three more chords utilizing the notes from the C major scale, then re-tune the lyre to show her another scale with the half step modulations. She catches on quickly – she’s able to determine the notes of the new major triad after recalling the root, third, and the fifth, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so excited for someone else before.

It’s late in the evening. You only truly register the fact that the sun has gone down when you glance away from Azzi’s face to find the constellations sparkling in the sky. You’re not done – not quite yet. She hands the lyre to you, its weight comforting and familiar in your hands, and you pluck a few chords, harmonizing to the tune as she watches with an enraptured gaze.

You grew up with lullabies on your tongue and music in your veins. Your first words were the lyrics to an old song your parents used to sing to you and this – sharing a song with someone, letting them communicate with your soul, was one of the purest and most intimate ways you knew how to connect.

It’s early, and it’s your first date with a literal goddess, but you’re not thinking about any of that. You’re thinking about how right this feels, how you hadn’t hesitated before allowing Azzi into one of the places that was most sacred to you. You’re thinking that you’re really grateful for this quest because it’s brought you to this woman in front of you and she’s staring at you like she’s thinking that, too.

She said it didn’t have to be anything. You agreed, but that was before you knew the warmth of her hands as they wrapped around that beating organ in your chest with a level of care you’d never expected from someone who felt as though she didn’t know what love was like.

And so, you murmur, your voice steady and soft and in tune with the lyre whose strings you pluck reverently, “Why were you digging? What did you bury before those hands pulled me from the earth?”

Azzi watches you unblinkingly, her lips parted slightly, something disbelieving and ruined and beseeching all at once in her stare. You don’t falter.

“I will not ask you where you came from. I will not ask and neither should you.”

Your eyes find hers over the top of the lyre. It’s unspoken, the way you both seem to lean towards each other, but you discover that you don’t want to pull back. You really, really don’t.

Your voice remains steady, the song spilling from your lips like nectar from a spout, and it’s with every subsequent word that it seems like Azzi gravitates just a little closer to you. “Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.”

The last chord rings out, vibrating pleasantly against the glass surrounding the both of you, and you lower the instrument. Azzi almost appears frozen to her spot on the ground, her eyes searching yours – and for what, you honestly couldn’t be sure. You swallow thickly, not prepared for how open and exposed her gaze makes you feel.

“That was beautiful,” she whispers. Just like earlier, you know that she’s not talking about the singing, and you smile bashfully.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Something charged and electric passes between the two of you, but neither you nor Azzi move. You glance up to the sky which has darkened considerably since the last time you tore your gaze off of Azzi long enough to be cognizant of your surroundings. “I should get you home,” you suggest, and she nods.

Wordlessly, you pack up the leftovers, tucking what’s left of the wine back into the basket. Azzi folds the blanket, handing it over to you, and your fingers brush during the exchange. It sends a jolt up your spine that, apparently, Azzi notices, too, and she smiles.

You lead her to the door, holding it open with your foot since your hands were occupied – Azzi offered to hold something but you shot her a look so indignant that she couldn’t help but giggle.

In the cool, evening air, she shivers, and you hardly waste any time before depositing the basket and your lyre case to the ground. You shrug off your jacket, stepping up behind her to settle it over her shoulders – because what is any good first date without the obligatory jacket moment? – and her gaze turns so impossibly tender that you feel your heart skip a beat.

You get the passenger side door of the car for her, then close it, and you tuck your belongings safely into the back seat before making your way to the driver’s side. The ride back to Azzi’s house is spent in a comfortable silence. Neither of you are rushed to fill it, content with existing in each other’s space. You rest your hand over the center console out of habit, but when Azzi’s hands find yours in a wordless question, you’re too happy to open up for her, tangling your fingers together.

Music plays low over your radio. The hum of the engine and the sound of nightlife – crickets, the breeze, the peace – are ending features to the soundtrack of a perfect day. You only release Azzi’s hand when your tires crunch over the gravel in her driveway, and she waits patiently as you turn the car off and make your way around to get the door.

You walk her to her front door, your knuckles brushing with each step, and you both pause on the doorstep. You’re not quite sure what to say next, but you also know that you don’t want this night to end, even though it must.

This was only your first date and you were going to give Azzi the full experience. There would be no evening night caps or premature sleepovers. You knew that people did relationships on their own timeline and there was nothing wrong with doing what felt right, but Azzi deserved to be courted properly. Intentionally.

She deserved flowers during random times of the week, not meant to be anything besides just because. She deserved gentleness and commitment and perfect firsts because she’s waited so long for the right person to come along and show her what those looked like. She deserved your patience and compassion and you knew you would do anything to give it to her the moment she asked you to show her how real people did it.

Azzi stands before you, her eyes appraising your features, the softness in how the moonlight illuminates the contours of your face. A soft smile spreads across her lips, etched with gratitude and fondness that she knows you’re feeling, too.

Hopefully, she whispers, “Is this the part where you kiss me goodnight?”

You crack a coy smile, your hands reaching out to pull the lapels of your jacket tighter around her shoulders. “That depends,” you murmur.

Her head cocks to the side. “On…?”

“If I’ve earned a second date with you,” you respond. “I can’t kiss you without knowing if I’ll get to do it again, my lady.”

Azzi huffs out a quiet laugh, the sound amused and wrought with fondness, and her hands cup your cheeks as she leans in to kiss you. Her lips are soft, sure, and she tastes sweet like wine and pure like song. Warmth spreads across your body from head to toe, your hands sliding down her torso to rest against her waist, thumbs pressing into her skin.

When Azzi pulls away from you, her forehead resting against yours, you can almost taste the smirk on her lips as she asks, “Is that enough of an answer for you, godling?”

It is. You wish her a goodnight and she smiles at you one last time before you walk back to your car. When you situate yourself in the driver’s seat, turning the ignition on, your phone lights up with a text message that you can’t help but grin at.

Azzi Fudd: Get home safe tonight. I expect you to really impress me next week.

Challenge accepted.

Over the next few weeks, you and Azzi become closer. With finals looming in April, you’re the busiest you’ve ever been – studying for classes, tying up loose ends on final semester projects, and keeping up with other Academy duties ranging from outreach events to community service.

Azzi, similarly, finds herself unable to escape from her godly responsibilities. Spring was slowly beginning to bleed away into summer, and the rising temperatures combined with more people having breaks away from school and jobs meant that there were a lot of opportunities to find love.

It was a little hard to fully wrap your mind around the limits of her domain. Azzi was the goddess of love but the divine usually upheld a strict do not intervene rule, although it seemed that rule was a little looser for Azzi. She didn’t necessarily meddle, but she did have the power to push people closer and to encourage them to chase after what their heart desired. How much control she held over love and its many branches was something even less clear to you. Diana, for example, could turn a beautiful, sunny day into a crackling thunderstorm depending on her mood.

You also weren’t aware of just how vast her realm was – how vast love was. It was less about the active, hands-on aspect of what she did on a day to day basis and more about what she was subjected to. People prayed to her all the time, ranging from platonic to romantic love, to pleas for any sort of tangible connection with someone, to cries to be loved a little less. That wasn’t something she could turn off. She heard it constantly – she heard everyone constantly, and it was so heavy and wrought with grief and meaning that it can be hard to find who you are in the midst of people asking so much from you.

When you were both able to find some downtime together, it took a lengthy conversation to make her understand that if she was burdened, then you had two shoulders broad enough to bear the weight, too. It wasn’t an empty promise you made to her because you were supposed to be showing her the partnership aspect of being in love, but it was a real promise because at the end of the day, you genuinely wanted to help her, and if there was anything that either of you were supposed to take from this quest, it was that the both of you would have a friendship long after its completion.

And so Azzi confided in you. She told you about how exhausting it was, to be constantly subjected to everyone’s thoughts and wishes all at once. She was always listening and perhaps, from a mortal’s standpoint, it could be comforting to know their prayers didn’t go ignored. From Azzi’s standpoint, however, you recognized how taxing it could be – the nonstop noise, but also being forced to listen to the uglier sides of love, too.

She’d once told you that being unable to intervene was one of the most difficult parts of being divine. To have all of this power yet forced to be powerless lest she destroy the cautious balance of the world was a lesson she was still learning to grasp centuries later.

You listened. You let her speak, let her voice the weight of other’s tragedies, let Azzi be the one who sought out guidance and be listened to for once. You let her sink into your skin and latch onto your bones, aching for connection and patience and gentleness that you would learn how to give her. For as godly as she was, there was still the heart of a girl beating in her chest, and you knew better than anyone else that the mortal part of you was ineffably persistent no matter how much ichor coursed through your veins.

That day brought you both closer. You and Azzi made concerted efforts to see one another, even if it was late night phone calls as she tells you about a wedding she’d blessed or as you celebrate the full marks you’d gotten on your ethics project. When you find the brief moment to sneak away from your work, you find yourself at her doorstep with carefully curated bouquets of flowers, or Azzi shows up at yours with a bottle of wine and something tender in her gaze.

When you’d accepted her quest, you obviously wanted to help her. That was just the kind of person you were, although you couldn’t deny that you wanted to fulfill the quest so you could ascend. Godhood had been your dream and that was the point of the bargain, anyways: show Azzi what falling in love was like, and in return, she would do her part in getting the rest of the Olympian council to grant you godhood.

But now? Ascension is the last thing on your mind. You don’t care about the eternal life waiting for you once your job is “finished.” You weren’t expecting to fall so hard for Azzi – let alone expecting to fall for her at all. She was a goddess, untouchable by nature, and you were just a demigod blessed by the sun.

Still, it was inevitable. Falling for her. Letting this be something, letting it mean so much to you in the short amount of time you’d been dancing around each other. You weren’t sure how possible the both of you were, if you’d be able to truly be together, but you think that as long as you had her, you would be okay.

You were both bonded by something inexplicable – being each other’s firsts in so many ways. You were sure that Azzi had previous partners in her life – mortal or immortal – but it had been so long that the sort of relationship she has with you is new, and fresh, and something that she’s come to care for deeply. You were the same way. To come from opposite ends of the mortal spectrum yet still experience something for the first time together…that means something. You were both intentional, you’d chosen each other in every sense of the word, and now, you were both so impossibly rooted in each other’s lives that it would be hard to go back to any sense of normality.

Love was something that you weren’t all too familiar with before her. You’d always been dedicated, ambitious, perhaps a little apathetic in your endeavors. You had friends and family but you’d never had something to call yours. For a while, that hadn’t bothered you. You were so convinced that you’d eventually receive a quest one day and so you were content in branching out or falling in love after you’d accomplished your goal.

But now that you knew what it was like to be with Azzi, even if the very notion of being with her wasn’t as real as your feelings had proven to be, you weren’t sure if you wanted to give that up. You wanted her – every piece of her. It wasn’t possessive or territorial or even jealousy. You wanted that kind of closeness that came with knowing every part of someone, the good and the bad, and choosing to love it all, anyways. You wanted the days where she was joyous, the ones where she ached so horribly that she was mute, the days in between where neither of you could be sure where you ended and where she began. You wanted to be interwoven in the very fabric of her life and you wanted to stitch her into yours forever.

You loved Azzi. You love her – in the present, in the future, in the pieces of your past where you’d yearned for something more in the dark of your room and didn’t allow yourself to dream for it because you thought you wouldn’t have space to give. You love her like real people do – messily, completely, with every ounce of your being and then some.

You never ran out of space for your dreams. There was space for both her and ascension, but your time with her has taught you that your dreams were flexible. You can be you and still be hers and, perhaps, the good thing about immortality is that you’d have eternity together to find new ways to love her.

When she texts you late one night, days before your graduation, asking if she could see you, yes feels like the only reasonable response you could muster. You busy yourself with straightening up your apartment even though it’s virtually spotless, feeling as though you need to impress her still. You fluff a throw pillow on your couch. You wipe away a ring of condensation left behind on your coffee table by a sweating glass of water. For good measure, you light the scented candle in your kitchen, breathing in the scent of chamomile and hibiscus.

You hear the knock on your door ten minutes later and you force yourself to walk slowly to it, giving yourself the time to gather yourself. In what’s becoming far too common for how often you and Azzi see each other, your heart all but falls out of your chest the moment you come face to face with her. Her face is bare, her brown curls pinned up at the back of her head. She’s dressed simply; a cream, cashmere sweater hanging off of one shoulder to reveal a defined clavicle and dark leggings. She’s dressed mostly for comfort, but she still takes your breath away every time.

“Good evening, godling,” she says softly, her voice twinged with something like guilt. It makes your heart stutter in your chest, already fearing for the worst. “May I come in?”

Nodding shakily, you step to the side to allow her inside, and you shut the door behind you as she makes her way to sit on your couch. With concern etched on your features, you can’t bring yourself to sit across from her, not even when she gestures towards the spot next to her. You’re too nervous and not entirely ready to hear what she has to tell you.

Azzi stares at you for a long moment, almost as though she’s trying to memorize the way your face looks. Something in her expression cracks down the middle. “Please,” she begs. “Sit down.”

Unable to deny her, you lower yourself to the couch cushion next to her, hoping that you don’t look as fearful as you feel. You watch Azzi’s throat bob as she swallows, apprehension on her features, and you have to strain your ears to hear the softness of her voice as she speaks. “I came here because I wanted to tell you that you have completed your quest,” she murmurs. “And that we cannot do this anymore.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out, and all you can do is blink in disbelief at her. It feels as though the ground beneath your feet has splintered and you’re moments away from disappearing into the chasm. But Azzi does not pause in her words.

“Do not think for one moment that you’ve done something wrong,” she says, finally meeting your gaze. “That was never it. You did everything right. You were perfect.” Azzi hesitates for a moment, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, and she inhales, though her hands tremble. “You showed me what it was like to fall in love as real people do, but…in doing so, I fell in love with you.”

You think that your ears are ringing, your brain horribly caught up on the confession. I fell in love with you. It simultaneously heals and destroys something in you – you hadn’t realized how long you had been waiting to hear that from her, but it sounds like she’s breaking up with you at the same time.

“I could not keep this up,” Azzi murmurs, “when this was an arrangement. You agreed to help me, and you did. I could not take advantage of you when you were fulfilling an obligation to me–”

“My lady–”

“–and I could not continue to play into this…this fantasy, when it wasn’t real at all,” she continues, voice shaking. 

“Azzi–!”

“It was wrong of me to ask this of you in the first place,” Azzi states. “It was inappropriate and unfair to both of us, and I cannot, in good conscience, continue doing this with you when I know the truth of my feelings. It’s a gross misuse of my power and your trust, and I am sorry–”

“I love you,” you blurt.

Azzi pauses, breathless, and the two of you stare at each other for several, achingly long moments. Her eyes are wide, disbelieving, like she hadn’t been expecting you to confess, either. You swallow, your voice softening as you confess, “It was real to me, my lady.”

“Do not say things you do not mean.”

You shake your head, desperate, and you’re reaching for Azzi’s hand before you can stop yourself. You press it to your chest, letting her feel the thump of your heart under her palm. “It was real to me,” you say again. “It is real to me.” Her gaze softens like she’s finally hearing you, her fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. “I wasn’t expecting for this to mean so much to me, but it does. I want this – you, every piece and every part of you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

She still doesn’t look convinced, her lips parting as she tries to grasp the weight of your words. “Are you certain?” she whispers.

You study her features, the warmth of her gaze, the furrow in her brow, the dimple in her cheek that you’ve thought about pressing a kiss to more times than you’d care to admit. Something in your chest settles, like realizing this was where you were supposed to be, like realizing that nothing else matters as much as this does. You’ve never been more certain about anything else in your life.

Before you even truly register it, you’re closing the last few inches of space in between you and Azzi, slow enough to give her the chance to pull away if she doesn’t want this, but she stays rooted, exhaling shakily and pressing closer until your noses brush. Still, you meet her gaze, one last unspoken question passing between the two of you. Her nod is all the confirmation you need.

You don’t think you’d ever tire of kissing her, the way she feels when she pulls you firm against her. You don’t rush her – you never do, not one to ask her for more than she’s willing to give you, but she breathes a sigh against your lips and you’re sure that it makes your head spin.

She pulls back, breathless from the kiss, and you have to stop yourself from leaning back in. You try for a smile instead, murmuring, “Is that enough of an answer for you, my lady?”

She grins, not only because she knows what you’re referring back to, but also because it is enough, and it would be enough for the eternity she plans on spending with you.

(Godhood, for the record, was nothing like you’d ever expected, although not much changes. You’re still you. Azzi is still Azzi, and while the realm you have control over is limited, it’s yours. That’s enough for you.

The last bell rang like it always did—too sharp, too sudden, too loud. But you didn’t flinch. You never did when Paige was the one waiting outside the door.

She stood just across the hall, leaned against the lockers in her Huskies hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, blonde hair tied back like she’d just come from the gym—which she probably had. Her eyes found yours the second you stepped out. Her smile was small, private. The kind meant only for you.

You hadn’t even said anything yet, but she was already grabbing your hand like she’d missed you after twenty four hours of barely being apart.

“You hungry?” she asked, the way she always did.

“Only if you’re paying.”

She rolled her eyes. “I always do.”

You had a diner you both claimed as yours—not because it was particularly special, but because it was halfway between both your houses, and they never carded if Paige wanted to order a milkshake laced with something extra on cold nights.

You sat in the corner booth like always. Paige took the inside so you could stretch your legs across her lap. She absentmindedly played with the hem of your jeans as you talked about nothing—teachers, finals, her points in last night’s game, your latest track mix.

But underneath it all was this tension. Not bad. Not heavy. Just… something pressing up from beneath everything, begging to be said.

Paige was the one to say it.

“So,” she murmured, still twirling the string of your hoodie between her fingers, “we’re both eighteen.”

You knew where she was going before she even looked up at you.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

She took a breath. “And I’ve been thinking about something.”

You tilted your head, giving her that soft, teasing smile she always said made her weak. “Thinking’s dangerous.”

She didn’t smile back this time. She just looked at you. Really looked. And your heart flipped.

“I wanna marry you,” she said. You blinked. “Not later. Not someday,” she continued, her voice quiet but steady. “Now. Before everything else gets big. Before UConn and cameras and agents and expectations. I want… us first.”

You stared at her. Your hand twitched beneath hers. “You serious?”

She nodded. “I know it’s crazy. I know we’re young. But I’ve loved you since we were fourteen and I don’t want a life where I have to pretend I don’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. The waitress came by, dropped off the milkshake, and Paige barely noticed.

You did. You took a slow sip. Set it down. Then you reached across the table, took her hand in yours, and said, “Where do we go?”

You didn’t tell anyone except your closest friends and your families and even then, it took convincing. Paige’s mom cried not because she was upset. Your mom hugged you so tight you almost forgot how to breathe. Your older sister teased you about it for a week, then gave you the necklace you’d wear down the aisle.

The wedding was in the back room of a county office. No flowers or music. Just the two of you, hands tightly clasped, rings you bought at the mall, and the vows you’d written in the parking lot five minutes before.

She whispered her last words just before you kissed her, “You’re always gonna be my home.”

And you didn’t cry, not there, not until later, when you were curled into her side in your childhood bedroom, the door locked and your phones off, both of you whispering “we did it” like kids who’d just stolen candy from a store.

That night, she fell asleep with your wedding ring pressed to her lips. And you fell asleep memorizing the rise and fall of her breath.

You didn’t know what would come next. But for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel scared of the future. You felt like it had finally started.

The first week of June came with heat that stuck to your skin no matter how many showers you took.

You and Paige were home for the summer after your first year at UConn, back in Minnesota, crashing at your childhood house because her family’s place was overflowing with cousins. Your mom had taken a week off work to cook everything Paige loved and subtly remind you both that air conditioning was expensive, so to stop leaving the windows open.

But your favorite part of the summer wasn’t the food. It wasn’t the quiet nights in your backyard, curled up in a hammock, sharing earphones.

It was the mornings.

Because for once, there was no practice, no homework, no press, no deadlines. You woke up to the soft hum of a ceiling fan and the low murmur of Paige’s voice reading news on her phone. She always let you sleep a little longer. You’d roll over, bury your face in her shirt, and she’d kiss your temple without fail.

That morning, she was tracing the lines on your arm, her voice soft.

“I had a weird dream.”

You hummed, half-asleep. “About what?”

“You,” she said simply. “And me. And a little girl. We were walking down the street in matching outfits. She had my eyes.”

Your eyes blinked open.

You shifted just enough to look at her. “Your eyes?”

She nodded. “Yeah. But she talked like you. Bossy as hell.”

You laughed sleepily. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

Paige was quiet for a moment. And then she said the thing that changed everything.

“I kinda want that. Soon.”

You blinked. “You mean like… someday?”

She shook her head. “I mean soon. Like… not next week. But not ten years from now either.”

You sat up a little. “You’re serious?”

She met your gaze, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I know we’re still young. I know we’re not even halfway through college yet. But… we’ve already been married for over a year. We’ve got our own place. I’ve already got more than enough money to provide. I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes with you already. And I want her to see that. I want our kid to grow up with it. With us. With everything we’re building.”

The thought hit harder than you expected.

Because you hadn’t really let yourself go there. Your world had been about balance, handling your studies, keeping your marriage private, supporting Paige through the chaos of early fame, and building your own path. A quieting meaningful path.

You were interning in pediatric physical therapy at the time. Working with kids who were learning to walk again, move again, breathe again. It was quiet work, but you loved it. You loved how healing was slow, deliberate, full of patience and gentleness.

You had that gentleness, too. Paige always told you so.

“I want that too,” you admitted. “But how would we even start?”

And that’s how it began.

With a shared blanket. With tangled legs and early morning breath. With laptops open and tabs pulled up on donor options and IVF procedures. With you pointing at one clinic in Hartford that had strong LGBTQ+ support ratings. With her clicking the bookmark icon like it made things real.

You decided, together, that you’d carry.

It made the most sense. Paige’s schedule didn’t stop. Yours could adjust. And maybe, deep down, you always knew your body was ready to hold something made of both your love and someone kind enough to give you the rest.

You didn’t tell anyone yet. You just made appointments, took notes, talked quietly while holding hands in waiting rooms. You whispered about names and strollers and baby shoes while curled up on couches, too in love to be afraid.

It was still a secret, but it was yours and it was starting to grow.

The leaves in Storrs hadn’t changed yet, but you could feel it coming. A shift in the air, the promise of yellowed trees and wind chilled just enough to make you reach for Paige’s hoodie instead of your own.

Classes had started again. Practices resumed. Your part-time job at the therapy clinic picked back up, and Paige was already juggling media appearances and early-season training. Life was busy again — the kind of busy that swallowed entire weeks whole.

And yet, you knew something was different.

It started small. Subtle. The kind of tired that didn’t feel like school fatigue. The way your appetite shifted, cravings that came and went with no warning. The occasional wave of nausea that swept in too fast to be anything else.

You didn’t want to say anything too soon. Not until you were sure.

So one morning, a Tuesday, the quiet kind, gray skies and soft rain tapping on the windows, you woke up earlier than Paige and slipped out of bed with your heart pounding.

You took the test in silence.

Paige stirred just as you set it on the counter, her voice raspy and barely awake. “Babe?”

“In here,” you called softly.

She padded into the bathroom barefoot, her hair a mess and hoodie slung halfway off one shoulder. Her eyes landed on the stick next to the sink and she froze.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence was heavy. Electric. The only sound was the ticking clock above the door and the patter of rain against the glass.

Then Paige stepped forward and laced her fingers through yours. Three minutes passed like a lifetime. When you finally turned the stick over to read it, your breath caught in your throat. Paige read it first. Her hand tightened in yours. Her voice cracked.

“Positive.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so you did both.

Paige cupped your face, her thumbs brushing away tears before they even fully fell, and you choked out a soft, stunned laugh. “That’s really it. We’re really doing this.”

She leaned in until her forehead touched yours, her eyes closing like she needed a second to breathe through it. “You’re gonna be the best mom,” she whispered.

You touched her chest. “You are too.”

Her arms wrapped around you then, tight, grounding, shaking a little, and she kissed you like the world had narrowed down to just this moment. The mirror behind you fogged from the warmth of your bodies and the wetness in your eyes, and neither of you cared that the toothbrush cup was knocked over or that the test still sat crooked on the counter.

It was real and it was happening.

You sat together on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour after that, Paige behind you, legs wrapped around your waist, hands resting gently over your stomach. Her voice was low as she asked what came next. Doctor visits. Nutrition plans. Telling friends, eventually. Telling her mom,  maybe after the second trimester. Keeping it quiet from the public, but letting the people who mattered in.

“I want her to grow up knowing you” Paige said at one point.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Our daughter,” she said. “If it’s a girl, I want her to know you like I do. The way you soften when you talk to kids. The way you look when you read. The way you cry at Pixar movies and pretend you didn’t. I want her to see all of that.”

You kissed her knuckles. “She will. She’ll know everything good starts with you.”

And Paige… confident, composed, unshakeable on court, looked at you then like she might break open from how full her heart was.

She pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then your stomach.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered softly to the small bump that hadn’t even begun to form. “It’s me. Your mama. I can’t wait to meet you.”

You sat there with her until your legs went numb and the world outside the bathroom stopped mattering. Because everything that mattered was already in your arms.

You always thought time would slow down in moments like this. That the universe might pause in reverence. That the air itself would hush when the world cracked open to let something new in.

But it didn’t.

Time kept ticking. The monitors kept beeping. The nurse kept speaking in calm, practiced tones. Paige kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth, a bundle of nerves wrapped in a hoodie far too big for the hospital room.

You had been in labor for sixteen hours and Paige had not let go of your hand for fifteen of them.

She stood beside you now, gripping your fingers with both hands, her lips trembling just above your knuckles. Her forehead glistened with a sheen of worry, her voice barely audible over the nurse’s countdown.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Just a little more. You’ve got this.”

You didn’t feel like you had it. You felt like you were splitting open, body and soul. But you kept going. Because at the end of this storm was her. Your daughter. Yours and Paige’s.

And when the last push came, and the room erupted with movement, gloved hands, soft gasps, rustling blankets, it was Paige who cried first.

Not loud sobs. Just a breath caught so deep in her chest it came out shaking, broken, overwhelmed.

You barely registered the sound until the nurse placed a tiny, squirming bundle against your chest, and everything else, the pain, the noise, the sterile lights, faded.

There she was. Skin against yours. Eyes closed. Mouth open in a soft wail that cut through you like sunlight.

And just like that, you were someone’s mother.

Paige pressed her forehead to the crown of your head, both hands cupping your cheeks now as if trying to ground herself in the miracle of it all.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered, breathless.

Paige nodded but couldn’t speak. Her hand drifted down to brush your daughter’s back, gentle and reverent, and you felt her chest rise and fall like the weight of the world had landed right on her ribs.

After a moment, you looked up at her, eyes shining. “I want to name her Madison.”

The words slipped out before you could second-guess them. Paige froze. Her eyes, already glossy, widened in stunned silence. “What?”

You offered a small, teary smile. “After you. It’s always been beautiful to me. Strong. Soft. I think it suits her.”

Paige covered her mouth. It took her a long time to speak. When she did, it was nothing more than a whisper, “You want to name her after me?”

You nodded. And Paige completely broke.

She bent down, burying her face into the crook of your neck as she wept quietly, raw and grateful and completely undone. You felt her shoulders shake against you, felt her lips press again and again to your skin like a promise.

“She’s gonna grow up knowing she was wanted,” Paige said finally. “Loved. So loved.” You looked down at Madison, now blinking up at you both, her tiny fist curled near her chin. “She has your nose,” Paige whispered.

“She has your eyes,” you said with a soft laugh.

And she did. Wide, curious, steady.

You watched Paige hold her for the first time, cradling Madison like she was made of silk and wonder. She kissed her daughter’s forehead like it was sacred, whispered something too soft for you to hear, and smiled like her entire life had narrowed to this exact second.

Outside, the sun was setting, streaks of pink and gold across the sky. Inside, you were a family. And nothing else mattered.

It was supposed to be simple. A quiet Saturday. Just a few extra runs with her teammates before the season officially kicked off again. Paige hadn’t played pickup all summer, not since the birth. She’d insisted she didn’t want to miss a single moment with Madison, her first laugh, her first expression, her first babble and that sacrifice never even felt like one.

But this day, Paige was smiling again in her old way, that edge of competitiveness tugging at her mouth as she laced her shoes and looked at you from across the gym. You were sitting near the benches, legs curled under you, Madison bundled against your chest in a soft sling.

