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CHAPTER SIX: Withdrawal Effects

Monday morning felt different before Azzi even left her dorm. She woke up the way she always did— by her alarm, a groggy reach for her phone, and the glow of the screen filling the room.

But, something about it felt off. She unlocked her phone automatically, and notifications filled the screen. Some group chat messages from her family, a reminder from Canvas about a soon due assignment, and a TikTok Caroline had sent to her after midnight.

Azzi stared at the lock screen for a moment longer than usual before she opened Instagram. Her thumb moved automatically toward the DMs icon, just from muscle memory, but halfway there, she stopped herself.

She knew nothing would be there. For the first time in weeks, pbsbaseline hadn’t messaged her. No late-night analysis, no strange observations about something she had said earlier, no questions, and no oddly comforting paragraphs about human behavior that somehow ended up being about her.

Azzi swallowed thickly, then locked her phone again before she sat up in bed. It had only been one night since everything went down. Technically less than twelve hours. She knew space was what she needed, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy.

She sighed, then swung her legs off the bed and tried to focus on getting ready for class.

By the time she left the dorm, the thoughts about Paige had already returned. Her phone felt heavier in her jacket pocket than usual, like it was missing an important piece, or maybe even waiting for something.

Azzi told herself she was imagining it and that it was just a matter of broken habit. The last few weeks she and Paige had messaged constantly, so of course it felt weird now.

She crossed the quad, weaving through clusters of students heading toward their Monday classes. Her molecular biology lecture didn’t start for another ten minutes.

Normally, she would have cut straight across the center lawn and stopped to have a coffee from The Lantern Room on the way. Paige would already be there, sat at their regular table with that quiet and observant look on her face.

Azzi slowed down as she approached the path that led toward the building. Her chest tightened up, then she turned in a different direction. Instead of heading down the route that passed by The Lantern Room, she took a longer sidewalk that curved around the archeology buildings. It added three minutes to the walk, but it also meant she had less of a risk of seeing Paige.

This is temporary, Azzi told herself as she kept walking. I’ll only feel this way for a few days.

—

Monday afternoon passed quietly. Azzi had a few classes, then went to lunch at the dining hall with a couple of girls from her lab section. Everything was normal… mostly.

Every half hour or so, Azzi caught herself reaching for her phone in her pocket. She’d unlock it and open Instagram, and every time, her thumb wanted to drift toward the message icon again.

Every time, she stopped herself. She didn’t need to look, because she knew the conversation was still sitting there exactly the same way they had left it.

The last message Paige had sent before everything exploded.

azzifudd: i will be there around 6:30 then :)

pbsbaseline: i will be awaiting your arrival.

Azzi had reread it twice on Sunday night after she left Paige’s apartment, then she’d closed the app before she could scroll further up. Now, she was forcing herself not to open it again. Instead, she checked some stories, liked a couple of posts, and scrolled aimlessly. Anything except clicking on that thread, because if she opened it, she knew what would happen.

She’d see weeks of messages, late-night conversations, and jokes with observations mixed in between, that slow shift from a shared article to something… more.

Azzi shoved her phone back in her pocket and tried to focus on quite literally anything else.

Tuesday was somehow even worse. The silence had settled in. It wasn’t just the absence of DMs from Paige, but the absence of expectation.

For weeks, Azzi had gotten used to Paige appearing in her day— sometimes physically, but digitally, too. A DM between classes, a weirdly insightful response to something she’d said, or a question about what she was doing later. Now, the spaces where those things should have been just… stayed empty.

Azzi noticed it most when she walked across campus. Her feet kept trying to take those familiar routes, but each time, she corrected herself and turned in a different direction.

On Tuesday afternoon, she actually got herself halfway across the quad before realizing she was heading straight toward the psych building. Her stomach dropped when she noticed. She stopped walking, and for a second, she just stood there and watched the entrance from a distance.

Students were coming in and out. Someone held the door open for a girl carrying a stack of textbooks. Another group lingered on the steps, laughing about something. Paige was probably inside, running her study or walking down the hall, looking the exact same as always.

Azzi turned sharply and walked in the other direction.

Wednesday morning, the habit became too hard to ignore. Azzi woke up and opened Instagram before she was fully conscious. Her thumb tapped the DM icon automatically, and she opened up the thread.

pbsbaseline

Her stomach dropped, and she froze. There it was again, their last conversation, sitting exactly where it had been for three days now. No new messages, no typing bubble, nothing. Azzi stared at the screen for a long moment, then she backed out of the messages and locked her phone.

You don’t need to talk to her, she told herself. You shouldn’t talk to her.

She missed Paige in a way that didn’t feel right. She should’ve been ready to completely distance herself from Paige, because she had logged literally everything. Every conversation, every moment, and even the stupid things Azzi had said without thinking.

The memory of the laptop screen flickered through her mind again. Pages of notes, photos, and bullet points.

Attachment markers.

Azzi pressed her lips together. The humiliation still burned when she thought about it, but another memory from Sunday night kept intruding too.

The couch, Paige’s flushed face, the way she’d looked surprised when Azzi teased her, and the way Paige had kissed her back.

Azzi shut her eyes briefly. Stop, she told herself, before she grabbed her backpack and left for class.

It was colder outside today, and Azzi was really feeling the low temperatures as she crossed the quad. The midweek crowds moved quickly around her. Someone biked past too close and a group of freshmen laughed loudly near the fountain.

Azzi kept her head down as she walked. Her molecular biology class met in a building on the far side of campus. The easiest path was one that cut directly past the psychology building. It was the fastest route, but Azzi knew— from the past few days— that she was avoiding that building like the plague.

She had a chance of seeing Paige in places like The Lantern Room and the library, but near the Psychology Building? It was pretty much a guarantee.

For a second, Azzi let herself imagine Paige inside 314C, running her study, watching someone the way Paige had watched her. She was probably analyzing them, and logging their behavior. The thought made her stomach twist.

Azzi inhaled slowly, then of course, instead of taking the straight path toward the building, she took the long way around the quad, the route that curved along the far edge of campus. It added nearly ten minutes to the walk in the freezing cold, but it kept the psych building a good ways away from her.

Azzi adjusted the strap of her backpack and kept moving.

Temporary space, she reminded herself. Just for a little while, until things stopped feeling so complicated. Until she stopped missing someone she wasn’t sure she could ever trust again.

—

Monday began the same way that it always did.

Paige woke up at 6:27 a.m., three minutes before her alarm. She turned it off before it could sound, sat up in bed, and mentally organized the day’s schedule before her feet touched the floor.

Classes, then lab hours. She had two confirmed participants, possibly three if the waitlist student from Friday still wanted a time slot. This was her routine. It was predictable and efficient. It had just been kind of… thrown off by Azzi’s presence these past weeks.

Paige usually could slip back into a routine fairly quickly. She got dressed in khakis and a gray sweater, then pulled her hair into the same tight bun she wore almost every day. She put her contacts in, then zipped her backpack with careful precision.

By 7:00, she was already walking toward campus. There was no reason to delay.

After two morning classes, she headed straight to the Psychology building. She ached to be somewhere that felt stable.

Her study required ongoing participant recruitment, and after the weekend gap, she had a backlog of small administrative tasks to complete. She had been slacking some recently. Her mind had been… elsewhere.

Consent forms needed to be reprinted, participant ID logs needed to be updated, and stimulus files needed to be checked.

This would occupy her next hour or so, which was ideal.

Room 314C smelled faintly like printer toner and disinfectant wipes when Paige unlocked it. The space was exactly as she’d left it Friday afternoon— a chair by the computer table, pulse sensor cables neatly coiled beside the monitor, and the eye-tracking camera angled precisely toward where the participant’s face would be positioned. Everything was orderly and familiar.

Paige exhaled quietly as she set her backpack down and pulled her laptop out, before setting it on the corner desk. This was routine, which felt good, because routine meant forward movement.

She powered on her laptop and immediately opened the study interface. Participant 223080 was scheduled for 10:30 a.m.

She printed a stack of new consent forms in the copy room while the system booted. The printer hummed, and paper slid nearly into the tray. Paige stacked the sheets, aligned the edges carefully, walked back to 314C and placed them beside the intake clipboard. The preparation took exactly four minutes.

When she finished, she checked the clock. 10:22. Right on schedule.

Participant 223080 arrived two minutes later.

They were a sophomore psychology major, just like her. They displayed a mildly nervous demeanor, and avoided eye contact.

Paige guided them through the introduction with practiced efficiency— consent form, explanation of the stimulus sequence, and sensor placement.

The student just nodded along politely while Paige attached the pulse monitor to their wrist and calibrated the eye tracker. Everything proceeded normally, exactly as it always did.

When the stimuli began playing— audio clips, short videos, and emotional prompts— Paige moved to her usual seat in the corner of the room. Her laptop screen filled with the incoming data stream. Heart rate variability, pupil dilation, and fixation points. Numbers and graphs appeared in slow real-time increments, and Paige watched, observed, and recorded the data carefully.

For months, human responses translated into measurable data had been the most interesting part of her day. She was enamored with the patterns that emerged from raw reactions. But now, as she watched the readings accumulate, a strange thought surfaced.

The signals felt… flat. The participant’s heart rate shifted slightly during one of the emotional prompts, and the eye tracking followed the expected stimulus patterns, but the overall variability was minimal, predictable, and unremarkable.

Paige frowned slightly as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then she typed a note into the study log.

comparative cognitive engagement significantly lower than Subject 220175 baseline

The line glowed quietly on the screen, and for a moment, Paige simply stared at it.

Subject 220175. Azzi.

The realization, that she was comparing this participant’s responses to Azzi’s, arrived slowly but firmly. She was doing this automatically, without really intending to.

Paige leaned back slightly in her chair as the data stream continued to scroll across the screen. Heart rate fluctuations, micro-saccade tracking, and routine physiological responses.

Now that she’d noticed the comparison, it was impossible to ignore. Azzi’s dataset had been… unusually complex. She displayed layered emotional reactions, nonlinear engagement patterns, and unexpected physiological responses to certain stimuli.

Paige had spent hours analyzing those anomalies. Now, watching the graphs from 223080, the differences felt obvious. Too simple, less dynamic, and uninteresting.

The session finished seven minutes later. After the participant left, Paige sanitized the equipment, reset the system, and prepared for the next scheduled slot.

223091.

The process repeated almost identically. Consent form, sensor attachment, stimulus playback, and data monitoring.

Again, Paige observed the graphs appearing on her screen, and again, the same quiet thought surfaced: the responses were technically valid, but they lacked depth.

She typed another small notation in the log.

engagement variability remains within expected parameters

Then, almost unconsciously, she added a second line.

still below Subject 220175 baseline

Paige stopped typing and her eyes lingered on the screen. It was becoming clear that the comparison wasn’t going to stop. Azzi’s dataset had effectively recalibrated her expectation, and every participant would now be measured against it— against her.

Paige closed the log window and moved on to the next task.

By early afternoon, Paige had processed three participants.

223080.

223091.

223111.

Each session ran smoothly, and each dataset populated the system without errors, but each one felt… increasingly unremarkable.

Paige sat at the desk between sessions, sorting printed consent sheets into a neatly labeled folder. Her laptop screen displayed the cumulative dataset for the week. Rows of participant IDs and columns of behavioral metrics.

Ordinarily, the visual order of it all brought her satisfaction. The clean data, clear patterns, and the progress. But today, the numbers seemed oddly distant.

Her attention drifted repeatedly, not to anything specific, just away. Paige noticed the shift immediately— the distraction, a cognitive drift, which was unusual.

She opened the study log again and typed a brief observation.

research engagement subjectively reduced

possible comparison bias introduced by atypical dataset (220175)

She stared at the line for a moment, then closed the file. She had acknowledged something and documented it. No further analysis was required.

By the time the final participant left that afternoon, the hallway outside 314C had grown quiet. Most students were already heading to their final late-day classes or back to their dorms.

Paige powered down the computer systems and began organizing the desk. She made sure the monitor cables were aligned, the consent sheets were stacked, and the sensor wires were coiled neatly. The routine steadied her breathing. Structure always helped restore equilibrium.

When she finished, she reached down and opened her backpack, and her fingers brushed against something new, but familiar.

Paper. Paper that was thicker than the usual study materials she carried. Paige pulled it out, and let her eyes land on the field notes notebook. The one Azzi had given her the night before. It looked almost out of place among the rest of her research materials.

For a moment, Paige simply held it in her hands. Her thumb traced the edge of the cover slowly, and the memories began to surface without warning.

Azzi standing in her apartment— takeout bag in one hand, the small wrapped gift in the other. The quiet and almost shy way she’d said: It reminded me of you.

Paige felt something shift in her chest— a brief and unfamiliar pressure. Her grip on the notebook tightened slightly. She could still picture the exact moment Azzi handed it to her. The warmth in her voice, and the expectant and hopeful way she’d watched Paige open it.

Paige’s throat felt strangely tight. The sensation lingered for several seconds, then she closed the notebook and slid it carefully back into her backpack, before her breathing steadied again.

There was no reason to dwell on the memory. The object itself was simply a tool, a portable extension of her logging system, that was all.

Paige zipped the bag shut and turned off the lights in 314C. Routine would resume tomorrow. It always did.

—

By Friday, the quiet had settled into something heavier. It wasn’t sharp anymore, and not really immediate, just constant.

Azzi sat cross-legged on her bed with her laptop open in front of her, that displayed a half-finished molecular biology assignment blinking back at her. The words on the screen blurred together after a while, not because she didn’t understand them, but because her focus kept slipping.

Her phone sat beside her thigh, face-up and silent. She had checked it less today— not because she didn’t want to check it, but because she already knew. There was still nothing.

She was well aware that she was the one who put space between her and Paige. She also knew that she missed having that connection with someone. She felt split down the middle about the whole thing.

Azzi reached for her phone anyway and unlocked it, before scrolling through a of couple notifications she didn’t care about. Instead of opening Instagram, she opened her messages with Caroline.

Her thumb hovered for a second. It had been some time since they talked about anything beyond surface-level. Not complete silence— they had sent each other things, like short replies. But nothing like before. Before Paige.

azzi: you busy tonight?

azzi: come over?

caroline: oh??

caroline: you actually wanna hang out with me?

Azzi huffed a quiet laugh through her nose.

azzi: shut up

azzi: i always wanna hang out with you

caroline: mhm

caroline: i’ll be there in 15

Azzi set her phone down before she started to think too far into it.

—

Caroline didn’t knock. She never did. Azzi heard footsteps coming down the hall, then her bedroom door swung open like it always had, and Caroline stepped in with the same easy familiarity— her messy ponytail, oversized hoodie, and a bag of snacks tucked under her arm like she planned on staying a while.

“Hey,” Caroline said, like nothing had changed.

“Hey,” Azzi echoed, just as casually.

Caroline kicked the door shut behind her and dropped the snacks onto Azzi’s desk before flopping onto the bed beside her. “Your room’s feels weirdly cold,” she said, tugging the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands.

Azzi shrugged and tried to keep a lump from forming in her throat. She had been keeping her room cold this week. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” Caroline said immediately.

Azzi forced a faint smile, and Caroline stopped there. This felt normal and easy. That was one thing she liked about spending time with Caroline— things didn’t feel tense or forced.

She leaned back against the headboard and pulled her blanket loosely over her legs as Caroline grabbed the remote and turned on the TV without asking, before flipping through all the channels.

For a few minutes, it was just background noise. The TV was playing something neither of them paid attention to, and Caroline had opened a bag of chips and offered some without looking. Azzi took a handful. This was familiar and comfortable, but something sat underneath it. Something unspoken.

Caroline noticed, because she always did. “You’ve been weird this week,” she said, not looking at Azzi. “Well, for more than a week,” she clarified. “But, more so, recently.”

Azzi didn’t react right away. She just crunched down on a chip with her eyes still on the TV. “I’ve had stuff,” she said after a second.

Caroline glanced at her then. “What kind of stuff?”

Azzi hesitated. It would be easy to brush it off, say it was school-related or just stress, some textbook answer and move on, but the quiet from the past few days pressed at her chest.

“She…” Azzi started, then stopped.

Caroline’s expression changed immediately into something more attentive now. “She?” she echoed.

Azzi nodded slowly. “She broke my trust.”

The words felt strange out loud— simplified, like they didn’t fully capture it.

Caroline’s brows pulled together slightly. “Paige?”

Azzi nodded once, and Caroline sat up a little straighter. “What did she do?” The question was careful, not really prying, but she wasn’t letting it drop either.

Azzi’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket, and her mind flashed— the laptop screen lighting up, her participant ID at the top, the pages of notes, and her own face, pulled from Instagram, both labeled and categorized. Her stomach turned from the memories.

“I just—” she shook her head. “I don’t really wanna get into it.”

Caroline studied her for a moment— long enough that Azzi felt it, but then she leaned back again and exhaled. “Okay,” she said simply.

A beat passed, then, a little sharper and a little more protective— “I told you, though.” Azzi’s head turned slightly. Caroline’s eyes were still on the TV, but her jaw had tightened just a bit. “That girl has always seemed way too intense.”

The words landed heavier than the tone they were delivered in. Azzi felt something in her chest react immediately— a quick and defensive spark.

“She’s not—” Azzi started as she turned more toward her. The sentence caught halfway out and she stopped, because she didn’t know how to finish it. She’s not what? Not intense? That wasn’t true. Not… wrong? Azzi’s throat tightened.

Caroline glanced at her again and caught the hesitation. “See?” she said quietly. “You can’t even defend her.”

Azzi looked away and her gaze dropped to her hands as her fingers twisted lightly in the blanket. “I just…” she breathed out, slower this time. “It’s not that simple.”

Caroline didn’t push nor did she interrupt, which somehow made it worse, because Azzi could feel the space where she could explain it. To describe what Paige had done, and say it out loud to make it real.

The thought alone made her stomach turn again. If she said it— if she described the file, the notes, and the way Paige had been watching her— it would solidify something she wasn’t ready to fully accept yet. So she didn’t. She just shook her head slightly.

“I don’t know,” she said instead.

Caroline nodded once. That was enough for her for now. “Okay,” she said again, softer this time.

Caroline reached for the remote and turned the volume up a little, like she was giving Azzi space without making it obvious. A few minutes passed like that, then, “You want me to stay?” Caroline asked, more casually now.

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Like,” Caroline shrugged as she glanced at her. “Spend the night or whatever. We can watch something, or I’ll just knock out. I don’t care.”

Azzi hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Stay.”

Caroline smiled a little at that. “Cool.”

She shifted on the bed and pulled the blanket over both of them without asking, settling in like she always had, like nothing had changed, and for a moment, it almost felt that way.

Azzi leaned back against the headboard again and let her shoulder brush against Caroline’s.

The TV flickered and the room stayed cold. Caroline’s presence was steady, familiar, and safe, but as the minutes passed, Azzi became aware of something she hadn’t expected.

The quiet between them felt… different. Not uncomfortable, just… less. Caroline didn’t ask questions in the same way. She didn’t notice the small shifts in her tone and didn’t pull things out of her before she even knew how to say them.

Azzi stared at the screen that she wasn’t really watching and thought about Paige. About the way conversations with her had felt focused and perfectly intense.

Like she was being studied, yes, but also like being understood in a way that didn’t require any explanation.

Caroline nudged her lightly with her shoulder. “Stop thinking so hard,” she said.

Azzi blinked and forced a small smile. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

Azzi let out a soft breath. Caroline was here., and everything was normal. This was good. This was what she needed. So why did it feel like something was still missing?

Azzi pulled the blanket a little tighter around herself and leaned her head back against the wall. She didn’t have an answer, and that unsettled her more than anything.

—

Paige preferred weekdays over weekends. Weekdays consisted of class, lab, research, and analysis. The weekends tended to leave her with time to get lost in her thoughts.

Friday night had settled into her apartment without an announcement. There was no shift in lighting, Paige still kept the overhead off with no background noise, and the TV remained untouched. There was just the low and consistent hum of the air vent pushing cold air through her space. Sixty-two degrees, unchanged.

Paige sat at her desk with her laptop open, the glow of the screen casting a light across the otherwise dark room.

The document filled the display.

220175 — Priority Subject

Paige’s fingers rested lightly on the keyboard, then, she began typing.

Week of 10/21, no campus interaction observed.

She paused to review the line. It was accurate. There had been no sightings of Azzi in or anywhere around the psych building, no incidental crossings on the quad, and no overlap in shared locations. Avoidance behavior was likely.

Contact frequency: zero

Subject has not initiated communication.

Her eyes lingered on the words. Contact frequency: zero. The phrasing felt clinical— neutral, even, but the reality it described felt… heavier than that.

Paige stared at the screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, before she scrolled up above the new entries and back through the week, then further. The earlier logs began to fill the screen.

Lantern Room Meeting

Subject appears responsive to selective affirmation strategy.

Paige’s gaze moved slowly across the text, and the memory surfaced immediately. Azzi had been sitting across from her, laughing at something Paige had said, something she hadn’t even intended to be humorous. Paige blinked, then scrolled further.

Library Interaction

Subject initiated physical contact (forearm)

Paige’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. She could still feel every physical interaction her and Azzi had ever shared. The brief pressure of Azzi’s hand against her arm, warm, casual, and unprompted.

Paige had logged it as a behavioral marker, but now, the memory carried something else with it— something less defined. She scrolled up more.

Interpersonal discussion (Caroline)

Subject response: reflective and receptive.

Paige’s jaw tightened slightly. That had been a pivotal moment. There was a shift in the dynamic. Increased reliance and increased trust. She had noted it clinically at the time, but looking back, that conversation had felt… significant in a different way. Not just strategically, but personally.

Paige stopped scrolling, and her eyes moved lower on the document, toward the most recent section.

Subject Departure

The line sat alone. As Paige stared at it, the events of the night replayed with precise clarity. Azzi standing across from her, speaking with a shaky voice.

You documented me.

Paige swallowing, and trying to explain. Paige trying to correct the misunderstanding, but the door had closed anyway. Happy birthday.

Paige’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk. There was something wrong. Not with the log. The log was accurate and consistent, but something about her current state didn’t align with her usual internal framework.

Paige sat back slightly in her chair and allowed herself to focus inward. She attempted categorization and emotional response analysis.

She ran through the usual classifications. Stress? Not really. Her physiological indicators didn’t match. Anxiety? Partially, but incomplete. Disappointment? That felt insufficient. The sensation was more persistent than that, more… intrusive.

Paige frowned slightly, because this was unusual. She could not clearly define the emotional state she was experiencing, and that rarely happened.

Paige turned abruptly and reached down beside her desk chair, where her backpack sat partially unzipped. She pulled it closer and opened it fully, her fingers moving quickly until they found the object she was looking for.

The field notes notebook. She pulled it out and set it on the desk before flipping it open to the first blank page.

Unresolved emotional state following subject departure.

Symptoms: distraction and intrusive recollection.

The pen paused and hovered as Paige stared at the words she’d written. Unresolved emotional state. The phrasing was imprecise, but accurate. Her attention had been inconsistent all week— during lab sessions, during class, even now, while attempting to log data. Her thoughts kept returning to the same subject— Azzi.

Intrusive recollection. That was also accurate. Memories were surfacing without intentional recall. The Lantern Room, the library, the couch, the kiss…

Paige stopped, and her breath caught slightly in her chest. She set the pen down and leaned back in her chair, while letting her head rest briefly against the backrest.

The realization settled in slowly, that this wasn’t just about the study anymore. It wasn’t just about the data. It hadn’t been for a while.

Paige’s eyes drifted back to the laptop screen, to the file. To the weeks of logs documenting Azzi’s behavior, her responses and patterns. Paige had spent hours analyzing, mapping, and understanding those entries, but now, there was a new variable. One she hadn’t accounted for initially— her own.

Paige inhaled slowly. She missed Azzi. The thought arrived fully formed, clear, and undeniable. Azzi wasn’t just a subject or a data source. She missed her presence and the conversations, the way interactions with Azzi had felt engaging and stimulating, different from anyone else Paige had encountered.

Paige’s chest tightened slightly again, but she didn’t attempt to categorize it this time. She already knew it didn’t fit cleanly into any existing framework.

Instead, she reached forward and closed the notebook gently and set it beside her laptop. Her eyes stayed on it for a moment, then they shifted to her phone. It sat just to the right of her keyboard. The screen was dark and inactive.

Paige stared at it, had a brief internal hesitation, then picked it up and unlocked it. She opened Instagram quickly, and her thumb moved to the search bar.

After typing az, Azzi’s profile appeared instantly. Paige tapped it, the page loaded, and her feed filled the screen. They were all images she’d already seen, cataloged, and analyzed.

The gym mirror selfie, the one with Caroline, and a candid from earlier in the semester. Each one was exactly where it had been before.

Paige scrolled slightly, then stopped. There were no new posts, no visible updates, and no indication of the last five days at all.

Her thumb hovered near the message icon. She could message, reinitiate contact, and provide clarification, but— Azzi had stated she wanted space, very firmly, to be exact.

Paige lowered her hand, locked her phone, and set it back down on the desk. The apartment returned to silence as her laptop screen still glowed softly in front of her.

The file was still open, waiting for more entries, but Paige didn’t type anything else.

—

Azzi had stopped going to the third floor of the library over the past week. She told herself it wasn’t intentional— that it just happened, that the first time she chose a different section, it was because it was crowded. The second time, because she was already nearby. By now, it had become a quiet rerouting.

She sat at a table near the back of the second floor with her math notebook open in front of her and her pencil resting loosely between her fingers. The overhead lights buzzed and casted everything in that same flat and neutral tone that made time feel like it was going by slower than it actually was.

Around her, people worked, typed, and whispered. Azzi stared down at the problem in front of her. Limits, something she knew how to do, and something she had done before.

She exhaled softly and rubbed her temple with her free hand. “Focus,” she muttered under her breath. She leaned forward slightly and began trying again.

As she rewrote the equation and broke it down step by step, her brain felt slower than usual. Not incapable, just uncooperative, like it kept reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Her phone buzzed lightly against the table and Azzi glanced at it instinctively.

caroline: i just saw the weirdest guy in the dining hall

caroline: he had like three plates of just eggs??

Azzi let out a quiet breath and a small and automatic smile formed on her lips.

azzi: maybe he’s bulking

azzi: or just insane

caroline: no like. it was aggressive

caroline: i felt judged just sitting there

azzi: 😭😭

azzi: you’re so dramatic

caroline: i’m serious

caroline: i think he was watching me eat my cereal

Azzi continued to smile, but it didn’t quite reach all the way through. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary before she locked her phone and set it back down.

Her attention returned to the notebook. The equation sat there unfinished and waiting. Azzi stared at it, then, without meaning to, her mind shifted to a different kind of conversation.

Paige would’ve said something about this. Not about the eggs, and not about the random guy, but about the way Caroline described it. Her word choice.

Aggressive. Paige would’ve picked that apart. She would have asked why that was the word she chose, and what made it feel aggressive instead of just excessive. She would’ve turned it into something bigger and something more… interesting.

Azzi sighed. She hadn’t even realized she was comparing them, but now that the thought had started, it didn’t stop.

Caroline’s texts were easy, light, and predictable. There was comfort in that, but there was something missing too, something sharper.

Paige never responded the way she expected her to. Every conversation had felt like it mattered, and like it was being examined from angles Azzi hadn’t even considered yet.

Like she was being seen. That word always landed heavier than she wanted it to. She shifted slightly in her chair and crossed one leg over the other.

Her eyes drifted back to her phone screen that was still dark and quiet. No new Instagram notifications, and no messages from pbsbaseline.

Azzi looked back to her notebook and the math problem before writing the next step. It wasn’t long before she stopped again, and her mind slipped once more— this time, more deliberately.

She thought about the way Paige used to look at her during conversations. Not in a casual way, not distracted, but focused and intent, like she was paying attention to every small thing.

The way Azzi phrased something and the way her tone shifted, even the pauses.At the time, it had felt flattering in a strange way.

The things Paige would say, too, like those offhand observations that didn’t sound like compliments at first.

You default to humor when you’re deflecting.

You maintain eye contact longer when you’re trying to prove a point you’re not fully confident in.

You think faster than you speak, but you filter more than you realize.

Azzi felt a slight sting behind her eyes. No one had ever said things like that to her before. No one had ever noticed those things, or if they had, they hadn’t said them out loud. Paige had, casually, like it was obvious.

Azzi pressed her lips together in thought. The realization came quietly. She missed that. She missed the intensity of it. The way conversations didn’t just pass time— they filled it. The way she had felt pulled in and fully engaged, like she had to keep up, like she wanted to keep up.

Azzi frowned as she stared down at the half-finished equation. This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not after—

Her stomach curled as the images came back again. The laptop screen, her ID number, and the pages of notes. Everything Paige had been seeing, recording, analyzing…

Azzi’s hand stilled and her breath caught slightly. She had felt seen, yes. That was true in itself, but… what if it had been too much? Too precise and too intentional.

It hadn’t just been natural observation. It hadn’t just been someone paying attention. It had been structured, documented, and sometimes engineered.

The warmth she had felt in those moments twisted slightly in her memory as her mind reframed things. Was it still the same, knowing what she knew now?

Azzi stared down at the page, but she wasn’t seeing it anymore. What if no one else ever made her feel like that again? The thought slipped in suddenly before she could stop it. Unwelcome, but real.

Because even now, even knowing everything, there was a part of her that wanted that back. The connection and the intensity, the feeling of being understood without having to explain herself over and over again.

But trusting Paige again, that felt… impossible, or at least, not simple. Not after what she had seen.

Her pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled slightly across the page. Azzi didn’t pick it up right away, she just sat there, staring.

She was caught between two things that didn’t seem to fit together anymore. Missing something she wasn’t sure she should want, and not knowing what to do with that.

Azzi leaned back in her chair slightly, her gaze unfocused now, and just stayed there, stuck in the middle of it.

—

Her apartment was quiet again. It wasn’t the neutral quiet Paige preferred, the kind that made it easier to think, to process, and to work.

This one felt heavier and more present, like it occupied space instead of clearing it. It had felt this way since her birthday.

Paige sat at her desk with her laptop open, the Priority Subject — 220175 file filling the screen once more.

She had been here scrolling and reading for a while. Her fingers rested lightly against the trackpad as she moved through the document in small increments, her eyes scanning each entry with careful attention.

Not for data collection, because that part was already done. This was different. She considered this review and analysis.

She was trying to identify where the shift had occurred. Where the reaction had diverged from expectation.

Paige scrolled further up back to the earlier entries. The initial logs— first contact and first extended conversation. Her eyes moved steadily across the text. The tone was consistent, structured, observational, and precise, but something about it felt different now.

Paige paused and scrolled back a few lines to read them again. The content hadn’t changed, but her perception of it had. The entries carried a kind of familiarity now. A subtle recognition, not just of behavior patterns, but of specific moments.

She remembered each Lantern Room conversation. Not just what Azzi had said, but how she had leaned forward slightly when she was engaged. The way her voice had shifted when she got more invested in a topic.

Paige’s gaze lingered on the screen. There was something almost warm about it. Not in the language, that remained clinical, but in the recollection attached to it.

She started to scroll again as her chest tightened. She didn’t even begin to categorize it, she didn’t even pause long enough to. Instead, she shifted her attention to the field notes notebook sitting beside her laptop. Azzi’s notebook.

Paige reached for it without hesitation, pulled it closer, and flipped it open to the next blank space beneath her last entry. Her pen moved quickly.

Continued absence. Subject avoidance behaviors probable.

She paused briefly and reviewed the statement. It was consistent with observed data. No contact and no incidental interaction made active route changes likely.

Paige tapped the pen lightly once against the page, then added another line that was more deliberate this time.

Main hypothesis: subject interpreting documentation as betrayal rather than intellectual interest.

Paige looked at the words. This was the most plausible explanation. Azzi’s reaction had been immediate, emotional, and framed around trust.

You documented me.

The emphasis had been on the act of recording, but Paige’s intention had not been malicious, not deceptive in the way Azzi seemed to interpret it. It had been curiosity, interest, and an attempt to understand, map behavior, and engage more effectively.

The disconnect remained. From her perspective, the documentation had been an extension of attention. Of care, even, though she hadn’t labeled it that way at the time.

She had invested time, effort, and focus, all directed toward Azzi. But Azzi had interpreted it as a violation— as betrayal.

Paige’s gaze shifted back to the laptop screen and to the file. To the volume of entries, the detail, and the consistency.

She could see how it might appear excessive from an external perspective, but excessive didn’t equate to harmful. Not inherently.

There was something missing in the equation, a variable she hadn’t accounted for, not in behavior, but in interpretation.

She turned back to the notebook and added a small notation beneath the hypothesis.

Discrepancy between intent and subject perception remains unresolved.

Paige leaned back slightly in her chair with her pen still in her hand. Her mind moved quicker now, running through possibilities.

If the issue was trust, then the solution would involve restoration of that trust. Clarification, reframing, and providing context for her actions. She could explain the purpose behind the documentation. Paige nodded to herself. That was logical, structured, and solvable.

Unintentionally, her attention drifted again back to the memory of that night. The couch, the proximity, and azzi’s voice, softer than usual. The kiss.

Paige’s breath caught slightly. That moment had not been part of the study. It wasn’t planned or structured, and there definitely hadn’t been a framework or predictive model for it. It had just been impulse and response. That didn’t align with her usual patterns.

She lowered her pen to the page again.

Contact withdrawal producing cognitive distraction.

The words were more immediate this time, less observational and more reactive.

Paige stared at the line for a moment, then closed the notebook. Not forcefully, but with a kind of finality.

She set the pen down beside it and turned her attention back to the laptop. The file remained open and unchanged, complete, but no longer sufficient.

The quiet around her felt filled with something she still couldn’t fully define, and that kept her from closing the file.

—

It was late enough that her dorm had gone quiet. Not completely silent— there were still distant sounds in the hallway, a door closing somewhere down the corridor, and someone’s laugh echoing— but inside Azzi’s room, everything had settled.

Caroline was asleep beside her, sleeping over again. She was curled toward the wall, breathing slow and even, with one arm half-tangled in the blanket that they were sharing.

Azzi was lying on her side and staring at her phone, wide awake with the screen dimmed. She had been switching between apps without really thinking. Instagram, messages, then back again. Nothing was really holding her attention for more than a few seconds. Her thoughts kept circling back to the same place. Back to her.

Azzi slowly dragged a hand down her face. This is stupid. You need to stop, she thought to herself. Move on. That’s what she’d been telling herself all week.

Then, before she could overthink it, she tapped Instagram, clicked to add to her story, and set it to Close Friends only. The green circle always felt safer. Smaller and more contained.

She hesitated for only a second before typing.

need advice about something

what would you do if someone crossed a boundary, but you still cared about them?

Azzi stared at the text and read over it twice. It felt vague enough for other people to not realize who she was talking about— detached, with no names or specifics.

It was just a question. She hit post, and watched as the story uploaded. Azzi locked her phone and let it fall back against her chest.

She didn’t expect an immediate response from anyone. Caroline would probably see it in the morning, maybe text her about it later in the day or bring it up casually like she always did. A few other people might reply too with something simple.

Depends what they did.

Talk to them.

Cut them off.

Normal responses and normal advice. That’s what she wanted— something uncomplicated.

Her phone then vibrated. The sound was loud in her quiet bedroom. The Instagram notification lit up the screen.

She unlocked it, and gaze dropped to the message preview.

pbsbaseline replied to your story.

Azzi’s stomach dropped. She had forgotten to remove Paige from her Close Friends Story.

—

Paige was already in bed with all of her lights off when the notification came through.

She had been lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, not sleeping, not working, just… suspended. Her phone suddenly buzzed against the mattress beside her.

Paige turned her head slightly and shifted her eyes to the screen as it lit up. It was an Instagram story notification.

@azzifudd added to their story.

Paige blinked once. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual, but the ring around Azzi’s profile picture was green. This was a Close Friends story post.

Paige pushed herself up slightly against the headboard and picked up her phone.

That was unexpected. She had assumed, logically, that she would have been removed following Azzi’s prior reaction. With her avoidance behaviors and contact withdrawal, exclusion would have been consistent with that pattern.

Paige unlocked her phone and tapped the notification. The story loaded, and the black photo popped up with white text.

need advice about something

what would you do if someone crossed a boundary, but you still cared about them?

Paige read it once, then again, then a third time. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her chest shifted— recognition.

The referent was clear. There was no ambiguity. Someone. Boundary. Care. All the variables pointed to the same conclusion: This was about her.

Paige’s grip on her phone adjusted slightly as her thumb hovering over the reply field. This was an opening. An unstructured and unprompted one, but still, an opportunity for re-engagement.

She didn’t hesitate long. Her response formed quickly, almost automatically, aligning with the framework she had already established— her hypothesis. Clarification of intent and restoration of trust.

pbsbaseline: boundary violations can sometimes be addressed through clarification of intent.

She paused to read it over. It was concise, accurate, appropriate, and neutral in tone. She sent it. As she considered sending more, maybe expanding and providing direct context— my intention was not—

Suddenly, a reply appeared, both immediate and faster than expected.

azzifudd: i am not sure if taking your advice is appropriate during this specific instance.

Paige went completely still. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen as she read the sentence again and again, processing and breaking it down.

Not sure if taking your advice… appropriate… this specific instance.

There was no hostility in the wording and no overt aggression, but Azzi’s implication was clear. This was rejection, not just of the advice, but also of the source. Of Paige.

Something tightened sharply in her chest. She had an unfiltered reaction, that was a bit unfamiliar in its intensity.

For a moment, she didn’t move, nor type, or even adjust her grip on her phone, because something else had surfaced beneath the initial interpretation. A realization, both small and distinct.

Azzi had repeatedly come to her before for input, perspective, and analysis. That had become a consistent pattern. Azzi would present a situation, thought, or a question, and Paige would respond, break it apart, or provide insight, and Azzi had accepted that. She relied on it, even. Paige was her first point of reference. Her primary—

Paige’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the phone. Now, Azzi didn’t want her input. The shift didn’t only feel abrupt, but total, and it didn’t align.

The reaction split cleanly into two parts. The first was hurt, both sharp and unpleasant. It was difficult for Paige to categorize, but it was undeniably present.

The second was more structured and familiar. Frustration? Maybe, or something more specific. Possession.

The thought surfaced before she could filter it. She used to ask me. That access, that role, it hadn’t just disappeared. It had been deliberately removed.

Paige’s eyes flicked back to the message. Her mind moved quickly now, trying to reframe and correct it. If Azzi’s response was rooted in her perception of betrayal, then resistance to input would be expected. Temporary, just a byproduct of the unresolved discrepancy. Not permanent.

Paige forced her fingers to move and to respond.

pbsbaseline: your hesitation is likely influenced by the context of the situation rather than the validity of the advice itself.

She paused, then added another line that felt less clinical but still controlled.

pbsbaseline: i can clarify my intent if that’s the primary concern.

She stared at the messages after sending them and waited. The screen remained still for a moment, then, the seen receipt appeared.

Her eyes stayed locked on the screen as she waited for the typing indicator, for a response, for anything.

Seconds passed, then more, but nothing. No typing bubble and definitely no reply. Paige lowered her phone slightly, though her gaze didn’t leave it entirely.

The conversation sat there, open and unanswered, and for the first time since she had sent the message, there was no immediate action to take and no clear next step. Just absence, again.

Paige swallowed once and her jaw tightened subtly as she turned the phone face-down against the mattress beside her. She didn’t lie back down or close her eyes. Instead, she just sat there, waiting for something that didn’t come.

—

Paige couldn’t sleep. She had laid back down and closed her eyes, but her mind hadn’t followed. It stayed active— running, looping, and circling the same sequence over and over again. The message she had sent and Azzi’s response.

i am not sure if taking your advice is appropriate during this specific instance.

The phrasing replayed with exact clarity. She could basically hear Azzi’s tone. The content was definitive— rejection.

Paige turned onto her side, then onto her back, then sat up. The darkness in the apartment felt thicker than usual. Not quite in the way she preferred, not empty, but occupied by absence, interruption, and something unresolved.

She reached for her phone again and checked their message thread. No response, no correction, and no follow-up. The conversation remained exactly where it had ended.

Paige exhaled through her nose, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sleep was no longer a viable outcome under the current conditions.

She stood up and moved across her bedroom over to her desk without turning on the lights. Her laptop was still closed, and her notebook was exactly where she had left it.

Paige sat down and flipped on her lamp that she rarely used, before pulling the field notes notebook toward her. She opened it, and the page where she had left off stared back at her.

Contact withdrawal producing cognitive distraction.

That line had proven accurate, but insufficient. Paige flipped to the next page, picked up her pen, and began writing.

Subject rejection of advisory input.

Significant shift in relational dynamic.

Loss of established interaction pattern.

Her thoughts moved faster now, less structured and more reactive, because it wasn’t just a shift, it was a removal. It was a disruption of something that had been consistent, predictable, and functional.

Her role and position in Azzi’s decision-making process was gone. Paige’s grip tightened on the pen, and the next line came without hesitation.

INTERVENTION REQUIRED

The words sat heavy on the page, not observational or passive, but directive. Paige stared at it. Her breathing had into something shallower now and more controlled. Her mind had finally began to reorganize and refocus.

If the current state was unstable, then it needed correction. Avoidance behaviors had persisted for days, and digital outreach had failed.

Paige leaned back slightly in her chair and her eyes unfocused for a moment as she accessed something else. Memory, to pattern recognition, to schedule mapping.

Azzi’s routine surfaced easily, not because Paige had intentionally memorized it, but because she had already logged it. She had observed it repeatedly.

Morning classes, lunch gap, afternoon classes… Paige’s eyes sharpened. Azzi spent her evenings in the library frequently. Third floor, usually, but even if that had changed, the location itself remained probable. Study habits didn’t dissolve entirely under avoidance behavior.

Paige’s fingers tapped once against the edge of the notebook. Tomorrow night. Azzi would have a high likelihood of presence in the library.

Paige looked back down at the page at the words she had written.

INTERVENTION REQUIRED.

Her breathing slowed and finally stabilized, because now, she had a plan. It wasn’t abstract or theoretical, it was actionable. She would make direct contact, clarify her intent, correct the misinterpretation, and restore their dynamic.

Paige closed the notebook, set the pen down beside it, and rested her hands flat against the desk for a moment. The earlier tension hadn’t disappeared entirely, but it had condensed into something more focused.

She turned her lamp off and stood after a moment before moving back toward the bed. Something in her had settled into place— a decision.

Paige laid back down and stared up at the ceiling again. Her eyes didn’t close, at least not yet, but her thoughts had quieted enough to form a single and consistent line.

She had observed, documented, and proven that repeated contact creates attachment.

But absence, she was beginning to understand, didn’t dissolve attachment. It distorted it. It intensified it, and turned it into something harder to control. That, more than anything, made this intervention necessary.

it was mid-december. the new york wind was tinged with hatred, and azzi’s skin was sinking into itself. she had just wrapped up preparations for her upcoming tour, and the interviews and shoots that had consumed so much of her life when she’d blown up half a year ago had dwindled down to something finally manageable. 

it had never gotten easier, the fame part. she tried to stay offline, but it was disconcerting to try to make one trip to a restaurant and end up with her face plastered over twitter the next day. 

azzi fudd with mystery girl (it was mackenzie), azzi fudd appears distraught leaving the airport (she was tired and people kept asking her for pictures), azzi fudd debuts new hair style ahead of tour (well, yeah). 

azzi felt detached from the images they showed of her, like it was someone else’s life. the only parts of it that felt real to her were when she sat down to write music and when she sang. she wondered if that would ever change.

if she were on social media more, she was sure that she’d be miserable. staying off it allowed her to be blissfully, if not a bit ignorantly, unaware of what people were saying about her.

she’d given a few magazines a day-in-the-life preparing for tour, and she’d made some dumb tiktok trends to promote it; however, more important was the month of time off she had starting tomorrow. she didn’t really know how to spend it– she was planning on taking mackenzie on a two-person vacation to somewhere tropical at some point, but other than that she’d probably stick around the city, try out new food places, and post the pre-recorded tiktoks. 

as far as her career, she’d been invited to a few upcoming parties, her name on a couple industry lists, but she was known to stick to herself. she’d been working on befriending a few other up-and-coming indie women, sonia and rori– maybe she’d invite them to dinner or something if they were in the area. her dms were filled with messages from celebrities she didn’t know existed; that had been fun to tell paige about. 

it was difficult to navigate new york city alone without getting recognized, so today she’d ordered in pho from a place down the street after a vocal lesson. she wasn’t supposed to talk too much in preparation for the tour, so she had paige on the phone in the background while paige lifted weights and she watched the pitt. samira was so ungodly fine. 

“you’d think that dallas would understand air conditioning,” paige grumbled. azzi blinked her way back into consciousness, noticing paige’s sweat-soaked forehead making an entrance in the corner of the facetime screen. 

“work out somewhere else,” azzi suggested helpfully. 

paige shushed her. “you’re on vocal rest. this is the paige show.”

“i–”

“i read one of your interviews recently,” paige interrupted her.

azzi’s face heated up. paige, who saw more of azzi than anyone, still went above and beyond to keep up with her. 

“you were talking about wanting to go on vacation, and– if you don’t have anything to do before i go to miami, i–” paige cut herself off. azzi stared at the image of her on her phone, eyes wide. 

“i was thinkin’, i’ve been to your place so much but you’ve never been to mine. do you want to, maybe, come down and visit for a few days? i can take you to my favorite food places, and there’s some good live music bars, and we can go see a movie or help at a soup kitchen or– i dunno, i’ve just been thinking about it and it’s not like vacation but i’m gonna be in miami for a while and we might not have the chance to see each other, so– i– yeah.” she clammed up. the phone camera had drifted so that only the tip of her head was visible, and she seemed to notice and jerked it back to her full face. her cheeks were pink. 

azzi’s skin buzzed. her heart pumped warm blood around her chest. paige was inviting her into her house. in arlington.

azzi thought about it frequently. ardently. walking into paige’s home, being let into paige’s space. would it feel normal? would it make azzi feel even worse, that this was the place that could have been azzi’s too? 

did she decorate it with her favorite colors, did she stock the fridge with takeout or ingredients, did she get better at vacuuming the kitchen? azzi wanted to know all the little things that she’d missed out on. and she kind of wanted paige to fuck her in paige’s own bed. for no reason. 

she didn’t think paige would really ask her to make that trip. she should be elated, should be jumping for joy. it was interesting, she thought, that it only made her ache more.

azzi wanted to kiss her so badly that her jaw twitched. she wanted paige to climb through her screen so she could press their foreheads together, squeeze her hand, do something. her face felt like a sheet of parchment paper stretched too thin as she attempted a smile. “sounds great.”

paige shushed her again, and azzi was so fond that she felt sick. “text me.”

azzi let her fingers open their text thread. sounds great. 

“a period? what the hell,” paige complained. 

sounds great 

“it’s like you don’t even care,” paige sighed, “no regard for my feelings. no emoji or nothing.”

azzi rolled her eyes. can’t wait! :) :) :) 

when??

“i leave for miami in a week,” paige said. “you free like saturday to monday?”

the only plans that azzi had were vocal exercises that she could do from anywhere and a gym sesh. yeah :) 

“okay, i’ll look into flights, and we’ll see when a good time is for me to pick you up from the airport–”

i can do it myself!

“yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” paige shrugged. “it’s the least i could do, ‘cause you gotta make your way all the way down here.”

you’re literally hosting me at your house?

“you’re acting like that’s hard. you’ve had me at your house. frequently. unless you forgot that time on the couch, or the time on the counter, or in the shower when you got your foot up on the high tile, or the time i found out you have a vibrating strap-on, or–”

ENOUGH, azzi’s face flamed red. good god, did she remember. YOU’RE IN PUBLIC?

“the time when you made us ride the elevator up and down like three times because you were grinding on my thigh–”

I GET IT. SHUT UP.

paige snorted. “don’t worry, baby, there’s nobody else in the gym.”

azzi rolled her eyes, feeling her cheeks in a futile attempt to cover up the flush. still.

“i’ll send you a couple options, and you can approve the final date and time, okay? compromise,” paige grinned, easy. 

still sounds like you’re doing all the work…

“consider it a welcome present. or a thank-you for all the times at your house. hell, consider it a late birthday present.”

you already got me a birthday present. multiple

paige had gifted her a full body massage after a tour rehearsal, a percussive keyboard, a hot pot date, flowers, and blackout curtains for her apartment. for paige’s birthday, azzi had gotten her a new pair of shoes, an immersive leg massager, a gold chain bracelet, and a month’s worth of groceries via online delivery. 

it was nice to have money, to not have to think twice about buying something just because she wanted it. it was something that azzi was still adjusting to. azzi used to get embarrassed on paige’s birthday, knowing that paige had so much money from her nil deals that anything azzi could buy her would pale in comparison to what paige could buy for herself, or could give her in return. 

once azzi had broken off contact with her family, she’d had practically nothing. she went to college on scholarship and had just finished paying off her debts with her streaming money and brand deals. she’d only had money for less than a year, and she didn’t trust it; if she overshot, if she invested too much, if she used it on something stupid and then fell out of the public eye, she was done for. the life of a musician was not nearly stable enough to have faith that it would last. but it was still nice. 

of course, paige never minded, but azzi felt an odd sense of pride in finally being able to take care of paige the way that she’d always felt taken care of. not that it mattered. paige seemed determined to make her feel like no matter how much money she had, she was still paige’s to tend to. 

“yeah, but that don’t matter,” paige shrugged, “you being born should be celebrated frequently, if you ask me.”

azzi rolled her eyes, but a smile split her lips. she was getting used to paige flirting with her. 

you taking showers should be celebrated frequently

“you tryna tell me something?” paige pouted, wiping sweat from her brow. azzi shrugged. “fine, whatever. i’ll head to the gym shower. enjoy your pho and,” she waggled her eyebrows, “the pitt.” 

paige thought the pitt sounded like an innuendo. you may as well name it ‘the hole’. 

will do. enjoy your shower 🙄 

“no ‘without me’? no ‘don’t have too much fun’?” paige complained. “you suck at this.”

ah fuck my vocal rest

i can’t talk anymore gotta go

azzi stuck her tongue out at the screen and watched paige’s eyebrows raise and her jaw fall open in her silly amused-offended face. she hung up, shaking her head. 

arlington. soon. she needed to talk to paige about her family. she’d do it there, in person. she took a deep breath. 

—-

azzi stood outside of a small, unassuming house in the arlington suburbs. the exterior was half brick, half white vinyl, with a smattering of windows and lawn that was a hair overgrown. a small concrete porch lifted up to the left of the doorway, and a flowerbed that held only some bushes at this point in the year sat to the left. 

196. that was the house number. azzi checked the number that paige had texted her one more time, cross-referencing it with the number on the mailbox. 196. 

something that azzi couldn’t put her finger on felt off. the house was too plain, too straightforward. paige had been living here for just about two years, but the house was homely and stiff. 

she examined the windows, the door, the lawn for any hints of personality– like a purple doormat, or a cardboard cutout of kobe in the window or– azzi didn’t really know. some other bullshit. something paige. but there was nothing. 

maybe it was just house regulations. if this was one of those southern white people neighborhoods, who knew what crap they came up with to keep the selling value high. but azzi still felt wrong about it. she didn’t know why, she just had this feeling, like she’d just know paige’s house when she set eyes on it. 

she didn’t. she crosschecked the number one more time, to be certain. 196. 

she exhaled so deeply into the mask she used to cover her face that she fogged up her glasses. literally whatever. she took the mask off now that she was alone. the uber had left her on the street, so she’d best be moving as soon as the moisture–

the door swung open. azzi rushed to take off her glasses before paige saw her looking like professor frink from the simpsons. 

paige didn’t seem fazed, leaning comfortably against the doorway in a way that felt lived-in. a strange feeling gnawed at the pit of azzi’s stomach, nerves and discomfort and something else that she refused to label as jealousy. 

what could she be jealous of? that paige had a house? that it’s not what she expected? that paige was comfortable in this odd home? that paige had a place where she felt comfortable so far away from azzi?

she shook off her nerves and tugged her suitcase up the driveway and to the front door. she moved to bring her bag up into the house, but paige’s hand caught her wrists and forced her to drop it. azzi let out a muffled sound of surprise as paige lifted her arms above her head and spun her so that her back was now against the doorframe, sweetly connecting their lips. 

azzi’s tension melted away at the touch. no, things felt right. it was paige. wherever paige was, it was correct. 

paige pulled away with a grin and muttered a corny hello, beautiful that had azzi shaking her off and rolling her eyes. before she could lift her bag, paige took it upon herself to bring it in, so she slipped her shoes off and looked around the inside of the house. 

“you look good, az. haven’t seen you in warm weather clothes in a while.” paige’s voice sounded tight. she wound her arms around azzi from the back. 

azzi was too distracted looking at the interior of the house to answer. it was– it was boring. the walls were largely blank, with a few standard paintings that had probably hung around the house for a couple decades before paige got there. the foyer opened up into a living room space on the left and an open kitchen plan on the right, with a small island and a white tile floor. 

paige had a few bits of fruit hanging about the kichen, and everything seemed recently cleaned, but azzi was used to seeing some crumbs and some athlete-protein junk sitting around like paige’s college dorm. her fridge was even free from magnets. it was weird. 

paige pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, right above the collar of her t-shirt. “want a house tour?”

azzi snapped back into reality. “do you want the house tour?” she sang, a smile lilting up her lips. she pulled out of paige’s grip, half to start the tour, half to see the look on paige’s face while she sang. paige always looked at azzi in a certain way when she sang. azzi wanted to see it. “i could take you to the first, second, third floor.”

paige snorted, eyes sparkling. “i’m pleasured to be your hot tour guide.”

she skipped some lines, but that was okay. “so, do you have a guest room, or am i sleeping on the living room couch?” azzi asked, nudging her with her hip. 

“hey, we haven’t even gone through the living room yet,” paige complained, “of course i have a guest room. what kind of host would i be?”

“you’ve slept on my couch. trying to make me out like a bad host?”

“of course not,” paige smirked, kissing her cheek, “you upgraded me to your bed eventually.”

paige took her around the house, showing her little bits and bobs she’d picked up over time. her room was the most interesting, with general basketball junk and a bunch of pictures stuck to her wall. azzi was in a few of them, some selfies of them eating together from recent months and pictures of azzi with her guitar in her living room. 

paige’s clothes and extra shoes filled up the guest room closet, which azzi found endearing. azzi had a feeling that she’d recently straightened up the room, moving things back to her own room. it made her laugh. 

the guest room also shared a wall with paige’s room, which was convenient, though azzi had a feeling that she wouldn’t be spending much time in there. regardless, she left her things in there and walked to sit outside on the back porch. 

“so, how do you like it?” paige asked, more of a pleasantry than as a genuine question. 

azzi paused. “it’s– different.”

“different?” paige laughed. azzi thought she saw a shadow twitch at paige’s mouth, but she wasn’t sure. 

“yeah, i guess i’m just– i’m a little surprised. it’s really clean, really arlington, i’m just– i’m surprised it’s not a little more, uh, lived in.”

paige ran her thumbnail across her fingertips. “yeah, y’know i’m- i’m not here too much. i bought this one ‘cause it’s close to the facilities, and it’s small, for one, and…” her voice trailed off. 

a familiar guilt settled into azzi’s bones. it’s not paige because paige had been expecting to live with azzi. when azzi had shot her down, she’d probably scrambled to find another place, one that she tried to make work, but it was like tugging your head through the arm hole of a shirt. it wasn’t the right fit. 

“i’m still young,” paige joked, “it’s just me here, so…no need to settle in too hard yet.”

right. no need to settle down. azzi’s mouth felt dry. her toes curled unconsciously. 

“unless drew moves in, or somethin’, but he’s still way too young.”

azzi forced a laugh. “right. drew.”

azzi felt disoriented, suddenly distant. before she could settle into the feeling, though, paige took her hand and gently drew her back into the house. “c’mere, baby, you haven’t eaten in hours.”

her heart burned in her chest. paige opened the fridge, and azzi was relieved to see that it was an organized chaos, just how she’d expected. she took quick note of a tub of cottage cheese and a bag of dried fruit and swallowed. 

“you want a snack, or you want a meal? ‘cause we could do a little lunch now, and then eat a late dinner. there’s this place nearby that does really good asian-mexican fusion, and i’d love to take you there if– well, if you’re comfortable maybe getting recognized,” paige finished, a blush on her cheeks. 

“a meal sounds good to me,” azzi said quietly, taking a seat on a stool next to the island. “want to do sandwiches now?”

“yeah, i gotchu,” paige affirmed, pulling out azzi’s favorite ingredients. “and, um, the restaurant later? we could also order in, or do some pasta, or frozen–”

“no, yeah, it sounds great,” azzi interrupted. she didn’t know why she felt so nervous. “i haven’t been out in a– in a while. i miss it.”

paige nodded, putting four slices of bread out on a paper towel. “fans too much? paparazzi? it’s hard to get used to. i hoped that when you blew up it wouldn’t be as bad for you as it was for me.”

“yeah, it’s really scary sometimes. a lot of them are really sweet, but sometimes you don’t really want to get sent instagram posts of you shoving a burger in your mouth. or sweating in pilates.”

paige snorted. “or blowing your nose, or walking into a hooters, or…”

azzi laughed and shook her head. “i hate when they act like they already know you, and they try to joke around but it just comes off mean. and i hate turning them down, but it’s so much to be asked to give yourself to the public at all times, like just by existing you somehow owe people something,” she said quietly.

paige paused her ministrations, listening intently. 

“and i also get tired of– of hiding.”

paige swallowed. “yeah.” she didn’t need to say anything else. 

azzi cleared her throat. “sometimes i swear they don’t even know me, just my face,” she laughed.

“oh, that’s a classic,” paige smiled, “they’ll probably start confusing you with other black singers soon, too. they do it with me and every blonde to exist in the league, it’s gotta be worse for you.”

“yeah, it makes me nervous,” azzi continued. she didn’t really know why she had so much to say, but being around paige made her feel like all of her thoughts could spill out without judgement. she could probably say i’m thinking about bombing the white house and paige would be like okay and slab some mayonnaise on her bread. 

“i’m really worried that the fans who come to my shows won’t know the songs,” she admitted, “like, i’m this stupid tiktok artist or whatever, they put my song in a sad heated rivalry edit but don’t know anything but a couple lines.”

paige set the cheese back down on the table. “azzi.”

“what? it’s happened to so many other artists who have incredible records, it’s just a reality of the post-covid music scene–”

“azzi, you’re forgetting that i’ve seen you live. remember the festival? the crowd fucking loved you, and they weren’t even expecting you! nobody there bought a ticket to see you, and they loved you. it was insane. you went viral. it was literally electric on that festival ground. i have never felt anything like it before in my life,” paige confessed, “and i mean, i’ve seen you sing a million times, and it’s always beautiful to me, but azzi– i was crying. you’re meant to be on a stage. even if the crowd doesn’t know your songs, which by the way, i don’t think is going to happen, it’ll be an incredible fucking performance.”

azzi’s face burned. her lips pursed. “okay.”

“okay?” paige repeated.