“Don’t cheer too loud,” Paige had called, grinning. “I need to stay humble.”

“You’re playing Azzi,” you shot back. “You’ll humble yourself.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and pointed at Madison. “She’s Team Fudd, obviously.”

Madison babbled something incoherent and reached toward Azzi’s direction, and Paige clutched her chest in fake betrayal. “This is what I get for skipping nap time with you, huh?”

You laughed and shook your head, rocking gently as the baby settled into sleep.

The scrimmage started and the gym filled with the familiar sounds,  sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, the echo of friendly trash talk. You watched Paige play with a kind of ease that reminded you why everyone called her a generational talent. She flowed. She directed. She smiled when Azzi sank a corner three over her outstretched fingers and talked her way through every possession like the court was a second home.

You weren’t even watching the ball when it happened. You were watching Paige because you always were. And you knew her body language too well. The second she planted her leg, you saw it. Something was wrong. She pushed off, pivoted midair, and… Her scream didn’t sound like her. It was sharp. Immediate. Pain laced with panic.

Your heart stopped. The gym did too. Everything blurred but her.

You stood, too fast, Madison clutched tightly to your chest, and rushed forward. Azzi was already kneeling beside Paige, calling her name, but Paige wasn’t answering, she was writhing, hand gripping her knee, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

“Take her,” you said to Azzi, breathless, already dropping to your knees.

“What—”

“Take her,” you said again, more urgently, passing Madison off as gently as you could. Azzi caught the baby without question, holding her close.

You didn’t care who was around. You dropped beside Paige and cupped her face, your voice tight and shaking.

“Hey, hey-look at me. Look at me, baby.”

Paige’s eyes cracked open, wet with pain, panic swimming in them.

“It’s my knee,” she gasped, her voice thready. “I heard something pop. I-I can’t—”

“Shhh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” You stroked her hair back, tried to keep your own hands steady even as the worst-case scenarios clawed through your brain.

She was trembling. Jaw clenched. The trainers finally pushed through the group and began assessing her leg, gently instructing her not to move. Paige’s hand found yours again and squeezed until your knuckles turned white.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. Not yet. Because she needed you more than ever.

They brought the stretcher in minutes later. Paige refused it at first, her pride still louder than her pain, but you kneeled beside her the whole time, whispering soft reassurances that didn’t sound like anything real, just broken pieces of comfort stitched together.

Azzi handed Madison back to you just before they wheeled Paige out.

Your daughter was crying. Maybe because she felt it, the shift in the room, the tension, the way her mama’s arms weren’t the ones holding her anymore. You held Madison tighter and followed them out into the hallway.

Paige kept looking for you, over her shoulder, through tears, through clenched teeth. You were always there. Always.

By the time she was loaded into the ambulance, you had Madison strapped in beside you, hand on Paige’s arm, never once letting go.

The apartment never felt louder than when it was quiet.

The silence after Paige’s surgery was thick, the kind that crawled into the corners of rooms, stretched across ceilings, and settled like dust over every shared blanket and half-sipped mug of tea. She was home. She was safe. The surgery had gone well. But none of that seemed to matter to her in those first few days. She barely spoke.

The woman who once couldn’t go ten minutes without cracking a joke or throwing out a stat or narrating her own highlights in third person was quiet now. Not angry or cold. Just… quiet.

She sat on the couch with her leg elevated, wrapped in layers of gauze and ace bandages. Her crutches leaned against the armrest, untouched. A dull ice machine hummed beside her. She stared out the window more often than she watched TV.

You’d offered everything, her favorite snacks, movies, playlists, back scratches, your terrible jokes. She smiled, sometimes. Even laughed, once. But her spirit had dimmed. Until Madison reached for her.

It was during one afternoon, golden light spilling through the windows, and you had just laid a blanket across the living room floor so Madison could have tummy time. Paige sat nearby, distant, her hand absently resting on her swollen knee.

And then Madison, barely a couple weeks old, still clumsy, still unsteady, wobbled on her elbows, lifted her head, and let out a noise.

“Mmma.”

It wasn’t a full word. It was more like a sound. A syllable made out of instinct. But Paige’s head snapped toward her so fast you nearly dropped your tea.

“Mmma,” Madison said again, tiny hand waving through the air like she was reaching for something she couldn’t name.

And something in Paige just cracked.

She leaned forward carefully, wincing, and lowered herself down to the floor. You moved to help, but she held up a hand. “Let me.”

You watched her settle down slowly, one elbow at a time, until she was lying beside Madison on the blanket, face to face with her daughter.

“Hey, baby,” Paige whispered, voice already thick with emotion. “You saying hi to me?”

Madison babbled nonsense in return and smacked her little hand against Paige’s collarbone. Paige laughed, wet and raw.

You didn’t say anything. You just knelt nearby, watching the girl you loved rediscover a piece of herself in the soft weight of her daughter’s hands.

That became the new rhythm. Paige didn’t return to the court, but she started to return to herself.

She woke up first most mornings to scoop Madison out of her bassinet and hum lullabies while you slept a little longer. She changed diapers, awkwardly at first, like she was defusing a bomb, but she got good at it. She mastered the bottle warmer. She talked to Madison like she was already five, telling her about basketball plays and inside jokes and how much she missed playing with Azzi.

“I think she’s the one healing me,” Paige admitted one night as you both lay in bed, Madison asleep in the bassinet beside you. “Not the rest or the rehab. Just her. Just… being here.”

You turned to her, brushing hair away from her face. “I know.”

“She doesn’t care if I score twenty points or zero. She just lights up when I walk into the room.”

“She knows you,” you said simply. “Like I do.”

Paige kissed you… slow, deep, grateful.

You fell asleep that night with her hand curled around your waist and the soft sound of Madison’s breathing filling the room like a lullaby.

Every evening after that, Paige started a new tradition. Right before sunset, she’d call you and Madison to the front door. With her knee still stiff but improving, she’d wrap the baby against her chest in the sling and lean on you as the three of you went on slow walks around the block.

She’d talk the whole time, to you, to Madison, to the trees. Her voice wasn’t fully steady yet, but it carried more warmth with each passing day. You stopped at the same park bench every night. Paige would sit, Madison would nap, and you would press your head to her shoulder.

One evening, as the sky turned lavender and the wind rustled the leaves above you, Paige whispered, “Maybe this was supposed to happen.” You looked at her and she met your eyes. “The injury. The time off. Being here with you and her. It hurts, but… maybe it’s a gift, too.”

You didn’t need to say anything. You just kissed her softly, tasted salt and sunlight, and held her hand until the sky went dark.

The balloons arrived at 9:00 a.m. sharp, pastel pink, sunshine yellow, mint green, and soft lilac. Paige nearly cried just looking at them.

“You did all this?” she asked, her voice already cracking.

You shrugged, pretending you hadn’t triple checked the delivery time and added the glitter-dipped ribbons yourself at midnight. “She’s only turning one once.”

Madison’s first birthday wasn’t supposed to be extravagant. You and Paige had agreed on something small, intimate,  just a few close friends, some cupcakes, a playlist of Disney lullabies. But somehow, like all things involving your daughter, it had turned into something bigger.

Azzi was the first to arrive, thirty minutes early and armed with two giant bags of gifts and a personalized jersey that said “MADISON” across the back in glittery lettering and wore a tiara.

You looked at her, amused. “That for you or the baby?”

Azzi grinned. “Both. I’m her godmother. I take the title seriously.”

Paige rolled her eyes but kissed Azzi’s cheek anyway. “She missed you.”

“She’s not the only one,” Azzi murmured, her gaze softening as she caught sight of Madison toddling along the play mat in the living room, a butterfly clip in her wispy hair.

The others trickled in slowly, a blend of teammates, friends from UConn, and a few chosen family members who had loved Madison from the moment she entered the world. Everyone brought something, toys, snacks, stories. But no one brought cameras.

That was sacred. Still, the moments felt cinematic.

Paige wore a simple white T-shirt with “MAMA” printed across the chest and joggers that had cupcake frosting smudged on the thigh from an earlier kitchen mishap. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her face radiant in a way you hadn’t seen since before the injury. She moved through the apartment with Madison always within arm’s reach, lifting her onto her hip, blowing raspberries into her stomach, letting her ‘help’ unwrap presents by tearing at the corners with her tiny fists.

You caught her at one point, just standing there. Not moving. Not speaking. Just staring at your daughter like she was something too precious to touch.

You walked up and wrapped your arms around her from behind. “What’re you thinking about?”

She didn’t answer at first. “I’ve never loved anything more than I love you two.”

You rested your chin on her shoulder. “She’s your whole world, huh?”

“She’s the reason I still believe in good things,” Paige whispered.

The party went on around you, Azzi chasing Madison with a sparkly wand, confetti popping out of tubes you forgot you’d ordered, a cake with flowers made of frosting and a single candle that Paige insisted Madison blow out herself, even though she only succeeded in spitting all over it.

When it came time to open the gifts, Madison lost interest after the second box and preferred playing with the tissue paper. Paige didn’t mind. She watched her daughter crumple the paper with such delight that she leaned into your ear and whispered, “We could’ve just gotten her a grocery bag and she’d be thrilled.”

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes from how full the day felt.

Then Azzi stood up, cleared her throat, and said, “Alright, speech time. From the godmother.” The room quieted. Azzi looked at Madison, who was now sitting on Paige’s lap, happily chewing on a wooden block. “I’ve known Paige since we were just kids trying to figure out life while playing basketball,” Azzi began, voice steady but filled with emotion. “And I remember when she first talked about having a family. Not just someday, but really, a family she’d love with everything she had. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her more whole than when she became a mom.” She looked at you next. “And you… I mean, you’re the glue. You held her through everything. Injury. Fame. Fear. Joy. You created this life with her. You gave us Madison.” Azzi’s voice cracked just slightly. “I’m honored to be in her life. To be her godmother. And I promise, no matter what, she’ll always know how fiercely she’s loved.”

Paige was crying by then. You were, too. Azzi sat down and mumbled something about “stupid baby parties turning people into puddles.”

You and Paige cut the cake together, one hand each on the knife, Madison between you, licking icing off her fingers. Later, when the sun set and the guests left and the apartment quieted, you found Paige standing in Madison’s room, rocking her slowly in the dim glow of a nightlight.

“She’s out,” Paige whispered, smiling down at her daughter. “Long day.”

You leaned in the doorway, watching the two of them. “You tired too?”

“Yeah. But in the best way.”

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around both of them, careful not to jostle the baby. Paige rested her head on your shoulder.

“She’s not a baby forever,” she said softly.

“No,” you agreed. “But she’ll always be ours.”

The final buzzer was still echoing when Paige dropped to her knees at half court.

Not in pain, not anymore. But in awe.

Of the moment. Of the journey. Of the five years that had brought her here, back to the top, with gold confetti raining from the rafters and her name echoing through the stadium like a heartbeat. A national champion.

You watched it all from just beyond the barrier, Madison on your hip, her little fists clenching tight around the edge of her hoodie as she blinked up at the falling gold like she’d never seen anything so magical.

Your heart had been pounding all game. Not with nerves, those faded long ago. But with something quieter. Pride. Gratitude. That kind of breathless reverence you feel when someone you love finally comes home to themselves.

When Paige stood, the first person she looked for was you. Not the cameras. Not the crowd. Not the photographers waiting for their shot. She looked for you. And you were already moving before she even raised her hand, slipping past security with a practiced nod, weaving through the sideline chaos until you were there. She didn’t speak. She just pulled you in, burying her face into your neck, arms wrapped around both you and Madison in one long, unshakable hold. Your daughter squealed at the embrace, caught somewhere between laughter and confusion as she clutched a fistful of Paige’s jersey and looked around at the glittering chaos.

“She thinks we’re at a birthday party,” you joked softly.

Paige smiled against your skin. “It kinda feels like one.”

You stood together for a while, letting the team take their photos, letting the crowd cheer, letting the moment live.

Eventually, Paige’s mom made her way over, face red from crying, arms already outstretched. “Gimme that baby,” she whispered, eyes on Madison.

You passed her over gently, brushing your fingers along Madison’s curls. “You sure?”

“Please,” her mom grinned. “You two need a night. It’s been… God, it’s been a while.”

Paige glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

“We’ll meet you at the hotel later,” you told her mom. “Promise.”

That night, the hotel room felt impossibly quiet.

Paige was still in her championship shirt, barefoot now, hair wet from a quick shower and eyes glassy with exhaustion. You lay on the bed, turned sideways, facing each other. The room smelled like soap and leftover champagne. The confetti Madison had stuffed into her jacket pocket earlier was now spread across the dresser like glittered breadcrumbs.

Neither of you rushed to speak. You didn’t need to. Eventually, Paige reached for your hand. Traced your knuckles. Ran her thumb over the faint groove where your wedding ring always sat, even when the world didn’t know.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

You hummed. “Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously.”

“Okay. Thinking about what?”

She looked at the ceiling. “The draft’s close.”

“I know.”

“I think I’m ready.”

You shifted, studying her. “You sound unsure.”

“I’m not,” she said. “It’s just… everything’s about to change again. New city. New team. New schedule. And for the first time… I’m not scared of it.” You moved closer until your legs were tangled. She kept talking, voice soft. “I think it’s because I know you’re coming with me. Both of you.”

“Of course we are.”

“And I’m tired of hiding,” Paige said suddenly. You blinked. “Not in a public announcement kind of way,” she clarified quickly. “But… if someone sees us holding hands? If a fan catches us at dinner with Mads and figures it out? I don’t care anymore. I want to be seen with you.”

You sat in silence for a beat. “We’ve spent years holding this love like a secret.”

Paige looked at you, eyes burning with something fierce and honest. “Maybe it’s time we hold it like a promise instead.”

Your chest ached at that. The good kind of ache, the kind that only comes from surviving something with someone you never stopped choosing.

“So… Dallas?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Dallas,” Paige confirmed. “A place with sun, space and a guest room for Azzi so she can crash and spoil Madison.” You laughed. Paige reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want a backyard. I want to teach Madison how to ride a bike. I want to grill and mess it up, and have you make fun of me while she throws marshmallows at me.”

You leaned in. “You’re getting very suburban.”

She grinned. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s always a yes with you.”

The house was still mostly boxes when Paige picked Madison up and twirled her in a circle between the kitchen and the living room.

“Where do you wanna put your toys, baby girl?” she asked, adjusting the toddler on her hip.

Madison tilted her head dramatically, curls bouncing, and pointed at a random corner with absolute confidence. “Dere.”

Paige blinked. “The kitchen?”

“Yah,” Madison declared, nodding.

You laughed from where you were unpacking plates. “She wants to be close to snacks. She’s her mama’s daughter.”

Paige gave Madison a fake stern look. “You’re a traitor.”

Madison squealed, unbothered, and gripped her mama’s cheeks with both hands. “Snack! Paw-cawn! Chee tihhhks!”

You melted at the sound of her voice, her baby babble had sharpened into syllables you could mostly understand, but it was still laced with that innocent chaos only a two year old could conjure. She was always narrating, always chatting, always looking between you and Paige like her world hadn’t extended past the two of you just yet.

You hoped it never would. Paige’s first official practice with the Dallas Wings was three days later.

And from the moment she put on that navy blue warmup set with the new team stitched across her chest, you could feel something settle in her again. Not ego or nerves. Just purpose. Her steps had weight again. Her shoulders sat straight. She kissed your forehead before you left the apartment like it was ritual, then bent down and pressed her lips to Madison’s curls.

“You ready to come meet the squad, little mama?” she whispered.

Madison nodded solemnly and whispered back, “I gonna say hi.”

You chuckled from the door. “She says that until she sees strangers, then she hides in your neck.”

“I do not,” Madison said with a frown.

“You definitely do.”

“Nooo I brave!” she declared, smacking her hands against her chest.

Paige raised a brow. “Who taught her that?”

You gave her a look. “Who do you think? You gave her a full pep talk before a doctor’s appointment last week.”

Paige beamed. “She took the shot like a champ, though.”

“She cried into my shirt for ten minutes.”

“Still a champ.”

The drive to the facility was calm. Madison hummed along to a song that wasn’t playing, a quiet little tune she made up under her breath that consisted mostly of the word “basketball” repeated in three different tempos. Paige drove one handed, the other is gripping your thigh.

The facility wasn’t what you expected—brighter, friendlier, warmer. You had pictured something clinical. But the front desk staff waved when Paige walked in, and one of the assistants was already holding open the door.

And then you stepped into the gym, Madison in Paige’s arms, your hand tucked in hers, and everything paused. Literally.

DiJonai had been mid-dribble and just froze, mouth hanging open slightly. NaLyssa Smith, mid-stretch, sat up straight and stared.

“Um…” DiJonai finally said, eyes wide. “Bueckers?”

Paige gave a sheepish smile. “Hey.”

“Are you holding a baby right now?”

Paige looked down at Madison, who was fully tucked into her side like a koala. “Yep.”

“And that’s your…” DiJonai’s voice trailed off as she tried to do the math.

“My daughter,” Paige said simply, without hesitation. She squeezed your hand. “And this is my wife.”

You gave a small wave, nerves twitching in your gut despite yourself. There was silence for one beat longer,  and then NaLyssa stood up, walked over, and grinned. “I’ve got so many questions.”

Paige laughed. “Later. I promise.”

Madison blinked up at the new faces, uncertain. She pressed her cheek into Paige’s neck and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Mama I shy now.”

Paige rubbed her back. “It’s okay, Mads. Wanna say hi?”

“Noooo,” Madison whispered, peeking with one eye. “But I wave.”

And she did. A tiny, tentative little hand raising in the air. The entire gym cooed in unison.

DiJonai’s face melted into a smile. “Oh, you’re done for. She runs this team now.”

“I accepted my fate,” Paige said.

Practice started soon after. You took Madison to sit on the sidelines where some chairs had been set up. She sat in your lap with a sippy cup, watching her mama run drills and shout plays with wide eyes.

At one point, DiJonai jogged over during a water break and crouched in front of Madison. “Hey, little queen. You wanna be my hype woman?”

Madison blinked. “Go, go, gooo!”

DiJonai stood and pointed. “See? She gets it.”

Later, when practice wrapped, and the gym started to clear, Paige walked straight toward you, sweat-slicked and breathless, a towel around her neck.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay,” you said. “They love you. And her.”

“She didn’t cry once,” Paige said proudly.

“She did,” you corrected. “When you did sprints and left her line of sight for five seconds.”

Paige winced. “Oof. My bad.”

You kissed her shoulder. “She recovered.”

Madison toddled up between you both and lifted her arms. “Up.”

Paige bent, picked her up, and kissed her head. “You my biggest fan?”

Madison nodded. “I yell go!”

You and Paige laughed, and Paige held her close. “You’re the only one I’ll listen to,” she whispered. And then she looked at you. “I mean both of you.” And you believed her.

It was early May, and the sky over Minneapolis looked like it remembered you.

You hadn’t been back in almost a year. Not since before Paige’s last year at Uconn, before the confetti, before the flight that turned your shared dream into something sunlit and real. Now you were here again, home in a new way and you were holding Paige’s hand like it still meant something sacred. Because it did.

The Target Center glowed against the evening skyline. A quiet pulse of light and noise. Inside, the crowd buzzed like a charged wire. Every banner fluttered. Every seat filled. The Wings were here to open the season against the Lynx. And for the first time, Paige was wearing a WNBA jersey, her name stitched across the back, number five gleaming under the lights.

You adjusted Madison’s pink earmuffs gently, making sure they sat snug against her curls. She was bouncing on your lap, kicking her tiny sneakers against the courtside padding, singing something to herself with no real melody and a whole lot of joy.

“Baskebahhhlll,” she murmured. “Go mama. Go mama gooo.” She clapped her hands out of sync with anything in particular, then pointed when she saw the players warming up. “Is dat mama?”

You smiled, following her gaze. “Yep. That’s Mama. And you know who else is here?”

“KK,” she said confidently.

“And Uncle Drew.”

She looked around eagerly, head turning like a radar until she spotted them a few seats down. KK waved dramatically, already holding up a stuffed bear with a jersey on it. Drew gave a goofy double thumbs-up. Madison squealed.

Paige had insisted you all come. Not just because it was her debut or because it was Minnesota. But because this was the game that changed everything, not in some cinematic, game winning shot kind of way, but in the way her name would echo across her home state, this time not as a girl with potential, but as a professional. A woman with her world already built.

The game was tight from tip off. The Wings fought like hell—aggressive, young, scrappy. Paige played like she had something to prove, even if she didn’t need to. Her handles were sharp. Her vision, lethal. She talked on defense. She hit two corner threes and pointed to Drew in the crowd after each one, laughing. You couldn’t stop smiling.

And Madison? She couldn’t stop talking. “Mama runnin’! Mama fasss!”

You hushed her gently when the crowd got quiet, but it didn’t matter, she had no idea she was in an arena. To her, this was still just her mama doing cool things while she watched from your lap with her little bunny tucked under one arm and crumbs on her shirt from the cookies KK snuck her.

The Wings lost… barely. A final turnover in the last minute gave the Lynx the edge, and the buzzer sounded over a restless, roaring crowd. But Paige didn’t look disappointed. She looked… proud. She had played well. She had walked into her home state and given them something to remember.

And the very first thing she did after shaking hands with the opposing team? She looked for you. You stood, already lifting Madison into your arms. The little girl blinked, recognized Paige across the court, and shouted her name with a joy so loud it turned heads.

“MAMAAAAA!”

You saw the exact moment Paige heard her. She broke into a breathy laugh, tilted her head back for a second like she was catching her breath, then made a beeline straight across the court. Security parted instinctively. Cameras turned. But all she saw… all she wanted… was you. And your daughter. She reached you, eyes wet with emotion, and scooped Madison up into her arms.

“Did you see me out there?” she asked her softly, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her nose.

Madison nodded. “You go vewy fast. And you jump so good.”

Paige grinned. “You’re the best hype woman ever.”

You stepped closer, brushing hair from Paige’s damp temple. “You were incredible.”

She leaned into your touch. “Only because you’re both here.”

Together, you walked toward the tunnel, Paige holding Madison, you holding Paige’s hand.

Fans waved as you passed. Some smiled. Some pointed. A few phones came up, not many. The whispers hadn’t started. The questions hadn’t formed. But they would. And this time… you weren’t afraid.

Madison waved at the crowd like Paige always did after a win. Paige smiled and whispered, “She’s a natural.” You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Because as the tunnel swallowed you in shadows and quiet, and the arena noise faded behind you, Paige shifted Madison to her other arm, took your hand in hers, and whispered one thing, “I’ve never felt more like myself than I do right now.”

It felt like returning to the place where everything began, only now you weren’t just two girls in love trying to keep it quiet. You were a family, no longer hiding, simply living in the open spaces between who you’d been and who you were becoming.

Mohegan Sun Arena looked the same. The light, the noise, the energy, all pulsing in familiar rhythm. But this time, you weren’t sitting courtside. This time, you were in the stands, nestled among friends who had once been your world and still somehow were.

Azzi clutched Madison in her lap like she’d never let her go again. She was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and a soft pink baseball cap that Madison had already stolen and returned three times.

“Do you miss her?” you asked, watching the way Azzi kept whispering into your daughter’s curls.

Azzi gave you a look. “I think about her every damn day. Y’all stole my child.”

“She FaceTimed you yesterday.”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “It’s not the same.”

KK sat beside her, a giant bag of popcorn in one hand and a water bottle she hadn’t touched in the other. “Mads,” she said between bites, “when you gonna come live with your aunties?”

Madison blinked at her, unimpressed. “I wiff Mama.”

Azzi laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

The game started quickly, Wings vs. Sun, energy crackling through the packed arena. But you felt something different this time. It wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t pride. It was something else.

Eyes. You could feel them. They weren’t aggressive. But they lingered… sideways glances, whispered words exchanged between rows, curious looks that trailed back to you and Madison. To the way your daughter sat perfectly nestled in Azzi’s lap with her earmuffs on, babbling loudly every time she saw Paige on the court.

“There go Mama!” she shouted at least once per quarter, finger extended dramatically.

Each time, a few people turned. Each time, your heart clenched, not in fear, but in awareness. They were starting to piece it together.

It wasn’t just the resemblance. It was the way Madison lit up every time Paige came near. It was the way Azzi, KK, and the rest of the UConn players treated the child like she was royalty. It was the way you—quiet, observant, low-profile—always looked at Paige like the game was secondary and she was the story.

You felt one girl behind you whisper, “That’s her, right? The girl that’s always at her games? I think she’s, like… her partner or something.”

The word didn’t sting. It echoed. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t react. You just reached over, brushed a curl from Madison’s forehead, and kissed it softly.

“Mama go?” Madison asked again, louder this time.

“Soon,” you said. “She’s almost done.”

The Wings were up by twelve with three minutes left. Paige had played a quiet, efficient game, high percentage scoring, high assists, constant leadership. The kind of game you’d only recognize as excellent if you understood how to read her movements. How she directed traffic. How she passed before her teammate even called for it. She looked up often, eyes scanning the crowd until they found the same row. Yours. And when they did, her entire face changed. Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. But you did. The tension in her shoulders loosened. Her chest rose softer. Her smile tilted just slightly. That’s all it took.

The final buzzer sounded not long after. Wings win their first game. Paige Bueckers still undefeated at Mohegan Sun.

Fans filed out slowly, but your group stayed. A staff member came over and handed Madison a small basketball, something promotional, rubbery, too big for her tiny hands but perfect in her eyes.

“I hold ball,” she declared.

“You better share,” KK warned. “I called dibs.”

“Noooo,” Madison said. “Mama coming?” She said it like it was inevitable. And she was right. A minute later, Paige stepped out of the tunnel, in her warmups, towel around her neck, hair damp with sweat. Her eyes found Madison instantly. The moment the toddler saw her, she screamed, “MAMAAAA!”

And then she ran. Her steps were clumsy, wobbly, loud. Fans still lingering turned to watch, not knowing what to expect. But they knew, the second Paige dropped to her knees in the middle of the hallway and held her arms out like the whole world rested in that moment.

Madison crashed into her.

“Hi, baby girl,” Paige whispered, lifting her easily, spinning her once, kissing her cheeks.

You watched from a few steps back, the clamor of recognition finally starting to ripple around you.

“That’s Paige Bueckers’ kid.” “Wait… is that her girlfriend?” “No way.” “They’ve been together this whole time?”

You didn’t turn around. You just walked forward, placed a hand gently on Paige’s back, and kissed her shoulder. She looked up at you, Madison’s curls mashed against her collarbone, and smiled.

“I missed you,” she said.

“You saw us an hour ago,” you teased.

“I miss you every hour.”

You leaned in, eyes on her, voice low. “Let them talk.”

“I hope they do,” she murmured.

And then, in front of the whispers, the stares, the uncertain eyes, Paige Bueckers, number five, national champion, rookie sensation, pressed her lips softly to your cheek and whispered one last thing, “This is the only team I’ll ever need.”

The morning started the way the best days always did. With sunlight creeping across the hardwood floors, Madison already awake, and Paige pretending she wasn’t.

You were in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, stirring pancake batter while the coffee brewed slowly behind you. The apartment was warm, alive with the sound of Madison’s humming from the hallway. She was dragging her stuffed bunny across the floor by one ear, narrating her morning routine in a half-English, half-toddler dialect that only you and Paige had mastered decoding.

“Mama’s sweepin’. She be sweepin’. Shhh,” Madison whispered dramatically, pointing down the hallway like you weren’t already fully aware.

You crouched down to her level, grinning. “Want to help wake her up?”

Madison’s eyes lit up. “We do da tickles?”

“The tickles,” you confirmed.

Together, you tiptoed into the bedroom like a stealth operation, Madison leading the way, already giggling behind her tiny hand. Paige lay sprawled across the bed in a tangle of blankets, one arm over her eyes, hair a mess, and somehow still the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Madison climbed onto the bed first. You waited. One beat. Two. Then Madison pounced.

“MAMAAAA!”

Paige grunted. “Betrayed. By my own child.”

Madison was relentless, small fingers poking at Paige’s ribs, her sides, her face. “You ‘sweep too wong,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “You miss pancakes!”

“Pancakes?!” Paige’s eyes flew open. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

You climbed in beside them, tossing a pillow over your head. “I told you I’d make them.”

“You did,” Paige yawned, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “But I had a dream you brought them to me in bed.”

You kissed her nose. “Dream smaller.”

By the time the three of you made it back to the kitchen, it was chaos, Madison demanding her pancakes be shaped like bunnies, Paige trying to flip hers with way too much confidence, you pretending not to notice the flour on the floor and the butter in Madison’s hair.

Eventually, you all ended up on the couch, full and warm, cartoons humming softly in the background. Paige was on one end, legs stretched out, Madison on her chest like a tiny human blanket, head tucked under her chin. You sat beside them with a book you weren’t reading, more focused on the way Paige’s fingers absentmindedly traced circles on Madison’s back.

“She’s getting heavier,” Paige murmured.

“She’s growing,” you whispered.

Madison stirred a little, then settled again, clutching a corner of Paige’s shirt in her fist.

“She’s perfect,” Paige said, eyes on her daughter. “We really did this.”

You nodded, resting your head against her shoulder. “You’re pretty perfect too.”

“Please,” Paige scoffed quietly. “I almost burned the pancakes. She called them ‘cwunchy.’”

“They were,” you grinned.

“Hey,” Paige said, squeezing your thigh. “You’re legally required to support me.”

“I’m legally required to love you. Supporting you is extra.”

Paige smiled, eyes closing. “Thanks for the extra.”

The rest of the day passed slowly. The best kind of slow, board games with missing pieces, coloring books spread across the floor, finger paint that somehow ended up on the windowsill, and a dance party that ended with Madison passed out in Paige’s arms before dinner.

You all sat in the dim light of the living room as the sun set, the windows open just enough to let the warm Dallas air drift in. Paige had her arm around you, Madison’s tiny legs tucked over both your laps, the three of you tangled up in each other like roots in soft soil.

At one point, Paige looked down at Madison and whispered, “What did we ever do to deserve her?”

You looked at them both and smiled. “Love each other right.”

And maybe that was the answer to everything.

You saw it before Paige did.

It was a quiet Monday, the kind that slipped in unnoticed. Madison was halfway through a morning nap, sprawled across the couch like a queen with her stuffed animals arranged around her in perfect chaos. Paige had just returned from a team lift, still in compression tights and a cutoff hoodie, sipping a smoothie and humming softly under her breath.

You were folding laundry. Or pretending to, anyway, your phone buzzed once, and you caught the name of the outlet in the notification before you even opened it.

The Athletic.

Your stomach tightened slightly, not out of fear, but out of instinct. You tapped the headline.

“More Than a Point Guard. Paige Bueckers’ Return, Her Growth, and the Family That Grounds Her”

You read the first few paragraphs slowly. Carefully. Each word felt balanced on a thread, written not like a tabloid but like someone trying to understand without invading. There were no names. No specifics. Just quiet observations, pieced together with intention.

“Sources close to the Wings’ locker room say that Bueckers, known for her reserved demeanor and private nature, is often the last to leave practice—but never alone. She’s seen quietly slipping out a side door, a toddler on her hip, and someone always waiting just outside with a smile that could split the sky.”

“It’s not a secret, and it’s not a spectacle. But in a league built on visibility, Bueckers has done something remarkable—she’s created a life entirely her own, visible only to those she chooses. And within that life, there seems to be something steady. Something whole.”

“There’s talk of a marriage. Talk of a daughter. No confirmations. No denials. Just the glint of a ring, the sound of a baby’s laugh echoing across empty gyms, and the warmth in Bueckers’ eyes whenever she glances toward the stands.”

You looked up, your throat dry, and found Paige watching you.

“What is it?” she asked.

You handed her the phone. She read slowly, one hand on her smoothie, the other reaching blindly for yours. When she finished, she was quiet. Her thumb rested against the edge of the screen. Her breathing didn’t change, but something in her expression softened.

“They didn’t name you,” she said.

You nodded. “They didn’t have to.”

She looked at you. “Are you okay with it?”

“I am,” you said. And you meant it.

Because it didn’t feel like exposure.

It felt like a door gently creaking open, not kicked, not forced. Just opened wide enough for the world to see what you’d built. Paige scrolled again, rereading a few lines.

“They were kind,” she murmured.

“Because they saw what you are.”

She looked up at you. “What am I?”

“More than a point guard.”

That night, the internet didn’t explode. It hummed.

Fans tweeted quotes from the article like poetry. Screenshots of highlighted paragraphs. Soft speculation. Questions, yes, but not the kind that demanded answers. Just quiet curiosity, threaded with awe.

“I don’t care who Paige Bueckers is dating or if she has a kid. But the way this article talks about her? It was real respectful.”

“The most Paige thing ever is being married with a child for years and nobody finding out until someone noticed the way she smiles into the crowd.”

Paige read each one slowly, Madison curled in her lap, her thumb brushing along her daughter’s chubby thigh. “Are we… okay with this?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “They see us. Not all of us. Just enough.”

Paige pressed her lips to Madison’s temple. “We still keep it ours, though.”

“Always.”

Indianapolis was alive with light and noise.

Banners lined the streets. Billboards pulsed with orange. Every hotel lobby buzzed with familiar faces, players, coaches, media, fans. The air hummed with something different now. Not just celebration. Not just basketball. But a sense that women’s sports weren’t whispering anymore. They were roaring.

And Paige—your Paige—was walking her first-ever All-Star orange carpet like she belonged there. Because she did.

You were standing a few feet back, Madison on your hip, Azzi just behind you in white wide-leg jeans and a cropped tee, making jokes about how Bob was acting like Paige’s dad slash manager. Paige didn’t complain. Her dad, standing off to the side with quiet pride in his eyes, had spent the morning telling stories about baby Paige crossing over little boys in their driveway. You didn’t miss the way he looked at her now, a little in awe, a little emotional.

She looked unreal.

Cream baggy pants with patches stitched along the legs. A sleeveless cardigan, neckline deep just enough to show her necklace, the one with the little “M” charm tucked against her chest. She’d slipped it on before you left the hotel without saying a word, just looked at you in the mirror and smiled.

You and Madison were both in summer dresses, yours a soft, linen green that made Paige whistle when you walked out of the bathroom earlier, Madison’s white with blue flowers, the straps tied in loose bows on her shoulders. She’d insisted on wearing lip gloss, and you hadn’t had the heart to say no.

The orange carpet was chaos. Cameras flashing, reporters shouting names, fans screaming from the barricades. Paige handled it the way she always did, calm, collected, a half-smirk on her face like she was both part of it and floating just above it.

And then, somehow, like it always happened, you all ended up drifting apart just a little.

Azzi and Drew got stopped by an influencer for something involving TikTok. Paige was off to the side with some of the other players there—Napheesa, Gabbie, Jackie Young, NaLyssa, Dijonai—Maddie balanced on her hip like it was second nature. And you? You were sipping a small water bottle when the girl approached.

“Hi! Sorry,” she said, chipper and confident, holding a mic with a sticker that read WagTalk. “I run an account that does player partner interviews. Would you be down to answer a few fun questions? Just light stuff, like, ‘how well do you know your WNBA girlfriend?’” You blinked. She was already pulling up her camera app. “Totally fine if not, obviously! But you’re kind of iconic. No one knows anything about you two officially, so…”

You hesitated. Then glanced toward Paige. She had Madison on one arm, talking to Phee and cracking up about something, but when she felt your eyes, she looked over, and gave you a single, subtle nod. Not permission, but a sign of trust. So you smiled at the girl and said, “Sure.”

The camera was already rolling. The mic picked up your voice clearly.

“Okay!” she said, clearly relieved. “This one’s called ‘How Well Do You Know Your WNBA Girlfriend?’ Ready?”

You smiled, nodded.

“What college did she go to?”

You didn’t hesitate. “UConn.”

“Easy,” the girl laughed. “What’s your girlfriend’s career high in the W?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Thirty-five points.”

“Correct!” she grinned. “What year did she win Gatorade Player of the Year?”

“2020.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Someone did their homework.”

“I was there,” you said simply.

She smiled, then jumped into the next. “Okay, fourth question—year, pick, and team she got drafted?”

You didn’t blink. “2025. Number one pick. Dallas Wings.”

A soft gasp came from behind the camera. “Okay, okay! Last one—how many national championships did she win?”

“One,” you said.

She nodded approvingly, then leaned in with a cheeky grin. “Girlfriend reveal, it’s…”

You smiled, soft and steady.

“Well—” you said, your voice light, “wife. And it’s Paige Bueckers.”

The girl stepped back, stunned. “That was—wow. Thank you. Seriously. That was—”

You waved gently, already turning to make your way back toward your family.

By the time you reached them, Paige had Madison up on her shoulders, the toddler gripping her mama’s hair with both hands and babbling about “dat big orange thing” she saw on the carpet. Paige was laughing softly, swaying to keep balance, before she spotted you. The look she gave you said everything.

You nodded, slow and sure. “It’s done,” you said quietly.

Paige tilted her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned down just enough to kiss you—nothing dramatic, just a soft press of lips to temple, then cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“Let them know,” she said.

And somehow, the world already did.

By the time the sun dipped lower and the pre-weekend media cycle picked up, the video was everywhere.

Clips played on Instagram stories. Tweets lit up with screenshots. Slow motion edits of you smiling while saying “well, wife” surfaced with background music. The fans—shocked, thrilled, moved—pieced it together with the old clips. The stares. The glimpses. The quiet devotion.

It had been a long time since you and Paige got to go anywhere without a diaper bag or a crayon-stained snack pouch. You hadn’t worn heels in weeks. She hadn’t worn cologne since Madison had developed a habit of sneezing on command for attention.

But tonight?

Tonight was different.

Her dad had taken Maddie with a proud grin and a wink—“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t convince me to buy another stuffed animal. Or four.”—and Paige had kissed her Maddie's, whispered “be good for Papa,” and turned to you with a look that made your pulse stumble.

She’d worn black tailored pants and a light blue collared zip up sweater, simple but clean. Her hair was pulled back in a slick bun, a silver chain resting against her collarbone, and the second you stepped out of the elevator into the party, heads turned—because Paige Bueckers didn’t just walk into a room, she glided.

You wore a red silk dress, one Paige had picked out without telling you, claiming it matched your mouth when you were about to say something smart. She hadn’t let go of your hand since you’d walked through the door.

The party was alive—pulsing music, laughter bouncing off the walls, neon lights that made every drink sparkle a little brighter. Players mingled in clusters, sneakers traded for heels and platforms, jerseys swapped for crop tops and chains. You spotted familiar faces already dancing with Angel, Sabrina laughing with Aaliyah Boston over something that had both of them nearly doubled over.

You and Paige found a quieter corner, where she ordered two drinks—Dirty Shirleys, both with extra cherry, because you teased her once and she never forgot.

“You trying to get me drunk on sugar?” you asked.

She leaned in. “No, but I’m tryna taste cherry on your lips later.”

Your laugh was soft. Familiar. She knew just how to draw it out.

You barely had time to take a sip before two figures approached with a kind of chaotic energy that made everyone in their path turn and smile.

Courtney Williams and Natisha Heideman.

You’d seen them online, of course—their livestream antics, the way they talked about hoop like it was a love language, the way their chemistry radiated through every screen. And now they were here.

Courtney had a mic in one hand, Natisha had a phone in the other, and both were laughing before they even reached Paige.

“Ayo, Paige!” Courtney grinned, sliding into the space beside her. “Look who finally made it to an All-Star party! You clean up nice.”

Paige smirked, sliding her arm around your waist without a second of hesitation. “Appreciate it. You two good?”

“We better now,” Natisha said, grinning wide. “We on live right now—say hey to the chat.”

Paige looked straight into the camera. “What up, StudBudz Nation.”

Courtney whistled. “She already knows the name! She really is a real one.”

Then T leaned in slightly, her eyes flicking toward you. “And who’s this radiant human?”

You opened your mouth, but Paige beat you to it—her arm tightening ever so slightly around you.

“This is my wife,” she said.

Courtney’s eyes widened, mouth dropping into a slow, impressed smile. “Wife?!”

“Wifey?” T echoed. “Like legal wife? Like rings and vows and all that?”

Paige lifted her left hand and wiggled her ring finger. You mirrored her a beat later.

Courtney turned back to the phone. “Y’all. Y’ALL. The rumors are TRUE. Paige Bueckers is a married woman, and nobody told us?!”

The chat on their stream exploded. You could see it out of the corner of your eye—hearts, “NO WAY,” “I KNEW IT,” and a flood of cherry emojis for some reason you couldn’t quite place.

“I mean,” Paige said casually, sipping her Dirty Shirley, “it was never a secret. Just wasn’t a headline.”

T looked at you with a warm smile. “So how long you been putting up with her?”

You grinned. “Since freshman year of high school.”

Courtney clutched her chest. “THAT’S REAL LOVE. That’s ‘I seen your braces and your awkward phase’ love.”

“You have no idea,” you laughed.

They kept talking—light, fun, teasing. Paige never took her hand off you, her fingers resting against your hip, her thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like a rhythm only she could hear. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t guarded. You were just there—standing beside the love of your life, the mother of your child, while the world slowly learned what real love could look like.

Eventually, someone called Court and T toward the dance floor. The second they walked away, Paige turned to you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “They’re sweet.”

Paige tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re the reason.”

She leaned in, pressed her lips to yours, slow and soft, just long enough to forget where you were. And when she pulled back, her smile was lazy and full. “Remind me to thank my dad for taking Maddie.”

You laughed. “Oh, I plan on it.”

And somewhere behind you, a livestream kept rolling. The chat kept freaking out.

But Paige? She was too busy tracing the line of your spine with her fingertips and whispering, “Let’s sneak out of here before anyone else tries to make us viral.”

And you did. Hand in hand.

The crowd was already electric before the tip.

You could feel it from the moment you entered the arena, hand in hand with Maddie, her tiny sneakers lighting up with every step and her curls bouncing beneath the oversized “BUECKERS” jersey she proudly wore like armor. She’d begged to wear the “real one”—the All-Star edition Paige had custom-made for her with a glittery number five stitched on the back and MAMA’S GIRL embroidered just above the hem.

The second you stepped out into the front row, cameras turned, fans pointed, but you were used to it now. The whispers had turned into waves, the curious glances into knowing smiles. People didn’t question anymore. They just nodded, smiled, lifted their phones, and said things like…

“She’s here.” “She brought her.” “They’re real. They’re really real.”

And they were.

You lowered Maddie onto the padded seat beside you, fastening her pink earmuffs gently over her ears. She was bouncing in place, clutching her plush basketball like it had feelings, eyes scanning the court until they locked onto the figure emerging from the tunnel.

Paige.

Hair in a slick back bun, her All-Star jersey tucked into her shorts, every step she took radiating quiet confidence. She looked like she belonged there—not like a rookie, not like someone finding her way, but like someone who had always been meant for this.

She was on Team Collier, and tonight, they were going up against Team Clark—a lineup that had been hyped all week. From the first possession, Paige played like someone who remembered exactly who she was. Fast, fluid, feisty. Pull-up jumpers that kissed the glass. Behind the back dimes that made the crowd gasp. No look passes that threaded through defenders like smoke.

And every time she made a shot, every time she set up a teammate, her eyes scanned the stands, found you, found Maddie. She’d tap her heart. Raise her hand.

Maddie, despite not fully grasping score differentials or offensive sets, clapped like her life depended on it. “MAMA FAST!” she yelled. “MAMA MAKE A BASKET!”

You just held her close, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, your heart rattling in your chest with every smile Paige tossed your way.

Team Collier built a steady lead by the third quarter, and by the fourth, Paige was playing loose—laughing mid-play, dapping up teammates, spinning her defender into the paint for a scoop layup and grinning like she was ten years old again in a driveway with a dream.

When the buzzer sounded the arena erupted. Paige didn’t celebrate with her teammates first. She turned to the sideline. You stood instinctively, already lifting Maddie into your arms as Paige jogged over, sweat-slicked and glowing, hands out.

Maddie shrieked with delight. “MAMA WIN!”

Paige caught her midair with practiced ease, spinning her in a circle right there on the hardwood, laughter spilling out of both of them. Maddie threw her arms around her mama’s neck, little legs swinging, and Paige held her like the trophy she’d always dreamed of. You stayed close, watching it unfold with a kind of awe you never got used to. Not because she’d won. Not because of the crowd or the cameras or the chants.

But because even in the loudest moment of her life… Paige still only had eyes for her family.

“Maddie,” Paige said, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s cheek, “did you see that three pointer?”

“I SAW IT!” Maddie screamed back. “YOU DID A ‘WOOSH!’”

Paige laughed, eyes glassy, head tilted back. “She’s gonna be louder than me someday.”

“She already is,” you said, stepping forward, brushing a curl off her forehead.

Paige kissed you without thinking. Soft, sure. A thousand cameras caught it. A thousand more would repost it. But she didn’t even glance their way.

This moment wasn’t for them. It was for you. For Maddie. For the team that carried her long before the world figured out who she really was.

And in that moment—under the All-Star lights, jersey stained with sweat, daughter in her arms and your hand in hers— Paige Bueckers didn’t just look like a star.

She looked like someone’s everything.

That someone is you.

The afterparty had already started by the time you got there, but in truth, it had been starting all day—from the moment Paige laced up for her first All-Star Game, to the kiss she gave you after the win, to the way she whispered “we’re doing something big, huh?” against your neck during the elevator ride back up to the room.

Madison was tucked away with Paige’s dad again, sleeping soundly after a postgame dinner that ended with three scoops of ice cream and a pink balloon tied to her wrist. She hadn’t even fought sleep—just curled up in Papa’s arms and gone under.

That left you and Paige free.

Free, in the way parents rarely get to be. Free in the way you both had once been before babies and futures weighed heavy on every move. And tonight, the world had caught up to who you were. There was nothing left to hide.

So when you walked into Azzi’s rented out venue—lights bouncing off walls, bodies moving to bass heavy remixes, laughter slipping through the room and the smell of tequila—you felt light in a way you hadn’t in years.

Paige was already there. Already gone, honestly.

You spotted her in the middle of a massive circle of people—players, staff, friends, influencers, some of the league’s most recognizable faces—and at the center of it all was Paige Bueckers, absolutely wasted, one arm wrapped around T, the other flailing toward the ceiling as she belted out the chorus to “Love” by Keyshia Cole like it was the national anthem.

Court held the phone, capturing every second for their stream, howling in the background as Paige leaned fully into the performance—eyes closed, face twisted in earnest pain, free hand over her heart like she’d been through something deeper than a win.

“I used to think that I wasn't fine enough…” 

The crowd around her was losing it.

People shouted the words with her, reaching into the circle, phones up, drinks spilling. It was a moment. One of those rare, glowing things that lives half in memory, half in myth.

And then Paige stopped. She turned, unprompted, eyes searching through the haze like she felt something shift. Like her center of gravity had moved.

And then her eyes landed on you. You. Standing just beyond the circle, dress clinging to your curves, lipstick smudged from the second drink you didn’t need, tipsy but glowing. Your body already swaying a little to the music. Your heart already halfway in your throat.

Paige smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. A smile—wide, reckless.

“But I won’t waste my time tryna figure out…”

She turned back toward the camera, locked eyes with Court’s stream, and yelled, “THIS ONE’S FOR MY WIFE.”

The entire place screamed. You didn’t even have time to blush. Paige was already moving—stumbling, maybe, but with absolute determination—pushing through the circle, drink long forgotten somewhere behind her, arms already opening wide.

You met her halfway. Your bodies collided like magnets, her arms sliding around your waist, your hands bracing against her chest.

“LOVE! NEVER KNEW WHAT I WAS MISSIN’ BUT I KNEW ONCE WE START KISSIN’…”

She sang it directly to you. Off key. Loud. Unapologetic. You were laughing, full body laughing, the kind that made your knees weak and your cheeks ache. And then you were singing too, equally off key, both of you spinning in a slow, ridiculous two step as the crowd cheered like you were the main event.

“She gone,” Court shouted nearby, laughing into the phone. “Paige Bueckers is DRUNK IN LOVE. Somebody get Beyoncé on the line!”

Paige dipped you—literally dipped you—almost falling over, but you caught her waist, steadying her just long enough for her to whisper against your cheek, “You’re so pretty.”

“You’re so drunk,” you whispered back.

“I would marry you right now.”

“You already did.”

“I’d do it again.”

You kissed her.

Sloppy, sweet, cherry on her lips from some long gone drink, one of her hands tangled in your hair, the other holding onto you like she never wanted to let go. You felt her giggle against your mouth. Felt her chest shake with joy. Felt the way she held you like she’d waited for this night since the very beginning.

You pulled back just slightly, noses touching.

“Having fun?” you asked.

Paige nodded. “Best night of my life.”

“That’s what you said at the wedding.”

“Every night with you is better.”

Courtney screamed, “Y’all stop being cute, damn.”

The party kept going around you. The music stayed loud. The lights stayed low. But you and Paige didn’t leave each other’s arms for the rest of the night.

And later—after someone handed you water, after Paige dramatically declared her hangover “a tomorrow problem,” after the crowd thinned and the room quieted and the StudBudz signed off with the words “love is real, y’all”—you took your wife by the hand and slipped out into the night.

Still drunk. Still in love.

The sunlight didn’t knock, it barged in.

Bleeding through the hotel curtains in sharp gold stripes across the sheets, it landed directly on Paige’s face like a punishment. She groaned dramatically, one arm flinging over her eyes, the other blindly searching for the edge of the comforter like she could pull herself into darkness.

You were already up.

Not because you weren’t hungover—you were, just a bit—but because years of being a mom had turned your internal clock into something no amount of Dirty Shirleys could unwind.

You stood in the doorway of the bedroom, coffee in one hand, a cold Gatorade in the other, wearing one of Paige’s oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh. There was a faint line of leftover lipstick on your upper lip and smudged mascara you hadn’t bothered to fix. You looked like the ghost of last night’s events.

And Paige? Paige looked like she’d been hit by a freight train driven by Keyshia Cole herself.

She was curled up in the middle of the bed, tangled in white sheets, hair an absolute mess, face flushed, and only wearing black Nike Pros and a sports bra—the same one she’d been in when she peeled off her clothes in a sleepy daze a few hours earlier. One sock was still on, the other was god knows where.

She groaned again as you approached, voice gravelly. “Why is it… so bright?”

“Because it’s nine in the morning,” you said, setting the drink down gently on the nightstand. “Drink this.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re hungover.”

“Same thing,” Paige mumbled, cracking one eye open. “What time did we leave the party?”

“Late. After you said ‘bye’ to everyone.”

Paige’s face crumpled. “Noooo.”

You grinned. “Oh, yes.”

“I did not…”

“You did,” you said, sipping your coffee. “And we’re also viral again.”

She slowly rolled onto her side, curling into herself like a ball. “You’re lying.”

You handed her your phone wordlessly.

She squinted through bleary eyes at the screen. The clip had already hit half a million views overnight.

“Paige Bueckers drunkenly singing Keyshia Cole to her WIFE and it’s everything.”

The comments were even worse—or better, depending on your angle.

“She really said I GOT MARRIED AND I’M GONNA YELL ABOUT IT.”

“WHERE IS THIS KIND OF LOVE FOR ME.”

Paige groaned again and flopped backward onto the pillows. “I’m never drinking again.”

“You say that every time.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You said that last time.”

She reached out blindly and found your wrist, tugging you down into the bed beside her. You landed softly on your side, one leg slung over hers, your face tucked close.

“You still love me?” she asked, voice smaller now.

“Desperately,” you whispered against her collarbone.

“Even though I embarrassed myself?”

“Especially because of that.”

She smiled, slow and sheepish, eyes barely open. “You looked so good last night.”

“I still do,” you teased.

She ran a lazy hand down your bare thigh. “Yeah. You do.”

You were about to kiss her when—

“MAMA LOOOOOVE!!!”

The hotel room door burst open. You both sat up instinctively just as Madison barreled into view, arms outstretched like she was preparing for takeoff. She was wearing one of Paige’s shirt she had clearly begged her Papa to let her sleep in. Her curls were wild. Her face was glowing.

“Mama! Mama!” she chirped, scrambling onto the bed like a girl on a mission. “I saw you was singin’! You was loud!”

Paige groaned again and flopped back dramatically. “Oh no.”

Madison plopped onto her stomach and poked Paige’s cheek with a grin. “You say ‘I in loooove!’”

“I did, huh?”

“I sing too!” Madison announced. “I go ‘LAAAAHVE’ like dis—” and then, at full toddler volume, she screeched a dramatic warble that would’ve made Keyshia proud.

You choked on laughter. Paige looked like she was trying to disappear into the mattress.

Paige cracked an eye open. “I’m gonna be known forever by that moment.”

You kissed her nose. “At least you looked hot doing it.”

She paused, then she smirked—a small, sleepy, very attractive smirk.

“I can live with that.”

Madison curled up between you both, completely unbothered, humming a made-up melody that sounded suspiciously like “Love” but with lyrics about something else.

And as Paige reached for the drink, groaning but grinning, you looked around that hotel bed—tangled hair, sore throats, and your daughter sandwiched between the two of you—and realized…

Clearview had always been the kind of place where secrets didn’t last. Or rather—where people pretended they didn’t exist, and talked about them anyway.

People like Ellie Williams weren’t supposed to stay in towns like this.

And yet, here she was.

Working at her dad’s old music store on Main Street, tattooed arms on full display, cigarette tucked behind one ear, chewing gum with the smugness of someone who knew exactly how many girls in town were dying to ruin their reputations for a night with her.

Everyone had something to say.

About her boots. Her bike. The girl she was seen with last weekend, and the one before that.

About how she laughed too loud and walked like she owned the place.

You’d heard it all. In the grocery store. In the church parking lot. In the teacher’s lounge.

“She’s got no shame, that one.”

“I heard she dropped out of college.”

“She’s a dyke, you know.”

“She doesn’t even try to hide it.”

You never said anything. Just nodded, or pretended to be too busy stapling worksheets to care.

But the truth was: you had noticed her.

Too much.

You saw her that afternoon when she came into your classroom, guitar in hand, sleeves rolled up, tattoos in full view. She smelled like old wood and citrus shampoo, like a summer night that should be a secret. The kids—your first graders, all thirty of them—buzzed with excitement.

You’d planned the workshop weeks ago. “Creative Week,” the school board called it. Invite local professionals. Let the kids explore. You didn’t think she’d say yes. But she did. Said she liked kids. Said she’d come after her shift.

You didn’t expect her to be good with them.

But she was. God, she was.

She let them strum her acoustic, patient as saints. Showed them how to tap the strings, how to hold it right. When little Rosie asked if she could sing too, Ellie just smiled and said,

“Of course, baby. You can do anything you want.”

That line stuck in your ribs.

You leaned against the windowsill, pretending not to look—but your eyes kept drifting.

To her hands. Her tattoos. Her lips. The crease between her brows when she tuned the guitar.

It made your stomach twist.

You weren’t supposed to look.

You especially weren’t supposed to feel that flutter.

But when she looked up, mid-song, her gaze caught yours.

And she smiled.

Not just at you. Into you.

Like she knew exactly what you were thinking.

When the parents had come and taken the kids home, it was just the two of you left.

She stood at your desk, packing up her guitar.

“You’re good with them,” you said, quietly.

She looked up. Smirked. “You sound surprised.”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you admitted. “Didn’t think it was your thing.”

Ellie tilted her head. “What, being around normal people?”

You shrugged. “Being around people who aren’t…”

She raised a brow. “Who aren’t what?”

You hesitated. “With... a reputation.”

Her laugh was sharp. “Let me guess. You heard I’m the town dyke corrupting the local daughters?”

You didn’t answer.

She slung the guitar over her shoulder, walked up slowly. “You believe everything you hear, sweetheart?”

“Stop calling me that,” you said, more breath than voice.

She stopped in front of you. Close. Too close.

“You didn’t look away once,” she said. “When I was playing. You watched my hands. My mouth. You think I didn’t notice?”

Your heart stuttered. “I’m not like you.”

She stilled.

You regretted it the second it left your mouth.

But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t even get mad.

“You don’t have to be like me,” Ellie said. “But you are like you. And that’s worse.”

You looked away.

“You’d rather lie to yourself. Let other people tell you what you’re allowed to want.”

“I don’t want you,” you whispered.

She smiled, soft and tired. “Sure.”

She turned to leave.

But your hand caught her wrist.

And the next thing you knew, you were kissing her like you’d been holding your breath for years.