“okay,” azzi confirmed quietly, a small smile on her face. 

paige nodded, shifting her attention back to the sandwiches. she peeled a wad of cheese off a block of it and started placing it down. azzi watched her work in silence. 

yeah, the concert was great, but– paige was paige. paige wasn’t even going to be there. azzi was playing in dallas when paige would be in miami for unrivaled. her tour started in d.c., moved down the east cost, went to the– wait. 

she wasn’t playing florida; she wasn’t too much of a performer, so she’d put a lot of time and effort into her sets. the amount it cost to travel with her equipment down the entire state of florida wouldn’t really be made up with the smaller venues she was playing, even though she was doubling up some shows. but she was playing atlanta.

could she ask paige to come? mid-season? travel to atlanta for the day?

she opened safari and typed in breeze unrivaled basketball schedule this year -ai. her tour came to atlanta on the fifteenth, which looked to be right after the one-on-one tournament. hypothetically, if she had practice during the day and no plans, paige could maybe make it to atlanta by eight pm for azzi’s concert. 

“hey,” her mouth opened before she could stop it, “i have a show in atlanta on february fifteenth. it’s right after the one-v-ones. do you think you would be able to make it?”

as soon as it came out of her mouth, she regretted it. there were a million things wrong with paige coming to her show– would she be backstage? then she would miss the show….but she couldn’t be in the audience, could she? that would be a disaster.

could azzi ask paige to hide? could she get her vip? would some picture of her recognizable lanky frame and questionable choice in pants make its way around twitter like a rat with the bubonic plague? 

and what if paige already had plans? what if something came up right before, or if she had some shoot? this was stupid. she should have asked paige what her schedule looked like before diving in. she was being ridiculous. 

paige raised her eyebrows. “one sec,” she said, pulling out her phone. azzi hoped that she was checking her schedule and not texting nika dude azzi asked me to go to her concert should i tell her to kill herself. 

a second later, she clicked it off and shoved it back into her pocket, going back to finishing their sandwiches. “i’d love to. i’m free. thanks for offering.”

really? it was that easy for her?

azzi stared at her. “really?”

“really what?” paige asked, snapping her head up. “wait, when do they go on sale?”

on sale. like azzi would ever let her pay. “no, i– i got it. i’ll ask my manager to figure it out.”

“sick, thanks. this is so exciting, az, i’m so proud of you.”

azzi kept staring at her. 

“what? why are you looking at me like that?” paige asked, defensive. she tossed azzi her sandwich on a paper towel and wiped her hands free of crumbs. 

“i just– you’re okay with being seen at my concert? i mean, i know you can hide your face, or i could give you backstage access, but i don’t know what will get out or what will happen. with unrivaled finals coming up, i’m sure that’s not the kind of publicity that you want, and–”

“azzi,” paige laughed, “they saw me coming into your hotel after we lost the semis. i got papped on facetime with you last fucking week. there’s like four youtube compilations of me trying to swallow myself in clothes in the middle of hot ass september as i walked to your apartment in new york. what is there left to be scared of?”

well, that was a good point. azzi shrugged. she could still think of things– someone always had something else to say. what if she wasn’t dancing or singing along and then someone started a rumor that she hated the concert? what if she couldn’t make it back in time for practice the next day? what if she got stuck in traffic and missed the whole thing?

“paige bueckers seen at an azzi fudd concert. fork found in fucking kitchen,” paige shrugged, “honestly, i was going to go even if you didn’t ask me. you think i’d miss out on your first tour? after all the work i’ve been seeing you put in?”

oh. well. that was.

azzi took a bite of her sandwich. “and you’re, like– you’re sure you’re okay with it?” she double checked. sue her.

for the millionth time, she wished that her words came as naturally to her in conversation as they did when she was writing. she should have brought her guitar, honestly, tried to see if having a conversation while strumming e minor made her more loquacious. 

“azzi,” paige said quietly, setting down her own sandwich. she moved to where azzi stood and put her hands on her hips, holding her steady. azzi’s chest felt thready, and she inhaled deeply. her body relaxed at the touch, just like it always fucking did. one would think she could have a little more self-preservation. 

“i know things have been really weird, and it’s been difficult. and i know it’s scary to put ourselves in the face of judgement. but when it comes to something like this, i–” her grip tightened on azzi’s waist, “i really don’t care. i want to see you. i don’t care what anyone else thinks about it.”

azzi’s heart swelled. she fought to maintain eye contact with paige instead of looking away like she desperately wanted to, and she forced herself to nod slowly, deliberately. “okay.”

“okay?” paige confirmed.

“okay,” azzi promised. 

“good,” paige mumbled, leaning in slowly. when she kissed azzi, she felt boneless. 

it was so nice to not be fighting with paige. it was such a privilege to be able to be here, in her house, on her island, eating with her and kissing her and talking about things. as paige’s tongue parted her lips, a sweet, content sound escaped the back of azzi’s throat. she set her sandwich aside.

paige smirked into her mouth. azzi felt her start to shift, slightly, but was so focused on kissing her that she gasped and dug her hands into paige’s shoulders as paige lifted her up onto the counter. 

and– jesus, paige was kissing her firmer, hands running up and down the length of azzi’s thighs. her thumbs dipped into the soft skin of her adductors, and azzi knew she was melting under the touch because she could feel the wetness forming beneath her.

damn, already? they were only making out, but the mere act of being in paige’s house, with paige’s scent around her and paige’s hands on her, made every point of contact that much more sensitive.

paige gently spread her legs apart to step into them a little more, and azzi found herself leaning backwards slightly. paige didn’t let her, moving her arms up to her back and keeping her upright, and azzi felt like there wasn’t a part of her that didn’t bend to paige’s will. 

azzi felt surrounded by her, consumed by her. everything about their former conversation was forgotten, and her heart felt like it was being pulled taut, loose threads tugging and yearning and begging at the barrier of her skin to escape and find paige. she yearned for her.

azzi found herself nipping at paige’s lip, chasing it with a hard kiss. she exercised her feelings through action, pouring herself out into paige. paige responded with an affected, throaty sound, and a thrill shot through azzi’s gut. i love you, she wanted to say, i want you all of the time. 

paige kissed her back like she understood, though azzi knew she didn’t. the blonde’s hands roamed across her torso, one finding the back of her neck and up into her hair and the other settling possessively on the front of her throat. azzi tugged her in closer by the waist, vividly aware of the slow, hot drip between her legs. 

if paige didn’t get her off, she’d need to excuse herself to the bathroom. azzi let her own hands roam around paige’s waist, rotating between running up to the line of her sports bra and running across her waistband. her brain felt like mush, though, and she was only half-aware of her own movements. 

she was rewarded with paige’s irregular breath, and she felt weak at the thought of paige being just as affected as she was. the hand on her throat tightened almost imperceptibly, and azzi’s eyes fluttered back in her head. 

paige kept kissing her like it was the only thing she’d been waiting for the whole time they’d been apart, long and deep and hungry, lips and tongue and head moving reverently, repeatedly, in worship. 

“paige,” azzi managed to whisper between breaths, quiet and strained. she wanted it. she knew paige wanted it. paige knew she wanted it. 

it wasn’t all that hot in arlington in december, but azzi felt heat beading on her hairline, back, inner thighs. the feel of paige’s hand resting on her neck was unimaginably warm, and it made her head spin knowing that the act of possession no longer felt wrong. 

the hand slid down, however, dragging nails over the thin cotton of her t-shirt and beginning to dance around her chest. 

azzi dropped her head back as much as she could, lips parting in a low groan. squeeze, she thought. she needed more. 

paige, however, seemed committed to dragging this out. her fingers skipped around her chest, alternating touches and drags of her nails, intermittently running across azzi’s nipple. the hint of stimulation made azzi’s breath stick in her throat. more, she wanted to yell, but didn’t want to give paige the satisfaction. 

paige rucked up her shirt, finally, and tilted azzi’s head back to her lips. hell of a distraction, azzi thought, as paige’s hand snuck around the back of her shirt and unclasped her bra. she didn’t bother taking it off, just moved her other hand down to slowly grope underneath the loose fabric. 

a deep sound escaped azzi’s lips from somewhere guttural within her. harder, she wanted, more. 

paige kept the touches gentle but sure, thumbing over her nipples as she kissed azzi soundly. christ. azzi’s back arched into the touch, screaming touch me, touch me. she couldn’t stand to sit and be caressed like something gentle; the love within her was consuming and she wanted to be consumed. her heart pumped hot blood through her core, hungry and wanting. 

paige ignored her body’s actions. it was torturously slow, the soft squeezes and brushes of her hands. fuck.

“paige,” azzi said again. 

“mmm?” paige hummed in return, breaking apart their lips and mouthing down azzi’s jaw to her neck. 

the way paige’s lips felt at the base of her neck was fucking heavenly, and the words were caught in azzi’s throat. she didn’t want to ask for it. still, she swallowed thickly and forced it out. “more,” she whispered, so faint that she wasn’t sure if paige picked it up. 

paige breathed a laugh into her neck, flattening her tongue against azzi’s skin before sucking a small mark in. “no.”

no? azzi let out a small, tortured sound. fine, she’d have to play dirty. if there’s one thing she was good at, it was using her voice. 

“paige,” she moaned, high and sweet and breathy. the sound of it brought warmth to her cheeks, embarrassed at how needy and affected she sounded. “more.”

paige’s forehead dropped to her shoulder and she inhaled sharply, and azzi felt victorious. for a fraction of a second, her grip on azzi’s chest tightened, and azzi moaned aloud. then, she took her hands away altogether and pulled herself back up, capturing azzi’s lips in a kiss again. 

azzi was going to murder her. 

“fucking tease,” she growled, nipping at paige’s lip. paige’s breath hitched. 

“on the counter? really?” paige murmured. “i can’t fuck you here before the bed.”

azzi was inclined to agree. she’d imagined their first time in paige’s house to be slow and romantic, a few hours of grinding and making out in paige’s bed and a couple rounds of coming. also, her ass kind of hurt. “or you could just fuck me in both places.”

who said that? azzi had not planned to say that. 

paige let out a tortured breath from her nose. “most beautiful girl in the world in front of me, and she wants me to fuck her where i just made her a sandwich.”

“bet i’ll taste better.” really, who was controlling azzi’s mouth? paige, luckily, forced her to stop talking by capturing her lips in another quick kiss. she dropped down to her jaw, her neck, finally squeezing azzi’s chest more roughly. 

“if you want it so bad,” paige nipped at her carotid, and azzi’s breath hitched, “you’re gonna have to fucking prove it.”

the air left azzi’s lungs. “yeah,” she breathed.

“yeah?” paige confirmed. her tone had adopted an edge to it that made azzi’s cunt pulse, hot and embarrassing. 

“yeah,” azzi repeated, like it was the only word she knew. 

paige slid her hand back up to azzi’s throat, still cocooned beneath her t-shirt, and squeezed gently. “how’s this?”

azzi felt lightheaded. “lower,” she whispered. she didn’t concern herself with the way her voice sounded. 

paige dragged her hand down to azzi’s collarbone. “here?”

azzi shook her head. paige’s eyes glinted. the blonde moved down again, cupping azzi’s chest over her bra. “here?” she repeated. 

azzi shook her head, and paige slipped her fingers below the bra again to press into her nipple. she circled it gently, squeezing as she kissed azzi again. her broad palm spanned the width of azzi’s breast again, playing along the skin and pushing and pulling azzi’s mind in circles. 

jesus christ. it felt good, too good, but azzi felt like she was going to explode. she wondered if her shorts were growing damp, and desperately shook her head again into paige’s mouth. paige smiled into the kiss, shit-eating. 

after one last squeeze, paige moved down to her ribs, the toned expanse of her stomach. 

“here?” she said again, fingers massaging the skin in dangerous circles. they dipped down to her waistband, skimming under it for a moment before coming back up. 

“lower,” azzi choked out again. 

paige’s fingers finally, finally dipped below azzi’s waistband. azzi’s head tipped back in relief, column of her neck tilting out for paige to kiss at. 

“here?” paige asked. azzi was going to kill her. paige clawed at her, soft, nails trailing over the soft skin of her pelvis. a wave of pleasure undulated from the stimulation, more intense than it should have been, and azzi jerked. her core felt fully liquidated, hot and full and aching. 

an animalistic sound ripped from azzi’s throat. “more,” she breathed. it was the only word she could force out. 

“hmm?” paige hummed. azzi’s hands found paige’s shoulders, and she pressed down, pleading lower, lower. 

“i like it when pretty girls use their words,” paige murmured, voice low.

“more,” azzi pleaded, unthinking. 

“more what?”

“down.”

“well, why didn’t you just say so?” paige grinned. paige bueckers found dead in her arlington home, azzi imagined the headline. 

paige withdrew her hand from azzi’s waistband, instead sliding it up the leg of her shorts to massage her inner thigh. azzi was going to scream. so fucking close. it was so. fucking. close.

she let out a strangled sound, head falling forward and onto paige’s shoulder. she couldn’t take this anymore. her pride wouldn’t let her be direct, to ask paige to fuck her like a slut over the counter, but she could try to play to paige’s weaknesses again. 

she swallowed, heavy. “paige,” she sighed into the older woman’s ear, “don’t you want to?” she put extra breath in her voice, a gentle whine. she let her head lean against paige’s neck. 

“come on, baby,” she breathed, needy, “don’t you want to make me feel good?”

paige’s pulse jackrabbited, azzi could feel it. success. an excited thrill shot through her, anticipation and nervousness. 

the blonde’s fingers twitched towards her cunt. then, like she was trying to make a fist, she squeezed azzi’s inner thigh and azzi choked. her free hand came up to tilt azzi’s jaw up to look at her, commanding. 

“what i want,” she started, low, “is for you to beg me for it.”

azzi exhaled wildly, frustrated. she was torn. the ache between her legs was almost unbearable. 

“what i want,” paige continued in a whisper, a façade of gentleness, “is for you to ask for what you want like the whore that you are.”

azzi’s cunt throbbed. 

“can you do that?”

azzi swallowed. nodded. she could do that. paige parted her lips with her thumb, pulling her lower lip out and letting it bounce back into place. not one part of azzi wasn’t paige’s. 

“go ahead,” paige encouraged, slow. she looked straight at azzi’s lips, eyes hooded and dark. 

“i..” azzi started in a whisper. “i want you.”

“want me to what, pretty?”

“i want you to fuck me.” 

“that’s it,” paige purred, “so good f’me. again.” her fingers edged closer to the line of azzi’s underwear. 

azzi knew her face was pink and awful, breathing labored and eyes half closed. “i want… you to fuck me.”

paige hovered over her clit, tapping it once over the fabric. azzi’s entire body jolted. “ask.”

“please,” she sighed, “please fuck me.”

“that’s it, perfect,” paige complimented, kissing her softly on the lips. she ran her fingers down the length of azzi’s cunt, lingering where her dripping hole soaked the fabric and pressing in slightly. azzi tightened her grip on paige’s shoulders. 

jesus fucking christ, jesus god. azzi felt like she’d cum if paige looked at her wrong. she needed it. she needed it so fucking bad. paige was free to take her apart and put her back together in any way she wanted, legs askew and head on sideways, if she would just keep touching her. 

she’d imagined getting fucked in paige’s house so many times, the same way she’d imagined the interior of the house and imagined how paige would act and everything was so different that it didn’t fucking matter and everything was perfect in its own stupid fucking way and–

she loved her. she trusted her. so much so that–

“again,” paige ordered.

“please fuck me.”

“again.” 

“please fuck me.”

“fuck you like a what.”

“like a slut,” azzi gasped, cunt throbbing, “fuck me like a slut, paige, please.”

“yeah?” paige challenged, slipping her hand into azzi’s dripping cunt, starting an immediate circle on her clit. “you want me to fuck you like a slut? right here on the kitchen counter?”

azzi couldn’t speak, it felt so good. she felt like her body was short-circuiting, sparks flying from where paige was touching her. 

“answer me,” paige demanded, slapping her lightly. azzi fought to keep her thighs open as her breath grew rapid. 

“yeah,” she breathed, and it seemed to be good enough for paige, who looked unbearably hot in her stupid loungewear as she laid claim to azzi’s body. 

“you wanna cum all over it? lay your mark all over my fucking house?”

azzi moaned aloud as paige pressed into her clit firmer, faster. “yeah, yeah.”

the idea of christening paige’s house with herself, making hers the place that paige hadn’t even quite made paige’s, was ridiculously hot. she suddenly wanted to cum all over it, all over paige, as if that would have the same effect. 

“so easy,” paige muttered, “so fucking close to the edge already.”

and– yeah, azzi was fucking close to the edge. paige was fucking fingering her under her shorts and underwear, the bulge of her hand moving a fucking pornographic sight, and azzi was close to coming in her pants like a goddamned teenager. 

i love you, she wanted to say. instead, she bit her cheek and hoped she’d break skin. 

“azzi,” paige sighed, kissing her deeply. azzi would kill to stay in her mouth. she let her eyes shut and still saw paige in the closed lids. her teeth ached with how badly she wanted her. 

azzi’s core trembled, trying not to buck her hips, trying to keep herself up. 

paige pulled her face back, keeping her rhythm steady. azzi felt it building in her gut, boiling hot. 

she wanted– she was going to–

she couldn’t believe paige was letting her cum so easily, no pulling away or teasing, and a hot wash of arousal tugged through her gut like a drain. paige must really want to see it, she realized. she felt slightly victorious that her begging had accomplished something eventually. 

“so perfect,” paige whispered, adding a touch more pressure. at the words, azzi sighed in pleasure. it was coming much faster than she anticipated, dangerously close to the edge. 

“can i–” she choked out. 

paige grinned wickedly. “not yet.”

another frustrated sound came up from azzi’s throat. being denied almost sent her over the edge; her hips twitched away from paige’s finger to try to relieve the pressure. “i’m gonna–”

“not yet, princess,” paige repeated, not slowing down. “stay still and take it for me. you can do that, right? my good girl?”

her– fuck, azzi teared up with the effort of not coming. she didn’t think her body was going to listen, she didn’t want to disappoint paige by coming, she needed it so fucking badly she thought she was going to explode. 

paige hummed. “don’t cry, baby. you’re doing so well, right?”

azzi mumbled something that sounded like mmmmrggfh. paige took her fingers away and used them to slap lightly against her clit, slipping them down to azzi’s entrance and back. azzi mumbled something that sounded like MMMMGGFH. 

“use your words, pretty. you’re doing so good, yeah? tell me how good you’re doing for me.”

paige’s ministrations resumed, and jesus fucking christ this was it, azzi had to prove that she could cum because it was going to happen either way. she had to be good for paige. “i’m doing so good for you.”

“fuck,” paige muttered, half-lidded eyes boring into azzi’s own blown-out pupils. 

“please,” azzi begged, “please, i’m so good for you, please let me cum, please.”

paige visibly shuddered, and the sight sent azzi over the edge as paige muttered, “yeah, baby, fucking cum for me. fucking cum all over fingers.”

azzi’s hips canted up like she’d been shocked, head falling back and mouth opening with an ungodly sound. it tore through her like a freight train, hard and fast as her fingers squeezed the shit out of paige’s shoulders and paige worked her through the apex of the crescendo. 

“ah, fuck, paige, yeah,” azzi sighed, high and throaty, as she rode out the aftershocks. 

paige hummed. “that’s it, baby. so good f’me.”

azzi’s shoulders relaxed and her body felt boneless. the orgasm had swept through her whole body, leaving her light and buzzy. she caught her breath slowly, paige’s fingers slowing down and finally coming to a stop. 

“perfect,” paige muttered, kissing her forehead. 

it was fucking insane, the way paige could make her come. nothing was like it. stupid fucking bitch. 

paige moved her hand to azzi’s side, rubbing slow circles into the skin of her waist. “good?”

azzi nodded her head, loose. of course it was good. it was phenomenal. she’d just cum on the fucking kitchen counter, clothes still on. her core still twitched with the aftershocks. 

it made something burn in her chest that paige never stopped reassuring her, making sure that she was always enjoying herself. she wanted to kiss her face off.

so she did. she took paige’s face in her hands and leaned forward, pressing her lips against paige’s, firm and chaste and trusting. 

paige softened under her touch. 

azzi’s brain surged. she wanted to ruin her, melt her down into nothing but liquid. she wanted to see paige bueckers weak, to know the power she had over her. she kissed her harder, slipping her tongue into paige’s mouth. 

paige didn’t match her energy, kissing back slow and languid to gently rock azzi back down. that was sweet and all, but azzi knew that she was much more riled up than she let on. it showed in the feverish warmth of her tongue, in the way her fingers stuttered in their rhythm on azzi’s waist. 

she gently caught paige’s lower lip between her teeth for a moment, and paige’s breath caught in her throat. she seemed to fight a mental war with herself before pulling away; she sighed before renewing her efforts to calm azzi down, hands steadying and meeting azzi’s lips softer, gentler. 

azzi couldn’t stand it. she needed paige to feel good. 

she slid her palms to paige’s chest, squeezing. paige quietly sighed into her mouth, trying to subtly shake her head. 

“how do you–” paige muttered, “so fast.”

“how do i what?”

paige kissed her cheek. “come down.”

“who said i came down?” sure, azzi had relaxed, but she still felt like she was in heat. she just had a different focus. 

paige inhaled sharply. “you want more?”

azzi pretended to think. she moved her arms around paige’s neck, playing with the baby hairs at her nape. she leaned in close to paige’s ear. 

she could hear paige’s erratic breathing, feel the heat radiating from her neck and chest. she was fucking gorgeous, all riled up, and azzi felt crazy. she dropped her voice to a whisper. 

“the strap is in the outside pocket of my suitcase.”

paige’s head snapped toward her, pupils blown out. “azzi,” she whispered, hoarse, like it had been punched out of her.

azzi couldn’t help it. she grinned. she slipped out of paige’s grasp and off of the counter, tugging her shirt and unclasped bra off of her head and letting them fall to the floor. 

she took a few steps before turning and shrugging. paige stood rooted to the spot, pink-cheeked and staring at azzi like she’d just been struck by lightning. 

“your bed?” azzi asked, jovial. before waiting for a response, she turned the corner into the hallway and walked towards paige’s room. making sure that paige wasn’t following, she drew off her shorts and left them in the hallway, then left her underwear at the entrance of the doorway. 

the air conditioning blew against her warm skin, against the damp between her legs, and she shivered as she sat down on the bed. she heard the sound of a zipper and shivered in excitement, her nipples hardening exposed to the air. she was still so turned on it was a fucking sin, waiting for paige to come and fuck her again.

paige was pulling out the strap. azzi knew she would. it always released something animalistic in her, getting to bend azzi over and fuck her three ways into the next week. something about seeing paige completely losing herself inside of her, drunk off the feeling, riled up azzi to no extent. 

fuck, would paige put it on out there, or would she bring it inside and let azzi put it on herself, like she loved to? how would she react seeing that azzi had brought the vibrating one? god, azzi wished that she could see paige’s face. 

azzi situated herself at the edge of the bed, biting her lip. even though she’d just come, her stomach churned at the prospect of paige coming in. she regretted leaving her side for a moment, she should have– 

she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting herself settle into the soft down of the comforter. she’d fingered herself the night before, more to prepare than to cum, and she slipped a finger right into herself with no resistance and began to pump it in and out. 

she added a second and began to scissor gently, stretching herself out a bit more. she let her fingertips find what was soft and slick inside of her, moaning softly at the feeling. selfishly, she let herself find a rhythm, the wet sound of it filthy and hot. 

when she opened her eyes, paige was standing in the doorway. the harness, vibrating dildo already strapped in, clit massager on the other end, dangled off of a finger on her left hand; on her right, azzi’s underwear. she cocked an eyebrow, looking half stunned at azzi’s audacity and half like she was going to eat azzi alive. 

azzi burned. she lifted a hand and beckoned paige in. 

“jesus christ,” paige muttered, like she’d lost all ability to say anything else. as soon as she came within reach, azzi yanked the panties from her hand and tossed them to the floor. paige threw the strap on the side of the bed, pushing azzi onto her back and crawling on top of her with fervor. 

she kissed her hard and passionate and wet, lips slightly cold from their time apart, and azzi keened. she tugged at the hem of paige’s shirt, lifting it up, and paige broke the kiss to tear it off. 

paige slotted a knee between azzi’s thighs, pressing down, and her eyes fluttered back in her head. to counter, she lifted her leg that was between paige’s, pressing up. it was damp where her thigh met the fabric, and she felt ravenous. 

she let them make out and grind for a few minutes before deciding it was unbearable. she reached for paige’s waistband, tugging at it lightly. off, she thought, off. 

paige slipped off her shorts, leaving her in only her boxers. the sight, as always, sent a fresh wave of molten heat through azzi’s core. she felt herself leak a little onto paige’s thigh, who muttered a fuck into the side of azzi’s neck. 

paige bent to her chest, closing her lips over azzi’s nipple. azzi’s back arched; christ, she knew paige could stay there all day. paige looked wrecked, sucking on it while her tongue flicked over the nub, other hand pinching the free nipple, hair mussed up and face flushed. 

azzi mewled. it felt so fucking good. 

paige squeezed, nipping lightly around her chest and leaving marks. the attention on both breasts was too much yet not enough; her cunt pulsed with want of something more, inside. paige was a mess just from this, from worshipping azzi’s chest, from making her cum on the counter and drinking in her bare skin in her bed. azzi needed her ruined. 

paige’s head dipped, and her tongue ran a long, languid line from azzi’s navel to the hollow of her throat. one of her hands dropped to steady herself while the other squeezed the fat of azzi’s hips, mouth pressing to her neck and taking the time to suck in an even larger mark. 

paige’s. 

“paige,” she choked out, “i…”

paige’s head snapped back, looking at her wildly, expectantly. a little scared. 

azzi swallowed. “i want…” she started. she shook her head, pushing paige off of her slightly and rolling onto her side, tugging paige down to the bed and climbing over her instead. 

she couldn’t say it then. she couldn’t. but she could bury her face in paige’s cunt and make her cum all over her face, taste her and have her and adore her in ways that were allowed. 

she began her descent to the apex of paige’s thighs, lips falling apart in anticipation. she was too strung-out for foreplay to even cross her mind, single-focused on getting her mouth on paige. 

paige realized what she was doing as she neared her pelvis, catching her jaw in her hand and shaking her head. 

no? azzi was confused. paige should want it. why didn’t paige want it?

“baby,” paige whispered, “i want to cum inside you.”

azzi exhaled sharply. her mind was numb. she was torn, she wanted paige to cum inside her, too, but she wanted to eat her out. she tried to explain, but her mouth refused to work. she blinked hopelessly up at paige and hoped that she would understand. 

“baby,” paige repeated. azzi could see her chest twitch with how hard her heart was beating. “i….you want this?”

azzi nodded. 

“you okay?”

a whimper escaped azzi’s throat. her stomach flipped violently. she wanted. all she was was want. she nodded again. 

“okay,” paige said gently, stroking her cheek. she hesitated a moment, then rested her thumb on azzi’s lips. azzi didn’t think before enveloping it in her mouth. a deep breath left paige, and she softly removed her finger, dragging it out and onto azzi’s cheek again. “just for a bit. i’m going to stop you before i cum, okay?”

her words only half registered to azzi, who had blacked out at okay. her head was full of nothing but paige, eat her out, make her feel good, and she immediately lay down between paige’s legs and starting mouthing at her clit through the fabric of paige’s boxers.

“let’s get these off, first, okay baby?” paige paused her, sliding off the boxers and leaving herself exposed. 

azzi barely registered it. nothing mattered in her world except paige, her lips, and her tongue. paige was so wet that her tongue slipped more than she wanted, but she tried valiantly to pressure her clit, pleasure everywhere that her mouth could reach. 

she was a little sloppy, she knew, but she couldn’t stop herself from tonguing up her slit again and again, circling her clit, looking up at the rise and fall of her chest. paige’s swears and praise fell on her ears like gentle rainfall, encouragement, and she felt like she was floating. 

her fingers spread paige apart, and she continued with her tongue on paige for a period of time that was probably much longer than it felt, lapping fervently and mindlessly, before paige’s rough hands fisted her hair and tugged her up and off. 

she looked up at paige from between her legs, mouth covered in slick and hair in paige’s fist, eyes dark and shining. paige swore and looked away quickly, squeezing her eyes shut and taking in a deep breath. 

“so good, baby,” paige managed, “g’na cum if you keep going.”

good. azzi wanted that. 

“you wanna make me cum, pretty?” paige asked, like she could read azzi’s mind. 

azzi nodded. 

“okay,” paige affirmed. “let me get the strap on.”

azzi nodded again. usually, she’d help, but she felt fuzzy and light and not all quite there, and she watched through a haze as paige stepped into the harness. paige adjusted the flat of the back of the vibrating dildo where it came through and nestled into her clit, taking a deep breath, and made sure that everything was strapped in correctly. azzi thought she was the hottest woman alive. 

paige stepped towards her and azzi instinctively moved onto her stomach, opening her mouth for paige to put the strap inside. paige relented, letting her take it deep into her mouth, but refused to fuck her throat with it. the slide of it against azzi’s cheeks and tongue felt so good, the weight of it grounding and solid.

she bobbed her head as paige’s hand slid to grab at her hair, making sure she was gentle and didn’t take too much. her head spun with it, thinking of absolutely nothing but the taste of paige in her mouth. getting paige’s slick from earlier mixed with her spit all over it sent azzi’s brain reeling. god. 

paige pulled her off, and her forehead fell against the side of the strap as she caught her breath. paige’s fingers stroked through her hair, gentle, and she mouthed a kiss at the base of the harness. 

“can you lay back for me, beautiful?” paige murmured. azzi nodded again. she was doing a lot of that. she jerked herself up, almost robotic, like she was programmed to obey paige’s requests, and laid back against the pillows. she let her legs spread automatically, heat open and willing for paige. 

paige looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to start praying or crying. “you ready, baby?”

azzi let out an affirmative sound. paige slid two fingers in her anyways, just to check, and azzi whined. not enough. “more,” she vocalized, scratchy and sudden. 

paige slipped another along with it, and yeah, that was better, but not enough, and azzi didn’t let her keep up that pace before looking up at paige pleadingly. “need it,” she whispered. 

paige’s eyes were wide, searching her face at every instant. azzi felt so cared for, so trusted, so loved. she was sick. 

“you need me, baby?”

“need you.”

paige kissed her then, something quiet and careful. she slipped something cold and hard into azzi’s hand, and it took her a second to register that it was the remote for the vibrator. she clicked it once to make sure that she was right, and paige gasped as her presumably swollen clit was stimulated by the silicone. 

azzi turned it off again. she blinked up at paige. 

paige had an unreadable expression on her face. she drank in azzi’s countenance for a moment longer before squeezing her eyes shut and reopening them, drawing back. 

she took her time gently lining up the dildo with azzi’s entrance. azzi shuddered, overwhelmed. she felt like she was going to combust if it didn’t get inside her soon. 

when it slowly, slowly breached inside, a high-pitched sound left azzi that was embarrassing to recount later. 

“that’s it, baby,” paige was whispering, a stream of praise and comfort, “you’re doing so good. you’re so perfect. you’re so good for me. look at you.”

she thrust inside shallowly for a few beats, warming azzi up, and azzi’s chest trembled. paige’s hands were busy keeping herself up, biceps bracketing azzi, and the sight of the flexed muscles made azzi gush over the silicone. the wetness was enough for paige to finish sliding in, and that was enough for azzi to press the button the controller and to start the vibrations. 

the pulsations carried deep within her, the base of it vibrating and coming dangerously close to her clit, and paige whimpered at the pressure. 

watching paige’s hips snap into her was more erotic than even getting fucked. her lips were slightly parted, wet and shining, eyes hyper-focused on making sure she stayed inside of azzi. each thrust was always purposeful, instinctive, like she was exactly aware of the shape of azzi’s insides and was feeling out the perfect spots to hit.

her abs gleamed with a sheen of sweat, hair falling out of her messy bun. when she hit a particularly deep thrust, she moaned right along with azzi. good, was all azzi could think. she feels good. 

paige flipped her onto her front, tugging her up by the hips. azzi’s face was buried in the pillows, probably wetting them, ass up while paige entered her again. the new angle pressed against her in a way that was almost overstimulating, and with a groan she turned off the vibration before it overwhelmed her. 

she felt her ass bounce against the harness, the slapping sound along with the wet sounds of her cunt sloppily filling the room. she could feel how paige was getting into it, fucking her hips in a dirty, steady rhythm as her breaths started to come faster. 

“fucking perfect,” paige muttered, hitting her asscheek. the jolt and sting of it flushed through azzi with an electric buzz, and she moaned, muffled, into the pillows. paige gripped her hip bones, leaning forwards, and snapped her hips forward faster. 

azzi’s breathing was labored, head fuzzy, heat building up inside her gut again. in this position, with paige fucking into her deep and hard while she trembled trying to stay up, she felt good. 

she felt like she was being used, like she existed for paige’s pleasure and was doing a damn good job of it, letting paige fuck her all she wanted and all she deserved to. the possessiveness of it all drove her mad.

just when she thought about turning the vibrator on and getting paige to cum, paige flipped her over again. 

“wanna see your face,” she mumbled. 

her eyes bored into azzi’s. azzi could barely keep hers open, the only thing she could focus on being where paige entered, entered, entered. azzi wasn’t even thinking about cumming anymore, wasn’t thinking about anything. 

“fuck, azzi, you’re so good, baby,” paige rambled, almost incoherent. azzi felt something warm on her jaw, and she got tugged to face paige fully. the hand on her chin slid down to her arm, to her hand. 

a click sounded through the room, and a vibration shot through azzi’s insides. 

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasped, hips canting up. a hand kept her down, thumb landing on her clit and circling around it. she felt like she was being electrocuted. pleasure coursed through her body like a heat wave.

she could only manage an “i’m–” before she came again with a cry, an incoherent sound that had her back arching and her mind crashing over itself. 

paige released a broken sound, fucking her faster, harder, and her hips suddenly stilled as she came, deep inside azzi. her thumb, by some miracle, kept moving on azzi’s clit, and azzi jolted as the stimulation became too much, each subduing wave growing overly sensitive. 

the blonde removed her hands as the pleasure subsided, not so much bending to meet azzi as collapsing on top of her, kissing her mouth and cradling her face. she was still inside of her, but her hand snaked back out to the vibrator controller to turn it off. 

azzi relaxed as the stimulation stopped, and she kissed paige back wordlessly. love you.

she imagined paige saying it back so vividly that she almost thought she did. 

they lay there for a minute, maybe five, catching their breath and holding each other. azzi’s eyes drifted shut, and she was vaguely aware of paige whispering praise in her ear and stroking her stomach with soft fingers. she was still inside of azzi, and gently pulled herself out.

azzi braced herself for the empty feeling, the buzz of the pleasure that remained and the slight soreness that came from getting utterly fucked. it felt worse than she remembered, like her body didn’t want to let go of paige. like paige belonged inside. 

paige kissed her cheek. “okay?”

she nodded. paige kissed her again. “can you talk to me, baby?”

she shook her head. 

“can i get up and get a washcloth, or do you want me to stay here?”

azzi turned her head to lock paige in with another kiss. paige kissed her back for a minute, then broke away smiling. “stay, got it. gonna need to shower this shit off, anyways.”

azzi huffed a laugh at the unexpected joke. it helped her brain come back online a little, take note of the feeling of the bedsheets beneath her and the warmth of where paige pressed into her and the wetness between her legs. 

paige had fucked her brains out, and she still hadn’t told her that a) she loved her, or b) what happened with her family. whatever. 

“what you thinking about?” paige mumbled into the side of her face. 

azzi blanked. “tour,” she fibbed, voice low and slurred. she didn’t have the energy to come up with anything better. 

paige laughed. “really? now?”

azzi smiled. “endurance practice.”

“stupid,” paige muttered, endeared. “you’re gonna do great though, really. excited for your first show.”

“you have a game,” azzi said automatically. not creepy at all. 

paige sighed. “yeah.”

they fell into silence for a minute longer. it was quiet, intimate. it was everything azzi wanted. 

“so,” paige started, “i’m thinking, you finish your sandwich. we go sit outside on the porch. then, i take you out for dinner. and tomorrow, we can go mini golfing and i can take you to my favorite brunch spot. and i can introduce you to arike and nai and jj, and we can go to the botanical gardens after that. and then i booked us ziplining and a ghost tour for our last day because you like that history shit.”

“jesus,” azzi groaned, pushing her away, “you’re so– organized.”

“whatever you want,” paige said simply, matter-of-fact. azzi ached. she bit down on the inside of her lip. 

“whatever you want,” azzi countered. 

“whatever we want.”

“whatever we want,” azzi agreed, quiet. 

paige kissed her shoulder. “so, about that sandwich.”

—-

“i’m going to throw up,” azzi muttered, head in hands, “i’m going to throw up.”

“hey,” azzi’s manager soothed her, rubbing her back, “you sounded great today at soundcheck. you’ve worked so hard to get here, and it’s your first real show. nobody is expecting you to be perfect. you just gotta do what you love to do.”

azzi nodded miserably, eyes still closed. her stomach felt like the bottom of a draining pool, swirling around dirt and grime. she’d done a festival on short notice, she could do a concert where people actually wanted to see her.

that, oddly, made it worse– they wanted to see her. they were coming in with expectations, with hopes that she would play their favorite song, with knowledge of her artistry and her personal life and they were going to see her at her most raw and vulnerable, performing the craft that she dedicated her life to. 

she was ready– she knew she was ready. she tried to feel like how she felt at the festival, to turn herself into azzi, the idea, the artist, the myth. 

it wasn’t working. 

nobody can see how you’re feeling inside, paige had texted her. sometimes u just have to walk out and take your time becoming who they see. 

she inhaled deeply through her nose, tried to ignore the pounding of her cataclysmic heartbeat. four beats in through the nose into the stomach. hold. exhale and press the air out. repeat.

it didn’t have to be perfect. it just had to be decent. her props just had to work. the sound just had to be mixed right, and the producers all had to signal the right cues, and her band just had to be perfect, and she couldn’t let her hand slip on the guitar, and there needed to be cameras and water and–

one thing at a time. first, the song everyone knew. then five more songs off her album. she’d thrown in her lovesong cover. full set change. another popular song. her newest single. full set change. last song. encore, an unreleased song. 

one, two, azzi to center stage in three minutes, her in-ear monitor buzzed. she inhaled one more time, for good measure, and her manager squeezed her shoulder. 

“you got this, kid,” her manager muttered. 

azzi managed to nod and pull her lips into some marionette-stuff version of a smile. she stood up, eyes scanning the stage for her guitar. the humming of the crowd was electric, intensified by the dimming of the crowd lights and the glare of the spotlights. 

she tried to focus on just one conversation, but her brain couldn’t tune in. the whole crowd sounded like it was sounding out the syllables of her name, azzi, azzi, thick and heavy with eager anticipation. 

the band struck up the introduction of the first song, and the crowd was deafening. azzi’s head whipped around to the sound crew, who beamed at her and gestured forwards.

azzi to center stage, her in-ear said, now. 

azzi adjusted the white collar of the shirt below her blazer and smiled again. she let the rapid beating of her heart push blood into her lips, let it carry them up into a real, nervous smile. she would come as she was. 

she stepped out onto the stage, and became azzi fudd.

__

azzi was performing her first real concert, ever, and paige was playing against the stupid fucking mist. sure, playing against stewie was always fun, but she’d done it a million times. 

rephrase: azzi was performing her first real concert, ever, and paige was sitting in the locker room bathroom, pretending to need to pee while she watched a grainy tiktok livestream on her phone. 

she’d already been in there for ten minutes, and she knew there wasn’t much more that she could get away with. she just couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen, not when azzi looked like that. cargo pants and a belt, a soft brown and beige blazer, hair braided back from the front into long, cascading waves. fingers manicured a gentle french, deftly strumming along her silvery guitar strings. she was captivating. 

after this song, paige told herself. i’ll go back to the locker room after this song. it was stolen time, more than she was probably allowed, but she gave herself some leeway. the breeze were playing decently, and as the captain she was generally afforded a little more space because they knew she could hold herself accountable. 

the current set was this blooming, alive thing that suspended flowers and plants and books and records in midair, azzi sitting in a fake room of a mossy house. azzi had refused to talk about the set with her, and paige was fairly certain it was because the house vaguely resembled her family’s minnesota cabin. 

paige wished she could turn the volume up more without it echoing off the tiled walls and giving her away. her stomach jolted with each lilt of azzi’s voice, nervous almost as if she were azzi herself. probably more. 

she blinked, putting her hand on the bathroom door. the livestream glitched, pulling her out of it, and she hissed softly. she felt like an idiot. a grown woman, with a job, sneaking away to watch a girl she couldn’t even ask out perform the most important show of her life. she’d do it again. 

the bathroom door suddenly jolted, a loud banging coming from the other side. 

“yo, p,” rickea shouted at her, “you alright? we gotta go, halftime’s over.”

paige swore, panicking and turning off her phone with a click. “fuck, yeah, stomachache,” she lied. she tucked her phone into her waistband and covered it with her shirt, swinging the door open. 

rickea stared at her. “you look stressed out. you sure everything’s good?”

“nah, yeah,” paige laughed, reaching up to touch at her ponytail. “just gotta lock in.”

“somewhere you wish you were?” rickea asked, and paige realized that she was nowhere near as slick as she thought she was. she swallowed, throat dry, and shrugged. 

“where would i rather be than with kea, my favorite basketball player?”

rickea rolled her eyes. “starts with an a. rhymes with bazzi budd’s boncert.”

paige’s lips pinched together. what did it say that she had basketball, her favorite thing in the world, in front of her, waiting, and she was glued to her phone for the barest glimpse of what she couldn’t have?

she washed her hands, even though she hadn’t used the bathroom. rickea opened the door for her. mercifully, she didn’t say anything else, or tease her. “c’mon, p,” she said quietly, and led them back out and to the court. “noelle says you gotta drive from your left or pass it up to dom.”

__

AZZI. AZZI. AZZI. AZZI. AZZI. 

the crowd was deafening. they were stomping and clapping, and azzi felt like the whole arena was shaking. she pressed her hands to her mouth in disbelief for a moment before taking a sip of water that a crew member held out to her. 

twenty seconds to encore, her in-ears said. 

the show had been wonderful. she’d started the tour in washington d.c., near where she grew up in virginia, to feel a sense of home, and the crowd loved her. she saw the familiar faces of a few friends from high school a couple times and nearly cried. 

transforming her former home from a place that she was scared of to a place where she felt loved again felt incredible. her hands were still shaking with adrenaline, nerves, and gratitude. the crowd had known all of the songs she played, even her most recent single. being able to watch them sing her lyrics back to her, sing her lyrics to each other, had been the single most meaningful event of her life. 

she was giving all of herself to these people and they were appreciating her, loving her, giving it right back. her heart felt three times its size. maybe she was crazy, but– between that and how well her trip to paige’s had been, she was feeling like everything was working out.

hanging out with paige had been nothing short of a fucking honeymoon. no, azzi hadn’t talked to her about her family, and no, she hadn’t told her she loved her, but there just– hadn’t been a right moment. azzi was content to bask in the world they created, in the home paige had made for herself. 

one more song to go. she’d already performed her latest single, which left her unreleased song as the one she’d sing for the encore. it was bold, to choose an unreleased song for the encore; usually, the artist picked a few fan favorites to sing. but azzi didn’t have that much fucking music, so she’d already played through her whole album and her new singles. 

she was really excited to be able to share it with her audience, to watch their faces as they listened to her and realized that they were getting a new song. 

she was also really nervous to sing it, because it was sort of a confession; she’d written it about yearning, wanting so badly to tell paige that she loved her again but not doing it. it was less than subtle, but maybe paige would get the hint, and–

fudd to stage, encore start.

she stepped back onto the stage. the crowd erupted. 

she grinned widely, abounding joy. she’d arranged for a curtain to close over her set, leaving just her in a spotlight. as the song crescendoed to its emotional peak, the musicians would slowly walk onstage, playing their instruments, and they’d take the final bows together. 

she walked to the center of the stage, standing and waiting for the crowd to die down. if anything, they got louder; she couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she tried to wave her hands to subdue them. 

she tapped her right in-ear monitor once, the signal to start playing the introduction. 

encore start. a metronome started in her left ear. the spotlight seemed even brighter after leaving it and coming back to it, and she squinted a little.

she started singing, all alone on the stage, and a hush fell over the crowd as they realized that the song was new. they waited eagerly, perched at the edges of their seats, their eyes shining with the reflection from the stage. azzi felt like a siren, like she held the minds of these beautiful people within the four walls of her voice box. 

she sang about wanting and aching and the repeated i-love-you in her head, and the music swelled as her musicians began to file onstage. the spotlight began to turn pink, and delicate, eco-friendly, fake cherry blossoms began to rain down from the ceiling. 

the musicians all joined her on stage. the lights swelled and more blossoms dropped until they looked like rainfall, and she repeated her last line again and again as the music crescendoed. the crowd slowly got louder until everything became one big roar, and azzi’s heart hammered in her chest with love, love, love. 

“thank you d.c.!” she yelled, throwing a hand up. she took a final look around at the warm, shining faces calling to her, yelling for her, smiling at her, and she took a bow.

fudd off stage. she blew kisses to the front row, wings, upper levels, lighting crew, stage crew, musicians. fudd off stage. she held her hands over her heart and mouthed thank you, i love you. 

fudd off stage, now. 

she jogged off stage, feeling like the smile on her face would never leave. the adrenaline high was insane, she felt like she needed to do something with her hands, or run a marathon, or scream, or–

god, she wished paige were here. she wanted to throw her arms around her backstage and kiss her senseless. she wanted to talk at her for hours about every little thing that happened during the show, even when paige stopped her and reminded her of her vocal rest. 

her hands still shook as she reached for a sweat towel and a bottle of water from her crew, someone else already taking out her in-ears. of course, it’d be the biggest moment of her life and she’d be thinking about paige. 

“azzi?” a voice said. “this woman–”

azzi’s head snapped up, expecting to see a head of blonde hair and a sheepish grin. 

“--says she’s your mother.”

what?

the water bottle in azzi’s hand was suddenly ice-cold. she froze in place. 

of every situation that she’d imagined seeing her parents in again, it was never backstage at her own concert. back at her childhood house, maybe, or at college, or accidentally in the supermarket, but never somewhere that felt sacred to azzi. the stage was her own creation. they’d made it clear that they thought she was an idiot for wanting to pursue music. she’d fought for this. 

her eyes landed on her mother, short with her eyebrows pinched together like always. there were new lines around her forehead, around her jowls, and her hair was a shade less natural than it used to be. 

though her face had changed, she looked like a memory. it was the same feeling azzi got when she remembered, when she thought too hard about it; chills scraped down her spine. azzi stared in disbelief. her hand twitched forwards, as if to touch the woman and check. 

“azzi,” her mother said, thin lips curving up into a smile. 

everything shocked in azzi turned to anger in an instant. how dare she. how dare she show up during what was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of her life. how dare she have the audacity to stand there and smile, to force her way backstage, to insert herself back into azzi’s life the fucking moment that things were finally looking up for her? 

azzi’s lip curled, and her hand balled into a fist. her mom moved forwards, as if to hug her, but azzi turned her head and put her palm up. 

“who let her in?” she directed the question to the security guard. her voice quivered. she couldn’t speak to her. she couldn’t. she couldn’t do this right now. 

“i-i did, ma’am,” the security guard replied, eyes wide, “she came ‘round the back, she said she was your mother and she was trying to surprise you, and she showed proof–”

“did you check with my manager first? my agent? the reps? anyone?” she sounded like a bitch. she couldn’t help it.

“no, she just– i didn’t have time before– before the show ended,” the security guard babbled. 

azzi felt her whole body trembling like a leaf. she hated for strangers to see her weak. she hated for this to happen in public, with thousands of fans just beyond the curtain. she closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her belly. 

“thank you for your thought. in the future, never do that again.” it was as polite as she could manage to be. she gave the security guard a pained smile. “you can escort her off the premise now. if you would be so kind.”

“azzi,” her mother scolded, condescending, like she had any right to be. azzi’s stomach flipped painfully. “i just wanted to see you, to ask you how you’re doing. is that too much for a mother to ask?”

“get her out,” azzi said quietly. 

“azzi, come on, i’m so proud of–”

“GET HER OUT,” azzi yelled, finally, pointing to the door. the backstage went quiet. azzi’s vision began to blur at the edges. she felt like she was going to be sick. she tried to be quieter, but her voice sounded odd and tinny. “get her out, please.”

the security guard looked scared of her, but nodded. they grabbed onto her mother’s arm gently, trying to guide her out. 

“absolutely not, i am her mother,” her mother scoffed, offended. she tore her arm away and stepped out of the guard’s grasp. she looked over at azzi like how could you do this to me, and azzi couldn’t fucking believe that after everything, she still felt guilty. 

she felt guilty for sending away the mother who disowned her, she felt guilty for never going back or visiting, for never following up with her little brothers, for separating herself from the people who left her to die on the street. 

“azzi, let me start over,” her mother ordered. it didn’t matter if azzi wanted her to or not, because azzi’s heart had started to pound in her chest and every nerve was alight with panic. she was frozen to the spot, the idea of talking to her mother fucking terrifying. she couldn’t say no.

“your dad and i want to start over. the boys miss you, and the people in the neighborhood keep asking about you. we’ve seen your success and we are so happy for you. we know things could have been better at home growing up, but things have changed, and–”

“things have changed?” azzi interrupted. her voice was muffled, high and strange to her own ears. “you want to start over? you don’t get to start over with someone you left for dead.”

her mother narrowed her eyes. “azzi, really. we did not ‘leave you for dead’. we gave you a clear choice to try to help guide you in the right direction. but it seems like you found it on your own, and we want to rebuild with you.”

“wh–” azzi was so mad that she couldn’t speak. she blinked hard. “conversion therapy or the streets? that’s not a fucking solution!”

“azzi,” her mother said, spreading her arms out like she wanted a hug, “you were young and misled. we tried to teach you correctly, but you were stubborn. you fought us for so long. it was beginning to hurt the boys, and just think about what the town would have said to us if they knew that you were–”

“a lesbian?” azzi snapped. 

her mother went quiet. her upper lip twitched in distaste. 

“a…. yes,” her mother replied. “but it’s okay, azzi, we’ve all changed, and we’re so sorry that you felt so alone and that we weren’t there for you when things got dark. you always were a brilliant little kid, so happy all the time and so smart. all we want is to try again. to make things better.”

blood roared in azzi’s ears. her mouth fell open in astonishment; she didn’t even know where to start. 

“you still can’t even say it,” she muttered, shaking her head. she stared at the floor, willing desperately for her mother to disappear, for this to all be some insipid adrenaline daydream. 

“what?” her mother asked. 

“you still can’t even say it,” azzi repeated bitterly, louder. “you can’t say that i’m a lesbian.”

azzi’s mother’s lips thinned. “you’re a grown woman, azzi. you can say you’re whatever you like.”

“but i wasn’t then,” azzi shook her head, “i was fucking fifteen. i was a child. and you–”

“you were being selfish,” her mom interrupted, “you didn’t think about the future–”

“i was being selfish?” azzi shrieked. “was it selfish when i was living out of church fucking basements? selfish when i begged my friends to let me sleep on their couches and drive me to school? selfish when i wrote you letter–” her voice broke, “after letter, begging you to come get me, apologizing again and again for existing wrong, calling you and leaving messages and hoping every fucking night that you’d answer me just to get nothing in return?”

her mother stood still, stunned. 

“was it selfish when i sent you invitations to not only my high school graduation but my college graduation? selfish when you threw my suitcase at me and told me to get the fuck out of your house? you said the only way i could continue to live in your house was if i went to fucking conversion therapy, which makes kids like me kill themselves, and i’m selfish for choosing to live?” azzi screamed. she was fully crying now, clear rivulets burning down her cheeks and her neck. 

in every version of meeting her parents again that she’d imagined, she’d always screamed. she’d never cried. 

when she’d gotten thrown out of the house for refusing to attend conversion therapy, she’d run away so fast and full of anger that she’d tripped and torn open her knees. she remembered the heat of it, the way the blood had bubbled up and popped. she’d had to stop by a nearby pond, trying to rinse it away, and she’d cried so long and hard that she’d vomited all over the clear surface. she never wanted to cry like that again. 

she wiped her face angrily. “everything that i have today is despite you. everything that i have is because of my friends, and their parents, and my teachers, and the people who raised me when you didn’t do shit.”

“i gave birth to you. i raised you. i tried to keep you on the right path,” her mother tried to explain, “i’m sorry that everything happened the way it did, but that’s why i’m here. we want to apologize, and we want to try again. the boys are going to head to college soon, and they miss their sister.”

azzi scoffed. “if you cared what the boys thought, you would have kept me there to start with.”

“you have to understand how difficult of a decision that was. we–”

azzi cut her off. “some things can’t be apologized for.”

“you’re not even letting me try!”

azzi’s jaw clenched. her eyes felt swollen, and she felt humiliated, having to do this in front of her crew. her biggest secrets, out in the open. she could feel everyone’s pitying eyes on her, watching, waiting for her next command to spring into action. 

“maybe you should have answered my fucking calls,” she said, quietly. “you’re a decade too late, mom.

“i know we’re not perfect, honey, but we’re family. doesn’t that mean anything to you? we’re trying.”

azzi stared at her for a long moment. her mother’s eyes were shining, like she genuinely believed what she was saying. she’d spent so long hating the thought of her mother’s face, hating what she’d taken from her. but azzi had things now that couldn’t be taken away. 

“when i go home at night,” she started, “it’s to the woman i love. and it is more than anything you could ever give me.”

her mother looked like she was going to be sick. 

“you have two choices. leave yourself, or get thrown out on the street.” azzi whirled on her back foot, walking away. she paused. “give the boys my best.”

before she could hear her mother’s response, she slammed the dressing room door shut behind her. 

—

the breeze lost to the mist. what fucking ever. paige burned her way through postgame stretching, the ice bath, the locker room chit-chat. 

how was the concert?? how are u feeling??

her texts to azzi were unanswered, but paige didn’t stress about it. she was bursting at the seams to know about it, but she was sure that azzi had her own post-show rituals to fulfill, people to talk to, and routes to find back to her hotel before she could text paige back. 

call later? she sent, just in case. 

arike invited her to get cinnamon rolls from a new place in town after the game. paige’s dietician would have a word with her, but she didn’t really care. dieticians generally did a poor job recognizing how much delicious food improves quality of life. 

the clock ticked by, and arike and her wife kept paige talking and laughing for hours. every time paige checked her phone, there was still no response. no big deal, she figured, but it still felt weird. 

maybe she met someone after the show and is spending the night with them, an evil voice in her head whispered. she shook her head violently, ridding herself of the thought. azzi wasn’t that kind of person. 

“you good?” arike asked, looking at her funny. her wife, lala, giggled. 

paige smiled and rolled her eyes. “fine. just thinking about how i gotta clean my shower drain when i get home.”

“your hair thin as fuck,” lala teased her, “who you been having over?”

paige felt the same stupid smile creep over her face. “nobody, bro, swear. not since last time.”

“you two exclusive yet?” arike asked her. 

paige thought about it. “not….really?”

lala raised an eyebrow. “the fuck does that mean? you’re either together or you not.”

“like,” paige explained, “not verbally. but physically, emotionally….yeah i– i think i gotta ask her soon.”

“she could ask you,” arike suggested, “she broke up with you, technically. why it always gotta be the masc?”

an excellent critique of gender roles, paige appraised. but the truth was– “i just want to.”

“fair enough.”

“anyways, i’m gonna head back. gotta get some more recovery in. don’t know how you still do this at your big age,” paige winked. arike hit her on the shoulder. 

they argued for a minute until paige’s cheeks hurt from laughing, then she excused herself to throw out her trash and head back to the miami residence. 

she got back and took a hot shower, getting on her yoga mat and rolling out her muscles. she laid back lazily and slid her leg along the roller while she scrolled through twitter on her phone. 

it was a bunch of stupid memes and basketball stats. she wondered how azzi was doing, what people thought of the show. 

azzi fudd, she typed into the searchbar. sue her. 

@/fuddaround: AZZI’S PAGYIGN AN UNRLEASED SONGGGG!!!!! OH GMGHDGHJG <<video clip>>

@/violetsrblue: THIS IS NOT A DRILL I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL AZZI FUDD UNRELEASED SONG 

@/routercable: these SETS? the PROPS? hello azzi fudd you are INSANE <<images>>

@/azzicakes: if you haven’t bought tickets to see azzi fudd do it Now. she sounds just like the record and the show is heartwrenching and beautiful and fun and wow. one of the best concerts i’ve ever ever been to

paige’s heart beat loudly in her chest. she took the praise entirely personally, endlessly proud of azzi and how well the show must have gone. 

@/random538: rumors of yelling coming from backstage at the azzi fudd concert….someone said it sounded like “get her out”.... trouble in paradise?

@/fudderooni: nah it can’t be p she was playing in miami

paige stopped stretching abruptly. who had visited azzi backstage? was that credible? azzi hadn’t told her anything…she couldn’t think of anyone who would pay azzi an unwanted visit. kaitlyn and mackenzie would be more than welcome, dorka would be welcome…now that she and paige were close again, none of paige’s friends would be unwelcome. but she doubted they would show up. 

maybe someone from high school? someone paige didn’t know? an ex of sorts? the thought made paige a little queasy, but she knew azzi only had one other ex, and it hadn’t ended on terms bad enough to warrant that reaction. 

@/aroundazzi: can someone explain the azzi fudd drama to me please? thanks

@/pandafan: @/aroundazzi u shouldn’t look it up tbh it’s not any of our business as fans

@/golfingsucks: this account rumored to be a’s mom is reposting a bunch of hate about 

her. there’s some slurs in here so i’d recommend viewing cautiously. <<screenshot>>

Recommended Tweets for You:

2h ago - @/fudderrr: who would say some shit like that like genuinely. about their own daughter. that’s sick

1h ago - @/azzifan1: Just a reminder that we do not know A personally! This is none of our business! Stop stalking accounts of people related to celebrities!

@/fuddropes: Yea that woman has to be crazy. The things she said azzi did are insane. 

5s ago - @/peoplesnews: TMZ Reports that Azzi Fudd’s Mother was Kicked Out of her Concert! Read Her Exclusive Interview HERE

paige sat up, suddenly sick to her stomach. oh, god, azzi. she only knew the basics of what had happened with azzi and her family– that azzi had been kicked out at some point and that they no longer spoke to each other. clearly, it was something really messed up, because it fucked azzi up badly. 

she didn’t bother reading the interview, knowing that it would piss her off enough to potentially do something that she would regret. she wouldn’t give that bullshit any of her attention or interaction. 

she went back to the tweets complimenting azzi’s performance and retweeted some of them. there. 

was that why azzi wasn’t responding? why hadn’t she told paige? 

paige paused. azzi….this was sensitive. was it her place to call? she checked trending. the second-most tweeted-about item was azzi’s mother’s name. jesus christ. she– no, she had to warn azzi about it before azzi accidentally saw the interview. she knew that azzi wasn’t on social media, but she might have checked after the concert to see–

paige was hitting the call button before she even registered it. 

it rang once. paige clenched her jaw. twice, three times. she looked up, nervous. four. five. 

she was about to hang up and call azzi’s manager (via instagram dm, you gotta do what you gotta do) when the line stopped ringing. 

“hey,” azzi said, quiet. she sounded drained. paige’s heart felt like it was being pressed in a juicer. 

“hey, pretty,” paige said, voice gentle, “you okay?”

azzi was silent for a moment. “mm,” she mumbled, barely there. she sounded small. paige wanted to kill someone. 

“i saw on twitter that you sang a new song,” paige tried, “i didn’t listen yet, but you didn’t tell me about that in rehearsals.”

a weak laugh came through the receiver. “yeah, i…you should listen.”

“i will. i promise.”

should paige bring it up? how do you even bring something like that up?

“azzi i… i saw something else on twitter, too.”