She kissed you back, hungry, her hands sliding under your cardigan. Guided you back against your desk. Lifted you effortlessly and sat you down like she’d done this before.

Her lips brushed your neck. You gasped.

“You sure you don’t want me?” she murmured.

You clung to her shirt like a lifeline. “No.”

She grinned. “Good.”

But then—something changed.

She stilled, eyes softening. One hand rose to your jaw.

“I’m serious, though,” she whispered.

You blinked. “About what?”

“I was thinking—That little girl—earlier. The one clinging to your leg while I was singing.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “What, jealous of a six-year-old now?”

She didn’t smile.

“I’m saying… I swear, for a second, I could imagine you being the mother of my kid.”

You stared at her.

“What?”

She shrugged, eyes dropping for just a second.

“You were gentle. With her. With all of them. You looked like someone who’d fight for the people she loves.”

You laughed again, nervously. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Voice low. Honest.

“I’m trouble, yeah. But if I ever did something right... it’d be falling for someone like you.”

You didn’t answer.

You just let your forehead rest against hers.

When it happens, you’re surprised. Almost devastatingly so.

You’re surprised because you know that you love Paige Bueckers. You had told her as much. You’re surprised because she had told you the same. Because she promised that one day, she would get the both of you out of the Mississippi Delta. That she’d take the both of you north, perhaps somewhere more tolerant of two women being together. It comes as a shock to you because of the way in which she left – silently, unassuming, simultaneously remorseful and unforgiving.

It’s surprising because she’d clearly been thinking about it for a while. She didn’t leave like she’d shared a stranger’s bed for a night, guilty and ashamed and clumsy all in one. Paige left in the same way you’d once watched a ranch hand put a horse out of its misery when it broke its leg – like it was inevitable, carefully thought out, meant more to save you than to keep you in pain.

That was the confusing part to you. You thought that you and Paige were fine. Having grown up together, you were friends for a long time until it blossomed into something more. Perhaps something more taboo, but you were never quite sure how something so pure could be considered wrong. You knew that you and Paige were unconventional. The Mississippi Delta was all thorns and flames, a region wherein its history was stiflingly pressed down on everyone who wasn’t white or male or wealthy. So, you knew that to be young, and women, and in love in the Delta was difficult, but that had never seemed to be an issue – not one that you would have allowed to tear the both of you apart.

She left you in the morning, and the night before was perfect in a way that gives you emotional whiplash. Annie, a Hoodoo practitioner who had taken you in at a young age, was out, leaving you alone in your shared home. You were standing at the counter, carefully layering pie lattice over a thick bed of apple filling, when Paige knocked and let herself in like she lived there her entire life. She may as well have, considering how much time she truly spent with you.

You grinned at her when she made her way into the kitchen, carefully toeing off her shoes, knowing Annie’s rules. She was carrying a bag in her hand which she set down on the counter before she pressed up behind you, her arms encircling your waist and her lips dusting a sweet kiss to your temple. “Smells good,” she’d commented, watching your fingers work the pie crust.

“Thank you,” you responded. “Flattery doesn’t mean you get to taste it before it’s finished, though.”

Paige sighed, the sound wounded and dramatic, and you laughed because you knew her so well. “What if I make you a deal? We can negotiate.”

You rolled your eyes, cutting the excess crust off of the edge, missing her warmth when she pulled away to reach for the bag she’d walked in with. “You’ve been spending too much time with Elijah,” you muttered. “Always tryin’ to swindle us good folk.”

You didn’t need to look over to see the mischievous grin on her face. “I prefer the term ‘looking for a bargain.’”

“A pig’s a pig even if you put lipstick on it,” you retorted, and Paige huffed something under her breath that sounded a lot like mockery. She pulled a container out of the bag, presenting it with a flourish, her smile wide like she’s holding diamonds. You glanced at her, then at the container, a smile of your own growing despite your attempts at trying to be nonchalant. “That ice cream?” you asked.

“Of the vanilla variety,” she said snootily.

“My favorite,” you hummed.

Paige pretended to look surprised. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea. Although I heard it pairs real well with pie.”

“Baked pie,” you said gently.

“Pig’s a pig,” she responded immediately. “Baked or otherwise.”

You couldn’t help the sharp bark of laughter that ripped from your chest as you shook your head fondly. Reaching for a spoon, you dipped it carefully into the filling, still warm from combining the softened apples with the sugar syrup, and you held the utensil out for Paige. With a beaming smile, she enclosed her lips around the spoon, humming in happiness. It almost reminded you of when the two of you were younger and you always begged Annie to share the spoon when she was baking. That made you realize just how long you and Paige had been in each other’s lives, and how badly you wanted to stay in hers.

“That’s all you’re getting,” you chastised. You couldn’t keep your expression neutral for too long – Paige had looked so soft, so earnest, so full of love that it made something in your chest swell and slam against a cage made of bone.

But she’d just leaned in, a gentle hand settling on your hip, and pressed her mouth to yours with a sort of gentleness that feels like the flutter of eyelashes against your cheek and the warmth of the sun pouring in through the windows in the early morning. When she pulled back, the both of you were smiling, and she promised, “I got all I need.”

Your smile widened. She wasn’t talking about the apple pie waiting to bake in the oven. She wasn’t talking about the container of ice cream resting on the counter, already melting and the condensation sweating outside. In a language only the two of you could understand, she meant you. The two of you. The bond that you share and the love that you’ve nurtured despite society’s turmoil. It was sweet in a way that made you question how she could be so gentle, so in love with you, and leave you before the sun rose the morning after.

She spent the night. Once the apple pies were finished, you cut them into even slices while she carefully portioned out scoops of vanilla ice cream onto the top. She had looked so focused, leaning down to compare the amounts, and when she was sure, she handed you the plate that had more ice cream melting from the heat of the desert.

You and Paige retired to your bedroom, curling up in bed together with your slices of pie, bodies pressed together tightly under the blankets. You ate pie until your stomachs ached, laughed until tears slipped from your eyes, and kissed until her hand burned against your waist and the taste of her began to blend with the sweetness of the ice cream and the warmth of the pie.

It escalated from there. With the moon as your witness, you were sure that her lips had touched every inch of your skin and her hands knew the map of your body like it was her own. Like it was something sacred. That you were something to revere, to deserve, to love.

It felt different. Softer, vulnerable. Almost as though words weren’t enough and she was trying to fill in the blanks with her hands. You didn’t know at the time that it was an apology. You never considered that it was a goodbye, that your last memory of her would be one of love and not of her leaving you with the warmth of her body lingering in the sheets next to yours.

You laid together in bed, legs tangled and sheets bunched up at your chests. Your nose was tucked into the crook of her neck. She smelled like warm pie, like something earthy and sweet from her cologne, like something heady from the sweat that had glistened on her skin while she made you fall apart for her. The night was quiet, alive with the sound of crickets chirping, the slow drag of the wind through the crack in your window. You were asleep, breathing gently, ignorant of how Paige laid awake for hours.

It would have been so easy for her to change her mind, she thought. To stay in bed with you until late morning, to pull you back under the covers when you tried to dress. To begrudgingly (happily) follow you out for breakfast, then entertain (annoy) you at Annie’s shop, sneaking kisses when you weren’t organizing the roots or helping customers. It would have been so easy for her to tell Elijah and Elias that she wasn’t going to go with them to Chicago, to tell them that as terrified as she was, she was willing to be strong. For you. 

The south may never let the two of you be in love. In your lifetime, you may never be fully accepted for who you love. And that was scary, because all Paige ever wanted to do was love you in the open. Proudly, unashamedly. The thought of keeping your love indoors made her sick. You deserved someone who you didn’t have to hide with. That someone may never be her.

The letter she had tucked into her pocket was nothing more than a cop-out. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to leave your side if she had to look you in the eyes and tell you the reasons why she was leaving. It was an apology because literally and metaphorically, she could never be the man for you. She couldn’t be what society deemed as proper, couldn’t be the person to hold her family together, couldn’t be the one with the guts and the confidence to stay.

So her decision was made. She didn’t sleep a wink that night. As soon as the first breaths of sunlight poked through the window and the first rooster announced the moon’s retreat, she carefully slid out of bed, pushing her pillow to your chest, her heart shattering as she watched you bury yourself further into the blankets, seeking a heat and a body that wasn’t there anymore. She placed the note on your nightstand, tucked next to the satchel of black cohosh you keep for protection.

Paige stared at you for a long while, throat burning with the struggle of keeping her tears at bay. She watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, tried to commit your image to memory – the slope of your nose, the way your hair billowed out on the pillows, the dark bruise you sported under your jaw because selfishly, she wanted you to remember her after she left. She just didn’t know how badly you’d ache in her absence.

Unable to resist, she brushed a featherlight kiss across your temple, if only to remember the way your skin felt beneath her lips, and you hardly stirred. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or for worse.

Then she was gone. And you were left to pick up the pieces of yourself.

“This all for you, honey? Just the thistle and the High John?”

The little girl peeking over the edge of the counter nods at you quickly, and you don’t bother to hide your smile as you carefully pinch off the High John and put it safely into the small, cloth bag. Thistle is quick to follow. You tie it gingerly, holding it out to the girl – Elise, you think her name is, a regular at Annie’s shop, and you make eye contact with her. Her brother Will ambles quietly behind her. “Now, you remember Miss Annie’s rules, right?” you ask her. “Don’t sell none of that on the way home.”

Elise smiles at you brightly, tucking the bag of roots into her dress pocket. “Yes, ma’am,” she agrees sweetly. In return, she hands you a folded up piece of paper – more like a credit than actual currency, but you and Annie both knew how hard people had to work to obtain these bills.

“Thank you,” you say, and the two children skip out of the shop.

From across the room, Annie glances at you. She’s busy rearranging and restocking her wares. Her lips curl into a smile, one that’s a quiet kind of pride, a silent appreciation. “Those kids love you,” she comments. You drop your head in a gesture of shyness. Finally satisfied with her work, Annie crosses the room and you hand her the currency. “I mean it. You remember the other day when you were stuck tending to the goat?”

You huff a little, leaning back against the counter with your arms crossed. “That goat hates me,” you mutter.

Chuckling, Annie continues, “Well, all Elise and Will could ask was, ‘Where is she? Can we see her? Can we say hi?’ Think they come more for you than for the roots.”

You laugh. “You know that’s not true,” you say.

Annie just gives you a knowing look, but before either of you can say anymore, you hear the crunch of gravel under tires. Instantly, your hair raises on end, knowing that you mostly get foot traffic. Cars were rare, especially amongst those who shopped with Annie.

You crane your head, glancing out the window, but you can’t see much. You and Annie share a look. You follow the older woman to the back door, peering out, and you simultaneously relax and tense up at the sight.

There’s a man squatting next to the grave of Annie’s late baby. He’s dressed formally, pristine, and he’s laying down white flowers next to the clearing. His blue hat sticks out like a sore thumb. You know instantly that it’s Elijah – or Smoke, as most people know him by, and Annie sucks in a deep breath next to you.

If Elijah is in town, then you’re sure that means Elias – Stack – is too. And if the twins are back in town, then that means–

“Let me go talk to him,” Annie interrupts your thoughts, already stepping outside before you can say anything else. For respect and privacy, you close the door behind her, but you almost jump out of your skin when you turn around and you spot her in front of you. You react before you can think better of it.

“Jesus!” Paige exclaims. She catches you by the wrist, a blade gripped firmly in your hands, surprise on her features and an amalgamation of feelings on yours. Guilt, shock, anger. Despite the fact that seeing her again pisses you off beyond belief, your body doesn’t know what your brain does – it still yearns for her as if the two of you were years younger, more immature and devastatingly in love when being in love was the last thing two women of your statuses should have been.

You missed her. You hate that you do. But you know you couldn’t be surprised by it, even if it’s been months – or closer to over a year.

“You welcome in all your customers like that, or just the tall and pretty ones?” she jokes, but her humor does little to diffuse the tension. Your eyes narrow and her face falls slightly. Paige, not unkindly, carefully pries your fingers off of the blade in your hand and closes it in on itself, handing it back to you handle-first.

“You can’t just creep up on people like that,” you mutter, pocketing the blade, and putting space in between your bodies like you know that she and her are more of an inevitability than a possibility. You’d fall right back into her without a second thought. “I could have killed you.”

Paige hums, shoving her hands into her pockets, and that’s when you get a good look at her. Growing up, Paige was never a woman for wearing dresses, something that clearly got her into a lot of trouble with a lot of people. She’d pretended like she never cared for their perception of her, but you knew it weighed on her, even when she dressed how she preferred. Now, she’s wearing a pristine pair of black loafers paired smartly with a deep, purple suit so dark that it looks black. Her blonde hair is pinned back in a low bun.

Despite the distance, it’s clear that time has been kind to her. She’s aged beautifully – no longer the sixteen year old girl you’d found crying in town, trying to hold onto both parts of her family like it was sharp, unforgiving barbed wire. Paige had always struggled to belong. You should have known that insecurity and fear would take her far away from you, but you wish you’d fought a little harder for her, even when you bear guilt and anger of your own.

Maybe she should have fought a little harder for you, too, but you’re older now. Wiser. You know the both of you could point fingers at each other for as long as you wanted to, but it would solve nothing.

“I don’t know about kill,” she muses, a charming grin right back on her face. “I taught you to fight. I know you.”

Confidence seems to be something she’d picked up in Chicago, too, or maybe it’s just audacity. The audacity to come waltzing back into yours and Annie’s shop like she wasn’t the one who left you before the sun came up with nothing more than a note, an apology, and the aching feeling in your chest that you may truly never be happy again unless it was with her. The audacity to joke with you like there’s not a greater distance between you and her than there is distance between Mississippi and Chicago. The audacity to claim that she knows you when, if she did, she would have stopped hiding behind a bravado she picked up from Stack and started with an explanation. An apology. Anything at all to let you know that what the two of you had wasn’t something you hallucinated and that she loved you in the first place.

You don’t humor her, your face twisting up. “What are you doing here?” you ask instead, your tone flat. That cracks through Paige’s poised exterior, her throat bobbing like she’s resisting the urge to flinch. You take a step closer to her. She stands several inches taller than you, but you stare up at her fearlessly. “What ran you out of Chicago? Was it the Irish mob? The Italians?”

Paige presses a little closer now, something in her eyes flashing recklessly, her body eclipsing yours. You don’t stumble back, nor do you avert your gaze from hers. If anything, you push your chest into hers, feeling your heart beating out of your ribcage, her breath fanning against your skin. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mutters, brows furrowed in quiet anger.

“Don’t I?” you snarl. You pinch the fabric of her suit between your thumb and index finger, tugging it slightly, and in her surprise, she falls against you, her arms shooting out to cage you against the counter. But you hardly react. “You’re wearing a pinstripe top. Italian. Tweed trousers. Irish. Playing both sides again, aren’t you? Both at the same time?”

Paige says your name firmly, like she’s begging you to stop talking. You don’t, feeling the anger of her abandonment hit you again. “You can’t always be in two places at once,” you hiss. “But you always will be ‘cause you keep fucking running away.”

That makes her anger return tenfold. “I’m not running,” she scoffs.

You reach into your dress pocket, producing a worn scrap of paper, and you slap it against her chest with a firm noise. “Yeah?” you whisper, cocking your head. She holds onto your wrist with one hand, and with the other, she unfolds the paper, her body stiffening at the sight of the words scribbled in an all too familiar, messy scrawl. Her words, the very ones she’d left with you when she went off to Chicago, leaving the Delta behind in the fading shadow of the night. “What do you call this, then?”

She’s silent, her throat bobbing under the weight of her apprehension. You wonder if she’d admit it. If she’d apologize. But her blue eyes find yours, glassy with unshed tears, and you don’t realize you’re crying until her palm raises to wipe the water off of your cheek. Her hand lingers, though – her skin warm against yours, callused and rough from time but soft in a way that reminds you that it’s Paige in front of you. You’re not sure if that reminder is supposed to comfort you or make you cry harder.

“A regret,” she murmurs finally.

Oh.

Your eyes search hers. For deceit or for honesty – the difference between the two can be hard to tell apart most times. But you see earnestness. It makes you soften.

“I walked away,” Paige admits, her voice breaking. “From the one person in my life who’d made me feel like I belonged. Like I had a place. Like I was more than who my parents were or who my parents weren’t. I left a note and I ran to a city that cared for me even less than the Delta did.” She pauses, trying to find the words. “I regretted that decision every morning when I woke up on a dirty mattress in Chicago and realized I wasn’t next to you.”

“Was it worth it?” you ask, if only to hear the answer.

Paige doesn’t hesitate. “No. None of it ever was. Not when I had to lose you.”

“Why did you go?” You can feel the hesitation in her body, and you press a little further into her. “And make sure you tell me the fucking truth, Paige. No bullshit.”

“I didn’t deserve you,” she murmurs. “Shit, I still don’t. You deserve to be loved in the open, by someone who can provide for you and keep you safe. That was never gonna be with me.”

“I never wanted any of that,” you seethe, fisting your hand in her suit, dragging her closer to you. Her breath hitches, remorse and guilt on her face, but you continue speaking. “Do you understand that? I never needed anyone to provide for me, to keep me safe. I just wanted you to be with me.”

Paige doesn’t break eye contact when she utters, “They’d never let us be in love.”

You swallow your grief. “And what about we?” you say. “What about what we want? I’d rather love you in the dark than someone else in the sun.” You’re both silent. A lone tear slips from Paige’s waterline. You wipe it away gingerly, and her hand catches yours by her face, tangling your fingers together. “I just wish I got the chance to tell you that before you left.”

She nods, the motion like acceptance. Like she understands where you’re coming from – that she always has. That maybe she just needed to hear those words from you to understand it was never about what she thought you deserved, but about what the both of you wanted. As two women in the Mississippi Delta, it was always difficult to carve out that space for yourselves, to want so openly, to want each other so openly. You and Paige have been defying the norm for years now. You’d always thought that it would catch up with you. The love you had for Paige eclipsed that fear.

“Wasn’t the mobs in Chicago,” she confesses under her breath. You cock your head at her, and she deflates. “At least…not yet. The twins wanted out – something about coming back down here to open a juke joint. They brought liquor. Irish beer and Italian wine. They asked if I’d return and I…” The words get caught in her throat. She tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s one that says I’ve done everything I’ve could so maybe it’s time to let someone else do what I can’t. “Figured it was time to stop running. From us.”

“For good?” you murmur.

“For as long as you’ll have me,” she responds, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “If that’s still on the table.”

You tilt your head back, far enough away just to look at her. To study her. She’s older now. So are you. The two of you weren’t always going to have a simple story, on account of the both of you being women and being completely different people. But you loved each other, and while you’ve never made it any less complicated for each other, you knew in your heart of hearts that you would take complex with her rather than easy and loveless with anyone else.

But you’re not one to kneel. Bravely, you ask, “And how do I know you mean that?” That gives her pause, something in her expression falling – like guilt and acceptance and a I deserved to hear that all in one. “How do I know I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and you’ll have left another note?” you continue. “You hurt me, Paige. I laid in bed for days and wondered why I wasn’t enough for you to stick around. That doesn’t go away overnight.”

“I know,” she admits, her voice cracking. She meets your eyes, the blue in them so easy to drown in, water shimmering on the surface like sun on the waves. “I can’t undo that. Believe me, I tried.” She laughs a little self-deprecatingly. “Every day I prayed that leaving you was a bad dream I’d eventually wake up from. That I’d find the courage to tell the twins that I was getting on the first train back here to right my wrongs before you slipped through my fingers completely. But I couldn’t – I thought I fucked us up. For good. I thought that we were something I couldn’t save or be enough for.”

Your chest is tight, but you can tell that Paige has more to say, so you remain quiet, your fingers trembling in her hold. She takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words to say, but her shoulders sag in a way that feels like acceptance. Like finally understanding that she may never say or do the right thing, but the effort in honesty is more than enough. You’d always try to fill in the blanks. You didn’t need her to be perfect. You just needed her to be here.

“I know I hurt you,” she continues. “But I also know that I love you – that I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen and you showed me what home is supposed to feel like. I know that I missed you.” Paige swallows thickly, not breaking eye contact, and she flattens your palm against her chest. You can feel the steady thump of her heart beneath your fingertips. “I missed you here.”

You can tell how much this means to her. You can tell that she’s genuinely remorseful, that she’s probably spent months beating herself up for leaving you in the way that she did. “I’m not expecting you to forgive me immediately,” she murmurs. “I can’t erase a year’s worth of pain overnight. Asking for one more chance is a lot, but I also know that I’d spend the rest of my life and then some making it up to you. I’m not running anymore. Not from you. Not from us. I’m not going to fuck this up again.”

You knew what your answer would be long before she answered you. Maybe you just needed to hear it – the promise, the vow that she’s not going to repeat her same mistakes twice. It makes the tension in your chest ease up, the lines on your face soften, and your shoulders relax. Your palm is still on her chest, so you lift your hand to trace the line of her collarbone absentmindedly. “I’m making pie tomorrow,” you say, glancing up at her with a wry, softer grin. It’s not forgiveness, but it’s something close to it, and Paige smiles brightly because she knows. “You should come by.”

She leans in ever so slightly, her lips brushing yours, and it makes your breath hitch at the contact. Her hands drop to hold you by the waist, her grip both firm and reverent like she’s committed to not letting you go unless you ask. “You gonna let me have the spoon?” she asks coyly, and your smile grows.

“Maybe,” you whisper. Then, you pull away slightly, enjoying the expression of shock on her face. “Now, tell me why you’re really here.”

Paige laughs, the sound full and relieved, and it makes you feel just a little bit more gone. “Already told you, baby,” she says. The nickname softens every sharp edge you’d whittled while she was gone. “The twins wanted to open a juke joint. Smoke came by to ask Annie if she’d cook.”

“Smoke did?” you echo, raising a brow, knowing about his and Annie’s lost baby. You knew that him coming here took a lot of guts. He wouldn’t have if he didn’t mean it. Paige hums in confirmation, the sound respectful as she knows the story, too. “They’re serious, huh?”

“Mmm,” Paige agrees. “Bought the old mill and everything.”

You exhale a little breathlessly, a smile on your face despite it all. “And you?” you ask. Paige’s eyes blink open, something curiously reckless in them. “Where do you fit into all this?”

“Was just hopin’ you’d still like me enough to dance,” she answers, her eyes bright and yearning. Her lips brush yours again, the touch like electricity after so many months of being apart.

You pretend to think about it, which makes Paige shake her head with a laugh and a grin. “Get me a bottle of that Italian wine and you’ve got a deal.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paige murmurs, her eyes finding yours again with a flicker of hope. You can’t hide your amusement nor the love you have for her, so you finally give in, your lips meeting hers with a deliberate softness. She sighs against you as you press up on the tips of your toes for better leverage. Literally and metaphorically, it feels like coming home again. Your body could never forget Paige nor the way she makes you feel, even if the both of you were dealt an unfair hand of cards.

You feel her grin against your lips, adjusting the angle of her head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers tangle in the loose hair at the back of her neck, warmth creeping into every crevice of your body.

The kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough. You can hear the turn of the lock at the back door and you and Paige pull away from each other quickly, working on adjusting your clothes as Annie and Smoke walk in, a quiet air around them as well. Annie meets your gaze – a brow raising in both question and concern. You nod at her, mustering a small smile, and her features relax, drawing your silent exchange to a close.

Finally, you gather your belongings, letting Paige lead you out towards their truck. There’s only space in front for Smoke and Annie, so you and Paige opt to sit in the back with the liquors, which you’re not too upset about. It gives you the time and the privacy to curl up next to Paige, your argument and reconciliation not completely forgiven nor quite forgotten. Right now, it’s enough for the both of you, knowing that you’ll have the rest of your lives to figure this out. You know that neither of you are going to let this slip away again.

Once you all make it to the old mill, you all get to work. You and Paige work on sweeping the floors and cleaning while Annie works on frying the catfish. Countless friends stream in – old and new – like the Chows, Delta Slim, a pioneering blues performer who you’d thought to have mostly been a legend, Smoke and Stack’s cousin Sammie, and even Cornbread, who’s been hired to play bodyguard.

Everyone’s in high spirits, laughing and enjoying the time. You catch Annie looking at you and Paige with a fond look in her eyes and you try not to blush too much, even when Paige spins you around to the beat of whatever tune Slim is plucking on the piano.

Before you know it, everything is ready. Paige helps to set out the liquor, smiling wryly at you when she stashes a bottle of her wine in her suit, and you laugh as you serve a patron some of Annie’s catfish. The old mill fills fast, people looking for a break, to have fun, to let loose and listen to Sammie sing the blues.

For this one moment in time, everything feels…right. Peaceful. Like there’s not a single worry in the world, and you think that you can get used to this. The sound of soul in your ear, of laughter and love swirling around you, the heavy feeling of Paige’s gaze on you while she regales some of the customers with charming stories about who knows what. Her eyes find you more than appropriate, though, and you find it hard to stay polite in front of everyone.

But she sidles up to you, empty wine glass in hand, and her smirk is mischievous, loose, like she’s about to ask you to do something you can’t quite say no to. Her hand finds your waist behind the bar, palm warm against your skin, and you raise a brow at her. “Think I can convince you to stop workin’ for a bit and have a drink with me?” she asks, gaze predatory and sharp. “Pretty sure I owed you a glass of wine.”

“Sounds like you’ve got ulterior motives,” you comment, looking up at her through your lashes. “You tryin’ to get me tipsy?”

“Just relaxed,” she murmurs, her eyes trailing your figure unashamedly. “Anything after that is purely coincidental.”

“I’m sure.” Your tone is flat, but your eyes are amused. “Would have thought that you’d give it a few more days before you tried finding your way under my skirt. Just this morning you were begging for me to forgive you.”

That sobers her instantly. She blinks at you like she’d forgotten all about that, and it makes you swell with affection for this idiot in front of you. “We don’t have–”

You can’t help but laugh, tanging your fingers in the collar of her suit, and you gently drag her a little closer to you. It makes her breath hitch, but the look on her face makes it all worth it. “Pour me a glass and meet me in the back,” you murmur, releasing her. Just before you walk away, you offer her a teasing smile. “And don’t keep me waiting.”

“Yes ma’am,” she rushes out, already reaching for another glass under the bar, and you know she’s hot on your heels as she follows you to the back. You leave the door slightly ajar and she shuts it as soon as she’s in, the lock clicking into place as you take a seat on top of the table tucked into the corner. Her gaze is a little predatory when she steps forward, looking as though she wants to ravage you but be respectful about it – like she doesn’t quite know where the two of you stand after your difficult conversation that morning.

But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t rush to fill the silence, even as she holds the wine glass in between two fingers and slowly tips the bottle over, filling it with the dark red liquid. Your eyes follow the way her fingers move, the veins in her wrist that protrude, and it’s then that you’re reminded of just how beautiful Paige Bueckers is.

It’s not something you consciously forget. You haven’t seen her in a while, and this is the first time in a good amount of time that you’ve allowed your walls to fall down. To allow yourself to want her so openly. It makes you ache because you know she wants you to and this entire thing – her pouring the wine for you, her fingers lingering on yours when she gives you the glass, is more of a formality than anything else.

You wait while she fills her glass, too, and then you tap the sides in cheer. “To a successful first night,” you murmur, catching the dark of her gaze over the dim lighting.

“To you,” she says. “And to us.”

To hide the blush growing on your cheeks, you roll your eyes slightly, tipping your head slightly to drink the wine. You like that Paige’s gaze is hooked on you, following the bob of your throat as you swallow the wine. She already looks like she’s unravelling and all you’ve done is drink. “Always have to one up me, don’t you?” you state, and she takes a sip of her own wine. The flavor is pleasant – not too sharp, but not too sweet. You can see why Paige and the twins played the Italian mob like this. They make excellent wine.

“Just wanted to be honest,” she retorts. “Something actually worth toasting about.”

You raise your brows, watching her figure as she takes a seat in the chair next to the table, her gaze locked onto yours. “Are you not actually into the juke joint?” you ask, curious.

She shrugs a shoulder. Her eyes linger on the way your skirt rides up your legs when you cross them at the knee. “This was the twin’s project,” she says, not unkindly. “I was just here to help. And to stop running from the things I love.”

You snort into your wine. “That sounds like something to unpack.”