“what?” azzi sounded genuinely confused. shit. did she not know it leaked?

“baby,” paige started, “where are you?”

“i’m– i’m in my tour van. i’m alone. nobody can hear me. why?"

okay. good. “they’re saying– it’s, uh– something about your mom. and people heard a fight. and now– online, your mom… like, everyone’s talking about…she’s making up stuff.”

azzi was silent. paige panicked. fuck. 

it had to be her worst nightmare; performing the first show of your new career, succeeding against all odds and putting on a magical performance, just to be upstaged by her fucking mother. the woman who kicked her out. 

she heard a breath from the other side of the line, low and sharp. 

“you okay?”

azzi didn’t answer. paige gave her a moment. a few more deep breaths came from the speaker. 

“azzi? you okay?” she repeated. 

still nothing. paige’s eyebrows furrowed together, hand tugging at her ponytail. shit. azzi got like this when it was really bad, when she was really overwhelmed.

the same thing had happened the first time they’d been together, when paige had asked one question too many about the details of azzi getting kicked out. azzi had later described her words as getting “stuck in her throat”-- she wanted to say them, but they just– wouldn’t come out. it was overwhelming, and frustrating, and paige had held her through it and decided not to push any more. 

but paige couldn’t hold her now. she exhaled deeply, chewing her lip. “i’m here,” she said quietly, “i’m here.”

azzi was still quiet, sans a deep breath and a small choking sound. paige was silent, and let her process. the emotional rollercoaster must have hit azzi hard. 

she put azzi on speaker and texted azzi’s manager a reminder. 

she waited in silence for a few more moments. she sent azzi a gif of an animated cat giving a hug. azzi let out a little breath at it. 

“she...” azzi started. paige put the speaker to her ear. she didn’t want to miss a word. “she came backstage. she told a security guard she wanted to surprise me, and the idiot– he let her in.”

“okay,” paige replied. “what did she want?”

“i don’t know,” azzi said, choked, “she said– she said she wanted to start over. and she was proud of me, and everyone was proud of me. and they missed me.”

jesus christ. that couldn’t have been fun. 

“fucking asshole,” azzi spat, suddenly, “you can’t just show up, and say all the things you know i want to hear. you can’t just do that when i waited for–” her voice broke, “almost a decade, and she– and they– not one fucking word! did you know i sent them an invitation to my graduation?”

paige listened. that’s all she could do.

“i sent them an invitation to my graduation like a fucking idiot, like maybe they’d show up for their stupid lesbian daughter just because. because i was so alone, because you were gone, and everyone was inviting people they loved and i had nobody, and– like they hadn’t ignored my invitation to my high school graduation, and before that all my calls and all my texts, and–” she cut herself off with a frustrated sound.

“azzi,” paige asked, gentle, “how old were you when you– when you split?”

“fifteen,” azzi whispered, “i couldn’t even drive.”

“that’s fucked up.”

azzi huffed a laugh through the receiver. “yeah it– they.” she paused, gathering strength, “we would get into these fights, because they had suspicions that i was– and one night, they got into my phone, and they read through my texts with my friends, and they found out that i’m…”

“you’re?”

“a lesbian. they…they hated it. and they never looked at me the same. and they started ignoring me, and they didn’t let me hang out with any of my friends just in case we were… y’know. i wasn’t allowed my phone, or to write letters, or to be around my brothers in case i influenced them. and one night they came to me, and they gave me two options: go to conversion therapy for the entirety of the next summer, or get kicked out. you can guess what i chose.”

paige physically winced. 

“where did you go?”

“wherever,” azzi muttered, “i stayed in churches for a bit, but they kept asking too many questions. i rotated between my friends’ couches, working to save up to get to college. i couldn’t let the school know, or they’d call the police or something. i couldn’t face them, didn’t want to force them– i wanted them to want me. they never– i tried to call– they never–” she broke down in tears.

“it’s okay,” paige whispered again. “i’m here.” i love you. you don’t have to worry about anything anymore. i’m here. i’ll fix it. 

“she called me selfish,” azzi choked out. 

“you’re not selfish.”

“i have money now, i could use it to support my brothers. what if she really did change?”

“do you think she did?”

azzi paused. “no.”

“no?”

“no, it feels like i’m finally successful enough for her to overlook the fact that i’m a lesbian. it feels like in return, she expects me to overlook their wrongdoing because she acknowledged that things went south. but it’s not really love. i know what lov– it’s not really love.”

“it’s not,” paige agreed. “you don’t owe her anything. what she put you through is horrible, azzi. you don’t owe any of them anything.”

“thanks,” azzi said quietly. she groaned. “what am i going to do?”

paige shrugged, forgetting that azzi couldn’t see her. “are you going to have to put out a statement?” she asked. 

“fuck, i hope not,” azzi swallowed, “i don’t want to give her any attention.”

“you don’t have to worry about it now,” paige offered, “you did something amazing tonight. take your time to feel proud of yourself for that instead.”

paige texted azzi’s manager again. 

“it was amazing,” azzi confessed, “it was like a dream. and she ruined it.”

“no, she didn’t. she can’t take anything good away from you anymore, az. you’re free.”

azzi was quiet. paige heard a sniff through the line. 

a knock sounded through the speaker. 

“hold on,” azzi muttered, “someone’s knocking. i’ll be right back.” the line went quiet for a minute. 

“i’m gonna kill you,” azzi said quietly, but paige heard the smile in her voice and grinned widely. “these are beautiful.”

paige had set azzi’s manager up to give her a large bouquet from paige after the show. she wasn’t sure they’d be beautiful so many hours after being purchased, but she wanted to do what she could to show azzi how proud of her she was. 

“you’re beautiful.”

“fuck off,” azzi scoffed, and paige could hear her eye roll. “i– this– thank you. thank you, paige. this means so much to me.”

“i have something else, too,” paige stated. her stomach swam with butterflies, suddenly nervous to ask. was it bad timing? she’d been planning on asking for a while, but had been working up the courage. 

“something else? paige, this is enough.”

“well, it’s– it’s an invitation,” paige began. she chewed her lip. 

“an invitation? to what?” azzi asked, incredulous. 

“well, i dunno if you can make it, and i know this is maybe really bad timing, but– i’ve been meaning to ask for a minute just to see if maybe we can make it work. i was just thinking, uh, y’know, my family’s been– asking about you. and they’re coming to miami next month like a week before your georgia concert and i was just wondering if– y’know, you’d maybe wanna come say hi. to everyone.” she finished dumbly. 

stupid, stupid, stupid. she felt like she was rubbing salt in the wound, saying hey azzi, sorry about your fucked up family, look at my awesome one! 

but the truth was, and azzi knew it, that her family was also far from perfect. her parents had divorced, and her stepsiblings didn’t know each other well, and things were always half-split and kinda awkward. but they loved each other anyways. and paige hoped that was what she was conveying. that paige wasn’t the kind of person who cared when things were broken. she was the kind who loved anyways. 

and that azzi had someone. her. always her. (paige’s parents also loved azzi. and they missed her.)

azzi’s voice when she responded was soft. “of course. i–” she paused, “i would like that. very much.”

“okay. awesome,” paige said, breathing a sigh of relief. “it’s a date.”

“it’s a date?”

"why are you at my house?" paige asked, staring up at both angel and rickea. 

if they weren't both visibly taller than her, she'd have threatened them by now, but she knew that wasn't a battle she'd win. 

"we're helping you get ready for the rookie dinner, of course." rickea pushed past paige, walking into the house like she had that right. 

she did, but that wasn't the point.

tonight was the rookie dinner. it was a tradition that paige couldn't remember the origin of, but it always took place the weekend before the first game of the season. every season, all the players went to dinner with the rookie, so that they could feel like they were apart of the team. 

it was meant to rid the rooks of any lines in the sand. so that they knew that they were just as important as anyone else. that they'd be loved and protected and held accountable just like the vets were. 

paige didn't get a rookie dinner, but she always felt like it must be great to have that. she hated social interactions, but she always went to these. 

"i'm a grown ass woman." she quipped, shutting the door and following them to her bedroom. "i don't need help getting dressed."

she didn't mind them coming over, but she knew damn well they weren't about to help her do a thing. these weren't just her teammates, they were her friends. and she knew them. they were here to be messy.

"no," angel agreed. "but you do need help with whatever you have going on with the rookie."

paige groaned. "i don't have anything going on with azzi."

angel spun around in the doorway of paige's room. with raised brows, she slowly pulled her lips into a knowing grin. "she's azzi now?" 

paige sighed from her spot in the hallway, rubbing at the corners of her eyes.

that was a slip up. she'd never called azzi by her first name, but something in her brain began to mush over the last week. 

she'd been keeping her distance— a respectable distance. far away enough that her name was no longer trending and henry from admin was so desperate for clips that he recorded aneesah and kk's fruit roll-up eating contest.

rickea tipped her head as she turned back around. "i'm just saying."

"maybe she's right, angel." rickea chimed in. "they got their own thing, after all."

paige flopped on her bed, covering her eyes with her arms. "bro."

she really needed them to stop. 

"bro." rickea mocked.

"i'm not doing this with ya'll." paige shook her head beneath her arms, then she threw them out so they stuck in the air. "you just got here."

angel opened paige's closet. "never too soon to talk about you're lady boner for fudd."

paige made a stank face at the choice of words.

this couldn't be her fucking life. 

"you're thirty-two years old using the term 'lady boner', and you wanna talk about me?"

"don't switch the subject, heffa." rickea pointed her finger like paige wasn't five whole years older than her. "what thingdo you and fudd have?"

paige shut her eyes and used every muscle in her body to keep from screaming. she knew it was coming. that eventually, she'd be interrogated about azzi's stupid retweet.

she had no response to give them about it. not an honest one, anyway. because she couldn't say that the water bottle clip wasn't anything, or that she didn't have something for azzi.

she was well beyond the point of lying to herself about the whole thing. that only seemed to make things worse. but she didn't know how to say that to the two nosiest, most pestering women in the W.

"we literally just played pick-up." she deadpanned.

"right." angel echoed from the depths of the closet. "and a game of pick-up had you fleeing the scene whenever she was in the room for an entire week."

"that wasn't no fucking pick up game." rickea said. "you were staring at her drink fucking water."

"that—" paige cut herself off. she took a moment to adjust her tone to something less defensive. something believable. "that clip was taken out of context."

"p." 

rickea wasn't falling for it, and paige had to commend her. the woman refused to be lied to. but paige had a special talent for avoidance, and she wasn't about to fold.

"kea."

rickea crossed her legs in her chair and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. she cut her eyes and pushed her hair behind her shoulder. "so you really boutta sit in my face and lie like you don't notice when that woman's breathing patterns change."

"she's my rookie. i'm her vet." paige stayed solid. "she's twenty-three for fucks sake."

angel scoffed from the closet. "you act like you wasn't cougar hunting your rookie year."

"HELLO?" paige sat up then, whipping her head towards the closet. "will you shut the fuck up?"

she couldn't figure out if she was more offended by angel bringing up her past, or by the fact it had just been implied that she was a cougar. 

she wasn't that fucking old. (and azzi wasn't that fucking young.)

"fine." rickea shrugged. "god forbid a 'grown as woman' addresses her feelings."

"rickea, i'm really boutta—"

she was cut off by her teammate waving her off and slouching into the chair. "you not gon do shit."

"oh damn." angel called out. "fudd and kk look hot."

"what?" paige looked at the closet again. "fudd and who?"

something her chest panged. some dark, animal-like thing that paige was scared to address because it wasn't supposed to be there.

quickly, she realized her mistake. rickea was giggling, shaking her head. "you gotta do better bruh."

she tried to shut her head up while angel made her way out of the closet and over to the bed, phone in hand. she flipped it around, shoving it in paige's face. 

on the screen, azzi and kk were in a mirror. kk was beside azzi, with her arm curled around her waist. she was holding her there and azzi was flashing a little smile, her teeth peeking out of her top lip. 

her hair was down and she had on black jeans and casual grey blouse. if she was wearing make-up, it wasn't dramatic. 

kk's vibe seemed similar. dreads in a low bun, black button down, gray slacks.

hm. they were matching. 

kk was shorter than azzi.

paige passed the phone back to angel, pulling her own out and burying herself in it. "they look cute."

"uh oh." that was rickea. "passive p."

—

paige knew that she'd feel this way the entire night. she'd made herself well aquainted with the tightness in her chest, and the stinging sensation that came with chewing into the meat of her inner-cheek. 

she, angel and rickea were the second group to arrive, meeting kate and neesah at the table furthest from the door. for a second, paige felt a since of pride. sitting their with her teammates, waiting to carry a tradition that they created, she felt proud because as a group, they'd made a talent of creating community, and paige knew how badly that was needed. 

she knew that in basketball, a strong team relationship was necessary for success. but more than that, she knew that moving somewhere new to be in competition with the best was hard enough as it is. doing it alone was nearly debilitating. 

but then azzi and kk finally walked in, arms linked and laughing about something that could not have been that funny. they weren't late, they were just young. 

they looked close. joyous. like they knew what the inside of each other's apartments looked like already. paige hadn't realized that they'd grown so fond of each other. that they'd reached the stage of Friendship where they posted pictures together and arrived at restaurants touching each other. 

but paige would be calm. she'd go on the way she always did; quiet and observant. because anything that made her stomach turn the way it was, had to be trouble. and azzi fudd was the twenty-three year old physical embodiment of trouble.

⇆

azzi had been at the bar, where she always tried to be when she was in a public setting that required an abnormal amount of posturing. 

it wasn't that she felt like she had to be Something Else for her teammates. she'd gone to that club with them, played with them, stalked the team group chat while they trolled each other— she knew that she'd fit in relatively well with the group.

but she'd always struggled with the feeling of belonging. she'd always been able to blend in, to vibe with whoever. but there were only a handful of time in azzi's life where she felt like she belonged. like she belonged to people the way they belonged to her. like they were meant for each other in whatever capacity of relationship she was trying for. 

she knew that she belonged to sarah and jana. she knew she belonged to her family, and to basketball and to the color pink. but she didn't feel like she belonged to the golden state valkyeries, or to california or to the WNBA. 

so she sat at the bar, nursing a vodka cran that she'd taken exactly two sips of. she'd said her hello's at the table after arriving with kk. everyone seemed happy to see her— she was one out of the two rookies attenting the rookie dinner, but azzi couldn't shake the out of place feeling she'd been stuck with since she arrived at kk's house to get ready. 

kk— with the confidence of a mediocre white man— had fit right in at the table. she sat across from anessah and instantly started their usual banter. 

azzi tried to make due at the table. to make herself noticable enough for someone to talk to her. but everyone was chatting amongst themselves. everyone had relationships with each other already— even kk had rapport with the vets. 

there, at that table, she realized that she had spent so long focused on the wrong things. she'd been so locked in on making the roster and every little step paige made, that she hadn't even thought to make fucking friends. 

she was sitting across from people she'd be around for the better part of the next four years, and she had no idea who they were. so much time had passed that she didn't know how to start getting to know them. 

and to top it all off, the only person whose attention azzi truly wanted, hadn't looked in her direction since she walked in. paige had been the only other person at the table who wasn't wrapped up in a conversation, instead she was zeroed in on her phone. maybe azzi had truly fucked up with the twitter thing. maybe paige decided she wasn't worth the bad press. or maybe paige had never given a fuck all along and azzi had been grasping at straws with the same amount of desperation she'd been feeling at the bar.

azzi thought about that as she watched the bartender fly from one side of his section to the other, trying to keep up with his patrons. she'd felt better there, alone rather than lonley. she'd always be more comfortable feeling sorry for herself in private, rather than in the faces of her peers. not that they'd notice, but azzi didn't want to risk them seeing her like this. 

rook buddy: the waitress is here to get our orders wya?

rook buddy: come getcho food sista

former opp: comingg

azzi's mind swirled through various origin points for anxiety.

for one: she'd have to go back to the table and be around everyone again. to watch their togetherness from the outside.

two: they were probably all wondering why she left to sulk alone like a weirdo. 

and three: she had no idea what the hell she wanted to eat. she hadn't even really looked at the damn menu and she was probably going to end up sputtering through the whole interaction with their waitress because she hadn't given herself the required amount of time for her to make a decision. 

azzi sipped her drink again and placed the glass back down, leaving it there when she left. 

she tried to calm herself down on her way back to the table, but she was just so fucking out of place. by the time she made it, the waitress was swaying side to side on her feet as she wrote on her notepad. she'd been standing long enough for her feet to ache, and azzi just knew she was about to ruin this woman's night. 

she slipped into her seat, opened the menu and ran her eyes over the choices while kk ordered. she was next, and there wasn't any chance in hell that she'd know what she wanted in time. she felt sick to her stomach as she tried her best to find something that she might like. 

god, she felt sweaty. like she was about to testify in court, rather than order her dinner. she hated making decisions. she hated choosing. and she hated the fact that she didn't think about that before retreating to the bar. 

"and for you?" the waitress— her nametag said brielle— asked, nodding towards azzi. 

everyone's eyes were on her. every neck turned in her direction, like they'd forgotten she was even there, much less noticed her return.

azzi swallowed, smiling at the waitress.

"um…" she forced her eyes back on the menu. "i think i'll go with…"

she was stalling, and she knew it was painfully obvious. her brain was literally malfunctioning in front of her teammates— her mentors.

she should have just stayed at the table. she shouldn't have let herself be so affected by everyone and paige with her stipid phone and it's practical wallet/phone case. 

she wanted to cry. she'd internally given up on her fight to make a decision. she'd slowly closed her eyes and accepted her defeat. this was how she'd die. in a random restaurant, after failing to choose a meal she wouldn't be paying for. 

she sighed, opening her eyes and turning to kk, who was staring at azzi like she had IDIOT written across her forehead in big red letters. 

they held that look— kk confused and azzi mortified— until azzi began to lose herself in her breakdown. 

"she'll have the garlic prawn pasta with broccoli." 

azzi didn't register the words at first. it wasn't until kk's head finished creaking in paige's direction that azzi realized what was happening.

"garlic prawn…" brielle repeated, tongue out in concetration as she scribbled on her notepad. "…broccoli." when she finished, she smiled at azzi.

"okay!" brielle chirped, shoving her notepad into the pocket of her apron. "i've got everyone. i'm gonna get these turned in and i'll check in with you guys in a few!"

azzi stayed on paige while everyone passed the menus back to brielle. at first, azzi thought she'd gone insane. that maybe this wasn't a major life event and she was just losing it. because everyone just went back to what they were doing. talking, laughing—whatever. even paige pulled her phone back out and for a total of 30 seconds, her eyes didn't leave it. 

but then she looked up, and azzi caught those blues. she held them, telepathically screaming why did you just do that?!

paige hadn't so much as looked at azzi the whole night. and then all of a sudden, she takes it upon herself to order her fucking food. as if azzi needed saving— needed her. 

azzi couldn't even be mad. well— she could be mad. she could scrape her pride together and be angry at the fact that paige didn't give her the chance to get herself together or whatever, but that wasn't what her brain had chosen to focus on. 

it could have been worse. azzi could have just kept sputtering over the menu and everyone would have kept looking at her like she was having a fucking stroke. no, azzi was more confused than anything. 

because why had paige done that? why was azzi so fucking relieved? and what the hell what she supposed to do now?

azzi didn't know if her bewilderment was evident on her face, but paige didn't stop looking at her. she kept her head down and her phone in her hand, but she was staring right back at azzi. 

if was… uncomfortable. azzi felt uncomfortable. with the feeling of paige loooking at her— watching her enough to recognize the fact that she was incapable of ordering her own pasta. she was uncomfortable with the level of relief she felt when brielle finally left and she wasn't on the spot anymore. she was uncomfortable with the lack of anger in her body and even moreso with the levels of gratitude she felt for the woman who'd ignored her existence for the past forty-five minutes. 

but she just kept looking. kept letting paige look. 

—

"don't shoot!"

azzi stood on the pavement with her arms crossed over her chest really wishing she actually had a weapon to blow kk's fucking head off.

"kamorea." she deadpanned.

kk folded her hands together and bent at her knee's, poking her lip out. "aneesah wants to go get drinks!"

azzi furrowed her brows and popped her neck out, because she couldn't give less of a fuck about kk's sex life. she was tired, and she was humiliated and confused. she wanted to go bed so she could replay the night's events and obsess over them in private.

"you are my ride." she gritted out. 

"i'll send you uber money, i swear."

"it's not about the mon-" azzi sighed. she was annoyed beyond the point of explaining why. "just go."

"yes!" kk jumped and hugged azzi. "thank you so much azzlington!" she kissed her cheek and began to dart away to car, where aneesah had been waiting. "text me when you get home!"

azzi nodded and rolled her eyes at the same time. 

she wasn't even that mad. she didn't care that kk was bailing on her, or why she was bailing on her. it was the inconvenience of it all.

she just wanted to home, and she'd now have to wait minutes outside for an uber. it wasn't cold, or physically uncomfortable. but the air of the night made the exposed feeling azzi had been wearing all evening, ten times worse.

"fuck." she whined, pulling out her phone and searching for the uber app.

if she wasn't a twenty-three year old adult, she'd have stomped a foot and cried real tears. it just wasn't fair— she didn't know what wasn't fair but she knew something was was karmically unbalanced. 

she chewed on her lip as she tapped at her screen, trying to find the women drivers feature.

but before she could complete her task, azzi caught a scent of valentino cologne right beside her. 

"need a ride?"

it was paige. in her stupid outfit with her stupid cologne that was so good and strong that azzi could smell it out in the open.

she didn't turn her head, but she cut her eyes so that she was giving paige her nastiest side eye. she wasn't looking at her phone, but she tapped it harder than she was before. 

"i can uber." she said.

"you don—"

"i'm going to uber." azzi cut her off.

paige huffed but still stood there. breathing all of azzi's air and taking up all the space she wanted. azzi wanted to rip her fucking hair out and scream what the hell do you want from me?!

instead, she dropped her arm to her side and turned her full body towards paige. she squared her shoulders and kept her face as nuetral as she could. 

"what?" she asked. because she wanted paige to go away, or to stay or to do something other than standing there like everything was normal.

she shouldn't have been this worked up, and she didn't know why she was. but paige decided to stand there, so she was going to have to deal with it. 

azzi held eye contact, despite the fact that she felt herself shrinking under paige's gaze. still, she kept her feet planted and chest out. 

"i can take you home." she didn't say it softly, like it was a favor that azzi needed. it came out like a fact. like it was the obvious choice. "it's on my way."

"you don't know where i live, paige." azzi rolled her eyes.

something akin to a smirk crossed paige's mouth for just a second, but then it was gone and she was back to the stone face that ordered azzi's pasta.

"they've been putting the rookies in the same complex for the past ten years, azzi."

she said her name in that condescending way that every undercover villain does. where they haven't done anything wrong, but somehow, you still know your name isn't safe in their mouth.

"i don't care." azzi wanted to stomp her foot. as if that would solify the fact that she didn't need paige. "i'm still not going—"

paige cocked her head to the side and stuffed her hands in her pockets before she interrupted. "why?"

in the span of two seconds, azzi had a tiny internal monologue, in which she told herself you don't have to explain anything to her… but maybe explain it anyway and make it a little mean because you deserve to be mean.

"because i'm a fully grown adult, who is perfect capable of getting my own self home, and ordering my own food and—"

"that's what you're mad about?" paige asked. 

azzi froze for a second. then, she felt her shoulders drop a little. "i'm not mad."

she wasn't. azzi wasn't angry. she didn't know what she felt, or who the feeling was directed at. but here she was.

paige wasn't buying it, and she didn't seem to care much about the fact that azzi was "mad" or whatever other emotion was being misconstrued. she looked over azzi before landing right back at her eyes. bluntly, like it was obvious, she said, "you're pissed."

azzi's shoulders popped right back up to their position below her ears. "what are you even doing right now?" dramatically, she gestured to the parking lot, where their teammates were beginning to peel out. "everyone else is gone and you're standing here peer pressuring me into letting you take me home… for what?" 

paige broke the eye contact then (finally.) and azzi found herself feeling an absurd sense of pride. paige's eyes moved from hers onto the abyss of the parking lot behind her. she said nothing, and for a some reason, azzi felt like she'd won. 

"hello?" she continued, scrunching her face. "you don't hear me talking to you? suddenly you're dea—"

paige slid a hand onto azzi's back and began to usher her off the curb. "come to my car." 

azzi planted her feet, stopping the both of them. she'd hyperfixate on the way paige's thumb felt on her skin —and the way the blonde didn't just leave her— later. for now, she was hellbent on whatever point she was trying to prove.

"i just said—"

paige pushed at her back. not hard, but enough for azzi to willingly begin moving again. "just walk, fudd." 

"fine." she grumbled. then, quieter, she whispered. "fucking. fine."

and so she allowed herself to be guided across the parking lot until they reached an obnoxiously large black truck. 

"you would drive a yukon." she said, stepping to the side so paige could open the passenger side door. "why would you ever need a car this big?"

"i have siblings." paige responded. "my siblings have kids."

"unctie paige." azzi quipped, stepping into the car. "i remember during unrivaled 2026 everyone was calling you that."

"yeah they saw like… three pictures of me with mila and ran with that." paige nodded, smiling to herself.

when paige got in the car, she didn't talk. no one talked. there was no music, either. but for some reason, the silence wasn't tense. at least not to azzi, who was trying and failing not to stare at paige as she drove. she admired the way that even when the only light came from cars passing, paige was beautiful. 

finally— shockingly— paige broke the quiet.

"so you gonna tell me why you physically resisted getting in my car, fudd?" she looked over at azzi quickly before turning back to the road. "i thought we had our own thing for real?"

azzi winced at the quote of her tweet. she'd known she shouldn't have done that while she was doing it. but the regret didn't begin to settle in until day two of silence from paige. and now, paige was just throwing it out like it meant nothing.

"i don't know, bueckers." azzi said, tight lipped and mildly irritated. "you're confusing. i don't like being confused." 

softly, paige asked, "how am i confusing you?"

earlier, i was azzi. now, i'm fudd.

"one minute, we're teammates and we're playing pick-up, and the next you don't talk to me for a week." azzi said, turning in her seat so she was leaned against the door, facing paige. "then the next you're ordering my incredibly over-price shrimp pasta."

"i um—" paige cleared her throat, leaned forward, then scooted down so she was slouching in the driver's seat. "i don't do well with the media. i spent my teens and twenties with my name in everyone's mouth. magazines, fan pages, sports analysts with think pieces that came so far out of left field that i almost killed myself trying to prove them wrong."

azzi remembered what it was like before paige disappeared from the internet. everyone—including her— had been so obsessed with her. every outfit, every soundbite, every facial expression was put under a microscope. 

and paige had spoken about how annoying it was to have everyone in her business. she'd been loud about her want for privacy but no one listened. they still took every little thing she did and made it something much bigger. 

"when henry posted that video— that caption— he knew what that looked like. what that would start. and it worked. everyone erupted and you played into it." paige didn't sound mad, but there was something in her voice that sounded like pain. "i know it was a joke. i used to do that same thing. but it made me nervous." 

"i didn't mean anything by it." azzi tried to be as honest as she could be without admitting that there was a part of her that thought she and paige did have their own thing. that they were going to be something more than teammates. friends, maybe. "and i didn't mean to make you feel that way. i'm sorry."

"it's okay." paige said. "i'm sorry for confusing you."

"it's okay." azzi repeated in the same tone as paige. quiet but sure. "you had a reason."

paige drove into the parking lot of azzi's apartment complex. she didn't park, she just pulled up to the entrance and pressed the brake. "we're here."

azzi tried not to be sad about the fact the conversation was going to end. she tried to keep her face neutral as she grabbed her purse off the floor of the car.

"thank you." she smiled, opening her door. "for the ride. and for the apology."

paige pressed her lips together and nodded once. "thank you for listening and accepting it."

⇆

paige watched azzi walk into the lobby of her apartment complex. she didn't pull away until she saw her enter the elevator. when she left the parking lot, she chose to take the long way home, passing up the highway entrance and turning her music all the way up.

she hadn't meant for the conversation to go the way it did. she hadn't planned on any conversation, but she especially hadn't planned on that one. she'd planned on watching azzi from across the table because creepy stalker lurking was better than interrogating azzi about the nature of her and kk's relationship. 

but then azzi left the table with a sad smile to go sit at the bar alone. her back was to paige, but she could see the slouch in her shoulders, the way she was almost folded over the bar. she'd looked so… hopeless. and it set paige off. 

she didn't know why azzi wasn't being herself, and she didn't know how she was supposed to fix that— but she was bothered. by the look on azzi's face, by the way she was visibly in her shell. it wasn't right. 

the restaurant was full and angel and rickea had spent the entire drive there pestering paige about azzi, so she made it a point to not talk to the girl—woman— the entire evening. she'd tried not to look at her but… you see how well that turned out. 

paige assumed kk had removed her head from neesah's ass long enough to let azzi know the waitress had come to get everyone's orders because azzi made it just in time. 

paige observed azzi's every movement. the way her hands shook as she held the menu over her face. the way she squeaked a little when the waitress asked her order. azzi was a wreck, and again—paige didn't know how she was supposed to fix that. but she could solve this one issue. 

she ordered for azzi because it was the nice thing to do, and clearly the girl was struggling. everyone stared at her like she'd done something out of pocket, and maybe she had. but she didn't care about how everyone was looking at her, she cared about the way every muscle in azzi's face relaxed once the waitress left. 

that was all paige wanted. 

by the end of the dinner, angel had texted paige four times with different questions relating to azzi fudd. paige ignored them all.

she planned on going straight home, taking a boiling hot shower, and going the fuck to bed. she didn't argue with azzi because she wanted to take her home. she was just caught up in that adorable scowl— scowl was the only appropriate word— that azzi had painted on her face. she was trying her hardest to be mad and paige couldn't just walk away from that. 

but then she saw that man recording their conversation from across the parking lot, and everything got real serious real quick. she hated that. the way people just thought it was okay to record other people. the way she was supposed to just let them record or photograph her because she was a celebrity— as if her privacy was the price she had to pay to society.

it was bullshit, and she refused to let it happen again— to her or azzi. she got them behind 5% tint as quickly as she could, but somehow, she'd exposed herself more than the man with the phone ever could. 

she'd always had an… iffy relationship with vulnerability. but hearing azzi—watching her choose to be honest with paige about why she'd had an attitude… it was enough for paige to be honest with her too. 

the truth felt safe in that car, with azzi. and she hadn't regretted it, but it made her scared. she wasn't supposed to talk to azzi. she wasn't supposed to order her food, or be recorded with her again, or take her home.

somehow, she'd done all three. 