“Probably,” she admits. “Sometimes…I look at a good thing, and my first thought isn’t that it’s good. It’s how devastated I would be if I were to lose it.” That makes you soften, and you reach for her hand, intertwining your fingers. “I think that’s why I was so scared of…staying. I thought I wouldn’t be allowed to be happy for long, that it would be taken away from me. I didn’t want to lose you. I guess it was easier to leave than to risk it.”

“But not anymore?” you question.

She shakes her head. “Still lost you,” she says. “Just in a different way. One that hurt a lot more.” Paige takes a long sip of her wine before she speaks again. “There was this Italian guy I met while I was in Chicago. He caught me at a bad time. I was drunk off my ass at a pub, and I guess he recognized me from running with the mob. He took me home and I started rambling about you. About missing you. How you’d give me peppermint to chew on when I was plastered because it would help my headache.” That makes you crack a smile as you listen to her go on. “Think I got really upset and lost it, and then he says, ‘How lucky you are to have loved someone so strongly that saying goodbye is hard.’ I woke up the morning after. My head hurt, and all I could think about was you and how not having you turned me inside out.”

Paige pauses for a long moment, clearly having more to say. You just brush your fingers across her knuckles. “I don’t think I’m scared of that anymore,” she confesses. “Not – of losing you. I don’t ever want to do that again. But I don’t think I’m scared of loving you. That’s a blessing by itself. And no matter how long…or how short…I think I’m lucky to be able to do that.”

You swallow thickly, realizing the seriousness of the moment, and you admit, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to run from me.” That catches her attention. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this alone. We’re…together.” Your voice catches on that word, unsure if that’s a term you should still use to describe your relationship, and you think that was a good choice because Paige’s face lights up. “I just want you to choose me when it gets hard and trust that we can figure it out.”

“I will,” she states firmly. “God, I swear to you, I will. I’m not gonna fuck this up again.”

You smile at her, gently, because you know she’s not going to. Not when she swears like her life depends on it. “I trust you,” you promise her. “But even if you do…it’s gonna be okay. I don’t want perfection. I just want you.”

That makes her smile turn a little tender, a little bashful. “I can work with that.” She finishes the rest of the wine in her glass and her voice is a hoarse when she says, “Think you might be stuck with me now.”

Your smile turns a little mischievous. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

When she looks at you again, her gaze is a little dark, hungry. “Depends on how you look at it.”

You set your wine glass down, not bothering with a response before you shift on the table, facing her fully, and you cup her cheeks in your hands as you pull her against you. She’s quick – groaning against your lips like she’d spent the entire day thinking about the next time she’d get to kiss you, and her arms encircle your waist, fingers pressing firmly into your skin.

She tastes like wine and something unmistakably Paige that makes your head spin. Her lips drag against yours, already making something in your core swell with heat and tighten, her tongue brushing against your bottom lip in permission. You don’t give it to her, tangling your fingers in the loose bun at the back of her head and tugging slightly, and she gasps a little breathlessly at the feeling.

“You’re a brat,” she mutters, standing from the chair fully. The movement forces you to disconnect your lips and with the natural pause, you slide your hands under her suit top, pushing the blazer down her shoulders.

“You’ve got a lot of groveling to do,” you retort. “Something about spending the rest of your life making it up to me, I think.”

Her resulting smile is a little sharp when she looks at you. “Oh, is that so?” she murmurs. You nod, already reaching out for her, and you wrap your arms around her neck while you connect your lips again. It’s wet, hot, and the both of you slide against each other with little restraint, the alcohol in your veins loosening the both of you up and intensifying the feeling. “You just want me on my knees, don’t you?” Her voice had dropped low, her tone teasing and rough, and it makes you squeeze your thighs together, which was obviously something that she picked up on. “You liked that?” She says it like it’s a surprise to her, like she’s discovered a secret you didn’t want to share, and you feel her grin as she kisses you again, drawing a moan from your lips when she squeezes one of your thighs.

“Would that make you feel better, baby?” she coos, fingers trailing a hot path between your thighs, pressing against the thin lace of your underwear. You’re already breathing heavily, and judging by the way she sucks in a deep breath, you’re sure that she’s found the wetness at the apex of your thighs. “You’re soaked for me and all I’ve done is kiss you. Still all mine. Doesn’t matter how long I’m gone.”

Your cheeks burn, and your fingers grapple for stability on her shirt. She leans in to press another filthy kiss to your lips, her tongue probing out to trace your bottom lip again, and you’re too lost in the feeling to open up for her. She doesn’t like that – an annoyed sound building at the back of her throat when she bites down on your lip – just a gentle nip, enough to get your attention but not enough to truly hurt, and she slips her tongue inside while you gasp.

It’s pure dominance from then on out – she unravels you with her lips while her fingers rub maddening circles against your clit over the lace. She was right. She hadn’t done much, but she’s always been good at tearing you apart. Even if she hasn’t been near you in months, she still knows what works, how much pressure you need, exactly where to touch you. And your body responds like it knows Paige’s touch. It doesn’t embarrass you to admit that there wasn’t anyone else while she was gone. This feeling has been building ever since the day that she left, and you suppose that it is her responsibility to handle it.

She breaks away from your lips to trail kisses to your jawline, sucking a dark spot at the edge of it. You can feel her smile against your skin as your mouth falls open in wordless pleasure. Her fingers are insistent, continuous, as she follows a path across your skin that only she’s the expert in, her lips enclosing around the lobe of your ear, the spot behind it that makes you shiver, your pulse point, the base of your throat where your necklace glitters.

Paige lingers, a little breathless at the sight of you, and the hand not tending to your leaking cunt reaches up to cup your breast, thumb tweaking your nipple over your top. Moaning, your head falls back, giving her ample space to work with, and she latches onto your neck immediately. Her teeth scrape against your skin, drawing a ragged sound from your throat. Her words vibrate against you when she speaks. “So fucking beautiful,” she murmurs, punctuating her words with another kiss, her tongue poking out to trail across your body.

It makes you shiver for an entirely different reason now. You reach up with one of her hands to cup the back of her neck, pushing her a little closer to you, and her finger swipes a little more firmly against your clit, making you keen. “Please, Paige,” you beg. “Need you, need more.”

“I got you,” she promises, finally sinking to her knees. Breathless, you clench around nothing, instinctively spreading your legs for her as she peers up at you through her lashes. Her palms are warm against your skin as her hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up to give herself more space to work with. “Keep your eyes on me.” You don’t have the brain space to ask Or else what? but you’re so high strung that you don’t want to test her.

The edge of her smirk is hungry, predatory, like she’s seconds away from drooling, and it makes you ache. She presses her lips to your thighs, littering gentle kisses across your skin while she makes her way towards your cunt. Needy, you cup the back of her head with your hand, encouraging her to get a move on, and her smile softens as she listens to your wordless command.

She tangles her fingers in the lace covering you and pulls it down with an agonizing slowness, breath catching at the way a strand of your slick sticks to the fabric and snaps when the stretch is too great. Then, almost deliberately, she folds your underwear, setting it gently on the chair she’d sat in, and you’re seconds away from beating the shit out of her. “Paige,” you hiss, trying for an assertive tone, but you just sound whiny.

She doesn’t respond – she doesn’t have to. She slides her hands under your thighs and lifts your legs gently over her shoulders, opening you up for her, and she groans at the sight like you’re one of the ancient wonders of the world. Paige doesn’t waste anymore time before she dives in, her tongue already relentless as she strokes from your leaking entrance to your aching clit, moaning against you and already addicted to the taste. You whimper, head lulling back as your fingers tighten in her hair, but she nips at your clit. It doesn’t sting, but it gets your attention, and you return your gaze down to her.

Your slick already coats her mouth, glistening in the light, her eyes hooded and pussy drunk in the way she always gets when she gets to put her mouth against you. She’d once joked that she could die happy down here and you truly never realized how serious she was until now. Her brows are pinched, pleasure evident on her face like she’s the one moments away from falling apart, and her tongue traces every sopping inch of your cunt as though she’s afraid to let a single drop go to waste.

Her tongue slides in to drink directly from the source. Her nose brushes against your sensitive clit and it sends a lightning bolt of white hot pleasure up your spine, curling low in your belly, and drawing a whimpering moan from you. She works you like it’s her last day on earth and getting you to come is her only chance at salvation. Her pace makes you a little dizzy, her tongue going from hole to clit to kissing the aching bud until the pressure makes your hips buck. She’s everywhere all at once as though she’s trying to reacquaint herself with your cunt, like she’s trying to make up for lost time.

She said she’d make it up to you. You think she’s doing a damn good job, especially when her fingers tighten around the fullness of your thighs, pushing herself in deeper, and you spread yourself open a little more, too far gone to care about much of anything that’s not how good Paige Bueckers looks when she’s on her knees with her face buried in your cunt.

And then she starts talking. There wasn’t a chance in hell that you were going to last after this, not when she’s holding onto you like she’s the one who’s about to float away, and whimpering, “Missed this.” The whine in her tone makes you a little crazy, your fingers tightening in her hair, your hips bucking against her face as you try to chase a high you know she’d rather die than deny you. “Missed you so fucking much, baby. Missed the way you taste. The way you sound – fuck, the way you fall apart for me.”

“Please,” you choke out, but you’re not quite sure what you’re begging for. Paige nods anyways, the motion causing you to gasp when her nose brushes against your clit again, and she somehow doubles her pace, her tongue sliding against you with a vicious efficiency that all but pushes you to the edge. You’re teetering on it now, inches away from slipping off completely, and you ramble, “Shit, Paige, so close. You’re so fucking good, love you so much–”

Your words get stuck in your throat when she latches onto your clit and sucks. You’re almost sure that she breathes the very soul out of your body as you crumble completely, your legs tightening around her head as your hips buck wildly against her mouth. The sounds spilling from your lips are unrestrained, unintelligible, but Paige hums against you and drinks up every drop from your cunt like you’re the first sip of water she’s had in years. She’s always a little messy when she’s got a glass or two of wine in her system, but you think you like her this way – when she behaves like your pleasure is the most important thing to her and that she died if you weren’t unravelling on her face.

Sensitive, you cry out softly, tugging her back by the hair to give you room to breathe. But she doesn’t budge, her grip tightening on your thighs, and she glances up at you, brows tented, chest heaving, her expression nothing short of begging. Her face is slick, lips, cheek, nose, and even her neck covered with your arousal, and it makes something in your core simmer with heat. “C’mon, baby,” she pleads, her tongue already working you again. The oversensitivity makes you tremble, but you’re bucking into her mouth mindlessly, needing to come for her again. “One more. Lemme give you one more.”

You’re nodding, but you know she can’t see it, her tongue already sliding through your folds and lapping you up with a fervor. It won’t take much – you know she knows that, and she hums against your cunt in pleasure when you leak into her waiting mouth. “So fucking good for me,” she mutters against you. She’s lost in your pleasure, which makes you ache again, already teetering dangerously close to the edge.

This time, you don’t even have the chance to warn her. Her teeth close around your clit, nipping gently enough to make your hips twitch, then soothing the sting with a harsh suck. You spill over her instantly, your second orgasm somehow feeling stronger than the first one, and your head falls back in desperate pleasure while her pace finally slows. Paige helps you ride out the aftershocks, her tongue cleaning every inch of you before extracting herself from your cunt with great difficulty. If you were any more conscious, you might be able to see the way she stares forlornly at you while she draws back, like she’s a soldier heading off to war.

You can’t focus on anything but the way her palms rub your thighs soothingly, how she unfurls your hands from her hair and tangles your fingers together to help bring you back down to earth. The hand not holding yours curls around your neck as she lifts herself into a standing position, pulling you into her body, pressing her lips gently to your temple while she strokes the hair at the base of your neck.

Strangely, that’s what actually brings you back into a state of coherency, because her lips are sticky and wet from where she’d just spent the better part of fifteen minutes sucking the soul out of your body through your cunt. “You need to wash your face,” you mutter, not actually that bothered by it, and you wipe your own slick off of your forehead immediately.

Paige catches your wrist, slipping your finger into your mouth and sucking gently, her cheeks suctioning from the pressure. If you could feel your legs, you might knock her ass to the ground and return the favor, but the surprisingly serious expression on her face gives you pause. “Don’t waste that shit,” she reprimands you, gingerly wiping the rest off of your face and licking it off her fingers. “Haven’t had you in over a year and you wanna deprive me?”

“And whose fault is that?” you retort, not really intending to be mean about it, and Paige narrows her eyes at you.

“I just gave you two earth-shattering, mind-numbing, toe-curling–”

“Get to the point.”

“Two orgasms,” she emphasizes. “Two. How many more until I’m out of the doghouse?”

You roll your eyes, a little amused by how fucking annoying she is, and you curl your fingers in the collar of her shirt to plant a chaste kiss to her lips. You can taste yourself, but it doesn’t bother you. “You’re an idiot,” you mumble.

“You love me,” she fires back.

At that, you can’t really help your smile, and the next kiss you press to her mouth is a little more gentle. Softer. Full of something that words can’t really convey, even as you admit, “I do.”

The beaming smile on her face would be a little endearing if you forgot about the two orgasms she’d just drawn from you. “I love you, too,” she promises, and part of you aches for a different reason now. You’re not sure how long you’d been waiting to hear those words from her again, but it makes warmth bloom in your chest, curling around your heart like it belongs there.

She helps you back into your lace underwear, only half pretending to not miss seeing you naked, and the two of you leave the back room with your empty wine glasses in hand. At the bar, Annie raises her eyebrows at you knowingly, but you don’t say anything for both of your sakes – Annie practically raised you, and there were things she just did not need to know. Paige, blessedly, keeps her mouth shut, but she smirks at you as though she’s already thinking about the next time she can have you.

Spirits are high in the juke joint. You can spot Smoke brooding on the second floor, something you’re not really surprised by, and you have no clue where Stack is. You spotted Mary a while ago, which didn’t really surprise you, either; she always had a difficult time staying away from trouble, but so does the blonde who’s lingering in your shadow, not wanting to let you out of her sight.

The party rages on for another twenty or so minutes – everyone is still singing and dancing. Delta Slim is still plucking away at the piano, and you’re deep in conversation with a woman who frequents Annie’s shop when you hear a commotion at the front door. That’s what actually surprises you. The night had been peaceful so far. Cornbread hadn’t actually had to enforce his bouncer duties, but it seems there’s a time and a place for everything.

You follow Annie (and Paige follows you) to the front door. You step up behind the twins, then Mary’s behind you, and you’re all a little concerned at the sight. Standing at your doorstep are three individuals. They’re holding three different guitars and the man on the far right has a lantern clutched in his grasp. They’re white, so you can see why their arrival gives everyone pause.

“We heard a tale of a party,” the white man at the front says. You struggle to place his accent, your head cocking in confusion. There’s something…off, about him, something lurking beneath the surface, and you can’t place that, either. But your gut is never wrong. You nudge Annie, a silent conversation passing between the two of you, and she nods. She suspects it, too. “Drinks, food, blues music and the like.”

Cornbread looks perplexed. “You did?” he asks, his tone believing.

“We like to drink,” the man says. “We happen to be musicians, and, uh…we walked here. So, we hungry as dogs.” The other man with the lantern backs this up with a very emphatic woof woof! that disgusts you immediately. You shift uncomfortably and Paige curls an arm around your waist subtly. “You wouldn’t mind us coming in, now, would you?”

Cornbread narrows his eyes. “I think y’all are in the wrong place,” he states.

“What makes you say that?” the woman asks.

The man turns his gaze from cornbread to the twins, his features softening. “You fellas must be the owners of this establishment.”

“That’s right,” Smoke agrees. “And you are?”

They introduce themselves – the man in the middle is Remmick, and his companions are Bert and Joan. But when Sammie comes into view to check on his cousins, Remmick’s expression shifts. “You must be that voice I heard from out here. It was beautiful.”

“Goddamn beautiful,” Joan agrees unsettlingly.

“Even through these walls,” Bert adds.

You narrow your eyes, only half listening to the rest of the conversation as you try to place why these travelers unsettle you so. It’s not the color of their skin – far from it. It’s the almost robotic detachment, the way they’re here, uninvited, and Joan and Bert have positioned themselves  on either side of Remmick and far enough behind him to be considered respectful. They’re not equals. Remmick holds a sort of power over them, and you feel like you’re nearing the answer the more you stare at them, at the way Remmick stares into the juke joint as if searching for something.

The conversation passes. Questions like where are you from? Are you Klan? Even an unsettling rendition of Pick Poor Robin Clean that makes your hair stand on end. Smoke ends it abruptly, not a fan of the lack of blues, and Remmick points out that he and his friends have a lot of money they’d like to spend. They exchange a few more words before they walk away with an exaggerated slowness, stopping just short of the road leading into the woods.

“They gave me the willies,” Pearline, another of the singers, mutters.

“Crackers at night time will do that to you,” Stack says. Then, Smoke and Stack start arguing over why they’re here, if they’re actually Klan, before Smoke firmly states, “Don’t let them in.”

That seems to be the end of that, and the tension dissipates slightly. You return to the bar with Annie and Paige in tow, something uncomfortable settling low in your gut, and you top off your glass of wine and you take a long, slow sip of it. “I don’t trust them,” you declare in a huff, feeling Paige’s hand slide soothingly around your waist. “That man barked.”

“Woof, woof,” Paige imitates, and you wrinkle your nose at her in a way that makes her face fall. “Not funny. Got it.”

“I don’t either,” Annie admits. She glances up to the second floor where Smoke and Sammie are locked in conversation. Something makes her lips twist as she cleans a glass, something that looks a whole lot like I hope he knows what he’s doing.

Across the room, you spot Mary and Stack conversing, then you watch as Stack slips a small handgun into a holster tucked under her skirt. You know what her plan is long before Mary walks smoothly to the bar, sidling up next to you and Paige, looking at the taller blonde with a quiet request. “They’ll listen to us,” Mary says, her tone soft, spoken like it’s one of the quiet truths about the world and society that you’ll have to accept. “Remmick and them. The twins aren’t breaking even – too much plantation credit. The juke joint won’t be able to operate for another night if they can’t afford it.”

Paige draws her bottom lip between her teeth. You know her well enough to understand that she’d made up her mind. You give Mary a gentle look and she nods solemnly, stepping away from you two and giving you some privacy.

“Five minutes,” Paige utters, her voice hardly above a whisper. You might not be able to hear her over the thrum of the crowd. “Just to feel them out and keep an eye on Mary.” You don’t say anything, only looking up at her with an expression of calm concern, and she reaches for your wrist, pressing your palm to her hip where you can feel the outline of her holster, the handgun settled against her skin, unassuming.

You had a bad feeling about them, although it was significantly better for Paige and Mary to be out there together, both armed, than to let one or the other go alone. You didn’t like the situation, but you couldn’t do much. Sucking in a deep breath, you enclose both of Paige’s hands around yours, bringing them to your lips, and the both of you close your eyes as you pray over her. For safety, for protection. For the clear eyes to spot deceit. When you finish, she brushes a quick, gentle kiss to your cheek, squeezing your hands once before walking out of the door side by side with Mary.

Your chest is tense the entire time that she’s gone, but you try to keep yourself distracted, chatting with Annie while the two of you work the bar in tandem. She serves the fried catfish while you pour the drinks, an easy rhythm between the two of you. Even though you’re busy with the crowd, your eyes still trail off to the front door, hoping to see the tall blonde walk in sooner rather than later.

Eventually, she does, and Mary’s right behind her. You feel as though you can finally breathe a sigh of relief, although you wrinkle your nose when you watch Mary throw herself onto Stack and lead him into the back room you and Paige had already visited not even an hour prior. You suppose it’s a happy night for everyone, and you smile fondly at Paige as she rounds the bar once more, her palm finding your hip. “How’d it go?” you ask in a hushed whisper.

“Nothing to worry about,” she reassures you, but she doesn’t add anymore, which confuses you. Her hand presses against you a little more firmly, a knee slipping between your legs, and you can’t help but gasp at the pressure.

“Paige!” you hiss, glancing around, your heart in your throat. Annie is occupied with an inebriated man who is struggling to cut his fish, but it doesn’t make you relax anymore. Her grin is sharp, eyes dark, and you can smell the wine and something distinctly minty on her breath as she leans in. “You’re insatiable.” You try for a reprimanding tone, but you just sound a little breathless, feeling a heat coil low in your belly when she pushes you down on her knee slightly. “We just–”

“Still gotta make it up to you, don’t I?” she murmurs, the muscle of her thigh flexing under your weight, and you sigh softly at the drag, trying to not look like she’s ruining you in a room full of people. “Let Annie handle this. You deserve a break.” Her lips find the shell of your ear, her voice a rumbling, low timbre when she says, “You deserve to feel good, baby. Lemme help you.”

Still breathless, all you can do is nod, and she guides you upstairs, the both of you searching for a quiet corner. Paige pushes open the door to the loft area and her lips are on yours before the door clicks shut. She’s insistent, ravenous, something so different from the way she kissed you downstairs. Her hands curl under your thighs, lifting you easily, and she presses you against the door.

Your fingers tangle in her hair, ruining the bun she’d messily fixed after your earlier rendezvous, and she groans against your lips when you tug. She disconnects your lips, her head tilting back in pleasure at the slight sting of pain, and you don’t waste any time before you’re leaning into her. You sink your teeth into her neck, your tongue soothing over the mark. Her hips buck like the feeling of your lips on her neck already has her close to the edge. You trail your lips down, nipping at the vein protruding from the side of her neck, the tender area where her neck meets her shoulder. Paige’s fingers tighten around you, her muscles straining, and it sends white hot desire to your core when your palms slide down, feeling the definition in her shoulders and her biceps.

Your lips meet again and Paige breathes into you like she’s trying to gather your taste, to eat you alive. Her tongue meets yours, hardly needing permission this time around, and you sink into it, letting her unravel you. It’s a lot – the feeling of her teeth in your skin, the dangerous, almost instinctual way she kisses you, the primality in how she squeezes bruises into the skin of your thighs. It’s rough, heady, and right now, it is perfect.

You break away long enough to speak, your chest heaving. When you meet her eyes, her pupils are blown out, the darkest blue you’ve ever seen them, and you swear you see the smallest fleck of drool spilling out from the corner of her lips, but you can’t be too sure if it was from her or you. All you know is that you need her – right now. You need her, pressed bare skin to bare skin, her hips rutting against yours, her mouth on your chest or your neck or quite literally anywhere. “Need you,” you whimper, your lips brushing against hers, and she squeezes you once that feels like some strange mix between a warning and an apology.

She lifts you off of the door, her teeth scraping against your collarbone as she leads you backwards. There’s a fleece blanket spread out on the floor, the one that had been used to cover the piano during transport, and she lays you against it gently, a devastating contrast to the viciousness in which she’d kissed you with. Something in you aches at the sight of her. The heat coiling in your belly, the pulsating feeling between your legs, begging for attention. You’ve never needed anyone more than you need Paige right now.

When you peer up at her through your lashes, you’re almost taken aback by how different she looks. Her fingers are trembling as she unbuttons her dress shirt, but there’s simultaneously a stark rigidity in her spine, a tense feeling in her shoulders. It’s like she’s fighting between two different parts of her – her brain and her body, or something else otherworldly, like maybe some instinctual urge.

At first, you wonder if she’s only doing this because she feels as though she truly has to make up for her absence in making you feel good. Maybe something had gotten lost in translation or jokes that didn’t land well. So you reach out, stopping her movements when your fingers wrap around her wrists, and her entire body goes still. The tremor is gone. Her shoulders sag with something like realization, or relief, as though a weight had been lifted off of them. And her eyes – which had been burning with a heat, a desire you don’t think you’ve ever seen before, have calmed.

Gently, you whisper, your tone echoing a promise, “You don’t owe me anything.” You watch her throat bob as she swallows, her eyes trailing from your eyes, to your lips, before honing in on your neck, where the pulse from the organ behind your ribcage thrums in your neck. “We don’t–”

“I want to,” she breathes out, shrugging out of her shirt, and your eyes follow the lines of her body. You didn’t get to see them earlier. Her breasts are covered by her bra, something worn yet unshakingly reliable, the firm lines of her muscles crossing over one another and dipping beneath the waistband of her pants. Paige leans down, her hands pressed into the floorboards on either side of your head, her arms caging you in. The position shouldn’t make you feel as safe as you do, but she dips her head down to kiss you again. It’s gentler, more like what you’re used to from her, and the difference makes your headspin. She goes from rough to demanding to gentle and soft within minutes, and your body struggles to catch up.

“Wanna make you feel good,” she whispers, her voice wrecked, as she scrapes her teeth against your neck again. She pauses, her nose nearing your pulse point, where you’re sure she can feel the way your heart beats for her. Paige breathes in, like she’s trying to memorize the way you smell, and she presses a gentle kiss to your pulse point. She lingers there, her breath hitching, almost as though she’s forcing herself to keep moving. Like she knows she’s doing something she shouldn’t quite be doing.

“Wanna watch you fall apart for me,” she continues, her tongue darting out to lick the salt off your throat. She hums at the flavor and you arch into her. Paige leans back on her heels, reaching out for you, and she quickly unzips your dress at the back. “Wanna see you. All of you.” She punctuates her words by slowly pulling the fabric down, revealing miles upon miles of glistening skin, and her breath hitches at the sight. You’re bare, nipples already pebbling from the cool air of the room, and she sneaks in a feel as she pulls your dress down your torso.

It comes off easily. You lift your hips to help her out, leaving you in nothing but your lace, which is still damp from earlier. Her gaze lingers, and naturally, you spread your legs for her, allowing her to settle in between you with something like wonder on her face. But there’s something in her expression that’s still pinched.

You forget all about her weird behavior when her lips enclose around one of your nipples, her hand reaching up to fondle the other one. The pressure is otherworldly, all but forcing you to press up against her, and her free hand shoves your hips down with ease. You gasp a little, already sure that you’re leaking again, but she hums deep in her throat, the sound sending a shockwave straight through you.

“Paige,” you whimper, your voice breaking around a moan as she alternates, her mouth finding your other breast. “Please touch me.”

She laughs, fingers tracing the waistband of your lace, slipping under when you least expect it. But she doesn’t find your clit. She doesn’t press against you in the way that you need, doesn’t slip her finger inside like she usually would. She’s trying to draw out your pleasure, to make you beg for it, and that thought alone makes you wetter. “I am touching you, baby,” she teases. Her lips leave your breasts to trail down your stomach, nipping gently, soothing the sting with her tongue.

Huffing, you wrap your legs around her waist, tugging her a little closer to you, and something dangerous flashes in her gaze. “Don’t be a jerk,” you chastise, trying to sound strong, but your voice is breathless, full of need, and Paige knows it.

She grabs your thighs, pressing your legs back down onto the blanket, and leans over you with something dark in her eyes. “Don’t be a brat,” she retorts. The tone of her voice makes your entire body burn. “Think I don’t know what you need?” Her palms press against your stomach, fingers poking where she’d sucked brusies against your sensitive skin. It makes your hips jump. “You think I don’t know how to touch you? That when you’re turned on, and I press here…” Her palm finds your stomach, pressing down precisely, and a gasp falls from your lips. The smile on her face is far too smug. “…You make those sweet little sounds for me?”

“Paige,” you cry out again, feeling your need seep out of your cunt, surely staining your lace.

But she just keeps going. “You think I don’t know exactly how to fuck you? To make sure you feel me?” She shakes her head, lost in it, and she tangles her fingers in the waistband of your underwear. “I know you, baby. I know you’re soaking through this fucking lace for me. Know you’ve been wet all fucking night. If I had my way, I would have had my head between your thighs for hours until you cried for me.” Paige pulls your lace down slowly, her jaw falling open as she reveals your dripping cunt.

She glances at you, a satisfied little smile on her face, gaze heated, gone. “Is it that serious?” she coos, her tone teasing, eyes dropping to your thighs. “So fucking wet for me. Just want me to take care of you, huh?”

That’s when you spot it – the shining, viscous liquid pooling at the corner of her mouth, sliding down her chin, her neck. She’s fucking drooling. That realization hits you like a fucking truck, arousal seeping out of your weeping cunt, and you’re a little breathless when you ask, “Is that serious?” while you gesture to her lips.

Almost as though she’s coming back to herself, she reaches up, fingers finding the spit leaking out of her mouth, and she stares like she’s been caught. Something clears in her eyes. Embarrassment, maybe. Probably something else. Feeling your heartbeat in your cunt, you reach out for her hand, wrapping your lips around her fingers, and moaning in pleasure at the taste of her spit.

You can hear her groan – impossibly wrecked, destroyed entirely. She watches with rapt attention as you take her fingers down to the base, your tongue sliding between them, making sure you get every drop. When you’re done, her fingers are soaked, coated in your own saliva, and you drag a finger across the remainder pooling at the base of her neck. “What’d you say earlier?” you whisper, tone saccharine sweet. “‘Don’t waste that shit’?” You pop your own finger in your mouth while her brain catches up with her.

Ruined, she wipes her chin and her neck, offering her hand to you, and you don’t waste any more time before you’re taking her fingers in your mouth again, making sure to maintain eye contact. She groans, the sound low and devastating in her throat, her eyes not once moving away from you. When her hand is clear, she wraps it around your throat, not applying any pressure, but the hold is firm enough to push you back down onto your back. 

“Open,” she commands, and you do so wordlessly. The hand on your throat holds you still while, slowly, she lets her spit pool on her tongue, letting it fall into your mouth. You shudder at the feeling, your body impossibly hot, and her smile is a little reverent when she releases your throat to push your jaw up. You swallow immediately. Paige rewards you with a bruising kiss, groaning at the flavor of your combined tastes.

There’s no more foreplay from there, the both of you burning for each other. She fumbles with her belt buckle and shucks off her pants and boxers with an unnatural quickness. You reach for the hem of her bra, not wanting to be alone in your nakedness, and she raises her arms to allow you to pull it off of her.

The first press of her skin against yours feels like a lightning strike to your overheated skin. It makes you gasp, and she takes advantage of your pleasure to slip her tongue inside again, already working on pushing you to the edge with her lips alone. Her hands trail down to your thighs, pushing them open even more. She fits against you like a puzzle piece, pulling you flush against her, and you’re sure you ascend completely at the feeling of her wet cunt pressing against yours.

You both let out keening moans, your name falling from her lips while a curse falls from yours. Your fingers grapple for purchase on her back, your nails sinking in and scratching, and she moans against your lips at the sting of pain. Her forehead presses against yours, her hips rolling sensually into yours, and when your sensitive clits brush against each other, desire shoots up both of your spines simultaneously.

Her arms are caging you in again, the bulge and ripple of her muscles dragging you closer to a long awaited peak. Her hips roll with a newfound intensity, your combined slick making the slide impossibly smooth, and every brush of her clit against yours makes a moan tumble from your mouth. You’re unable to say anything, the pleasure immense and the words caught in your throat, and Paige kisses you like she understands, anyways. It’s needy, desperate, and reverent all in one.

Paige’s hips slam against yours, the both of you chasing your highs, and she releases your lips to press her mouth to your neck, directly over your pulse point. She kisses it, sucks a deep, bruising mark into your skin, and noses against your skin like she’s trying to memorize the way you smell – the way your blood smells as it courses through your veins. 

And then her teeth scrape against your neck. It makes you keen, tilting your head back to give her more room to work with, and she whimpers against your skin like the pleasure is too much. Her hips keep moving, even when her lips stall, but she mouths against your neck, almost as though she’s trying to gather confidence for something. Like she’s at war with her mind and she can’t make a decision. Like there’s something stopping her from sinking her teeth into you completely and feasting.

Eyes glazed over from pleasure, you finally peer up at her through your lashes, wondering why she’s pausing. Hesitating. Why she’s whining against your skin like she’s simultaneously hurt and seconds away from combusting with pleasure.

The sight above you isn’t one that you’d been expecting. It sobers you instantly, only halfway, the bump and grind of her clit against yours still sending shockwaves up your spine. There’s drool pooling at the corner of her lips again, but what truly gathers your attention and steals your breath away is the sharpness of her canines, the fangs protruding from her mouth. Her bottom lip is bitten raw, blood staining her mouth and dripping down her chin, as if she’d bitten her lip trying to prevent herself from biting you.

It’s then that you realize why the travellers had given you so much pause. Why you didn’t trust them. You’d been able to sense that lurking beneath the surface, they weren’t as they’d appeared. It wasn’t an inherent evilness. Even with Paige hovering above you, fangs out like she’s about to eat you alive, you can tell that she’s not evil. But she’s not herself either.

“Can’t,” she whimpers, almost as though she’s coming back to herself. You realize she’d been so weird ever since she returned with Mary because she’d been afflicted, fighting her mind and body and something else purely instinctual from the very moment she’d been let back into the juke joint. There’s something else in her head pressuring her to do something that she clearly doesn’t want to do – turning you, killing you – and she’s fighting every synapse and urge in her body to keep you safe. “I fucking can’t, ‘m so sorry.”

Her body and mind are split down the middle. Her fangs poke out, lips twisted up like she’s battling every urge to sink her teeth into your neck. But her eyes are as clear of a blue as you’d ever seen them. She doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to be this monster. Doesn’t want to hurt you anymore than she already has.

Then, there’s a flash of red in her eyes, something glowing, and she cries out as her head shoots back, her fangs digging into her lip again. She breathes heavily, and when she glances down at you, the red is gone and tears are pooling at her waterline. Blood dribbles from her lips, staining her teeth red. Your heart is caught in your throat, mouth open in disbelief and fear – not of her, but of what will happen if you lose her.

“Can’t hurt you,” she mutters again, her voice hoarse. “Won’t.” Her entire body shudders as she battles the urge. “Help me. Please, baby.”

Your fingers are trembling when you nod, wrapping your arms around her, and pulling her closer. She cries out like the temptation is blinding, pressing at every crevice of her body, but you trust her. God, you do. Despite everything that has led up to this moment, you know you’re safe with her. That she’d never hurt you. “It’s okay,” you promise, your voice steady, breathing hitting her ear. “You’re okay. Just move with me.”

You can feel her nod shakily, her hips resuming their slow motions against yours, and it’s this – this human connection, this bond between the two of you that’s more than just physical – that stabilizes her, tethers her to the reason why she can’t bring herself to sink her fangs in your neck and drain you like the urge in her brain is pressuring her to. “You won’t hurt me,” you whisper, squeezing the back of her neck, and she nods again. “Say it. You won’t hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” she affirms, no hesitation, her forehead resting against your shoulder. Her breath comes out in a shudder, the pleasure coursing through her veins muddling with the uncertainty in her head. Paige noses against your neck, breathing in your scent, and something in her shoulders relaxes.

“You are not what he made you,” you say, one of your hands brushing through her hair.

“‘M not – fuck –” The words get caught in her throat, but she presses more firmly against you, and she breathes through it. “I’m not what he made me.”

Your lips find her cheek, her temple, grounding her, and your hips start meeting hers. “You are Paige Bueckers. You’re safe.”

Her voice is rough, but her tone is a little clearer when she repeats it. “I’m Paige Bueckers,” she whispers into your neck, her lips kissing your skin, almost like an apology. Like gratitude. Like a literal You are the only person keeping me here right now. “I’m safe.”

Your palms come up to cup her cheeks, pulling her out of your neck to meet her gaze. Her eyes are startlingly blue, tears slipping from her eyes, and her fangs are mostly gone. There’s still a slight edge on her canines, but you can feel it. She’s rejecting the bloodlust, the pressure of the hivemind she’s been trapped under. You kiss her gingerly, tasting the salt of her tears and the iron of the blood on her lips, and she sobs against your lips like that was the one thing she needed to remember who she was.

“I love you,” you whisper – you promise, and her hips are still chasing yours.

But you don’t give in. Not until Paige presses her forehead to yours, swearing vehemently, “I love you, too.”

You hold her gaze. Your eyes are steady, sure, and hers are trusting. She trusts that you’ll get her through to the other side of this, just as you trusted that she wouldn’t give into the feeling. So, you smile at her, faithfully, and you whisper, “Come back to me.”

She does. You latch onto each other as you fall apart in tandem. She’s still holding herself up by her hands, but her body shudders through the aftershocks as you kiss her temple, her nose, her lips, murmuring gently to her. You pull her onto your chest, her arms giving out, and she curls up next to you while she hiccups through the remainder of her tears. Her legs tangle with yours, her face tucking into the crook of your neck, her arms holding onto you like she’s afraid you’re going to run.

But you’d promised – the both of you did. There’s no more running from the people that you love. You brush her damp hair off of her forehead, kissing her skin gently, and it makes her shiver. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Paige look like this – scared of herself. Of what she is. She looks so young. It makes you hold onto her a little tighter.

“Where are you?” you whisper to her after a while.

She hardly shifts. “With you,” she promises. The last bit of tension in your shoulders dissipates. Paige is silent for a long moment. Then, you feel the heat of her tears dampening your skin, and you tighten your arms around her as she cries. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, the same way a sinner might as he stands before God on judgement day. “I’m so sorry. I almost–” Whatever she was trying to say gets stuck in her throat, and you trail your fingers soothingly up and down her back as she finds coherency. “I almost hurt you. Again.”

“You didn’t,” you remind her, your voice firm. “You couldn’t.” Her breath catches like she’s trying to force herself to believe that. “I trust you. In every definition of the word. I trust you, Paige. If I’m not safe with you then there’s nowhere else I’d be able to survive. You didn’t hurt me. You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault.”

Paige nods; then, brokenly, she murmurs, “It’s not my fault.” You hum in agreement, feeling her body relax against yours. You both lay in silence for a moment until she speaks up again. “You saved me.”

“You saved yourself,” you retort. You cup her cheek, your finger tapping against her temple, and you draw her eyes up to meet yours. “Up here. You did that. I just helped you down here.” You press your palm to her chest, where her heart is. She settles her hand over yours, sinking into you.

Then, Paige stiffens like she’s just remembered something. “Mary,” she states simply, and the dread seeps back into your chest.

“She took Elias to the back when she got back in,” you mutter. Paige glances at you once before the both of you haul yourselves to your feet, redressing quickly, and you make your way downstairs.

The both of you are already too late. The juke joint has been cleared out, with only a select few people remaining. Smoke, Annie, Pearline, Sammie, Grace Chow, Delta Slim. They all linger around the door to the back room. Mary’s missing. So is Stack, but Paige winces like she knows exactly where he is and what happened to him.

Annie catches sight of you first. Her face crumples with relief and she marches over immediately, pulling you into a tight hug that you eagerly reciprocate. “You’re okay,” she breathes out.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, mostly to soothe her, and Annie pulls away. She takes one glance at Paige and she stiffens, knowing that she’d left and returned with Mary. Her eyes narrow, but none of you get the chance to say anything before a handgun cocks and Smoke is pointing the barrel directly between Paige’s eyes.

She flinches, not because of the gun aimed at her. But because Smoke is one of her best friends and he hadn’t hesitated before he turned the gun on her. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand,” he says firmly.

For that, Paige has no real answer, but you step in between her and the barrel of Smoke’s gun. “Because she wouldn’t kill us,” you declare, your voice soft, yet it echoes in the emptiness of the juke joint. You glance back at her. Paige’s eyes are shining. “Couldn’t kill us.”

Smoke looks at Annie, who looks at you. Something in her features softens. “They’re not Haints,” she announces. “They’re vampires. Fangs, red eyes. Garlic, silver, sunlight, and wooden stakes are lethal. When they’re turned, they’re killed. Their soul is trapped inside their body and they’re unable to move on. But…there’s always a rare case. Sometimes souls are shared.” Annie meets your gaze again. “You’re the reason why she’s resisting the curse right now.”

You nod solemnly, already knowing as much, although you didn’t have the vocabulary for it. Smoke’s eyes linger on you. Then Paige. Then Annie. He lowers the gun, sliding it back into the holster, and Paige relaxes immediately. So do you. You step back, linking your fingers together. The tension in the room doesn’t completely dissolve, but it’s not nearly as heavy now.

Everyone starts making preparations. Annie assembles jars of pickled garlic. Silver jewelry is shared. Chairs are broken down and whittled into sharp, wooden points. Paige helps, but she’s a lot slower, her fingers trembling around the stake in her hand because she knows she’s holding the one thing that could ever kill her. You stick close by her if only to offer support, and you converse in hushed murmurs.

“You can’t stay here forever,” you say. Her throat bobs, quiet acceptance on her face. “The sunrise will kill you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” she argues.

You look at her. Your features soften. “Paige,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “You couldn’t kill me.”

“Won’t.”

“I can’t kill you,” you confess. “Won’t.” She pauses, her gaze meeting yours. “I can’t sit here with you until sunrise and watch you burn up.”

“I don’t want to die.” Her voice is a quiet murmur. “I don’t want to be where you aren’t.”

You reach out, plucking the stake from her hands. She’s shaking. You slide into her lap, her arms immediately encircling you, and you press your foreheads together. “I don’t want to lose you either,” you say. “Which is why I want you to run when I tell you to. I’ll find you.”

She chokes on a laugh, but it’s watery. “I thought we said no more running,” she says, trying to keep the mood light, and you can’t help your giggle.

You kiss her gently. “If you die, you’re running away from me. You owe me.” She nods against you, her smile a little softer. “Promise me you’ll go when I tell you to.”

She’s silent for a moment. Her fingers trace your skin, the blue of her gaze searching yours. And she gives in. “I promise.”

You kiss her again. You hold onto her for a little longer, and then the both of you get back to work.

There are a few interruptions as you do. Stack returns with Mary in tow, asking to be let in. Obviously, no one lets that happen. Then Bo Chow returns – Grace’s husband, and you can sense that she’s moments away from giving in. At least, until Remmick shows up next to Bo and says something in Mandarin that makes Grace lose it. She’s dragged away kicking and screaming while someone slams the doors closed.

You can hear Remmick and the rest of the vampires locked in another haunting rendition of Pick Poor Robin Clean. Grace is at her wit’s end. You and Paige stay close, but commotion draws your attention. Smoke and Annie are holding Grace back while she thrashes. All you hear is, “Come on in, motherfucker!” and you know that your night is about to get a whole lot worse.

The subsequent fighting passes in a blur. You hardly remember it. You drive your stake through the chests of a few vampires, and so does Paige, even if the look on her face makes it look like she’s killing herself, too. You think you’re starting to make good progress until you see Stack hovering over Annie’s body, his fangs in her neck.

Everything goes devastatingly still. The fight still rages on. Gunfire echoes through the rooms, the cries of staked vampires falling on deaf ears. All you can see is the way Annie’s jaw hangs slack, pain etched on her face, and you can hear the agony in Smoke’s voice. Paige’s head turns, her face crumbling at the sight of her body.

She doesn’t hesitate. She tackles Stack, punching him clean across the jaw and disorienting him. The infighting causes a ripple of confusion among the vampires and it gives Smoke enough opportunity to stake the one holding him down before he rushes over to Annie.

You’re already next to her when Smoke falls to his knees next to her. He applies pressure over the wound at her neck, but you rest your hand over his, your fingers trembling. “It’s too late,” you tell him, your voice choked up.

Annie manages a nod, and with a weak voice, she wheezes, “You promised.” Her gaze is locked on Smoke.

He knows. With shaking hands, he reaches for his discarded stake. You wrap your hand around it, too, and together, you and Smoke both murmur, “I love you,” and Annie nods again like she understands. The both of you drive the stake through Annie’s chest, finally allowing her to move on and be at peace.

Her death causes a massive retreat. Paige grabs onto you, joining the rest of your friends as you hurry upstairs with Sammie. Delta Slim hangs back, cutting his own wrist cleanly, and drawing a crowd of the remaining vampires and allowing the rest of you the chance to escape.

On the second floor, there’s a door leading to a staircase outside. Smoke is ushering all of you out of it, and one by one, you make your way down. You glance up at the sky, noting how close to dawn you are. With your heart in your throat, you grab onto Paige’s hand, and you force her to meet your gaze. “Go,” you command.

She swallows thickly, glancing behind you to the crowd of vampires who have made their way out to intercept you. She doesn’t want to leave you. Not when this is what you have to face without her.

“You promised,” you remind her, your voice cracking when you recall that those were Annie’s last words, too. Paige seems to recognize that, nodding, and she presses her forehead to yours once more.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs again, kissing you gently. You just hold onto her a little tighter. “Please be okay.”

“I will,” you swear – because you will be. Paige has made sure of it. “I love you.”

Paige glances up at the sky, at the way the sun has begun to peek out from the horizon. She bows her head in a defeated acceptance. “I love you, too.”

Then she’s gone – her figure disappearing behind the trees. Her absence still aches. As strong as you try to be, you don’t know what the morning holds.

The sun comes up while Remmick and Sammie are locked in on each other in the shallow pond. Smoke comes up behind you, looking defeated, and you wonder about what happened to Stack. All around you, the vampires clutch their heads in agony as the sun blisters their skin, bright balls of orange flame encompassing everything.

The night ends in a way that makes you wonder if it’d even happened at all. There are no piles of ash, no indication of what just transpired if not for the blood on everyone’s clothes or the burn marks at the front of the juke joint from Grace’s molotov cocktail. The morning is still. Quiet. You watch as Smoke and Sammie hug each other tightly, as if they can’t believe that they’re even alive. Smoke sends Sammie off. He was supposed to help his father with the morning service, and the fact that Sammie goes willingly reminds you more of a trauma response than anything else.

You watch the sunrise with Smoke. Neither of you say anything, a shared sort of grief in your heart. When he looks down at his dog tags, at the chest of weapons he’d stashed in his truck, you know of his plan before you think he does. Gingerly, you wrap him in a hug, and you murmur, “Say hello to Annie for me.”

His fingers tremble when he hugs you back. “I will,” he promises. “Go be with her.”

You nod, releasing him. You find a car that had been left behind, find the keys left on the seat, and you drive a little catatonically back to Annie’s shop. The sun is well into the sky by the time you make it there. Everything is quiet. Unmoving. You cut the engine, step out, and make your way to the door. You open it.

Paige has you in her arms before the door even closes. You sink into her embrace, clutching onto her tightly, because she’s somehow still the one thing that makes even a little bit of sense in this fucked up world. She lets you cry into her chest and you’re pretty sure that she’s crying into your shoulder, but the two of you just remain locked in each other’s arms. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask you if you’re okay or how you’re feeling. She knows. She gives you the space to quietly grieve, to not be strong. The both of you had lost so many people tonight. Friends. Family. Everything else.

She didn’t expect you to be okay. You didn’t know how long it would take for things to feel okay. To feel normal. Maybe the truth is that you might never feel normal again. Your girlfriend is stuck under this curse for the rest of her days, even though she’s still Paige Bueckers, but there’s so much you’ll need to learn. To do. You’ll have to change so much about your lives just to survive.

But you’d made her a promise a while ago. You would rather love Paige in the dark than have anyone else in the sun. You hadn’t realized the irony of your words until now, but you mean it. As long as you and Paige have each other, this new part of your lives might not be so difficult. It will just be yours. For now, that’s all you can really ask for.

“You still makin’ pie today?” she asks, her voice soft and exhausted at the edges.

It draws a light laugh out of you. It relieves you to know that you could still be happy after this. “Yeah,” you promise. “I’m making pie today. And you can have the spoon.”

Paige holds onto you a little tighter after that. And she doesn’t let go.

Life after the night at the juke joint is…different. An adjustment.

Sammie disappears to only God knows where, although in the years after, you’d heard whisperings of a blues singer who’d taken the world by storm. As much as you cared for him, you struggled with keeping up with him and his adventures. He reminded you too much of that night and everyone you’d lost – Annie, Smoke, Delta Slim, the Chows. Even Cornbread.

But Paige doesn’t remind you of the horrors. It’s always a little different with her, even if she isn’t what she used to be. She’s trapped in that supernatural plane between being human and something not quite. Following Remmick’s death, she was no longer shackled to that all-consuming hivemind of hate and malice. Not that she was fully in it in the first place – her heart was a little too human. She’s more like herself now than she was that night, which does bring you some comfort.

You’re not comforted by the fact that her soul is trapped in her body, though. Not comforted by the fact that she’s dead, yet she’s still living half of a life for your sake because she’d been unable to kill you while under the spell of vampirism and you were unable to kill her yourself, too. Paige is a walking folktale, unable to touch silver, eat garlic, or feel the sun on her skin. She hides in the shadows during the day and comes out during the night if only to feel your skin against hers.

You’re not an ordinary pair. You’ve never been – two women connected by fate and bonded by love in Mississippi. You fell in love despite the fact that the world thought you shouldn’t. You survived the attacks at the juke when it was improbable. Now, you’re still two women learning to navigate life as one of you ages and the other remains stuck at 23.

After that night, you return to town. You try your best to explain to Lisa, the Chows’ daughter, what happened. You don’t think she believes you – you wouldn’t either. But life goes on for her, even though her parents never return. You take over Annie’s shop, still serving Elise and Will and telling them that Annie and Elijah had actually gotten married and moved out of the Delta. They were too young for the truth, and you didn’t have the heart to explain it to them.

During the day, Paige helps you in the shop, confined to the shadows indoors, staring longingly out the window. She’d once told you that she never realized how much she’d miss the sun until it was gone. That made you feel a little guilty, but she just kissed you, forgiveness and atonement on her lips. She wasn’t going to hate you for being unable to kill her when that was also a crime she’d committed.

At night, she’s glued to your side, trampling gently over weeds and grass in the woods as you search for roots for the shop. You don’t practice the craft like Annie used to – it wasn’t your place. But honoring her memory makes you feel less like you’re drowning. Only after sunset is Paige able to go outside and feel the ground beneath her feet, inhale the fresh air without burning up. Truthfully, it brings you both closer, just having to figure out different ways to love each other.

Neither of you run, even when it’s hard. Paige is there to console you after horrible dreams of that night. You’re there with remedies when her gums ache. Her pain is a little more instinctual than it is medical, but it does bring her some relief. 

Stack and Mary came to visit one day. Paige had stood glaring at your side while the two of them spoke with you. They meant no harm. They told you that much when they knocked on your door and asked for an invite inside. Perhaps foolishly, you’d believed them, but you chose to believe they were capable of goodness despite their new nature, just as Paige was. Stack told you about a place they’d come across during their travels, a state in New England – Connecticut. It would be a fresh start away from the horrors of the Delta.

You weren’t sure. Part of you wanted to keep up Annie’s shop, honoring her practice and her traditions for as long as you could. It was difficult to be incognito when half of the town disappeared suddenly one night and the juke joint was littered with bodies. Stack and Annie hugged you before they left, telling you to visit if you ever found the time. You could only nod, and Paige was only able to breathe once they were gone.

You’re tangled in bed together that night, your head on Paige’s chest, listening to the juxtaposition in the sound of her breathing despite the lack of a heartbeat. You never knew that you’d miss that sound, either. Her nail drags up and down your arm soothingly, almost lulling you into a slumber, but she breaks it to murmur, “Connecticut?”

“It’s pretty far,” you respond. “A lot colder than it is here.”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell,” she jokes, which rips a surprised laugh out of your chest. Her finger pauses in its movements, but she shifts, slinging a leg over yours and pulling you closer. That wasn’t anything new – Paige was always physically affectionate, long before Remmick turned her into this. Now, it means something different. You’re warm. Having you close makes her feel a little more alive, even if the skin-to-skin contact can’t fully replace the lack of her own body heat. “We can’t stay here forever,” she continues, her voice softening. Then it breaks when she says, “I can’t stay here forever.”

Her family had long since been shattered down two lines. Still, it weighs on her, the idea of never seeing her parents again, or her siblings. She couldn’t keep them and lie to them about the nature of her being. She also knew they would never believe her fully or see her the same. It would be impossible to explain to people why you continued to age, yet Paige remained the same for years. Impossible to explain why no one ever sees her in town anymore, not even for the holiday celebrations she’d loved as a kid.

“I know,” you whisper.

You had no one left here besides her. All of your friends had passed during that night. Your only connection to the Delta was keeping Annie’s memory fresh. But customers would dwindle, and you know better than anyone else that Annie would tell you to move on. Be happy. 

You shift in bed, craning your head to meet Paige’s eyes, and you find that she’s already looking at you. She’s soft, her hair mussed, flowing down her shoulders in wavy strands. She has an imprint of your teeth on her neck from where you’d gotten a little too carried away but she wears it more like a badge of pride than a symbol of irony. Her smile is so tender, her hands cradling you like you’re her entire world, because you are and you know it and she knows it.

It makes you ache a little. But it’s a good ache. You don’t have to give the idea any more thought before you’re asking, “Well, how do you feel about the snow?”

She kisses you gently on the lips, chaste, innocent, something that makes you feel warm all over. “Anywhere’s good as long as it’s with you.”

It takes a few days, but eventually, the two of you make it to Connecticut. You settle down in a small town called Storrs, and honestly?

It’s really, really nice.

Storrs is nothing like the Delta. It doesn’t get nearly as hot. You feel a little more free here. And while you do miss the authentic fried catfish, you think that you can turn Storrs into your home. Your neighbors are kind and they don’t ask questions about you and Paige – they just leave you be. It’s not in a way that makes you think they don’t care about you; rather, it feels like respect and grace, because you weren’t different. You and Paige weren’t something to be stared at. You just were, and your neighbors seemed to understand the value in minding their own.

You and Paige attend three different welcome dinners, getting to know your neighbors and their families. They tell you what life is like in the neighborhood and which establishments were hiring. They send you home with leftovers and you make sure to clean and return them along with one of your homemade pies. It’s a comforting tradition of feeding and taking care of each other.

Paige lands a position at the local high school as an assistant coach for their basketball team. She knows next to nothing about the sport but the position had been vacant for years. She’s a quick study, though – she’d helped lead the team to the district championship by the end of the year. You were teaching language arts at the elementary school, having always enjoyed a good book, and the kids loved you, too.

And so your routine was simple. Not monotonous enough to be boring, but stable enough to be peaceful. Paige would drop you off at the elementary school with a kiss goodbye and a surprise in your lunch bag. It was always a sweet little note consisting of reminders to breathe and to smile. She’d drive to the high school, where she’d scout other teams and draw up training plans or practice drills, often being a role model to her boys and keeping them on the straight and narrow. They came to her for any and everything – advice on how to be better players. One even asked her how he should ask out his crush, which had endlessly amused the both of you as you chatted over it at dinner.

You asked her what she advised him to do, obviously. She’d gotten a little quiet, a small sort of smile spreading across her lips as she brought a piece of chicken up to her mouth. “Told him to be honest,” she said after a moment, looking at you meaningfully. You softened. “That he shouldn’t be afraid to want her.”

“Sounds familiar,” you commented wryly, and she smirked at you over a glass of water.

“Sounds real,” she shot back.

Your kids, while younger, aren’t lacking for stories, either. You tell Paige about the time you watched a boy push a girl on the playground during recess, only for the girl’s friend to step in, hands on her hips like a disappointed mother lecturing an unruly kid. He’d gotten punished, obviously, but it warmed your heart to see the girl standing up for her friend like that – without hesitation.

Then, on the same day, one of your students came to the front and loudly demanded to know where babies came from.

So maybe children came in all shapes and sizes.

Months passed. You and Paige don’t change. You’re still hopelessly in love, finding new ways to love each other. It’s all about the intention and effort and reading the nutrition labels on your food to make sure the suppliers hadn’t slipped garlic in there or making sure to keep the curtains drawn on the days there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s buying large umbrellas and telling your new friends that Paige has a severe skin condition where she burns easily in the sun and you have yet to find a sunscreen that works. It’s cuddling up with her late at night, pressed skin to skin with hardly an inch of space left between your bodies, because Paige craves the body heat like she craves having you next to her.

The school year eventually ends and over the summer, you and Paige visit Stack and Mary, as promised. They’re still down south. Mary looks radiant and when you hug her, you congratulate her on keeping Stack out of trouble. Stack had nudged Paige with a raised brow and a look that clearly said I’m keeping her out of trouble. You make a joke about needing an invite into their home and the four of you laugh about it three hours later when you’re all a little tipsy from the wine.

Seeing them makes you feel like you haven’t completely lost anything. That you can still find your family so long as you know where to look and as long as you trust them. You spend a few days with the two of them, and then you and Paige make your way back up to Storrs.

You teach, reminding your students of the importance in looking between the lines, in reading and learning from the source. Paige coaches, instilling grit, passion, and integrity into her players. It wasn’t about being perfect or anything of the sort. It was about doing what you loved with all that you were. The two of you live on, happily.

A year passes. Then two. You’re transferred from kindergarten to the second grade after one of the teachers retired. Paige gets promoted to head coach after winning the district championship win and taking her team to the state finals. You’re turning 27 this year and Paige is still 23. She likes to joke that she’s being preyed on by an older woman and you wish that she wasn’t virtually invincible because you’d like to flick her head just once and have it mean something.