—

when she woke up the next morning, paige didn't even want to check her phone. she knew whatever that man had gotten last night would be swirling, and she didn't want to deal with the media, with her team, with her friends. but mostly, she didn't want to deal with herself.

her chest already hurt from anxiety and she hadn't even seen what was being said yet. she hated that she let herself get like this, but she also knew she'd earned the right. 

she knew what it was like to be crucified. the memories would be burned into her brain forever. she could hardly even remember almost a decade of her life because the moment she turned twenty, she wasn't paige anymore. she was everything she'd ever wanted be and more. she was grateful. honestly, she was. 

but being what she wanted— being one of the greats— made her feel like she wasn't a person. she hated that. and she swore she wouldn't go back to watching herself outside of her body. she'd done good for the most part. she'd controlled her image, and accumulated enough money that she wouldn't have to take a random brand deal ever again.

she played basketball, she did pre/post game media, she smiled in pictures with fans, she signed autographs. and that was it. that was all she was comfortable with. no interviews, no magazines, no podcasts. she loved it like that. 

so no, she didn't want to check her phone. but she knew she had to. that she couldn't be coward because this wasn't just her anymore. it was azzi, too. and if she was going to do damage control, she had to know everything.

when she unlocked her phone, she ignored the texts and calls from her PR team, angel, rickea, aneesah, kate, drew, lauren, ryan and her dad. she went to twitter first because that seemed to be where all evil spawned. 

the original video had been posted by a man named scott williams. paige and azzi were in the parking lot talking. paige's hands were in her pockets at first, and she was looking at azzi like she was the most interesting thing in the world. 

it could have been harmless.

but then paige said something and azzi began talking with her hands. then paige put her hand on azzi's lower back and they walked to the car. and then paige opened the fucking door for her like the gentlewoman she was.

the video had been retweeted fourteen thousand times. 

rambowoman: paige has that girl on a leash lmao ⤷wlworginator: azzi is write where she wants to be tho

k8nnedy: the way paige didn't even push her she just put her hand there. FAWWWKKK ⤷pimpmommyniyah: and azzi just walked her happy ass to the car they are sooooooo

allteaallshade: mind you paige is ten years older than her… ⤷nmibizness: they both grown tho ⤷allteaallshade: 23 vs 32 is an insane age gap tho? like… azzi JUST got to the league

reese10angel: the devil works quick, lesbian twitter works quicker ⤷iamthathooper: guh im tb they didn't hesitate for a SECOND

hcneymooners: they are The Secret Third Thing.

paige left the app after that.

she had no one to blame but herself. she'd always had a special talent for fucking herself over, but more than that, she had a special talent for bringing everyone else down with her. she couldn't— wouldn't— do that to azzi.

she texted natalie and left her house before she got a text back. 

coach: do you know fudd's address?

⇆

azzi woke up on the cold tile of her bedroom floor. she woke up like this alot because she hadn't set up her bed frame yet, and she was a wild sleeper. she always ended up rolling off of her mattress on the floor. 

she hadn't set any of her apartment up yet. she had a boneless couch that she'd bought on amazon and a single lamp that stood in the corner of her living room, unplugged. 

she kept telling herself she'd get to making her home more homey when she had the time, but she never really did. she was always working or sleeping or freaking the fuck out. 

she'd been doing that— freaking the fuck out— since she rolled back onto her mattress and checked her phone. she and paige were trending… again. literally hours after she promised paige it wouldn't happen again. 

and this time it was worse. this wasn't a valks sanctioned buddy post. this was fuel for rumors and stories to be spun. 

she didn't even know how she found herself in this shit. she was always clean cut. always media and family friendly. but now, she was the girl being pushed by paige bueckers in a parking lot. she was paige's sugar baby, her Younger Woman, her mid-life crisis.

the knock at her door terrified her more than it should have and she ran to the door with ehr bladder still full because she hadn't even taken her morning piss yet. when she looked throught peephole, she nearly peed on herself. she did stop breathing and she did rip the door open so fast that the hinges had to have loosened. 

"paige?" 

"goodmorning." she smiled (kind of.) "i got breakfast. have you eaten at the grove yet?"

azzi squinted ot make sure she wasn't actually going crazy. she wasn't. paige was actually there, in her doorway. in a black tee shirt and black sweats, diamond earrings still in from last night. with a beanie on her head., she had her glasses on. and sure enough, she was clutching a bag of food in her hand. 

"uh- no." azzi shook her head. "you're at my house."

she couldn't believe it. she didn't know what in the world was happening, but she couldn't believe that this was her life. 

"yes."

"why?"

"well i originally came to check on you, but now i need to ask you where you got my college sweats from."

azzi looked down at herself— braless in a white tube top and navy uconn sweats that jose had gotten for her as a dupe birthday present. little did he know, azzi would keep them until the day she fucking died.

"they're— they're not yours." she sputtered, hoping that paige hadn't caught the #5 on the right of the husky logo.

"they have my number on them."

deciding that pride was the only thing she had left, azzi shrugged and steeled her face. "i was a fan."

"so i've heard." paige nodded, lifting the bag. "you gonna let me in?"

"shit— yes. here." azzi stepped back, opening the door wider. paige stepped in and looked around. "i um… i haven't really set anything up, yet."

the blonde turned around, looking unmistakably irritated. "you've been here a month."

"i know." azzi fidgeted with her hands and looked down at her bare feet. "i just don't know where to start."

"we'll work on it."

she looked up, then. "we will?"

paige, with her brows still furrowed and her lips still tight, didn't give a direct answer. she just nodded to the kitchen island and waved her hand for azzi to follow. 

it was like this wasn't azzi's place anymore, because she followed dumbly.

"let's eat." paige said, untying the bag. "and talk. we'll eat and talk about what's happening."

there it was. 

azzi felt her face get hot with shame and empathy and utter regret. because paige said she had had been there to "check on her" but the reason for the checking had escaped her. they were a story at the moment, and paige was doing damage control.

"you've seen."

"yup." she popped the p at the end as she slid a styrofoam to-go box towards azzi. "how are you dealing with it?"

azzi sat down and wrapped her fingers around the sides of the box. it was warm in her hands.

she looked up at paige, who was looking at her own food. she wasn't eating, or getting ready to eat. she was just staring at the plate. azzi didn't know what the intentional lack of eye contact was supposed to mean, or what she was supposed to say, so she chose to be safe, telling the woman before her that she was fine. 

paige looked up, fingers in tight fists. she looked uncomfortable, which was unusual. paige always owned every room she walked in. she'd even made azzi feel like a guest in her own home. but now, she looked like she didn't fully know what she was doing.

"don't lie to me, azzi." she almost sounded offended. 

azzi opened her mouth, then closed it again. because what was she supposed to say? was she expected to complain about a situation that she'd put herself in? that he'd put the both of them in?

"i don't know." she shrugged. "i just woke up like five minutes ago."

paige sat with that for a second, deciding if it was a worthy response. then, she nodded like she decided she'd take the excuse. "fair enough."

azzi thought back to the car. where paige was honest when she didn't have to be. and she decided that she didn't want to lie to her, or half-ass a conversation between them. paige had let her know that it didn't have to be that way, so she wasn't going to let it.

azzi sighed and pressed both of her palms against the marble of the counter. "i just feel really bad. i promised you i'd keep you out of the headlines like… thirteen hours ago. and now i'm your mid-life crisis." 

paige's face turned a pretty pink then, her plush creeping all the way up her face, beyond the line of her beanie. she was so pretty and toned. the all black outfit was really doing things for azzi, but thoughts like that were what got her in this in the first place. 

"don't feel bad for me." paige shook her head. "it's just noise. we aren't in season right now and everyone's bored. it'll go away as soon as something else happens."

"how do you know?"

"i've played these games before." paige answered. she said it so plainly. but there was more there. paige was a mystery to her but azzi knew at least that much. "i'm used to it."

"you get used to it?"

their eyes met. azzi swallowed. paige blinked. "you shouldn't have to, but yeah. you do."

"everyone's gonna think that we're…" she looked back to her to go box because she was not saying that out loud. "i don't want this to mess up my season. or like… effect how everyone see's me."

"it won't." she sounded sure. like it was fact, solid, inevitable.

and something in azzi told her not to trust it. that paige was making too many promises for them to be honest. "but how do you know that?"

the tiniest smile danced across those pink lips and like it was the most obvious thing in the world, paige said, "because i'll take care of it."

the statement sat in the air. the two of them stared at each other, an understanding be engraved into the both of them. azzi didn't know how, but she knew that everything was going to be okay. maybe she was stupid, naive, even. but she trusted paige. trusted that she'd take care of it. 

she ignored the part of her begging to be let out. the stupid teenage daydream version of herself that wanted to scream take care of me, please!

she cleared her throat. "and what about you?"

paige let out a big huff of air and laughed in a way that didn't feel like she was mocking azzi. "i've had worse things assumed about me than being into you." 

azzi blinked. she straightened in her seat and willed paige's eyes to find hers again.

what the fuck am i supposed to do with that??? she'd been in a state of bewilderment since she'd woken up. and nowpaige bueckers was saying shit like that over breakfast in azzi's kitchen. 

she needed to pee, she needed to think, and she needed to call her friends so that they could make sense of all this for her because it was entirely beyond her at that point. 

and paige seemed to catch onto azzi's bafflement bent because she pointed her fork at azzi's plate and smiled big. "now eat your waffle, please."

azzi smiled back and nodded because that was nice and appropriate. she had a standard waffle, topped with whipped cream and whole strawberries and peanut butter chips. she wasn't hungry, but she'd eat because paige brought it and told her to. 

she opened the plastic ware that came with the meal and began cutting up her waffle into bite-able chunks. 

she looked up to see paige watching her, so with extra-emphasis, she stabbed her fork into a piece of waffle and a strawberry that was slathered in whipped cream. she raised her fork, fully prepared to make a show of eating her damn waffled, but of course, the universe hated her. 

her strawberry tumbled off the plastic fork, and onto the counter, then rolled. just when it rolled off the counter, paige caught it. because of course she did. 

then—because azzi needed one more thing to short circuit over—she raised the strawberry up, holding it with the tips of her fingers, and asked "need help?"

she was looking at azzi like she wanted to do something to her. dark blue eyes even darker than usual, jaw tight, lips soft and wet with syrup. 

god fucking damn.

as if she'd lost her ever-loving mind, azzi bent down, keeping her eyes on paige. she took the strawberry between her lips, making sure she made contact with paige's hand with a softness that was stupidly intentional. 

she sat back up, still looking at paige. she fully expected paige to say something along the lines of what the hell is wrong with you? instead, paige brought her hand up and licked the whipped cream off her palm, still boring into azzi.

what. the. fuck.

paige looked at her like she knew exactly what was happening in her mind. like she could see the want all over her face. and maybe she could. maybe she could see azzi fighting the molten heat that had been haunting her since azzi opened her door.

still, azzi didn't move. she sat there with her spine locked so tight it hurt. because if she moved—if she so much as breathed, honestly— it would all unravel. 

paige's phone vibrating on the counter made azzi lean back in her seat. mercifully, the moment was broken. paige answered, turning so her back to was facing azzi. 

now that she was alone-ish, azzi threw her head back shook her fists in the air, letting out a silent scream.

"hello?" paige spoke into the phone. "yeah. yeah, alright. i'm on my way."

"i gotta go. my manager want to see me so we can talk about… all of this." paige said, putting her plate back in the bag with a speed that made azzi think she'd royally fucked this up. "i'll see you at the arena?" azzi nodded. "and then after practice we can fix this apartment."

"wait what—" but paige was already walking out the door. 

"okay? i'll see you?"

she didn't acknowledge the fact that she was talking to a shut door. she just slouched in her chair, and rubbed at her eyes. then, she went to the fucking bathroom. 

Hot Lap Chapter 9: Monza

Storrs, CT

Paige has an eighth grade English essay she’s supposed to be working on. Some nonsense about analyzing the destructive nature of Catherine and Heathcliff’s obsessive love in Wuthering Heights. She’s of the opinion that Heathcliff and Catherine are both wholly terrible and absolutely deserve to make each other miserable, but she’s going to have to find a longer way to say that. 

Preferably in three to five pages, double spaced. 

All to say, Paige is supposed to be working on her English essay, but in reality she’s watching YouTube coverage of the latest karting race on the F4 circuit from Shanghai. The commentary is in Mandarin, obviously, but Paige doesn’t need commentary to understand the difficult chicanes and daring overtake moves. 

The feed has been following the track leader. He made some good moves initially, but has since been coasting pretty easy. 

Paige is just considering whether she ought to actually get started on her essay when an email alert pops up. She almost swipes it away but then her eyes catch on the subject line. 

She switches to her email, interested to see what the google alert on Azzi Fudd has picked up. 

Mercedes Announces 2016 Lauda Fellowship Award

—--Brackley, UK: Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team announced that the 2016 Lauda Fellowship has been awarded to third year Imperial College London student Azzi Fudd. Ms. Fudd received her undergraduate MEng degree with Honours in Aeronautical Engineering from Imperial College London and is currently pursuing a PhD in Advanced Aeronautical Engineering and Computational Methods at the same institution. The Lauda Fellowship is a highly-competitive two-year occupational integrated engineering program. Ms. Fudd is a native of Fairfax, VA (United States), and a graduate of Boston’s The Gallagher School. 

Azzi Fudd is going to Mercedes. 

That’s so cool. 

Paige follows her on Twitter. Not that the account has Azzi Fudd’s name attached, but Paige knows it's her. Her observations on races are sharp, and she’s funny. 

Mercedes, though. That’s super fucking cool. Must be her dream come true, to work for an F1 team. That’s the ultimate dream; working in Formula 1. It’s what Paige thinks about when she’s trying to go to sleep. It’s why she lives so far away from her dad. 

Everything to chase the dream. 

She reads the announcement again, saving it. She does a quick google search of The Gallagher School and learns it’s a fancy academic academy in Boston. The kind that looks like it costs more than Paige could ever dream of. 

Paige switches back to the YouTube channel and the karting race. 

Maybe someday she’ll be good enough to drive for Formula 1 and she’ll meet Azzi Fudd. 

—--

Monaco

The jet lands at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport just before nine. The Urus is waiting for her on the edge of the airstrip, delivered by whatever service her manager pays to make things happen. Maybe there are some parts of the good life that she’s started to lean into; the best part of being an F1 driver is never having to justify that she wants to fucking drive. 

So many of the other drivers also live in Monaco and most of them prefer to take a helicopter from the airport in France over the border to Monaco; Paige always enjoys time in the car. She puts some moody SZA on and settles into the leather seat. It’s a fine drive; not majestic or all that pretty at night, but she’s alone and in a sick fucking car, and that’s enough. 

Driving also gives her time to think, though that’s a complicated pastime these days. There are so many questions that have no answers, and all of them take up space in her head. Definitely not rent free, because she feels like she’s paying for it. The fight between Diana and Sue is still a mystery, and Azzi’s involvement makes it relevant. The purple dress also plagues Paige’s thoughts, imagining it draped on Azzi’s body. But fantasies turn into dread thoughts, because the issue of the connection between Azzi and Sabrina also circles. 

At least Paige can be proud of herself for holding to her resolve. Things were good with Azzi, in Zandvoort. No crashouts, no heated exchanges. Just collaboration and trust and a little bit of connection. 

Even while losing a fucking bet. God, Paige had no business making it in the first place.

Her apartment in Monaco is in Fontvieille, the waterfront district. It’s fancy and modern and Phee’s fiance owns the building, hence the steep discount. Paige appreciates the connect but she hates everything about Monaco; it’s small and insular and the wealth is grotesque. She only decided to move there in a fit of rage after the Abu Dhabi blow up, because clearly living in Azzi’s apartment in Brackley was no longer an option for her home base. She needed to make decisions to give herself a sense of control — no matter how rash or stupid the decisions were. 

By the time she parks and takes the resident elevator to her floor, Paige’s body has started to feel like lead. The effects of the race linger, of course, but it’s compounded by everything else. One weekend back and it’s already started to build, all the things that are eating her from the inside out. She tries to breathe it out as she stares at herself in the reflection of the elevator, but it only partly works.  

The flat came furnished, and Paige has brought almost nothing new into the mix. The walls are bare other than the tasteful pieces of art that the designer put up; an abstract oil painting in the living room, a watercolor of the harbor in the hallway. Paige stuck the photostrip of her and Nika from the Mercedes Christmas party a few years ago onto the fridge and called it a day. 

There’s a luggage stand at the foot of her bed. It’s always there, her carry-on always laid out and open whenever she’s in Monaco. Paige puts it there now, unzips it to lay flat and grabs her clothes to toss them in the laundry. 

She orders dinner and showers while she waits; not the quick scrub from the motor home, but a long and steaming session, sitting on the built-in stone bench and letting the water cascade over her head. She’ll have another massage tomorrow, be stretched out and have her muscles attended to. That was the biggest shock about jumping from F4 to F3; learning that her body’s a tool. 

There’s a Vietnamese place she likes to order from. The pho sits warm in her belly, the spicy broth everything that feels good after a long weekend; especially in Monaco where the air conditioning is turned up high. Higher, even, than Paige feels, locked in an ivory tower. 

Her hair hangs half wet about her, the ends dripping into sodden patches that stretch across her shoulders. She puts the TV on while she eats; she’s watching Severence, and also Traitors. Neither of them align in any way with her mood or her interests, but too many other shows remind her of Azzi, of their life in Brackley. They’d binged so many shows together, curled up on Azzi’s shitty couch. Most of the time, Azzi had also been working on something — numbers or models or assessments — while Paige yapped her own commentary as well.  

Sometimes when Paige wants it to hurt extra badly, she’ll re-watch the episode of Schitt’s Creek where David sings to Patrick. 

There are about three hundred text notifications on her phone; fully half of them are from the only group chat that Paige doesn’t have muted — the vacation group. She scans the messages lazily, reaction responds to Veronica’s picture of her foundation leaking all over her suitcase and laughing at the photo Kate sent earlier, of Nika availing herself to a drumstick from the Haas hospitality suite. 

Then she wades through the rest of the notifications, pasting the same response to most of the congratulations for being on the podium. 

Thanks! Car felt good, looking forward to Monza!

It’s eleven p.m. in Monaco, which means it’s four in Minnesota. Drivers like their routines, prefer to keep to the same pre and post race habits; Paige opens her contacts and calls her dad. 

“Hey, honey. Great race.”

It’s verbatim what he texted her earlier, but the warmth in his voice makes Paige smile. She longs for it to feel like ease but it doesn’t have the comfort of a soft landing place.  

“Hi, Dad. Thanks. You at home?”

“Just about to cook up some burgers.”

She can hear him close the grill lid, the ting of the spatula as he sets it down. He lives in a decent suburb outside Minneapolis, in a nice enough neighborhood. After Paige started covering expenses with prize money, he went to school and got an Associates Degree, and now he works as an insurance claims adjustor. It seems like soul-killing, mindless work to Paige, but he likes it. It’s certainly better than the multiple jobs he worked at a time to keep them afloat in those early years. 

They talk about the race, because that’s an easy subject for them. 

“Looked like the traction was shot pretty early. ‘Specially on your front right.”

“Gone,” Paige confirms. “Worse than the data predictions indicated. Keeping in the racing line was hard.”

When they’ve dissected the seventy-two laps to his satisfaction, Paige clears her throat. 

“How’s Angela doing?” Her dad has a girlfriend. In fairness he always has a girlfriend, but Angela’s been around for a solid two years now. She’s nice in the way that most folks in the Midwest are, but best of all she’s a good cook and she seems to adore Paige’s dad. And Paige likes that there’s someone who dotes on him, who takes care of him. It can’t be her —- it can’t be her —- so at least there’s someone. 

“Oh, she’s fine. Busy week for her at work so she and her girlfriends are having a girls night.”

Girls night aka white wine spritzers. White Girl Magic, Azzi used to say with a laugh. Paige feels the ghost of a smile. 

“You, um. You wanna come for Monza? I’ll send you a ticket. Angela too.”

“I’m sorry, honey, I can’t,” he says, as Paige expects he will. “I wish I could, really. But I have a big team seminar that Monday morning. Big boss’ll be there and everything.”

It was worth it to ask; she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he says yes, someday. 

“But hey,” he says, animated, “Just a few weeks to Austin. We’ll be there that Thursday night. Can’t wait to see you, Bug.”

“I’m excited to see you too,” Paige tells him. They haven’t seen each other since Miami, early in the season. And he came to the opener in Melbourne, too. She wonders, briefly, what it would be like to hug him and not let go.

“And Vegas? I know you can’t do Interlagos, but you said you’d check about Vegas. I have a suite reserved just in case.”

It’s a lie, she doesn’t have anything reserved but she’ll be able to get something with one text to her people.  

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she hurries to say, before he can make a regretful sound and give her an excuse. She doesn’t know if he has some official algorithm for how he decides what to attend, but going to Vegas three weeks after seeing her in Austin is surely pushing the boundaries of it. 

“I don’t want to hassle you, Bug—”

“--- You’re my dad, it’s not a hassle,” she cuts him off, a little sharper than she’d prefer to be. 

“Not a hassle, then,” he allows, a little slower. “But you’re busy, Paigey. I know that.”

“Drivers always have family at races,” she reminds him. “Half the grid has their parents at every race.”

Caitlin Clark’s parents are always there. Every single weekend. Their anxiety gives Paige anxiety. And Veronica likes having her mom around as much as she can be. Aliyah Boston’s sisters have been there a dozen times this season alone.

“Well, speaking of parents—” 

“Dad,” Paige groans, because she also knows where this is going. “Why are you and Mom still talking, even?” 

They’ve been divorced since she was two; she doesn’t have any memories of them together. 

“Come on, Bug, don’t be annoyed. Your Mom just misses you. She wants to see you more. She was wondering, since you’ll be in North America for a while—”

“I’m not going to Montana,” Paige says flatly, cutting him off. 

“Come on, cut her some slack, Paige. She cares about you.”

She exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. It’s absurd that even after all these years, this is still a topic of contention. 

“She has the same offer to visit in Vegas. And Austin. And Interlagos. And any race in Europe if she wants a nice vacation. Hell, I’d fly her to fucking Asia if she wanted to come.” 

Her mom hates races and race weekends. She doesn’t say it but she doesn’t want the little kids around that kind of environment; as though a racetrack isn’t where Paige grew up. She’s got a new family, a picture perfect image that Paige doesn’t fit into and doesn’t understand. 

“Think about calling her.”

“So she can lay a guilt trip about me not making it to Billings this year? Pass.”

“Paige—”

“I can barely get you to come to a race, you think I want to hash it out with her as well?” She snaps it at him and immediately regrets it as she hears the sharp intake on the other end of the line. “Sorry,” she says, before he can say anything. “I’m tired. Been a long day. I’m exhausted. I should probably get to bed. I have an early recovery session tomorrow.”

She doesn’t have to be anywhere until ten. DiJonai was adamant about wanting her to sleep in, to actually get some recovery. 

“Okay, honey. I’ll let you go,” her dad says, happy to take the easy out. “Congrats again, on the podium. You and Sonia looked great up there.”

Paige’s throat is dry and swollen. Swallowing feels like sandpaper. 

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, Bug.”

Paige hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch in frustration. She doesn’t know why things feel so complicated. 

For a moment the guilt sits heavy and she considers texting her mom, but then her mom would just call, because she knows that Paige and her dad talk after each race and she thinks she deserves that right as well. But Paige does not have the energy to deal with her mom right now. Not with the weird mood she’s in. So, instead, she takes the blanket from the back of the couch. 

It’s a heavy, aesthetically pleasing throw. Not soft or cuddly. Like everything else —- including the throw pillows — it came with the flat. But it works just fine to keep her warm as she watches TV. 

Paige has made it exactly thirty minutes into the episode of Severence — fucking mind trip  — when her phone lights up. She and Alessandra have been going back and forth about whether or not Alessa wants to build a deluxe chicken coop at the farm in upstate NY; Paige doesn’t understand anyone’s desire to have chickens, so she doesn’t look over immediately, assuming it to be another TikTok of fancy poultry houses.

But it’s not. It’s another voice memo from Azzi. 

She sees the delivery and the summary: I was thinking today… (3:42)

Paige turns her attention back to the TV. She wants to be able to watch this stupid show, to be able to wait to listen to the audio message, to be able to do anything without feeling the cavern in her chest. 

Because what Paige actually wants, what she really yearns for, is to watch Schitt’s Creek with Azzi tangled up with her. Not just their feet tangled under a blanket in the middle, but Azzi curled up alongside her, on top of her. 

She wants to feel the weight of Azzi on her chest, to idly twirl her little curls around a finger as they relax together. She wants the smell of Azzi’s shampoo in her nose, the sound of her breathing as a baseline to the audio from the show. Paige wants Azzi’s forehead in absent kissing distance, her nose in booping range.  

Paige wants the domesticity of a life with Azzi like a physical craving. 

It doesn’t feel like a three minute and forty-two second voice memo is going to give her that. 

And yet.

And yet. 

She mutes the TV. 

The first notes of Azzi’s voice inspire such a slew of emotions that she has to pause the recording. The swell is too much. That’s Azzi’s real voice. Not the one she uses in engineering meetings, or to talk track position during strategy sessions. Azzi’s honest voice, her vulnerable voice; husky and sweet and often sarcastic. The voice that Azzi used when they were alone together. And sure, Paige has heard it occasionally, over the past nine months; but most of those times — Silverstone and Budapest rush to mind — were also moments of deep emotion. 

It’s not even the voice that she used two hours earlier, sitting on the bench outside Zandvoort.

Azzi: 3:42: I was thinking today about the first time I ever went to Amsterdam. I was eighteen and my computational logic professor invited me to attend a conference. I spent the entire time inside attending sessions. They were interesting, the presenter on nonmonotonic reasoning was really good we actually ended up corresponding for a while, but it felt so fucked to go somewhere and not get to experience anything. I think that’s when I realized that I had to work to see the world, that going to other places wouldn’t just mean I got to explore. Foundationally, children should…

—

The recovery sessions that DiJonai subjects Paige to take all day. Paige gets her muscles loose in the gym, which makes everything hurt more, and then stretching and an ice bath, a message and more stretching. She sucks down a smoothie that’s a shade of green not found in nature, and the day gets capped by a pedicure. 

“Bro, what part of this is recovery?”

“It’s for me, recovering from dealing with you,” Nai tells her, eyes closed as the nail technician uses some kind of scrub on her calves and shins. 

They ask Paige what color she’d like, and because Paige speaks zero French and Nai is fluent, she ends up leaving the salon with bright pink toes. A stupid shade of bubblegum pink because it’s what DiJonai picked out and Paige couldn’t get her phone to load Google translate fast enough. Pointing and gesturing just felt rude. 

“I look like an idiot,” Paige grumbles, wiggling her toes inside her socks and slides. 

“It’ll be our little secret,” Nai dismisses, like she didn’t take a selfie at the salon and post it publicly on her Instagram account. 

“I know you’re being petty about the jet.” 

They can walk from the salon to Paige’s condo building. When they raced Monaco in May, Nika kept asking where shit was, like Paige had any fucking idea. She feels like a tourist not a resident, except this is a vacation that doesn’t end. Every time she breezes through she thinks about re-locating after the season concludes. She could easily base herself in Paris, or Rome, or literally any other major European city. 

Except London. 

Too many memories in London. 

“I just think it was rude of you to decline an offer to fly by private jet without consulting everyone in your party.”

Phee invited Paige and DiJonai to join her for the flight to Monza, which was nice of her. Paige sometimes thinks about when they both lived with Geno; young and lame and awkward. She’d followed Phee around like a little duckling. 

“The only other person in my party is you,” Paige deadpans. 

DiJonai arches her eyebrows. “And?”

“You can just say it was rude to say no without checking with you. You don’t have to make it all third person,” she laughs. 

“Fine,” DiJonai acquiesces. “It was rude of you to say no without checking with me.”

“Too bad, I’m the driver, I make the decisions,” Paige dismisses, smug. “Besides, I’m reducing my carbon footprint.”

“By driving to the factory and then Monza?”

Diana asked Paige and Soni to stop by the Lamborghini factory before they head on to Monza for the next race. Paige jumped at the opportunity to take the Urus for a longer drive than from the airport to her flat. 

“Chill, it’s a three hour drive.” 

It’s actually closer to five hours. 

“And I do great on AUX,” she continues. “Started putting together a playlist for us and everything.”

Nai rolls her eyes like that’s not impressive to her, but Paige sees the ghost of a smile there as well. They match well, she and DiJonai. Especially now that everything seems to be in the open between them. They know who they’re dealing with, who they are. It’s no longer superficial or surface-level. It’s more. And it’s more than just DiJonai investing in a client; Paige is determined to pour into DiJonai as well. 

“You better get us there safely,” Nai continues to lecture. “None of this F1 driver on a street course nonsense.”

“I mean, we’re gonna drive fast,” Paige warns her. “What’s the point of driving if you don’t go fast?”

DiJonai starts muttering about idiotic drivers and adrenaline junkies and something about youngins. Paige just smiles and falls into step alongside her. 

—--

Sant'Agata Bolognese, Italy

The Lamborghini headquarters — the factory — is a reflective landmark in Sant’Agata. The front of the building is just a giant wall of windows; iconic Lamborghinis visible on several floors of display and a few of the famous models parked outside the front doors. 

Paige walked inside for the first time on January 10th, completely in awe that this was now her driving home. They’d lined everyone up then, gathered the leadership near the entrance so everyone could shake her hand. She’d not even been able to look Azzi in the eye at that point and she’d never met Soni before. 

It feels different today, as she walks in the front door. She’s still new, still a rookie, but now she walks with success in her stride. She’s won for Team Lamborghini; not the ultimate prize of the Constructors’ Championship — not yet — but she’s delivered them wins, at least. 

“Paige. Good to see you.”

Diana’s waiting by the front doors, and it’s truly a mark of her belief in Paige that she’s there to do the greeting herself. They dap each other up, a show for all the folks subtly watching. 

“I heard you drove in.”

She hasn’t been to Sant’Agata in well over a month and that’s longer than she’d prefer to go between outings at the factory. Nika’s the one who told her how much the engineers love it when the drivers come by, and Paige deeply appreciates their work; it’s important that she show it. 

“Just parked out front,” Paige says with a smile. There’s a parking spot for her in the very front, in the private lot. It’s a stupid waste of space because she’s barely ever in Sant’Agata, but it’s the principal of the matter, she supposes. 

“You like the Urus?”

Paige smiles. She doesn’t have to pretend to be cool about this. “I fucking love it.”

She dropped DiJonai at the hotel on her way in. Three hours from Monaco to Monza turned into five hours to arrive in Sant’Agata, but DiJonai had been a trooper. Despite the earlier complaining, they had a good drive up from Monaco; easy conversation the entire ride. Nai talked about growing up in San Diego, about the adventures she’s gone on, the goals that she has for the future. Owning her own gym, maybe. Paige listened more than she talked, but it wasn’t elusion; now that DiJonai has let her in, she wants to invest. 

Chatting on a roadtrip while driving a Lamborghini Urus through the Italian countryside ranks as a pretty good way to get to know someone on a deeper level. 

“Come on,” Diana nods toward the staff doors. “Let’s dig in. Soni’s already here.”

But Diana seems to understand that half of why Paige is in Sant’Agata is to see and be seen, because they don’t walk directly to a meeting room. Instead, they take a long and circuitous route, walking the factory floor and popping into the engineering rooms. Paige shakes hands and gives hugs and says hello over and over. She thanks people for the work, tells them how much she loves the car, accepts their praise with a humble shrug. 

She feels it all, but performance is part of the persona. 

The meeting room is already full of familiar faces; Dorka, KK, Jana. The younger ones are even there too — Kelis and Blanca and Allie. Soni sits with an iced coffee, her casual look even more pronounced than it usually is at the paddock. Azzi’s wearing an old pair of dress pants and a soft green sweater Her eyes flick up when Paige enters the room, but she doesn’t stop talking in a low voice with Azurȧ. Paige slips into the seat next to Soni — the seat she assumes to be left for her. The two of them fist bump without even making eye contact.

“Alright everyone, let’s use this time wisely.” 

Diana stands at the head of the room, waiting for the chatter to stop. 

“It’s good to have the entire team together here at home. Paige, Soni, thanks for coming in before Monza.”

“Thrilled to see everyone,” Soni says with a sweet smile. She looks like a professional skateboarder and she sounds like a sorority girl. Paige finds the dichotomy strangely alluring. She makes a mental note to appeal to Soni again about considering becoming a lesbian. 

“Glad to be here,” Paige adds, shooting a few smiles at the engineers she remembers. 

“Okay,” Diana turns to business, “this is our last European race. We’ll hear from Dorka in a minute about what our strat ops projections indicate for Monza, but first I want to talk a little bit about the rest of the season.”

Diana launches into a review of the upcoming races, which are clustered nicely into groups; The Americas — Austin, São Paulo, Vegas — and Asia, with Singapore and Suzuka. And then the desert; Jeddah, Sakhir, Abu Dhabi. 

Paige feels a clench of anticipation zing through her at just the thought of the desert. The end of season races in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the UAE — that’s where championships are won. It can happen at any time in the latter half of the season, of course, but it’s most common to win in the desert. 

She’s not trying to count laps before they’re driven, but Lamborghini is in the lead for the Constructors’ Championship. They’re leading McLaren by sixty-one points; that means it’s theirs to lose. It means Paige has to be on her absolute fucking A game. 

Because one bad race for the team and the generous lead they’ve built is gone.

“We’re entering the difficult time,” Diana says, her tone low. “Everyone’s tired. There’s a lot of travel, we’ll be far from home. I know that’s hard. I do. But we need to lock in. Success is going to take everyone. Everyone.”

As far as pep talks go, it’s mid, but Diana does more with her presence than her words could ever do. And Paige isn’t alone in wanting to win; people joke about the drivers and their ego, but nobody talks enough about what the Dianas and the Sues of the world want. What the engineers at the factory, and the technicians on the floor, and the girls in marketing want with every ounce of their being. Everyone wants to win. 

And they’re all depending on Paige and Soni to do it. 

—--

Azzi: 5:26: … and I’ll fucking tell you it’s dangerous. If I have to read one more think piece from genuine computational economists about how AI is going to revolutionize the world I’m going to scream because the confidence rate is fucking deplorable. Math isn’t vibes, it’s not a fucking app that people can use and discard, and we as global citizens are just supposed to run entire systems based on what I truly believe is faulty logic? And the rate that they’re seeing medical students unable to process basic diagnoses without …

—--

There’s certainly enough at the factory to keep Paige and Soni busy for the day. The performance engineering team is clearly salivating over the opportunity to get them back in the simulator for real time instruction and feedback, and who are they to deny the team their presence? 

But beyond being in the simulator, Paige likes talking to the engineers. They’re already so far into the designs and production for next year’s car, and she eagerly tracks down the schematics team to talk through some of the details. They won’t tell her everything — hardly anything, actually — but they let her see some of the differences in the car components, and even if they don’t actually care about her opinion they ask for it. 

She could stay at the factory all day, tooling around with the engineering teams, but there are plans for dinner with the girls; Paige wanders around until she finds the heart of the strategy team huddled up Dorka’s office. Nika’s on the ground furiously taking notes in a little notebook while Azzi stands at the whiteboard; half a dozen other people — including Georgia and Caroline — are scattered around the room. 

“...coming off the long straight into Variante della Roggia? If we don’t have a slip stream?”

Georgia looks down at the tablet in her hand, squinting. “Differential says point two.”

Dorka sighs, pulling her glasses off her face and rubbing at her eyes. “Okay. So we’re not solving this today.”

One of the junior engineers in the room furrows her brow.  “The calculations—”

“Azzi,” Dorka interrupts, “given the numbers?”

Paige watches Azzi frown and shake her head. 

“No. Not if we’re losing half on the straight. But we should re-run the numbers.” 

It’s obvious that they’re all tired and frustrated. Dorka shakes her head, finally spying Paige hovering in the doorway. 

“Here, Paige, come on in. Have you come to save us bearing pastries? This would be an appropriate place for them.”

Paige laughs, her hands up. “Sorry, empty handed today.”

“Well, you have perfect timing,” Dorka smiles. “We’re done for the day. We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Strat-ops debrief at ten.”

The room starts to scatter, the junior engineers filing out quickly and Caroline and Azzi gathering around the desk to engage in last minute conversation. Nika and Georgia also hang about, though Nika nods Paige over to show her the acceleration arcs the team has just been discussing.

Paige doesn’t read in too deeply. She’s more absorbed in listening to what Dorka, Azzi, and Caroline are talking about. Straight line speed, and the wind projections for Sunday. 

Azzi looks different, since she’s at the factory. It’s been so long of seeing Azzi at the circuits, in the garages, and seeing her today Paige realizes she’d forgotten how good Azzi can look in business casual. It’s nothing, of course, compared to Azzi in actual casual; she’s devastating in an old pair of joggers and a threadbare longsleeve covered in holes.  

She’s lovely in the green sweater. It looks soft, strokable. Paige can just imagine how it would feel under her fingers. HQ always runs cold; it was that way at Mercedes and it’s clearly the same at Lamborghini, and the soft green cashmere offsets the beautiful black of Azzi’s ringlets, the deep hue of her skin. 

“Okay, I’m going to head out,” Nika says to Dorka, seemingly done with letting Paige observe Azzi from up close.  

“Have fun,” Dorka waves Nika off, already burying her nose into the data reports with Caroline and Azzi. 

Right as Paige and Nika start to leave, she sees Azzi flick her eyes up. They don’t say anything, but it’s a warm moment. Azzi doesn’t grin, or even smile, really, but there’s something sweet in her gaze. Something knowing. 

Paige gives her a little head nod before she follows Nika out of the office. 

—--

Sant’Agata is an old town, despite the modern furnishings that adorn it in the countryside. There’s not even a proper hotel, just a smattering of bed and breakfast spots. Nika and Georgia both live in flats in Modena, which is the larger town. It’s a twenty minute drive, but Georgia claims there are more food options and Nika says she doesn’t want to be under anyone’s thumb. 

Georgia and Soni are meeting them at dinner, but Nika wants to change first, so Paige drives her to the flat. 

“Diana was in and out of the engineering floor all day yesterday and today,” Nika says, like Paige asked. 

She didn’t, but she does want to know. 

“And?” 

Nika shrugs, her gaze on the Italian countryside. She grew up in Zagreb and living in these little towns — Brackley and now Modena and Sant’Agata — feels like a weird step back. That’s what she said when they lived together in Brackley, anyway, and Paige knows Nika doesn’t enjoy small town life, Italian countryside or not. Mercedes or Lamborghini or any other car maker. Nika’s meant for city life, for the fast pace. 

Paige spent so long putting her body where the fastest lap would take her that she never really noticed or cared that she didn’t fit her surroundings. 

“Nothing weird,” Nika confirms. “Nothing weird at all.”

“I bet Azzi doesn’t even know about the fight,” Paige murmurs. 

“Azzi doesn’t notice anything that isn’t the data.” 

“Where does she live?” 

When Paige made her first trip to the Lamborghini factory, in January, she’d been too emotionally fucked up to ask any questions about Azzi. To wonder where she lived or ask where she ate, and figure out if she was drinking enough water. She wasn’t, she never does, but Paige can think about it. 

With the nature of their roles, Azzi’s spent so much more time in Sant’Agata than Paige has; she’s been letting herself wonder more and more about what Azzi’s life is like in Italy. She plays out romantic little fantasies in her head about how Azzi might spend her time and the routines she’s established.  

“I don’t know,” Nika says, honestly. “I think she rides a bike to work, though. I’ve seen her pedal up a few times.”

Paige sighs, because that tracks. 

She taught Azzi how to drive, showed her how to work a pedal and a gearstick. And teaching this infernal woman to drive - Azzi, who knows more about how a car works than any other human that Paige has ever encountered - is the hardest thing Paige has ever done in her life. She won’t lie, when they went to the DVLA and Azzi had to take the driving test Paige was not confident that a license was going to be the end result that day. She’d been so surprised when Azzi returned with the evaluation instructor and said “I passed” that Azzi had glared and made Paige pay for dinner without even pretending to offer to pick up the tab.

“She hates driving,” Paige reminds Nika. The second part stays unspoken but present: and she’s bad at it.

“Yeah. She always takes team transport, if she can,” Nika confirms. 

So some things have stayed the same. 

“It’s pretty here,” she says, glancing out the window. Everything looks better when she’s behind the wheel of the Urus, but Italy is picturesque pretty much everywhere. Paige wishes she could appreciate it more. She wonders if Azzi appreciates it at all. 

“It’s Italy,” Nika contradicts, her voice unimpressed. “It looks the same everywhere. Croatia’s got more variety.”

Some things have definitely stayed the same. 

—-

Monza, Italy

Monza. The Temple of Speed. 

Paige raced most European circuits in Formula 3 and 2, so it's not like she's brand new. And yet, there's something exhilarating, something different, about racing as a Formula 1 driver.  But it's not the adulation, even though yes, of course, it's a giant ego boost to be the subject of such fervor. No, it's the feeling of power. Of knowing that she gave so much to get here, to be one of the twenty. To give everything still, to stay at the top. 

"I think I fucking hate all this red and yellow," Soni says, looking over the side of the wall, at the Ferrari flags that litter the pathway to the estate.  

They got forced into some kind of Ferrari x Formula 1 partnership event. A black tie gala at a freaking castle, like this is some kind of Bond movie. 

“I hate racing in Italy for someone else’s home race,” Paige admits. 

“They say there’s two religions in Italy,” Soni muses. “There’s the catholic church, and there’s Ferrari.”

“Time for another great schism, then. Long live Lamborghini,” she drawls.   

They arrived separately, each of them driving a vintage Ferrari convertible. Soni looks like an old Hollywood movie star in a black halter dress, her hair blown into glamour curls. Thanks to Lili, Paige herself looks like a fucking boss, the black Louis Vuitton suit fitted like a glove and the black cape with gold trim hanging from her shoulders like she's ruling a kingdom. Lamborghini may be a guest but their factory’s only forty kilometers down the road. They’re equal owners of this part of Italy and they travel like royalty. 

“Diana looked like she was swallowing glass,” Soni says with a snicker. “Her smile was so fake.”

"So was yours. So was mine,” Paige laughs. 

The two of them are taking refuge on one of the turret terraces, outfitted for the evening as a bar. They did the stuff they're obliged to do: a rope line, group shots, interacting with all the right people. Luckily, they don't have to play host for the evening: Kah and Julie are the unfortunate winners of that lottery, though Kah has stunned everyone by being genuinely agreeable and bubbly. 

Paige thinks she’s high as a kite.

"Oh there you two are." Veronica emerges onto the terrace, a glass of red wine in her hand. "How are you two always able to disappear so well?"

"We're aggressive about the worst part," Paige says. "And then once you make the rounds nobody cares. Did you at least bring the bottle?" 

Kate wiggles her eyebrows as she steps to join them, holding up the bottle of Casamigos Reposado and a handful of shot glasses; Cam appears at her side with four more. 

"Angels," Soni groans in relief. 

“We’re going to fucking pay for this tomorrow,” Paige mutters.

“Fun while it lasted,” Kate says as she disperses the shot glasses. Cam takes the bottle from her but pauses to open her purse. It’s about the size of a pocket square; Paige can’t imagine anything useful could actually fit in it. 

“Limes,” she says brightly. 

Paige stands corrected. 

“What are we drinking to,” Veronica asks. She’s put her wine on the ledge to help pour the tequila for everyone. There are little jewels threaded through her hair, the curls pulled into an elegant updo. It means every time she moves, she sparkles a little. Paige watches the way Kate’s eyes follow the glow. 

“To driving fast,” Cam suggests, and they all laugh.

“To driving fast,” Paige echos. 

The tequila burns. 

But what’s a little pleasure without a little pain? 

—--

Paige is early to the garage on Thursday morning. She's read the memo that outlined all the upgrades Lamborghini is bringing; Computational Fluid Dynamics — which everyone just calls CFD — has determined some aerodynamic adjustments. The front wing has changed, and the angles for the sides. She’s driven the changes in the simulator but it’s always different in the car after upgrades, and Paige wants to see for herself --- feel for herself --- how that'll translate. 

She won't be able to drive the car until Free Practice 1 in the morning, but new upgrades mean more to digest with the strategy plans. It means additional data to be conscious of, a deep sense of knowing that her car will drive differently. 

"You're in early," Georgia comments, walking by Paige. She’s wearing baggy cargo pants and her hair in a low bun, some stupid shell necklace hangs about her neck in a choker style. Idiotic kangaroo. 

"Fuck off, I'm not," Paige says, her eyes on the car. 

"Just admit her makeover makes you wet," Georgia teases, and Paige gives her a dirty look. 

The indignity. 

"Forcast still looking good?" 

"Should be clear," Georgia confirms. She barks some directions at a trio of junior engineers and walks over with Paige to look at the car. 

The car is assembled, thank god. Paige bends over the side, dips her head down and runs her fingers over one of the dials near the steering wheel. They've opened the flap a few millimeters, after Paige and Soni spent five straight races begging for more lift. Paige has no illusions that Azzi had anything to do with it, because it’s all the aero team and their CFD renderings, but it feels like a request has been granted, nonetheless.

"So," Georgia says. "Do you know Azzi's friend?"

Paige stands up. "Her friend?" 

"Kinda tall. Tattoos. Kinda French. You know, that one. Over there."

She waves her hand and Paige follows the direction across the garage; sure enough, in a little trio in the far corner, Azzi stands in conversation with Caroline and another woman. Azzi's the only one facing Paige but Paige doesn't need to see the face of the woman whose muscular frame is beautifully on display in the simple white shirt and cargo pants. Her hair is short, in rows that lead to a low bun, the kind of hair that’s easy to keep tidy and clean.  

Azzi sees Paige's stare, and her eyes leave the conversation to meet Paige's gaze. But that pulls the attention of the other woman, and she turns around. 

"Oh hey, Paige."

Low voice. Melodic. A hint of attitude because that’s just how she rolls. 

So. Gabby Williams is in Monza. 

Okay. 

There isn't time to interact, really. Paige barely has time to wave a half-distracted hello before Nika appears, dragging her through the garage to look at the newest telemetry reports from the recent simulation sessions. 

“CFD says that this will give a tenth on the curves, which you could really do with if you’re in dirty air,” Nika’s saying, running through computational charts and chicane speed calculations.

To be honest, Paige isn’t really paying attention, because for one, she did read her briefings and for two. Well. 

"Did you meet Gabby?"

Distracted, Nika shrugs. “Azzi's friend? Yeah. She made some intros earlier. You know her well?”

Paige knows Gabby. Paige also knows everything about Azzi. Knew everything about Azzi. 

"She's Azzi's roommate from boarding school," Paige supplies, like that means anything to Nika. It’s strange to think of the ways in which her life was separate, back in Brackley. Paige and Azzi was separate from Paige and Nika, even if both halves of her make up the whole. "Her oldest friend."

Nika pauses. "I guess it was weird that she had a friend."

Paige shoves her. "Don't be a dick."

Nika grunts. "Azzi put me on write up duty," she complains. "Just because she doesn't like the factory assessment."

"Then do it and be grateful for the opportunity,” Paige admonishes. "If she's asking you to do that it's obviously because she trusts your assessment.”

"You just think that because Azzi's a super genius we're all blessed to be in her presence," Nika mocks, going for the jugular since she’s in a mood. 

"She is a genius and we are blessed to be in her presence," Paige shrugs. 

"She said she wants to run you on light fuel in FP1 and 2," Nika shares, a little too smug and delighted for her words to be anything but true. 

"For fuck’s sake," Paige complains, groaning. "Why is she like this? Don’t write that assessment,” she directs. “She can live without."

“Unlike you,” Nika grumbles, “the rest of us don’t have options about deciding when we do and don’t want to listen to Azzi.” 

Well, that may be factual but Paige doesn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, she pulls the telemetry reports from Nika’s hands and skips ahead five pages until she finds the graph that she wants. 

“This is going to be a problem,” she says, pointing her finger at the arc in the middle of the page. It’s been printed in color, which shows the velocity in red. It’s not a pretty curve the way it should be – more of a squiggle, really. 

Nika rolls her eyes. “Why didn’t you say you already read it, could have saved so much time.”

“Bro, I did say it,” Paige reminds her. “You didn’t believe me.”

“Because you hate telemetry readouts, idiot. So you know her,” Nika loops back, non-linear as always. 

“Yeah.”

“Really well?”

Paige shrugs. “Well enough.” At Nika’s probing look she shrugs. “She’s Azzi’s ride or die.”

Nika opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but cuts off abruptly. Paige arches an eyebrow, daring Nika to say it, but her Croatian twin has always had a great sense of self preservation. 

Yeah. Good decision.

“Anything else you wanna share with the class? Not everyday Azzi brings a mysteriously beautiful woman into the paddock and you’re cool as a cucumber about it.”

“Gabby’s…cool,’ Paige says, choosing her words carefully. She’s never had to talk about Gabby before, never had to wade into describing the dynamic. So many times over the last ten months, she’s thought about Gabby and wondered what her perspective would be, what she’s said to Azzi, what she knows about Azzi’s intentions. What she knows about what happened between Paige and Azzi. And what she thinks of Paige as a result. 

“Resounding stamp of approval.”

But Paige doesn’t have anything else to add. Not until she and Gabby get a moment together, and Paige is honestly in no hurry for that. 

“Paige! You’re due at media.”

It’s CD, with her eyes on Paige, and she sighs in defeat. CD’s love language — and dedication to work — includes imposing herself as Paige’s handler, which always means less fun. Honestly, the woman seems to level up by sucking the joy out of Paige’s life. 

“Gotta go,” Paige breathes, half a second before she about faces and beelines it out of the garage, flat out pretending that she doesn’t see or hear CD.

“Best of luck,” Nika calls. “Go left. I’ll tell CD you went right.”

—--

Unfortunately, Paige is so distracted at Gabby’s presence and what it could mean, what it can yield, that she entirely forgets about her two other preoccupations; the fight between Diana and Sue, and having to be face to face with Sabrina. 

Which is, of course, why she arrives at the media waiting room and finds Sabrina already there. 

Sabrina’s sitting on one of the armchairs — it’s the padded kind, because Sophie’s always yapping about how uncomfortable the plastic chairs are and some F1 minion had to switch them out— scrolling on her phone, and she glances up briefly when Paige walks in. 

Fuck. Paige immediately wonders who their third is supposed to be. 

“Becca’s in our segment,” Sabrina says, lazily evaluating Paige’s entire countenance. 

Paige really wants to roll her eyes but one thing she’s always been cognizant of  — especially this year — is not wanting to look like a child when Sabrina’s around. It didn’t seem as important before, when she was still in F3 and even F2, but something about making the switch to F1 and having to contend with Sabrina in an entirely different context than she’d assumed they would have to interact has made Paige more conscious of how she presents. 

God, she wants to know. There’s so much she wants to ask, she feels like she’s at such a disadvantage. And the only thing that Paige hates nearly as much as losing is being at a disadvantage. Especially when it comes to information. 

Because Paige can put her elbows out and make space for herself on track; she’s an equal in ability to any of the other drivers, to anyone in a car. But off track. That’s a different story. 

Sabrina smiles, that stupid knowing smile.  

Paige leans against the wall and crosses her arms. Stares back. 

“Didn’t see you much at Zandvoort,” Sabrina says. “You have a good break?”

She’s enjoying this. She’s absolutely having the time of her life and Paige is doing her absolute damndest to keep herself in check. 

Do not. Crash out. 

Do NOT. Crash out. 

The words loop in Paige’s brain, trying to blanket every instinct she has. Because every instinct she has is screaming for violence. Physical. Verbal. Spiritual. She’ll take any and all, an act of God or a punch. 

Was it meant to be a secret, that Azzi saw Sabrina over break? None of the other girls noticed Azzi in the back of Sabrina’s picture, and Paige had to make a separate instagram account just to stalk every single member of Sabrina’s family and her friends. And Sabrina can’t know for sure that Paige saw the photo, that Paige knows Azzi was in California, in Walnut Creek. 

So really, Sabrina’s just enjoying Paige’s always-present misery of being out of the loop. 

“I did,” Paige says. She forces the casual tone into her voice, loosens her stance so everything about her screams chill. “You?”

“Yeah. Great break.”

Sabrina tips her head to the side, her smile widening just a little bit. The jut of her jaw is daring Paige. She’s trailing the gunpowder to dynamite and handing over a match. 

Where the fuck is Becca. 

“Nice run, in Zandvoort,” Sabrina says. It wasn’t a great race for her, but nothing embarrassing. Mercedes didn’t have pace, and Paige and Soni somehow managed to stick in there with Caitlin. Everyone gets lucky once in a while. “You’re settling in well,” she adds. 

Patronizing bitch. 

There are so many things Paige could say to that, depending on which way she wants to take it. But she doesn’t want to escalate this and she doesn’t want to walk away with her head down. She wants answers on Azzi but she sure as fuck isn’t going to Sabrina for them. 

“Lamborghini’s a good home,” is what she says instead, and she’s saved from having to engage further when Becca arrives, flustered because she had a run in with some kind of wildlife exiting the Williams garage. 

But even as Becca explains the story — something involving a bird — Sabrina and Paige continue to be aware of each other, not quite looking away but never escalating into another stare down. 

By the time the first batch of drivers exits the media room, they've cooled into something that can be viewed publicly. Paige keeps her head high, her wits around her, and holds the microphone tightly in her hand. She feels exposed in a way she didn’t earlier.

It’s a good reminder to always keep her fucking guard up. 

—-------

Azzi: 2:18: …and you know everyone goes on about the environmental footprint but the emissions of the cars are negligible compared to the operational side. Long-term ecological sustainability is imperative but don’t do a disservice to the sport by pretending that the hybridization of the cars is having any impact on reducing the impact Formula 1 has on the world. If you want to address the actual issues then focus on the infrastructure that the entire…

—-------

The hospitality suite is fairly empty when Paige sneaks in before the afternoon strategy ops meeting to see if there are any raspberry tartlets. A wonder --- there are three left --- and she scoops them all up. 

It's a short lived victory, because right as she's about to turn and leave, she makes eye contact with Gabby. 

She's seated at one of the four seater tables, her laptop near her at an angle. But she's also looking up, and their eyes meet, rendering egress not an option. 

"Gabby, hey."

"Paige."

Her tone is oddly formal. Strange. It's not cold — not with the way she's inviting Paige closer — but it's not warm. 

Paige leans down and daps her up, grateful that things with Gabby always had a vibe that was bro-adjacent enough that this is an acceptable way to physically greet her. 

"Wow, I can't believe I'm finally meeting the great Paige Bueckers."

Gabby's definitely mocking her, and there's certainly a thread in her voice that's sharp, but the rest of it just sounds like good natured ribbing. 

"Please stop."

"I can't," Gabby holds her hands up. "There are about five commercials that they play on one of the few tv stations we can access. Your Coca-Cola ad is one of them. I kid you not.”

"Where you from?"

She hates having to ask, to acknowledge that she doesn’t know. But Paige hasn’t spoken Gabby’s name out loud in over ten months, hasn’t talked to Azzi about where she’s been dispatched and what she’s been doing. 

"Burkina-Faso," Gabby says, her husky voice tinged with a childhood of living across the world. "Outside the city though. For the most part. Been there since early in the year."

She’s been with Doctors Without Borders since she finished her residency at Cedars-Sinai, back in Paige's first year in F3. Her specialty is pediatric care for children dealing with malnutrition and maternal-fetal obstetrics. But Paige knows that Gabby’s cleaned enough bullet holes and treated enough wounds caused by violence to give her a specialty in trauma that would admit her to the staff of any hospital in the world. 

"You good?"

"Yeah," Gabby shrugs, "I'm good." She adjusts her glasses, pressing the thin metal up the bridge of her nose. "What about you? You good?"

Her voice is suede. Soft if you stroke it right, rough if you go against the grain. She’s effortlessly cool, her aura bolstered by a deep I don’t give a fuck attitude that’s true down to the marrow of her bones. Paige remembers getting absolutely trashed with her in Brackley, walking home from a club in Paris in the freezing cold, spending one night in Prague consuming their weight in dumplings.

"Mmm. I'm good."

Before Burkina-Faso, Gabby spent two years in the Central African Republic, and before that she did a six month stint in Mali. Her assignments have always been in Africa; a lot of places there suffered under colonization and Gabby speaks French fluently.  

"You always were a shit liar, Paige."

She grins. "Most would argue differently." 

Gabby always saw more than she let on; Paige used to think it whenever she visited. She'd study Paige subtly, her eyes always assessing. There's no question that Gabby clocked Paige's feelings for Azzi long before Azzi herself did.

Paige always wondered if she told Azzi about it. She wonders now what Azzi told Gabby about Abu Dhabi. 

"When's your next posting?"

Gabby shrugs. "Heading back to the Ouagadougou area for a bit while I wait for a new posting, actually. Just came through to see Azzi."

"You stayin' for the race?"

"Yeah. Wouldn't miss the opportunity to see her in her element."

There's fire in Gabby's eyes. Paige doesn't know where it's directed and very honestly, she doesn't want to stick around to find out. 

"I gotta run. I'm due for a touchpoint with Diana."

Gabby looks like she knows a lot more than Paige does and Paige hates that. She despises not being in on the know, on the joke, on the take. Especially with Gabby, who probably has the best assessment of what happened. If there were anyone in the world who would have better access to Azzi's truth than Paige, it's Gabby. 

They were roommates at that boarding school; three years together that bonded them for life. Azzi was always skimpy on the details about school, but she said the best part of Gallagher was meeting Gabby. 

It was always such a lovely thing, to see the two of them together. Azzi would relax around Paige but only if they were alone; but when Gabby was around — that’s when Paige got to see Azzi happy and at ease and she got to do it from the rare vantage point of being the third wheel. It felt special. 

"I'll see you, then," Gabby says. She holds Paige’s gaze, unflinching; it’s disconcerting. 

Paige salutes — like a fucking idiot — and leaves the hospitality suite. As she walks toward the engineering debrief, she reflects on all the other times Gabby visited Azzi in Brackley. And the one time that Gabby happened to be around for the French Grand Prix and hung out in the garage and at the track with Paige for most of the weekend. The two of them drank Heinekins and tossed peanuts in a cup for hours. 

It’s strange to see Gabby again from such a faraway vantage point; to feel the resulting closeness from memories shared just deleted without intention. Paige doesn’t know how to be around her. 

Paige doesn’t know how to be. 

—--

It’s been some time since Lamborghini had a long media segment, so Paige and Soni get sent to do a twenty minute sit down with the comms team. 

“I just think, objectively—”

“I don’t know how your point of view could be objective—”

“That with my coloring and bone structure—”

“I have excellent bone structure—”

“That the polo looks better on me.”

“Unthinkable.”