The fact that you’re aging and she’s not isn’t really a concern right now. You’re happy. That’s what matters.

Paige asks you to marry her a year after that, when you’re 28. You say yes, obviously, and Stack and Mary make the trip up to see the both of you. Your wedding is intimate, private, not quite official but official in every way you need it to be. On legal documents, no one would ever know that you were Paige Bueckers’s wife, but you knew that, she knew that, and your closest friends knew that, so it was good enough for you.

You teach. She coaches. Storrs is your home now, even if you miss the Delta and everyone who didn’t make it out. Their loss isn’t your gain. It’s your memory and you honor them everyday. Slim, when you listen to the blues, thinking about how much he’d like this new shit, as Paige calls it. The Chows, when you go to the grocery store and smile at the elderly couple who runs it. You always pay a little too much, pretending not to hear them calling about your change when you walk out. But when you return days later and find that they’ve repaired a light fixture or have a new cash drawer, you can’t find it within yourself to mind too much.

TIme is constant. It moves. It’s unyielding. You get older. Paige doesn’t. But it’s okay.

Years pass. A decade. Two decades. Paige eventually steps down from the head coaching position at the high school because she’s supposed to be almost fifty but doesn’t look a day over twenty. Your neighbors ask how she remains so youthful, and her smile is always a little sharper when she says, “I’ve got great genes.”

She doesn’t look at you like you’re anything less than the woman she’s been in love with since she was sixteen. You don’t forget that, not when there’s crows feet at your eyes and your forehead is beginning to wrinkle. Not when teaching is catching up with you and the hair at the crown of your head starts greying. But you don’t give it up. Paige looks at you like you’re still the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen in her life. She finds other employment opportunities, ones where nobody knows who she is and wouldn’t be confused by her image.

She builds stuff now. She’s a carpenter. She plays basketball in her free time when she’s not working on projects and offhandedly, you comment, “Well, you could always enroll at that college a few miles away and play ball for them.”

You could tell she was always really into that idea, but something was keeping her here with you. You would never find out why and Paige would never tell you if you asked. But the truth was she just wanted to spend as much time with you before your age started actually catching up with you. Paige liked going on your late-night walks, breathing in the cool air and making you laugh by telling jokes that aren’t even funny anymore. Paige liked that you’d try to play basketball with her, even if you couldn’t fully dribble the ball between your legs. You knew that she just liked “defending” you, which meant that her hands wandered everywhere the ball wasn’t, but you liked it too, so you never called her out for it.

Nobody tells you how difficult it can be to be nearing sixty and being in love with someone who’s been twenty-three for three decades. You don’t have the same energy you did when you were younger. Paige didn’t love you any less.

Years pass again. You’re nearing seventy. You retired from teaching a few years ago, but you’re still active in your community, keeping up the local garden and smiling at the daughter of the elderly couple at the grocery store. Your neighbors ask you about why they don’t see Paige anymore and you can’t quite meet their eyes when you say it’s difficult for her to get out because of her arthritis.

You’ve lived a good life – that much you can admit. You survived, you got to keep Paige, and you made a career for yourself at the elementary school. You were afforded a lot more happiness than you ever thought you would have. You wonder what it would be like if things were different – if you and Paige were both cursed to be forever young, or if the both of you hadn’t made it out before the sun rose. You like what you’ve built, so this life was good enough for you.

The 90’s roll around and in spring of 1991, you’re sipping on tea when Paige quietly informs you, “I think I’m going to apply to UConn.”

You try for a wry smile. “Perfect. A twenty three year old with, what, sixty years of basketball experience? That’s just what that new coach needs.”

That made her laugh a little. “I think I’m prepared enough to walk on,” she teases. “Hopefully those freshmen don’t pick my pockets.”

You raise your brows at her and she relents like she’s accepting the possibility that she will get embarrassed by eighteen year olds. Like…actual eighteen year olds. Then you soften, setting your tea down, and meeting her gaze. “You’re serious?” She nods shyly. “Well, just make sure you bring your own pen and paper to class,” you say, lips quirking again. “Us teachers aren’t made of money.”

She laughs again, the sound gentle. Paige stands to brush a kiss across your temple, murmuring, “Don’t worry. I’ll be the best student ever.” She’s off to locate the application, and you smile at her retreating figure.

Neither of you are quite sure how, but she manages to get in. You didn’t consider the fact that her diploma was awarded in the 20s, and truthfully, you don’t really want to know what she did to get her application accepted. By fall, she’s enrolled full time at the University of Connecticut. In August, she walks directly into Geno Auriemma’s office, requesting to walk on in tryout. Afterwards, Paige will tell you that Geno stared at her for a solid minute and a half until she felt like she was slowly being gaslit. “What the hell,” Geno had said, standing up from his desk. “I’ve got time today. Let’s see if you can actually hold a ball, hotshot.”

You knew that Paige could do a lot more than hold a ball. Considering the fact that Geno let her join the team, you guess he figured out that Paige could do a lot more, too.

Everyday, she comes home with stories from practice, telling you about the drills they ran and how Geno sees perfection and demands something more. She doesn’t have to tell you for you to know that she really likes the intensity, the rigor. Geno works them so hard that she forgets she’s able to live forever because one practice makes her feel like it’s her last day on earth. You’re just happy that she’s happy.

You attend all of their home games, unable to be seen with Paige until the both of you are home and you can congratulate her on a good game. But the next four years pass quickly. The first three are winless. You and Paige both know that the Huskies are very close to a national championship win.

In 1995, they finally earned their long awaited one. Their first program win, Geno Auriemma’s first national championship win, and Paige’s, too. She’d led her team there, filling out the stats sheet, and she cried when she held the trophy for the first time.

It must be different for her, you think, to have been cursed to live forever from a young age. There will be no growing old for her. No children or grandchildren to ask her what it was like to win UConn’s first national championship. There will be no huffing and puffing about dentures or anything of the sort. She probably won’t be remembered after this year, but winning feels like building something permanent. It feels like being alive – like truly alive, and you wonder if she holds any resentment towards you for being unable to save her at the juke joint.

But the kiss she dusts across your cheek afterwards, the long hug she pulls you in – sweat and all – makes you feel like she could never be angry at you for that. Especially not when she murmurs, “Thank you for giving me this life,” and you realize that the two of you had sacrificed so much for each other without truly knowing it. Whether the two of you realized it or not, you made something beautiful with the life you’d been given. Not many people can say that.

Paige doesn’t keep the championship net, only the small fragment that she’d cut down. She leaves hers with Geno, who obviously doesn’t understand why she wouldn’t keep it, but he’d coached her long enough to realize there’s no arguing with her.

You think that this is what happiness feels like. What love and fulfillment feels like. All you really know is that you were glad to do it with Paige.

After the national championship win in 1995, the years pass in a blur. You’re slowing down. You can feel it.

You’re well past 90 in 2000 when you realize that this was it for you. You’ve lived a long, good life. You’ve seen a lot, touched the lives of many people around you, and you know that there’s not much waiting for you here. Having no tangible family, assembling your will is an easy task, opting to have your wealth donated to the UConn women’s basketball program anonymously.

In early July, the evening is just beginning to wind down when Paige finds you sitting on the porch. The sound of crickets echo around you, the distant hoot of owls cooing, accompanied by the sound of squirrels running through the underbrush. She takes a seat next to you on the sectional, not a day past twenty, a staunch dissimilarity from you.

You’re both silent for a moment. Contemplative. You don’t have to say anything to know that the both of you are likely thinking the same.

Softly, she murmurs, “I’d like to watch the sunrise with you,” and you know better than anyone what she means by that. What the consequences of that mean.

So you do. She grabs a blanket from inside, large enough to drape over your shoulders, and she helps you onto the earth. Paige guides you to the edge of your property where a small pond rests, the glow of the moonlight reflecting off of the still waters. You sit together, your head on hers, and you spend the entire night talking.

You reminisce about the first time you’d met – you, adjusting to life in the Delta, and Paige, wanting desperately to get out of it. The both of you laugh when she recalls the first time she’d ever met the twins. Elias claimed they were cousins, baiting her perfectly. You remember all of your firsts. The morning when she left you for Chicago – even now, she still apologizes for that, to which you respond with, “Well, don’t leave me in our next life. How about that one?” and she laughs, a determined little smile on her face as she declares, “I’d spend every moment of it looking for you.”

The hours trickle by. For years, you’d thought of this moment, about what would occur when one of you inevitably decided that it was time to go. You imagined nerves. Uncertainty. Fear. Now, you’re comforted by the knowledge that you and Paige are just going to find your way back to each other no matter what. All you feel is a deep rooted peace, like you’ve finally earned a happy ending after the turmoil of your life. Maybe in the next one you’d be able to love her openly, but your promise from this one stands: you’d rather love her in the dark than take someone else in the sunshine.

You hear the chirp of birds before you see the sunrise. You feel Paige stiffen next to you, knowing it’s more of an instinctual discomfort than it is pain or fear, and you wrap her hands in yours, calming her with the heat of your body. She tries to relax – she does, but the both of you know this is it. It’s a heavy feeling, not one of a damning finality. One of hope, because no matter what, there’s so much more waiting for you both.

You glance at her. Paige is already looking at you, her gaze reverent and full of love, and she dusts a kiss to your wrinkled cheek. The sun is rising higher now, the rays poking through the trees and peering above the early dawn clouds. Her body begins to shimmer, some sort of golden flame licking at her skin, and she breaks your stare to look up at the sky, a slow smile curling on her lips.

“I love you,” she whispers to you, something like a promise. A vow, one that will hold true for more than this moment. “Don’t keep me waiting, okay?”

You smile, too, reaching up with your hand to cup her cheek. It’s warm to the touch. “I’ll see you soon,” you swear. “I love you.”

Her hand wraps around your forearm, leaning into your touch, and she presses the lightest ghost of a kiss to the inside of your wrist as the gentle flames consume her completely. Before you know it, Paige is gone, and your hand falls to your side limply.

But you’re not too far behind, either. You wrap the blanket tight around your body, leaning your head against the rich soil, and you gaze out at the pond before you, memorizing the blue of the water, the peace of the moment, the beauty of the life you and Paige managed to create for yourselves when it all felt impossible. Content, you shut your eyes, knowing that it’s finally time to rest.

(The next time you open them, Paige is standing before you, her arms extended wide, and you sink into her embrace like you know it’s the one place you’ll always belong. Like she’s the one place you’ll always be able to call home. And maybe it’s because she is. Maybe it’s because the two of you are just getting started, and you have so much time together. Your lives are just beginning.)

bonus

Coach Geno Auriemma, now in his sixties, is poring over recruitment film in his office during a calm day in May 2015 when his associate head coach, Chris Dailey, knocks on his door. She enters moments later, iPad and clipboard tucked close to her chest with a pensive expression, and sits down across from Geno.

He looks up, brows raised and lips drawn into an unimpressed line. He hardly seems concerned by CD’s expression as he says flatly, “What did Stewart do now?”

CD ignores that comment. “I was looking through the middle school film. Watch #1 in blue.” She flips the iPad around, pressing play on the video on screen. Geno hones in on the player in question – blonde, perhaps a little undersized compared to her peers, but he can tell this is an eighth grader playing on varsity. She’s dribbling the ball at the top of the key, calling for a screen, and she ducks around the defender on the right, stopping just short of the free throw line and shooting the ball gracefully from the midrange. It sinks in – because of course it does – and the player backpedals for defense.

It’s then that the camera catches her features. It’s grainy, but Geno can recognize that face anywhere. The assured confidence, maybe a little misplaced and delusional, but it’s almost as trademark as the midrange pullup. Something in him simultaneously softens and breaks.

In 2000, Paige Bueckers, the player who had won UConn’s first national championship for women’s basketball in 1995, had disappeared. Not a trace. She had no family to reach out to, and when Geno approached police and authorities for a wellness check, he’d been told that there was no record of her. Nobody could explain how she lit up the court every week yet ceased to legally exist. It would become one of UConn’s greatest memories. Surely everyone had just missed something.

But this? This wasn’t a coincidence.

“Paige Bueckers,” CD says quietly. “Same face. Same jumper. Same player.”

“Born 2000 or 2001?” Geno asks. CD nods resolutely, and the head coach leans back in his chair. At his age, he’d thought he’d seen everything, but this takes the cake completely. “Well,” he mutters after a while. “Guess I must have really pissed someone off to have to coach her twice.”

In the same office years later, the 2020 season has just begun, and Geno is waiting for a student to arrive for a meeting. Her name had sounded so familiar to him, and after the whole situation with Paige Bueckers, Geno is learning to trust his gut a little more when it comes to things that feel more like fate than coincidence.

There’s a gentle knock at his office door, and he calls for the student to enter. That’s when you walk in, a little flushed from your walk over, bag slung over your shoulder. Geno knows he’s never seen you before in his life, but there’s still something familiar about your face, the energy you’ve brought into the room simply by sitting. You’re a kinesiology major – pre-med, you’d specified in your email to him, inquiring about whether or not the conditioning team would have any space for a freshman looking to intern.

If you were any other person, he would have told you that his hands were tied with the season’s preparations and recommended that you reach out to the conditioning team. But this was different. You were different, and so was that blonde point guard from Minnesota whom he’d put his heart into recruiting – not because she would change the program. She’d already done that back in 1995. He did that because he knew God didn’t put people in his life twice in a row for no good reason.

You and Geno talk for a few minutes, and he’s no closer to placing where he knows you from until there’s another set of knocks on his door. He has half a mind to send them away, but in walks Paige Bueckers, and that’s when the entire room stills. You and Paige lock eyes like he’s not sitting a few feet in front of the both of you, awestruck expressions on both of your faces like this isn’t the first time you’ve met – even though it is.

In this life, at least.

You introduce yourself to Paige and that’s how Geno realizes. He knows that infatuated look in Paige’s eyes. It was the same one she had so many years ago when she was clearly in love but couldn’t quite be honest about who it was and whatever fashion it came to be in. Geno may never understand the true nature of why Paige had kept you a secret while she was at UConn in 1995, but he knows what this is.

It’s not a coincidence. He wasn’t the man to believe in fate or luck. But this is just how things are supposed to be, so he bites back a smile when Paige stands in his office like a bumbling idiot in your presence.

“Well, Bueckers?” he says dryly, which gathers both yours and Paige’s attention. The blonde’s ears are slightly red, which amuses Geno to no end. “You gonna keep flirting with our new conditioning intern or are you gonna show her around the facility?”

You look at Geno with a gleeful expression, shock lacing your features, and Paige stutters over her words as she nods, saying, “Yeah, I got you, Coach.” Clearly having forgotten what she’d initially come in to pester him about, Paige holds the door for you, shutting it gently, and Geno can hear your shared laughter through the walls.

kate stood behind you, the mirror was fogged up and the bathroom was warm and comforting haze. her body pressed against yours, her warmth seeping into your skin, creating a sense of intimacy that made your heart race. you could feel her breath against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

with a slow, deliberate motion, kate's hand moved up your side, her fingers grazing your skin lightly, almost teasingly. when her hand finally cupped your breast, it covered it completely, the size difference making you feel both so damn needy. her touch was firm yet gentle, her thumb brushing over your nipple, eliciting a gasp from your lips.

"you’re so perfect," she whispered, her voice low and filled with admiration. "the way you fit in my hand... it drives me crazy, baby."

you looked at your reflection in the foggy mirror, seeing the way kate's hand enveloped you, her other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. the sight of her tall, strong form behind you made you feel protected and adored.

she continued to knead your breast, her touch sending waves of pleasure through you. her other hand slid down to your hip, pulling you even closer against her. you could feel her heartbeat against your back, steady and strong, a perfect rhythm that matched your own racing pulse.

"kate," you moaned softly, your head falling back against her shoulder, your eyes closing as you surrendered to the sensation.

she pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, her lips warm and soft against your skin. "love the way you respond to me," she murmured. "it’s like our bodies were made for each other."

her words sent a thrill through you, and you turned your head to capture her lips in a passionate kiss. the steam and warmth of the bathroom seemed to cocoon you both in a world where only the two of you existed, where every touch, every kiss was a testament to your connection.

if you enjoyed, any interaction is greatly appreciated!

"i think you're doing it wrong," cocky bitch. you're mocking at her, teasing her choices while looking at her comfortably seated on the other side of the kitchen island — "there's also sugar and lemon in a mojito, baby. not just rum, mint and sparkling water."

baby.

the word sticks with ellie for a while as her cheeks gain a subtle shade of pink in response and she has to look at the drink she's re-making for the fourth time already trying to somehow make a half-decent mojito for you: it's never too late to know about her awful bartending skills.

"that's why it's not working out, love" you say again, holding the laugh in—. "you're missing the main ingredients."

"oh that makes sense," man. it's adorable. you find it adorable when you're invading her space as you stand behind her: are you drunk? is that it? ellie's been making you try drink after drink even when you scrunch your nose in disgust and laugh it out trying to be nice about the bad taste: it's neither too strong, too sweet or too minty "should i do it again?"

"yeah, you should" you breathe out making her feel your warm breath against her naked shoulder, and for a moment, ellie struggles to concentrate when your hand finds her waist, cold-silver rings that makes her shiver for a moment, "i'll be here to help you out with your poor sense of proportions."

"so you're a professional now huh?" she's been standing down the barrel of a gun for a while. playing this game she's sure is going to get her burnt without any control of it. "okay then. help me out."

it's almost an invitation. a dare cause you've been acting up like nothing happened already a week ago, like she didn't saw you on a live stream, like you didn't asked her to come over after being friends online for like a month or two cause you live in the same city she does.

friends is an understatement surely — but how do you call the girl ellie's been masturbating to the last six months? how do you explain the insane amount of tokens she had to spend because she needed to get your attention to herself at least for a breach of seconds? that's not how you treat a friend.

things got messy when you begged her for a video call. and now that she's looking back at it while her hands work on auto-pilot, ellie should've know that the thin line of just talking was going to be fuzzy as ever.

what was she thinking about when she talked to you for the first time? that she would have it under control? it seems inevitable when ellie's sliding in your dm's like she already belonged in your life from the beginning. flirty texts, some deep conversations and all suddenly? you're giving her your personal number, video-chatting almost every day until last week when your face's popping up on her phone after a rough session of exercise, and it's all the combination to be a massive disaster.

the adrenaline rush hits hard, cause you got ellie staring at the sweat that comes down your neck, clearing her throat like she just smoked the whole pack of cigs still guarded on her black jacket — she's saying something about your hair looking good, you're blatantly flirting back, showing her your cute attire for working out before a comment about your tits fucking slips from her mouth and that's all it fucking takes. all. it. fucking. takes.

"masturbate with me on a live stream," you're the first one to surrender when things got heated, pouting for her delight as you stare at your phone screen — "don't show your face if it makes you uncomfortable, it's just- god. such a good fucking view everybody needs to see what i'm claiming f'me, ells."

so her words stumble upon each other in search of an answer, twisted fantasies since she's damn weak at this point, begging to get all of you as she's changing her video-call to her laptop, making sure you're watching when she's unbuckling the belt around her blue jeans, letting it hang between her legs as own hand slides under the white tank top — "c'mon quick before i regret it, don't be greedy. let your horny fans know who you're touching yourself to."

no. ellie's not used to it. maybe that's why she's face red when you're live streaming the whole thing, when you're putting up a show for her and suddenly she's feeling no damn shame in touching herself from over her already wet underwear, rough voice as she encourages you to masturbate too, she don't care if she's being seen by what? 12k? 15k people? let the fucking tips keep coming.

"the lemon, ellie" you're biting on her shoulder as she lets out a moan in response, dragged again back to reality. fuck — did she just got hit by a sex memory? "what was that huh? you zoomed out."

"just thinking," she replies already embarrassed. being this close to you, having your teeth biting on her skin and leaving a damn mark: she brought this upon herself.

"what are you thinking of?" you curiously ask, chin resting against her shoulder before your hand find hers, directing her to take the lemon from the fruit basket "something nice?"

"yeah" something she forgets about it seems when her ass is pressing against your front and now she gets why ghost was such a big deal in the 90's "yeah it was nice."

now, to say the truth, ellie's been out in the blue for a while cause no, she never met you in real life before. yes, you live in her city, yes, you video-chat every day or so, but when you disappear after that until damn saturday night she doesn't really know what to do exactly.

"i miss you" you texted hours before the encounter — "you live too far from my place?"

it does not matter that in reality, it's a 45-minute-drive. ellie's there anyway. the sound of the vinyl constantly spinning on the turntable spiraling like she does when you're dictating her movements, and fuck's sake it's so damn hot it should be a crime cause there's nothing sexual about it, but your hand covers her when you're using the knife to cut the lemon in a half, and your fingers blend with hers as they squeeze the lemon right over the mojito, making the juice coat your fingers, go down ellie's arm and before she can think about it, she's looking at you from over her shoulder with glassy eyes, half-lidded and that smile that just screams fucking-shatter-me.

"i'm gonna kiss you now" you reply like a fair warning, falling for the erotic sight of her needy state "can i kiss you?"

so it's an sloppy kiss when ellie's able to nod, saliva blends on itself, teeth, desperation and need, makes the girl want it all to herself. you hold her jaw tightly, making her stay in the same spot, contorted and kissing you back like it's a religious experience that gets her closer to a divine force.

your fingers smell like lemon and the mojito seems long forgotten when your hand slide down the tank top she's wearing and ellie's letting you take control — shit. she fucking wants you to take control. she knew you would do her no good when she first talked to you already, know that you're dangerous and a hazard to her well-being when you're pushing the door of your bedroom among an explosion of words that make her blood boil.

"do you have any idea of much i've been thinking about you?" you ask, but ellie's already chaotic when her top's already falling to the floor "how much i missed you the last days i've been without you? fucking hell, i tried so hard to avoid it, ellie. it's simply not fair."

"no it isn't" she agrees with you, cause it's not. cause she cannot possibly be silent about it when you're touching her, impossible to have a little self-respect when she's letting you have it, a need that goes beyond from what your hands are able to grab and feel, "god- it fucking isn't."

it's better than any fantasy ellie had before, and the greater power in the universe knows how much she's been craving this, how long she's been acting up like a damn freak: avoiding her friends cause she wants to hear your voice, entire days with the damn sounds of your moans etched on her skin, marked like a tattoo among the moth in her arm — it's better than whatever dream she's been having lately when your mouth closes on the valley of her chest, making her skin shiver cause she can physically see the traces of saliva in her skin like a trophy, the tug on her underwear when you're biting on the fabric since it only getting in the damn way. annoying you.

it goes through her soul much like the devastating shred of the guitar who's capable of trespassing her entirely. you're so in control. so damn aware of yourself when ellie's already lost in this hazy cloud of lust, always in control and pulling her back to reality.

"shit you're so needy," you breathe out as she's blushing, the speckled freckles coming in contrast with the red that pops on her face — "i'm gonna take my time with you until you have no idea on where you end, and i begin to exist."

how does simple words can turn her on to this point of no return? the tone you use to admit, out loud, how willing you are to devastate her? must have know it when the most slutty moans escape from her parted lips: fucking tease. that's what you are when your fingers slide from under her classic jeans, when you notice how her underwear sticks sinfully to the outlines of her pussy just by touching, drenched, sticky, it already covers your hand by the slightest stroke.

"can i record this?" she can tell you're wrecked too, impatient by the unevenness of your voice. "for us. don't care about the site-"

"yes-" she's gonna turn fucking purple at some point when she's repeating it multiple times, already shaking her head in approval "yes please, record it- send me a copy- just fucking do it."

"you're such a whore" you pant, and before ellie can say anything, you're taking her phone to open up the camera icon and point the lenses back to her face "what was that? say it again."

"please" it makes ellie's cunt clench in response while your lips curve in a smile, pleased as you're using just a slight amount of force to push her right over the edge of your mattress — "please record it, send me a copy m'am. please."

"begging so quick already huh?" placing yourself between her parted legs, ellie's hand roam against your sides before you're making her look up, pulling on her hair to oblige her to stare at your eyes "beg so beautiful i might have to make you do it again."

your thumb trace the confines of her lips, cold skin before ellie's biting on the finger playfully — "please- i can't deal with any more teasing."

"okay then greedy. all fours then. i want you in all fours" you reply as the camera points at her, giving you the perfect look of ellie's face, how she seemed, for the first time, pleased to follow orders without putting up a fight. "leave the panties on."

and in the camera it looks so fucking hot you forget to keep her in the frame for a second, distracted cause your eyes scan the exposed skin; cause her body's like a halo that holds some sort of holiness when she's doing what you demanded: her cheek rests against your wrinkled duvet as her backside is up like a present ready to let you take whatever you want from her.

so you're grabbing her ass, squeezing the flesh in one hand as the other seemed to remember it's job while recording, giving a good image of your viewer's body as the lenses catch every detail you're missing out as a victim of the adrenaline.

"you're always this good at submitting? or is it me who's having the pleasure of seeing this?" you question, but at this point ellie cannot find the words to say something about how she's not submitting, even when in reality the spank you gave her makes her body go stiff for a moment, an involuntary gasp leaving her parted mouth in response. she has no face to lie to you. "talk to me, dummy. or have you forgotten how to speak properly?"

"uh please," she whines "don't do this to me."

"poor baby," you pout for a moment before a smirk pulls the corners of your lips back up — "can't handle a little teasing? really are an impatient little slut."

ellie's hand grip the covers beneath her when you're finally taking care of the ache she's so bad to control in between her legs, when you mumble something about her underwear sticking to her folds like glue, the white cotton already dampened as it reveals the pink color you're quick to stare at as your fingers slide right in the middle: sticky, coats your hand like its meant to land on it, makes you follow like the moth is drawn to the fire.

"breathe," you instruct when the camera points to ellie's cunt. grimy and so good as the video catches on the transparent strands of her arousal connected to your palm, how ellie's hips move ever so slightly in search for more friction, anything at all when your fingers perpetuate the torture in keeping her hanging on a thread "you'll thank me for this. i need you loose for the fucking machine."

she would like to investigate further, ask what-the-fuck you're talking about, but the only thing that comes out of her mouth when your fingers slide filling her drenched cunt, is a loud whine that puts her damn right under your control. roughly biting on her lips to somehow stiffen the sounds of how pathetic she already is under your hands, how her hips unbuckle on her own to follow the length of your digits splitting her open.

"oh fuck-" you moan slowly falling to pieces, sounds so damn inviting at this point—. "fuck you're so tight- so warm."

"more," there's a lewd sound that your fingers make when there're sinking in deeper inside her pussy and withdrawal almost entirely before slamming back in, in her moans and incoherent words to make you go faster, take more from what ellie's already presenting to you. "more, more- more."

it makes you laugh, and ellie's face already too red to keep on blushing as you mock her words — "more, more more. is it the only word you fucking know?"

she asked for it now that she's seeing the video back in your phone with you already invading her space. soft, lazy kisses against the crook of her neck. takes it like a champ when ellie can hear the mechanic sounds filling the air, irrupting the silence and her needy moans as you position the machine right next your waist, roughly moving her where you needed her to be.

"you look so fucking hot," ellie hears as she stares at the screen, blushing again like she's not already embarrassed from her previous behavior recorded on camera "do me a favor and spread yourself out, need to see your pretty hole."

she's quick to spread her ass-cheeks for you without a second thought, making you gather a good quantity of spit on your mouth to toss against her already abused opening, lubricating the entrance.

her moans drive you crazy, how could they not? ellie tries to muffle them but failing miserably before the tip of the silicone dildo kisses her entrance, using your free hand to guide her movements and push her against the fucking machine as the toy's already moving at a constant pace.

"make room for my cock," your hand slides down her spine, following the bones of ellie's column. the phone still points to her cunt greedily swallowing the blue color until it disappears inside. makes you dizzy at the sight—. "such a good girl taking my cock."

"s'too big, ah-too much" ellie whines, pressing her cheek against the mattress as you keep the pace of the machine in the slower level, making her gasp when you're the one with enough force to move her hips against the machine for her. "mff-good fuck."

"yeah baby, that's right keep talking to me" you encourage her as your fingers slowly make the machine go faster than before — "keep telling me how good my cock's making you feel. i'm all ears."

"stretching me out s'good" she's able to say as her brain's already combusting by itself. the mechanic sounds mixing already with her drenched cunt as the phone keeps recording right against ellie's entrance, giving you a hella good view when you're able to see the white-creamy-traces of her cunt already coating the dildo "ah-you're making me feel so full."

so as she rewatches the video recorded on her own phone, she's aware of the debased stated you reduced her. how saliva's coming down her parted lips to coat the bed you sleep in every day, glassy eyes already in the verge of tears cause the pleasure's so intense ellie could cry from the stimulation she has never felt before.

it's a bomb ticking her way back to zero. your fingers play with all the levels of the machine and ellie can see that you're enjoying it too, the red imprint of your hand on her ass, the way you're pushing her face against the mattress to have her arching her back in a better angle, to allow the dildo in reaching deeper levels even when her legs shake struggling to hold her own weight.

"shh, don't whine" you say on top of her when your fingers thread against ellie's hair, pulling it roughly. "don't whine, you asked for more remember? be a good fucking slut and take it good. you're there already."

damn right she is. she wants to be good for you. please you even when the machine's so fucking loud she cannot hear her own thoughts, when her brain's malfunctioning and its fucking leaking through her ear into your sheets — you're pushing her against the dildo, impaling her balls-deep in the silicone you keep calling your cock, and suddenly her vision's fading to black, blinded momentarily since she dissolves into lust and becomes one with the pleasure, you fucking win.

it's not a competition, it's not a game anymore. not when you're switching your attitude so fast got her confused for a second when all the roughness dissipates and you're pressing soft kisses against her back as she's coming down from her high — "you okay there, beautiful? was i too rough on you?"

"fuck- i think i need a moment to breathe- hold up a second."

the video comes to an end seconds after, but its there on ellie's memory like a poor movie with bad camera anglings. you're helping to lay in bed after, praising how she's basking under the glimmer of sex, placing soft kisses in the red marks you leave on her skin like a permanent reminder.

so ellie stays that night, cause you were right when you said it before.

you took your time with her until she has no damn idea anymore. until you make her torn cause even when she's looking at the video with you sleeping on her side all over again, she still have no idea on where you ended, and she begins to exist.

──────────────────────

The first kick happened on a Sunday.

Ivy was outside in the yard, laughing as she chased butterflies, while you sat on the couch, halfway through folding laundry. Her school sweater still rested in your lap, forgotten. Vi knelt on the floor nearby, frowning at a half-assembled bookshelf and flipping through a very unhelpful instruction manual.

“I swear these things are designed to mess with my head,” she muttered, squinting at a pile of rebellious screws.

You were only half-listening. Your body had felt off all day—tight and bloated in a way that was new. Then, just as Vi reached for another tool and muttered another curse, something fluttered deep inside you. Like bubbles. Or the faintest knock.

You froze.

Vi looked up. “What’s wrong?”

“I think…” Your hand drifted to your belly in disbelief. “I think they just kicked.”

Vi jumped to her feet so quickly she nearly sent the toolbox flying. “Seriously?”

You nodded slowly, wide-eyed. “It felt like… a tap. Or a thump. Just once, but yeah. That was it.”

She dropped to her knees in front of you, both hands pressing gently to your belly, as if her presence alone might coax another kick.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered, wonder softening her voice. “You giving your mom a hard time already?”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then—another nudge, firmer this time, right beneath her palm.

Vi gasped, laughing in stunned disbelief. “Holy shit. Did you feel that?”

You looked down at her, eyes bright. “They already have a favorite mom,” you said, grinning through the moment.

──────────────────────

The gender reveal was quiet—just you, Vi, and Ivy in the kitchen.

You’d sent the results to a nearby bakery and asked for a small cake—nothing extravagant, but something memorable.

“Ivy, do you want to do the honors?” you asked as she bounced excitedly on the chair she was standing on.

“Yes!” she shouted, nodding so hard her flower clip nearly fell out.

Vi helped guide her little hands as they made the first cut. The knife slid through soft icing, revealing pale pink layers beneath. Ivy’s eyes widened.

“It’s a girl,” she whispered, completely in awe.

Vi let out a breathless laugh. “Another girl?”

You laughed with her, wiping a tear before it could fall. “How ironic—lesbians only having daughters.”

Ivy didn’t seem to mind either way. She was already scheming, vowing to teach her little sister everything she knew about tea parties, coloring, and sneaking cookies before dinner.

──────────────────────

The first baby clothes arrived a week later.

Vi had gone out “just to browse” and came back carrying three overstuffed shopping bags.

She pulled out a onesie shaped like a strawberry, a pair of tiny booties designed to look like little bears, and a soft sleeper that read Mommy’s Toughest Fighter across the front, complete with cartoon boxing gloves.

She looked particularly proud of that one.

You held the strawberry onesie to your belly, imagining the tiny weight of the baby who would someday fill it. The fabric was impossibly soft. “She’s going to look ridiculous,” you whispered, fondly amused.

“She’s going to look perfect,” Vi corrected, gently placing a sock no bigger than your palm in your hand. “Like you, but grumpier.”

──────────────────────

The first crib took forever to build.

Vi swore she didn’t need the instructions. Ivy insisted on being the “construction supervisor” and refused to let anyone proceed without proper “hammer form”—even though no hammer was required.

It took four hours, three snack breaks, one mild argument, a scavenger hunt for a missing screw, and a desperate FaceTime with Vander, who laughed the entire time but still talked Vi through the final steps like a seasoned pro.

But by the end of the night, the crib stood tall and steady in the corner of your bedroom. White wood. Soft bedding. A mobile of moons and stars turning slowly above.

Vi leaned on the railing, staring into the empty space like she could already see your daughter there, fast asleep.

“She’s gonna be safe,” she murmured, more to herself than to you. “No matter what.”

You stepped behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist—at least as best as your watermelon-sized belly allowed. You rested your forehead against her back.

“She already is” you whispered.

Vi turned, kissed the top of your head, and swayed the crib gently. The room was still except for Ivy’s quiet snores down the hall and the faint creak of wood, like a lullaby made just for the future.

──────────────────────

The baby shower was everything you didn’t know you needed.

It was held in Vander’s backyard, lit with fairy lights and pastel streamers. Jinx threatened to pop every balloon before the party even began. Ivy wore a flower crown and proudly introduced herself to everyone as "the big sister."

Your parents brought a painfully embarrassing slideshow of your baby photos. Claggor made custom cupcakes that looked suspicious but tasted divine. Mylo curated a playlist titled Bops for Baby, which featured three actual lullabies and a suspicious amount of 90s pop hits.

Friends arrived with gifts wrapped in pink and white—tiny socks, board books, enough baby wipes to last until college, and one extremely fancy stroller that Vi kept showing off like she’d built it herself.

Ekko teared up when you opened the onesie he designed: Made with love (and science).

Vi never left your side. One hand always found its way to your back, your shoulder, your hand—grounding you like she needed to remind herself this was real. That the glow in your cheeks and the life beneath your skin were really hers too.

That night, once the guests had gone and Ivy had fallen asleep in a pile of tissue paper and ribbon, you and Vi lay curled together in bed. Her hand rested on your stomach, and your daughter kicked softly beneath it.

“I think she liked the cupcakes,” Vi whispered.

You smiled, tired but blissfully content. “She’s got good taste.”

──────────────────────

Then came Ivy’s 8th birthday. You were ready to pop.

You could barely see your feet and had developed your own gravitational field, but neither of you was about to leave Ivy out of anything—not even now.

She asked for a picnic party, so you gathered a few of her school friends and headed to the local park to give her exactly what she dreamed of. There was cake, ice cream sandwiches, pies, and every sugary treat she and Vi could sneak from the bakery.

Vi made sure the kids had games to play, prizes to win, and enough juice boxes to hydrate a small army. A few parents joined too, lingering under the trees with smiles and paper plates.

It was a perfect day.

The little strawberry inside you seemed thrilled about the cherry pie you couldn’t stop eating, shifting happily with each bite.

──────────────────────

You were thirty-eight weeks along when labor started.

It was early morning—barely 4 a.m.—and the house was still and dark. You woke to what you thought was just another false contraction. You’d had plenty in the last few days, but this one didn’t fade.

It tightened. Eased. Then came back, stronger.

You lay there in the quiet, watching the ceiling, counting seconds, trying not to panic.

When you finally nudged Vi awake, she groaned sleepily. “You okay?”

You nodded, strangely calm. “I think it’s time.”

She shot up like she had been zapped, nearly falling out of bed. “What? Now? Like now now? Should I call your mom? Or—wait—what bag do we bring again?!” She was already halfway across the room, barefoot in boxers and an inside-out hoodie.

You tried to laugh but winced through another contraction. “Maybe… start with pants.”

Vi was a blur of nerves and adrenaline. Ivy woke up groggy but thrilled, clutching her stuffed bear and asking if she’d become a big sister today. Jinx arrived to stay with her while Vi practically sprinted down the street to get the car.

Everything felt surreal. The world had narrowed down to Vi’s voice urging you to breathe, to hold on, to squeeze her hand as hard as you needed.

By the time you reached the hospital, it all blurred together—nurses, machines, steady beeping, Vi’s thumb brushing across your knuckles. “You’ve got this, baby. I’m right here.”

Hours passed, or maybe minutes. Pain. Pushing. Breath held.

And then—crying.

Not yours. Not Vi’s.

A new sound.

Small. Fierce. Alive.

Vi’s hand trembled as she cut the cord. She was crying. You were crying. Even the nurse had misty eyes as your daughter was placed gently on your chest.

She was perfect.

Vi leaned in, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead, her cheeks wet with tears. “She’s here,” she whispered, voice shaking with awe. “She’s really here.”

You looked down at the baby in your arms—eyes barely open, fist curled tightly around your finger—and felt something deep within you settle. Something warm, immovable, and endless.

──────────────────────

You were exhausted—your body aching, your eyelids heavy—but no matter how tired you felt, you couldn’t stop staring at your baby. Every time you blinked, you were afraid you’d miss something.

She was perfect. A head full of soft hair, the chubbiest cheeks you’d ever seen, and the tiniest fingers curled tightly into fists as she slept against your chest. She smelled like warmth and new beginnings, and you could’ve sworn your heart had grown three sizes just holding her.

The door creaked open, but you didn’t look up. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“Mommy, Mommy, look what we brought you,” Ivy whispered excitedly, her voice barely containing the buzz of her excitement.

Vi had gone home to pick up a change of clothes for you, to check in on Jinx and Ivy. In her arms were a bunch of pink balloons with It’s a Girl! written in bubbly letters, trailing glittery ribbons behind her as she stepped into the room.

“She wouldn’t let me out the door without her,” Vi said with a soft laugh. “And the doctor said it was okay for you to have some special visitors.”

Ivy approached your bed with uncharacteristic gentleness, carefully climbing onto the edge without jostling you. Her eyes were wide, filled with awe as she peered at the newborn swaddled in your arms.

“Ivy,” you said softly, “meet Aisla—your sister.”

“Wow,” she breathed. “She’s so pretty. She looks like a little fairy.”

Her words made your heart squeeze.

You glanced over at Vi, who was watching the two of you with a smile so full of pride it nearly brought tears to your eyes. She looked at you like she still couldn’t believe this was real—this family, this moment, this love.

“Do you want to hold her?” you asked Ivy gently.

Ivy gasped and nodded eagerly. “Can I? Really?”

“Yes, you’re a big girl now,” Vi said softly, stepping closer and helping guide Ivy’s arms as you carefully placed the baby into her big sister’s lap. Ivy sat perfectly still, like she was holding something made of stardust—too precious to even breathe on.

“She’s so little,” she whispered. “Hi, baby Aisla. I’m Ivy. I’m gonna teach you all kinds of stuff.”

You smiled through the tears welling in your eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Vi wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple as the three of you watched Aisla sigh in her sleep, completely content in the arms of the sister who had already claimed her with every ounce of love she had.

──────────────────────

The light was mellow—late-afternoon golden, tinting Azzi’s face the color of a memory. She was curled in the passenger seat, left foot tucked up on the edge of the leather, phone in one hand, your fingers resting gently in the other. The stadium wasn’t far now. Just twenty minutes and a few turns stood between you and the Target Center.

Paige’s home debut.

“I’m not gonna cry,” Azzi said softly, not looking up from her phone.

You glanced at her sideways, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “You literally cried during the Wings’ media day reel when they showed her dunking on that tiny plastic hoop from when she was little.”

“That was nostalgic,” Azzi insisted. “And Paige looked—”

“—like she was trying not to trip over shoes three sizes too big.”

Azzi snorted. “Shut up.”

“You’re gonna cry,” you said, squeezing her fingers. “You always cry.”

She leaned her head against the passenger window and looked at you. “Only over you and Paige.”

You gave a one-handed shrug. “Fair.”

There was a pause. Soft hum of tires. The distant curve of the skyline.

Then Azzi asked, “Do you remember when she locked us in that room?”

You smiled immediately. “She was so dramatic about it.”

“She had snacks prepared,” Azzi said, grinning. “Like she thought we’d be in there for days.”

“Emergency granola bars. Two bottles of Gatorade. Her mom’s old iPod.”

“And a post-it note that said ‘Just talk. Stop being weird.’”

You both laughed.

Azzi leaned her head back and exhaled through her nose, a smile still lingering. “That’s still the moment everything changed.”

“Yeah,” you said, quieter now.

Another beat passed.

“Are you nervous about today?” she asked.

You blinked. “You mean for Paige?”

“I mean… about being seen. With me.”

You kept your eyes on the road, but your grip on her hand tightened. “No.”

“Even if people ask who you are?”

“They will.”

“And even if they post it online?”

“They will.”

Azzi looked over. “You’re sure?”

You turned to meet her eyes, steady and sure. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

She smiled. Soft. Proud. A little in love. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Shut up, Han Solo.”

You arrived with Paige’s family—her mom, her brothers, her dad. Azzi knew them all by name now. You had since kindergarten.

Azzi was wearing a white tee with Paige’s SLAM magazine picture and her natural curls tied up. You were in cargos and a vintage Paige Bueckers Hopkins jersey, sleeves cuffed, the old school logo sharp across your chest. You weren’t trying to make a statement. You were just honoring history.

Your history.

Azzi settled into her seat beside you. She sat close. Always did. One leg tucked toward you, one hand scrolling on her phone, the other drifting lazily toward the nape of your neck like it had a mind of its own.

She didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But everyone else did.

A girl two rows back gasped.

Another nudged her friend and held up her phone.

By the time Azzi’s thumb brushed over the shell of your ear, three separate TikToks were recording.

You were focused on the court—watching warmups, trying to find Paige’s jersey number amidst the movement—but you noticed it. The eyes. The pointing. The wave of recognition that started like a ripple and was building like a tide.

“Babe,” you murmured. “You’ve got fans.”

Azzi blinked, looked up. “What?”

You gestured with your chin toward the girl now standing at the edge of your row, nervously holding a phone.

“Hi—sorry,” the girl said, voice shaking just a little. “Are you… Azzi Fudd?”

Azzi stood instantly, polite, warm. “Yeah. Hi.”

“Oh my god. I’m such a big fan. Could I maybe get a photo?”

Azzi smiled. “Of course.”

She turned to you, whispered, “Hold my phone?”

You nodded, taking it as she moved to pose.

But the girl wasn’t alone.

A second person stepped down.

And a third.

And suddenly, you were watching a spontaneous line form in the aisle—all of them holding phones, whispering, pointing, buzzing with barely contained excitement. A few of them kept glancing at you.

Azzi returned after the third photo and sat back down, stunned.

“What just happened?” she whispered.

You handed her phone back. “You got recognized. And now you have a fan club.”

Azzi groaned. “I was trying to be lowkey.”

“You’re Azzi Fudd. You can’t be lowkey.”

She laughed, embarrassed. “Do you think they’re posting it?”

“You’re probably viral by now.” you said.

@/user: Azzi Fudd at the game with some girl and she’s caressing her neck, like they’ve been in love since the dawn of time???

@/user: WHO IS SHE? WHO IS SHE? WHY DOES SHE KNOW PAIGE’S MOM?

@/user: this woman looks like she could kill me and then carry me home with one hand.

@/user: Is that Paige’s childhood best friend? I found a picture from 2016. THEY GO WAY BACK??? I AM FERAL.

Azzi sat back in her seat, exhaling slowly. “I feel like I’m being watched.”

“You are,” you said. “By the entire internet.”

“I’m not even a player tonight.”

“You’re still the main character.”

She smiled and took your hand again, curling your fingers together in her lap.

“You okay?” she asked.

You leaned closer. “Only because you’re here.”

She brushed her thumb over your knuckles. “Same.”

The lights dimmed. The music changed. The announcer started calling player names.

Paige’s name was last.

The arena exploded.

You both stood, clapping, cheering. Azzi’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“Look at her,” Azzi whispered. “Look how ready she looks.”

You smiled. “She’s finally here.”

The game was five minutes in, and Azzi had already made six comments under her breath that made you want to kiss her.

“She’s not setting her feet,” she mumbled, watching one of the Wings’ forwards brick a corner three. “Too much hip rotation. It’s rushed.”

“She’s trying to get it off before the closeout,” you replied, eyes locked on the screen. “But she doesn’t trust her release. You can see it in the elbow snap.”

Azzi turned to you slowly, eyebrows raised. “You know, sometimes I forget how smart you are when you’re not looking like a walking Nike ad.”

You smirked. “Flattery won’t get you out of me dragging that last outfit you wore on the Under Armour shoot.”

“It was a jumpsuit,” Azzi hissed. “It was experimental.”

“It was a war crime.”

She bumped your shoulder with hers, stifling a laugh.

On the court, Paige brought the ball up, calling for a flat screen. She faked left, slashed through the paint with two defenders chasing, kicked out—and again, the Wings missed the open three.

Azzi groaned. “That was the right pass. And it’s wasted. Again.”

“She’s too deferential,” you muttered. “She’s acting like she’s still trying to prove she belongs.”

“She is the offense,” Azzi whispered. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

You both sat back as Paige jogged back on defense, visibly frustrated.

“Geno would’ve already called a timeout to yell at her,” you said.

“Then bench her to make a point,” Azzi added.

“Then whisper something encouraging after the game like he didn’t just emotionally disassemble her for 40 minutes.”

Azzi sighed. “I miss college sometimes.”

You glanced at her. “You miss yelling in practice.”

“I miss you yelling in practice whenever you visited.”

You blinked. “I wasn’t that loud.”

She gave you a look.

You laughed under your breath. “Okay, I was, but that was leadership. Not volume.”

“You once screamed at Paige during a timeout to ‘be Michael Jordan, not Mother Teresa.’”

“She passed up three open looks that game!”

Azzi snorted. “You were so in love with her game.”

You smirked. “Now I’m in love with yours.”

Azzi bit her lip and leaned closer. “Good. Because I’m still in love with you.”

You were about to say something back when a flash from behind caught your attention.

You turned, just in time to see a girl with a phone lower it awkwardly and mouth, “sorry.”

Azzi blinked. “That was the fourth time.”

You nodded. “We’re trending harder than Paige right now.”

@/user: paige bueckers looks good, but can we talk about the person azzi is sitting next to? she is giving tall, attractive, and emotionally stable. I’m weak.

@/user: WHO IS SHE??? HOW DOES SHE KNOW PAIGE’S MOM??? HOW IS SHE SITTING NEXT TO AZZI LIKE THEY’RE MARRIED???

@/user: Azzi Fudd casually brushing that girl’s neck while calling out plays and scouting Paige like they’re in a boardroom. This is too powerful.

@/user: okay but how do we not know who this woman is?? why do I feel like she owns a security company and could body me with one sentence.

@/user: So I found a photo of Paige at a middle school banquet and THAT GIRL is there. same face. Same eyes. Best friend theory CONFIRMED.

Back on the court, Paige made her first real statement of the night—splitting a double team at the top of the key and finishing a reverse layup off the glass with a foul.

Azzi stood and clapped hard. “Yes.”

You whistled. “That’s the Paige I know.”

She hit the free throw.

On the next possession, she pulled up from 26 feet.

Swish.

The crowd roared.

You leaned toward Azzi. “You think someone finally yelled at her?”

“I hope so.”

“She only listens to you,” Azzi said. “We all do.”

@/user: Found her. She’s not tagged in anything. No Instagram. No TikTok. Nothing.

@/user: no no no. this is terrifying. she has to be a ghost or something. no trace online and yet everyone knows she’s THAT girl. I’m obsessed.

@/user: i don’t know her name but she definitely calls azzi ‘baby’ and opens jars without trying.

@/user: she looks like she slow dances with azzi in the kitchen to 90s r&b. you cannot convince me otherwise.

You slouched in your seat as halftime started, giving the phone back to Azzi.

“They think I’m a kitchen slow dancer,” you muttered.

“You are,” she said, proud.

“Also a jar-opener.”

“You do it with one hand and a cocky little smirk.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Azzi leaned in, lips brushing your cheek. “I’m enjoying you.”

You groaned. “You’re such a flirt.”

“And you’re not complaining.”

You sighed. “I literally can’t.”

Azzi tilted her head. “You okay, though? With all of this?”

You looked at her—really looked—and nodded. “If I get to sit next to you? I don’t care who sees.”

She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and smiled, shy even now. “Good.”

The lights dimmed again. The third quarter buzzed to life.

And right as the ball tipped again, Azzi leaned over and whispered, “I want the internet to know… you’ve always been mine.”

The last seconds of the second quarter ticked off, and the buzzer sounded.

You watched Paige jog to the tunnel with a towel slung around her neck, nodding at a teammate, sweat slick on her brow, her expression unreadable. Too much passivity. Too much thinking. That’s not who she was.

You knew it. Azzi knew it.

“She’s overthinking everything,” Azzi muttered beside you, already halfway out of her seat. “If she doesn’t flip the switch soon, they’re gonna get blown out.”

You stood too. “Come on.”

Azzi looked at you. “Wait—seriously?”

“Let’s talk to her.”

She blinked. “We’re not even cleared back there.”

“We’re not going back. Just the sideline. She’ll see us.”

Azzi paused, gave you a once-over. “God, you’re hot when you’re bossy.”

“Focus, Fudd.”

You both moved quickly down the aisle, weaving through the edge of the VIP row toward the court. Paige hadn’t made it all the way into the tunnel yet—she was standing at the corner of the bench, gulping from a Gatorade bottle, head down.

Azzi called softly, “Paige.”

She looked up instantly.

Saw you both.

And jogged back toward you.

She stepped just inside the boundary, separated from you only by the barrier by the tunnel. A security guard gave you a disapproving look, but neither of you cared.

Azzi spoke first.

“Why aren’t you shooting?” she asked.

“I—” Paige started.

“Don’t give us the ‘just trying to be a team player’ speech,” you cut in.

Paige’s shoulders dropped. “I’m just trying to get them going—”

“They need you to get them going,” Azzi said. “They don’t need a facilitator. They need a floor general.”

“They need Paige Bueckers,” you added.

“I’m trying to feel it out,” Paige said, a little defensive now. “It’s my first home state game—”

“And you’re playing like it’s your first AAU showcase,” you said, no venom, just truth. “Paige, I love you. But you’re dancing around it.”

She rubbed her hands on her hips. “I don’t wanna take over and alienate anyone—”

Azzi stepped closer, hand gripping the barrier. “Taking over isn’t selfish. It’s leadership.”

“You’re one of the smartest basketball minds on that court,” you added. “You see things nobody else does. So use it.”

Paige looked between you both. Her jaw clenched, then softened. “You two really came down here to coach me?”

Azzi smiled. “You’d do it for us.”

“I did do it for you,” Paige shot back. “You were both disasters that first year.”

You shrugged. “Exactly. And you pulled us together. Let us do it for you now.”

She looked at you for a long moment, then to Azzi. She nodded, just once.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I got it.”

You reached over the barrier, tapped her chest twice with two fingers. “You know who you are.”

Paige grabbed your wrist before you could pull away. “Thanks, Coach.”

You grinned. “Go find your rhythm, Bueckers.”

She jogged back toward the huddle just as halftime ended and players started returning to the floor.

You and Azzi turned to head back to your seats.

But not before noticing the cluster of fans behind you… all pointing.

Phones up. Mouths whispering. Eyes wide. You looked at Azzi. She looked at you.

“Oh no,” she said.

“Oh yes,” you muttered.

@/user: UHHH WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?? Azzi Fudd and this girl just walked up to Paige during halftime and it got INTENSE??

@/user: they looked like they were giving her a halftime talk down. Did y’all see that???

@/user: if those two gave me a pep talk I’d probably ascend. she tapped paige’s chest like she was making sure she understood.

@/user: so first azzi’s caressing neck lovingly and now she’s rewriting paige’s programming mid-game. WHO IS THIS WOMAN?

You slid back into your seats just as the third quarter tipped off.

Azzi shook her head, already pulling out her phone. “Yup. We’re on video.”

“How bad?” you asked.

Azzi showed you her screen. There was a close-up of you tapping Paige’s chest, saying something that couldn’t be heard over the arena noise—but your expression? Focused. Sharp. Intense. Azzi’s was too.

The tweet had 23,000 likes already.

You sighed. “We’re gonna be a meme, aren’t we?”

“We are a meme,” Azzi confirmed, laughing.

You rested your chin on her shoulder. “At least we look good.”

She kissed your cheek. “You always look good.”

On the court, Paige drilled a step-back three.

Then got a steal.

Then hit a no-look pass for an assist.

Azzi sat up straight. “There she is.”

You grinned. “God, I missed her.”

Azzi glanced over. “She missed you, too.”

Paige came out of halftime like someone had flipped a switch—though you and Azzi both knew exactly who flipped it.

She scored seven straight. Didn’t look to pass unless it was the smartest play. She talked more—called out rotations, demanded the ball, barked for better spacing. And when a defender got up in her jersey too tight?

She hit a pull-up in her face and smiled walking back.

“She’s proving a point.”

“She’s proving us right.”

By the final buzzer, Paige had 12 points, 10 assists, 3 steals, and a plus-minus that still couldn’t save the game.

The Wings lost by 4.

Too many defensive lapses. Too many missed threes. Not enough rhythm outside of her.

But Paige?

Paige showed the league who she was.

And as she walked off the court—drenched in sweat, towel hanging off one shoulder—her eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on the two of you standing just behind the tunnel rail.

Azzi waved first.

You just stood still.

Paige came straight toward you.

The moment she reached the rail, she didn’t even hesitate—she pulled you into her arms, the way someone only does when they’ve loved you longer than they’ve known how to say it.

“Thank you,” she murmured into your shoulder.

You hugged her tighter. “You didn’t need us to tell you who you were.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But I needed to hear it.”

Azzi stepped in next, wrapping her arms around both of you.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Paige replied, voice a little thick. “I felt it.”

You pulled back slightly to look her in the eyes.

“Double-double at home?” you said, teasing. “You always were a showoff.”

“I had to prove Coach wrong,” Paige said.

“I’m not a coach,” you protested.

“You are,” Azzi said. “You just don’t want the job.”

“You could be my personal coach you know?” Paige suggested.

“Uh, no thank you.” You said with a face.

“Okay, rude.”

Azzi raised a brow. “You crying right now?”

“No,” Paige said instantly.

“You are,” you teased.

“I’m not crying,” Paige insisted, brushing at her eyes. “It’s just—sweat. Emotional sweat.”

You smiled. “You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to be mad, too.”

“I am mad,” she admitted quietly. “We could’ve won.”

“You will,” Azzi said. “You will a lot.”

Paige looked down, kicking her sneaker lightly against the rubber tunnel floor. “I just want to do this right.”

“You already are,” you told her. “And the losses don’t take away the fact that you belong.”

Paige nodded, slow, thoughtful.

Then glanced up and gave you that same grin you’d known since she was 13, chasing boys off the neighborhood court and handing you Gatorade like a little league coach.

“You know,” she said, “this is the part where I’d usually say something sarcastic.”

“But?” Azzi prompted.

“But I’m really glad you guys were here.”

You leaned in and bumped your forehead gently against hers. “Always will be.”

Azzi nudges Paige’s arm. “You hungry? We were thinking late-night diner run.”

Paige perks up slightly. “The one a couple blocks from home?”

You and Azzi exchange a glance.

“Knew you’d say that,” you murmur. “We’ll drive.”

Paige grabs her bag and nods once. “Cool. Just lemme change real quick.”

As she disappears down the tunnel, Azzi looks over at you, that small knowing smile back on her face.

“She’s okay,” she says.