Everyone thinks Soni’s such an angel but nobody has to see this side of her. Rude, assertive. Delusional. 

The producer attaching the microphones to them doesn’t look endeared by their shit. Seated across the half circle, Nastya surveys them with amusement. She’s already mic’d up, was just waiting for them to arrive. 

The costuming department is really leaning into the Italian sundress vibe. 

“Okay guys,” she says, when Paige and Soni are all settled, and they’ve already elbowed each other so many times that the producer made them separate the chairs by another half foot. “Two questions each, easy peasy. The weekend, the fans, the atmosphere.”

“Like any of this is going to air,” Paige says, with what she hopes is a charming sneer. 

“Don’t pout,” Nastya says, pointing one finger at Paige. “You had your home race; it’s Kah and Julie’s turn.” 

“She struggles to give up the spotlight,” Soni adds, helpfully. 

“Don’t we know it,” Nastya smiles. 

“She’s just as bad as me,” Paige asserts, glaring at both of them, unenthused. She’s saved only by the producer calling a start to the segment. 

“Well, it might be Ferrari’s home race this weekend in Monza, but there is another Italian team. I’m here with our favorite all-rookie team, our bulls in gold, Soni Citron and Paige Bueckers of Lamborghini. Welcome, ladies.”

There’s literally nothing that Paige hates more than being greeted with ladies, and judging by the look on Nastya’s face — glee, masquerading as warmth — she knows it. 

“Sup,” she grins, pasting the smile on. None of it’s real. Not at all. 

“Paige, tell me what it’s like to be racing here, in the heart of the Tifosi.”

Beside her, Soni straight up snorts, and then bursts into laughter. She can’t get it together, and then Nastya can’t keep it together and then Paige is the only one who’s got any decorum at all and the producer has to call cut so they can re-record the segment. 

—--

Dijonai summons Paige at the crack of dawn, because she’s a witch and that’s when she’s most powerful. 

They go for a run in the early morning, slightly cooler air, long before the track has opened to fans or even most employees. Paige has been running more, since DiJonai came into her life. She hates it less than usual, though she attributes that to just enjoying being in step next to Nai. It’s steadying to go out when it’s barely light and to watch the sunrise together. 

And getting up earlier means she’s actually sleeping earlier, sleeping better. Being less of a night owl and keeping to a schedule is actually doing wonders for cutting down her spiral time. If her body is too tired to stay awake then her brain has no choice but to succumb as well. 

Most trainers would have Paige on a treadmill during race weekend, but DiJonai seems to know what Paige needs, and being confined to the gym to sweat it out definitely isn’t it. 

“Loser buys breakfast,” Paige shouts, trying to edge out DiJonai as they round the corner to the back entrance and enter the home stretch. 

DiJonai smokes Paige, which isn’t surprising. Paige is still laughing as they come to a stop outside the motorhome area. 

“You’re an idiot,” DiJonai pants, doubled over. “I could run circles round you six ways to Sunday.”

Paige squirts at DiJonai with the waterbottle in her hand, and DiJonai slaps at Paige in retaliation; sadly for Nai, Paige is a sweaty mess, and her hand just slides off. 

“Fucking child,” DiJonai hisses, wrestling the water bottle from Paige’s hand and squirting her square in the face. 

Naturally, they’re so engrossed in getting one up on each other that they completely miss the two figures approaching from the Lamborghini Team Motorhome until they absolutely have an audience. And all of Paige’s luck has been given to her performance on the track, so obviously the two people are Azzi and Gabby. 

“Morning.”

It’s DiJonai who notices them first, and Paige turns, unexpectedly hit with the view of Azzi lit in the easy morning light. Ethereal. 

“Hey.”

She feels unexpectedly exposed, the black sports bra and light blue shorts leaving her open to Gabby’s direct gaze, to Azzi’s assessing eye. They can see the way her heart thumps, the way her lungs expand. 

“Y’all are up early,” Paige observes, stupidly. 

“Just getting some time in,” Gabby says. 

DiJonai blinks at Paige, then clearly loses patience. “Hi. I’m DiJonai, Paige’s performance coach.”

She and Gabby exchange greetings and a handshake, and Paige has to force herself to move her gaze to and from Azzi at a normal rate. 

God, she’s beautiful. Among her regrets — and there are many — Paige mourns that she never got to see Azzi wake up after their night together. Azzi bathed in morning light is as radiant as Azzi in starlight, as Azzi in dripping in victory, as resplendent as Azzi unshowered and wrinkled and buried in calculations. All the drip in the world and Paige never felt like she was anywhere near Azzi’s level. 

At a loss for what to do with her limbs and her face, Paige begins to stretch. They’ve been talking to each other through the voice memos, though neither of them acknowledge anything that they’ve sent in recordings over the previous days and weeks. 

It’s a strange way to communicate; everything’s a statement. No questions are asked. And in some ways, that makes it easier. Less pressure. In unspoken rules, they don’t talk about anything too deep, or about how things are between them. Paige doesn’t edit herself, doesn’t listen or re-record. She says whatever she says and she sends it. 

But it means she doesn’t ever record a message when she’s in a mood. 

“You ever been to this part of Italy before?” DiJonai and Gabby are making small talk, the easy kind of conversation that people can make upon acquaintance. And Paige is grateful, she really, really is. 

“Can we talk about aero load,” she asks Azzi. “I woke up this morning thinking about the simulations from the factory. Can you ask them to separate the arcs for the new wing package on the downforce-to-drag efficiency?”

The worst part is it isn’t even a lie. Not even a fib. Maybe Azzi wasn’t interested in being with someone who only cares about racing and doesn’t have any other interests. 

“You want them for the chicanes or the whole track?”

Paige grimaces. 

Azzi sighs. 

“I do think it’s worth it to look at,” Azzi agrees. “I’ll ask them this morning. Hopefully the team can send them over by this afternoon.”

Paige wipes some of the sweat from her brow and notices Azzi’s eyes flick down to her abs, where she’s unintentionally flexing. But Azzi looks away so quickly Paige almost wonders if she imagined it. But she didn’t. Definitely not when Azzi does it again, like she can’t even help herself. 

“Okay, we should probably head out,” Azzi says, and the way she’s absolutely not looking at Paige — at the smile Paige can’t quite suppress — is giving Paige life. 

“I have to be in the engineering room in an hour,” she adds, like it’s not meaningful that she’s running away. 

Azzi and Gabby walk away, and Paige turns to watch them go, her smile so wide it threatens to eclipse her face. DiJonai shoves her, muttering profanities. 

—--

She’s barely gotten her tyres to temp when there’s a traffic mix up during FP1.  Paige’s front wing gets clipped by Aliyah Boston in the Williams, and she has to be pulled in immediately. 

“We’re fine,” Nika says in her ear, as Paige pulls into the Lamborghini pit. It’s not a quick stop; the crew has to replace the front wing and Azzi’s ordered some tightening on the back flap as well. “We’ll send you back out in clean air,” Nika promises. 

The grandstands are filled with Ferrari red, though there’s a good amount of the Lamborghini black mixed in as well. Italians and their motorsport. Italians and their cars. 

“We’ve got forty-five minutes and a whole list of things to do,” Nika continues. She’s turned around on the pit wall so she can look at Paige, but the helmet visor’s down so Paige knows they aren’t really making eye contact. “Lock in, we’re fine.”

Paige appreciates the talk down. She hates starting a race weekend with an incident, no matter how small it is. Makes it feel like everything gets thrown off. She exhales, closing her eyes, putting the frustration out of her mind. 

The session isn’t a wash. They get some good data on the aero upgrades that have been made, and Paige gets a decent understanding of how the car feels different.  

“Balance is off,” Paige says in the debrief afterward, almost the moment she sits down. 

“Agreed,” Soni chimes in. “Really off — especially through the turns.”

Dorka nods. “We heard that on the radio from both of you. Let’s dive into that.”

“Variante del Rettifilo,” Paige says immediately. It’s a heavy-breaking chicane, a good spot to overtake. She wasn’t at speed but it’s a curve where she should need to go from about 300kph to just under 90kph. 

“You thought it was worse than Ascari,” Azzi asks, standing up to lean over the table and make a red little X on the track layout. 

Paige shrugs. “I think the balance is worse at speed with the intense braking. Way worse than at the left-right-left.”

Ascari is technical sequence. It’s fast, and it comes left-right-left, but it’s not the massive swing in speed that Rettifilo is. 

“Fighting for my life at Rettifilo,” Soni says. “Car was all over the place.”

“I couldn’t trust it through the corners,” Paige adds. “At speed it would have been way worse.”

“Is it pulling equally?” Jana asks, piping up from her spot next to Azzi. 

Paige furrows her brow. “Honestly it was all over the place. It didn’t feel consistent.”

“Maybe more on the left,” Soni suggests. “But, like, only slightly.”

It goes like that for over an hour. Paige and Soni break down all the parts of the car that felt off, share what went well, talk about how to approach FP2. The engineers around them are scrambling to take notes and align what they say with the data readouts, and in the center of the table, Dorka and Azurȧ have additional conversation about changes that can be made before the next session. 

Upgrades are great and they make the car better — there’s no question about that — but CFD can only tell so much. With upgrades come massive adjustments, and three practice sessions aren’t really enough to be able to prepare for qualifying, for the actual race. Paige and Soni spend time together away from the engineers, talking through the circuit and what felt especially difficult. Paige jots down their notes and then gives them to Nika, who shares whatever she deems relevant with the engineering team. 

There’s a tense atmosphere in the garage that feels different to the other race weekends; a collective feeling that everyone needs to figure things out so it can come together. Paige likes it, enjoys the camaraderie; it really feels like team effort, not just each person or crew doing their parts. 

—-------

Azzi: 1:39: …did that I think meaningful change could be made; it’s statistically impossible to posit that the drivers in F1 are the best in the world when the barrier to entry of the sport is beyond the means of the world’s population —even if you omit communities historically excluded from economic opportunity and households in the middle income distribution. I anticipate that if…

—-------

The team doesn’t break for lunch — not with so many changes that need to be made before the afternoon practice session, but people have to find time to eat. Paige wanders through the hospitality suite and sits for a few minutes with Nai, and they’re joined soon enough by Soni and Kiki.

It’s hot but not stupidly so, not egregiously unpleasant; she has enough of an appetite to be able to eat some of the pasta that’s on offer. She picks at an assortment of cut fruit, the watermelon not sweet enough for her American tastes and the pineapple too citrus for her tongue. In the end, she snags an apple and disappears back into the garages, strolling about with her racing overalls unzipped and sticking her nose into places it doesn’t belong. 

She finds Azzi in one of the huddle offices, curled up on the desk chair and crunching numbers, her mouth moving as she talks to herself, muttering about derivatives and velocity projections. 

“Ayo,” Paige grins, resting a shoulder on the doorframe. 

Azzi’s eyes flick up and she raises her eyebrows; not the best greeting Paige has ever had, but she’ll take it. Especially when she remembers Azzi being an embarrassed freak that morning. 

She reminds herself not to be smug. 

“You eat yet?”

It’s a rhetorical question, and she doesn’t wait for the answer. Just lobs the apple across the small office and watches as it hits Azzi on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Azzi winces as the apple bounces onto the table, scrambling to snatch it before it knocks over an uncapped bottle of water that Paige is sure pre-dates Azzi settling into the space. 

“Sorry,” she says, and it sounds like a lie even to her own ears. 

“I didn’t eat,” Azzi admits, biting into the apple. She’ll eat around the roundest part and then get her teeth into the ends, her lips pulling back as she takes delicate little nibbles. Paige wonders if she’s being an extra freak or just a normal freak for knowing how it’ll go. 

“You could say thank you,” she chastizes, inviting herself inside the small space and settling into the chair opposite the desk.

Even at Mercedes, where Azzi had an office, she never did much to make it personal. No real decorations or easy touches that let her inhabit the space. Because Azzi carries her work with her everywhere. In her head. In that beautiful brain. An office is just a place her body is. 

“Azurȧ’s implementing changes,” Azzi says, instead of communicating her gratitude for Paige saving her from imminent starvation. “We’ll do five laps and then recalibrate, in FP2.”

“Sounds good. Where’s Gabby? You send her off on her own?”

“She drove into town. Had to do some work. She stayed in the team home last night because there was an empty bed, but the junior engineers arrived this morning. I’ll meet her for a late dinner.”

It’s absolutely not Azzi’s preference to have anyone visit during a race weekend; she never has the time to hang out, and her focus is always on what needs to be done. She’s complained to Paige on any number of times about it; people want to see what F1 team staff do, want to see the action, but they don’t like being ignored for three days straight. 

But the nature of Gabby’s job means that often times her weekend visits can be spur of the moment. Her pre-approved long leave would be planned months in advance, but Paige remembers times when Gabby would send Azzi a What’s App message with hours to spare – hey, I’m heading to Europe. Where are you? — all because someone could randomly cover for her for a weekend. 

“Nice to have Gabby around,” Paige offers, inviting conversation. But Azzi only sighs and nods, the half lilt to her mouth not the big smile Paige expects. 

“Yeah…Yeah,” she tacks on, like she’s telling herself it’s true. “It’s good to see her.”

Gabby steadies Azzi. Paige saw her do it, early on, and tried to replicate it in a way that would feel authentic. She always thought she largely succeeded. Though events of the past year might indicate otherwise. 

All to say, it’s not the expression of glee that Paige expected. 

“Everything okay? With her? And… you?”

Azzi swallows, the delicate muscles in her throat moving in slow cohesion. She doesn’t look at Paige as she continues to write out formulas in her notebook, the pencil flying across the page even as she talks. “Yeah. Of course. Everything’s fine. Just, you know. Gabby being Gabby.” She waves her hand about, like that’ll clue Paige into what she means. 

“She loves you,” Paige says, because it seems like the right thing to say. 

“I know,” Azzi agrees. 

To Paige’s surprise, she’s a little choked up, like the reminder is necessary. “I miss her, when she’s gone,” she says, hurried. Like she hates to admit it. “I wish she’d just take a job in Paris, work out of a hospital.”

Azzi once told Paige that she always felt guilty that Gabby was off saving the world and she chose a career ensconced in the most gratuitous display of wealth, calculating numbers to line the pockets of the richest of the rich. 

But what could be done, really, when it was clear how deeply everything about racing made Azzi’s blood sing. 

“But that wouldn’t be Gabby,” Paige says, gently.

“No,” Azzi agrees. But it clearly doesn’t do anything to soothe her discontent.

There’s a frown on Azzi’s face, and Paige wants to kiss it away. She wants to run her thumb down the middle of Azzi’s forehead, to smooth out the furrow. Her fingers twitch with the urge. 

Paige clears her throat. “You, um. You heard from the factory yet, about the aero load?”

Azzi smiles, something like gratitude in her gaze for a moment. “No, not yet. But we’ve got a conference call in an hour. I’ll bring it up again.”

“I better go prep for FP2,” Paige says, standing. 

“Thanks,” Azzi says, when Paige is halfway out the door. She waves the apple a little. “For this.”

Maybe she means more than the apple. Maybe she means the forbidden fruit. 

“Anytime.”

Doesn’t really matter what she means, in the end. 

—--

The engineers are amazing, because the car feels like a different beast when Paige gets her on the track during FP2. The balance isn’t perfect but it’s markedly better. Certainly it’s drivable, controllable. 

“Already improved,” Paige says into the radio as she makes it past Rettifilo. 

“Tyre readings look good,” Nika confirms. “Williams, coming up on your left.”

She guides Paige through traffic and three more laps, brings her back into the garage and has her sit for ten minutes while engineers slide under the car to make adjustments. The whole time, Paige reads the telemetry screens that they slide over for her, the visor flicked up so only her eyes are visible. 

“Can I see the acceleration on the exit at Turn 9?”

Azzi wanders over, Nika on her heels. She puts a hand on the front of the car and the other on the seat, caging Paige in. 

“Okay, we’re changing the differential settings,” she says, gesturing to where KK’s plugged in to run a software update to the car. Paige can see her mouth moving, but her voice is only audible through the earbuds connected to the helmet. It’s too loud in the garage for any kind of chatter. “Talk to me.”

“A little understeer when I’m mid-corner,” Paige reports.

“How much?”

She tries to shrug but she can barely move with the safety harness. “Nothing dramatic.”

Azzi nods. “Okay. Let’s soften the rear bar. That might help you free the rear on entry.”

She taps the halo, the three-pronged titanium bars that surround the cockpit, and turns away, flipping the mobile amplifier attached to her waist to switch into another communications channel. Paige can’t hear her, but in her mirror, she sees Kelis straighten and then nod. She scurries away to communicate instructions, and Azzi turns back to Paige. 

“Okay. Give us four and we’ll have you back out there. Software update’s almost done.”

This is the part that Paige loves about the free practice sessions. It’s the only time she really gets to see Azzi in her element in the garage. Before, at Mercedes, when Paige was racing in F3 and more often when she was in F2, she’d been able to sit at Sue’s side during the races, listening to the comms and watching Azzi work. She’d always had a hundred questions for Azzi after, while they were commuting to the next race site or back to the factory in Brackley. 

Azzi in race mode is formidable. Paige misses being able to see it up close. 

—--

Paige and Soni meet in the garage to walk over to the driver’s debrief, giving Paige the opportunity to finally ask the question that’s been burning inside her all day. 

“You hear anything out of the Team Principals briefing?” 

“Nah, nothing on the paddock.”

“Visit that coffee cart tomorrow,” Paige suggests, not totally in jest. 

“Get your ass up and go with me,” Soni chirps back.

They’re strolling together, about to exit the garage, when Kelis comes running up. She skids to stop in front of them, smoke almost cartooning out of her ears. 

“Oh good, I caught you.” She looks a little out of breath. “Can you pop into the strat room before you head out? Azzi and Caroline are huddled. I think they’re heading out earlier than usual tonight.”

If Paige didn’t already know about Gabby’s presence, she’d be shocked to hear Azzi’s leaving the track early. She’s had to physically pull Azzi away from the circuit — too many times to count, really. 

And, indeed, Azzi and Caroline are huddled in the strategy room, an extremely large and detailed diagram of the car between them. It takes up nearly the entire length of the large conference table. It’s probably to some type of scale; 1:3 or something close. 

“Aero wants to run the cars with different wing angles,” Caroline says when they walk in. “Do either of you have a preference on who goes down?”

Soni shrugs. “I’m fine with it — unless you want it?”

“Nah,” Paige shakes her head. “I’d do it but I’m not desperate for it. Front wing was good.”

“I agree,” Azzi says, and she sounds annoyed. 

“Order?” Paige asks. 

“Strong suggestion,” Azzi answers. 

Soni bends over the table to look at the schematic with Caroline, so she can visualize where the changes will be on the front wing. Paige eases her hip onto the conference table, the giant Stanley waterbottle dangling from one of her fingers. 

“You and Gabby going for pizza?”

“Some pasta place that Georgia recommended,” Azzi says, her voice a little distant. She’s got a calculator in her hand - one of the graphic calculators that are always nearby. She punches in a series of combinations and then four more buttons, and nods to herself. “Here,” she calls, holding the calculator out. 

Jana comes by almost immediately, taking it and glancing at the screen. “I’ll give this to Gandy,” she says, walking away before Azzi says anything else. 

Paige raises her eyebrows and Azzi shrugs. “They find it helpful to see the math sometimes,” she admits. 

There’s a grin tugging at Paige’s lips, too strong an urge for her to suppress. 

“Your brain too fast?”

“Not exactly.”

“But something like that?” 

“Something like that.”

Now, she’s giving Paige her full attention, not bothering to pretend to be working on something else or actually working on something else. And she’s in jeans, today, which are almost worse than the leggings because her curves are on full display.  

So Paige is really suffering. 

“You reading anything good these days?” 

Azzi’s always got a book — correction, multiple books — on her nightstand. She prefers physical copies to digital, so she’s always lugging around a couple hundred pages. And the poetry, of course. Always the poetry.

“Nothing too exciting. You?”

Paige is so surprised, she’s sure she resembles a fish. It takes her a moment to recover.

She’s always been a big reader, because she had to spend a lot of time by herself; at the track, in Storrs, on the karting circuit. But she mostly read novels; mystery, some sci-fi, a lot of thrillers. 

When she met Azzi, she realized how much there was that she didn’t know; her reading material transformed. It wasn’t as prescribed as wanting to read things that Azzi was interested in, because Azzi was interested in everything. Paige started reading the newspaper and glancing through magazines about things other than car racing. She started consuming classic novels she hadn’t read in high school, and diving deeper into nonfiction. And, of course, poetry.

“Um, the new Karin Slaughter, but it gives me nightmares so I’ve been winding down by watching Bob’s Burgers.”

Azzi’s blank stare is almost comical. 

“Ask Gabby about it. I’ve got driver briefing now,” Paige says, making a face. “Pray for me.”

“Try not to piss off Cathy today,” Azzi advises.

“No promises,” Paige says, and she’s feeling really fucking bold, so she pairs the words with a little wink. 

She turns to walk away before she can see how it lands. It’s not cowardice, she tells herself; it’s giving Azzi the privacy to receive it. 

—--

Nika’s back in the morning, with her espresso bullshit. 

“I mean, it’s everywhere. Every-fucking-where.”

“It’ll never happen,” Paige disagrees. “We could never fucking get that lucky.”

But Nika shrugs, like she knows more than she does. She doesn’t, she just likes acting like she picks up better gossip because she thinks people like her more. They don’t. They like Paige more.

“Sophie’s in a worse mood than usual, that’s a fucking fact.”

“She almost started a fight at the briefing last night,” Paige dishes, like they didn’t discuss this very thing twelve hours earlier. Over dinner. And dessert. And a sparkling water. 

Paige isn’t even into gossip, really.

“I’m telling you, I think Red Bull is done with her bullshit.”

No. Paige doesn’t believe it. Sophie’s like a cockroach; she always finds a way. “Maybe Diana has heard something,” she offers, since Nika seems invested. 

“Think you could ask her?”

Paige can’t fucking ask Diana Taurasi if she has inside gossip on Sophie keeping her seat. 

“Did you put money on this?”

“That would be illegal,” Nika says, which doesn’t mean no. 

Paige finishes rubbing lotion into her hands and reaches for the gold ring that Nika gave her when they won for the first time in F3. It settles into her knuckle, a comforting presence. She glances in the mirror again, checking the fit. She’s due for breakfast with Diana and Soni. They’re going to sit at the hospitality suite — the outside portion, probably. 

“Diana really thinks she can eclipse Ferrari this weekend,” Nika snorts. 

“She’s sick of giving free press,” Paige theorizes. “We all had to go to that insipid gala.”

“Good word.”

“Yesterday’s crossword,” Paige admits; another habit she developed after meeting Azzi. 

They walk to the paddock together but Nika hurries ahead as they approach the turnstiles; Paige throws a peace sign at the photographer stationed by the entrance, not quite smiling but definitely not frowning. Head up, she can hear Lili saying in the back of her brain. 

“Good luck with breakfast,” Nika says, as she peels off toward the garage. 

Paige heads toward the paddock mall, to the Lamborghini hospitality suite. She finds Soni already seated, looking alert and fresh in the morning sunshine. 

“How many coffee’s you had already?”

“One,” Soni answers. Paige fixes her with an appraising stare. “Two,” she amends. “God, what are we going to talk about? Think of a plan.”

“Why do I have to think of the plan?”

Soni sighs, eyes roving over the paddock. There’s a good amount of foot traffic, but none of it’s really all that interesting. The celebrities won’t show up until later, closer to qualifying time. They’ve got to get through this breakfast, and FP3 before that. 

“Good morning,” Diana booms, her deep inflection tinged with a hint of amusement, just as it always is. She looks like the coolest version of Death, all in black. Paige doesn’t know 

They both rise to dap her up, and Diana says something that makes the three of them laugh. It’s half performance for the public, half for Diana’s benefit. She and Soni have to sing for their supper, after all. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill myself if I have to see those Ferraris on the podium,” Diana says through smiling teeth as she sits. 

“Same,” Soni says, her eyebrow moving infinitesimally. 

“We’ve got pace,” Paige asserts. She leans back, one elbow draped over the chair, the picture of nonchalance. 

“I would hope so.”

They order drinks and some breakfast. Paige picks at the eggs, at the toast, at the avocado slices. Soni seems happy to peel back a croissant one layer at a time. What a freak. 

Throughout, Diana pelts them with questions, asks for their opinions; on the aero package upgrades, on the drivers briefing, on what they think of the conversation that McLaren also brought good updates. She’s a master puppeteer, Diana, and Paige and Soni have to make enough eye contact to always be on the same page. 

“You think Sophie’s gonna keep her seat?” Paige asks it because why not, and across the table Soni smirks. 

“Feels like we’re not lucky enough to be rid of Sophie yet,” Diana sighs. Her water has two lemon slices in it, and a lime wedge. She doesn’t even have to ask for it that way anymore; everyone knows how she takes it. There are advantages to being known. Disadvantages, too. 

“And Mercedes,” Soni asks, her voice careful. “Sue looks like she’s been making moves. She just signed those F4 prospects.”

A silent assassin. Paige’s heart leaps into her throat. God, Soni can be bold. 

Diana chuckles; it could mean anything. 

“You know Sue,” she says, a wry smile on her face. “Always making moves. She can focus on the pipeline. I want us focused on the Constructor’s Championship.”

“Locked in,” Paige murmurs in agreement. 

“To the last lap,” Soni adds. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Diana approves. 

And she does. With lemon wedges and a lime. 

—--

Qualifying goes very well. Pole position again. 

Paige takes an extraordinary amount of pleasure in qualifying ahead of the Ferrari’s and she outright winks at Kah as she waits her turn to talk with Nastya. Even better for Paige, Caitlin takes an engine penalty and so she’s starting at the back of the grid.  

But it’s a good qualifying session for Team Lamborghini, since Soni starts third on the grid, after Phee. They shove at each other, before Soni steps up to talk to Nastya; and again after Paige finishes her own interview. 

By the time they make it out of press responsibilities and into the strategy debrief, Paige is itching to be done with the paddock. She hasn’t had a chance to change, so she’s still in her racing overalls, undone to the waist as always. She can’t wait to take a shower. 

“Since Paige is in pole, I think we should plan for the podium,” Dorka says. “Azzi—”

“No,” Azzi says, not even looking up from her notes. 

Paige watches in amusement as Dorka rolls her eyes and smooths a hand over her hair. Some things never fucking change, and Azzi’s eschewing of all things media is one of them. 

“I was going to say, that you should pick someone from your team, Azzi.”

“Jana and KK can battle it out,” Azzi says, and Paige watches as Jana and KK try to restrain themselves from squealing with delight. 

“I’ll try to win it for you,” Paige assures them. “Just make sure one of you can still stand and get on the podium with me.”

Halfway through the session, they take a break as the data load comes in. Paige takes the opportunity to duck back into the hallway, determined to track down some kind of snack in the kitchen. 

“Yo,” she says, as she enters. 

Gabby’s set up at the small table, a smoothie in her hand as she reads from a thick book. 

“Congrats on pole position,” she says. “Beautiful drive.”

The first time they met, Gabby took great glee in sharing stories of Azzi as a teen. Apparently she’d forced Gabby into watching Formula 1 enough that Gabby developed her own appreciation for the sport. 

“Thanks,” Page accepts the praise as gracefully as she can. “It’s a pretty good car. You having a fun weekend? Been a while since you’ve been to a race.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Gabby says. She fixes Paige with what could only be called an assessing gaze. 

Paige walks to the fridge, opening it to evaluate her options. Mostly waters. She turns to the cabinets to scrounge for some kind of baked good. 

“You being good to her?”

The words ring out in the silence. 

Paige pauses. Her back is to Gabby, which doesn’t feel good from a confrontation perspective, but at least it gives her the opportunity to gather herself. She takes a deep breath and turns around.

“No. You don’t get to ask me that.”

Gabby arches an eyebrow. She’s always been so sure of herself, and it’s not confidence so much as it is an innate assurance that she has the right to meddle. Or to speak on any topic that she likes; Paige never minded it before because Gabby always picked topics in which she was an expert so it didn’t feel intrusive. 

“Don’t I?”

But this feels intrusive. It feels like an accusation. Like Gabby’s needling where Paige is just now scabbed over. 

“Don’t fuck with me about this, Gabby. It’s honestly none of your business.”

She’s never been so blunt with Gabby. Certainly, she’s never been so aggressive. Because Gabby was always fun, always enjoyable to be around, but she was also Azzi’s best friend. Always someone Paige knew she needed to be on good terms with. To curry favor with.

And it had been fine, because Gabby liked her. Paige knew it. That’s why it was easy. 

“She’s my best friend,” Gabby says, unrepentant. “It is my business if she’s getting punched over and over.”

Paige prays for patience. She grips the countertop behind her, squeezing until she can feel the strain in her fingers. 

“Things are better between us. But that’s taking a lot of work on my part. Azzi made decisions. And I’m just living with the consequences. You don’t get to tell me how I’m doing that wrong.”

There’s a glint in Gabby’s eyes. Hard, like diamonds.

“She told me about Abu Dhabi.”

Paige freezes. For a body so in motion, she sure can slam on the breaks. 

“So she told you how she fucked me and then blindsided me,” Paige snaps, irritated that she doesn’t have the upper hand. Hell, she doesn’t even have equal footing.  

“Told me all of it,” Gabby continues, so cool and even. “What you said.”

“What Azzi did in Abu Dhabi fucked me up,” Paige says, her voice carefully calm. “As I’m sure you can imagine.”

Gabby shrugs, like she’s not moved by the argument. And fine, she’s probably right not to be swayed. Because if Azzi did tell her everything then Paige certainly came out looking like mud on the bottom of her boot. What she said to Azzi was inexcusable. You don’t say the kind of things that Paige said to the woman you love, no matter the circumstances. 

“Fucked her up too,” Gabby shares, and Paige can’t help but wince. Hurting Azzi will always be the worst thing she’s done. 

“I apologized.”

“And she accepted.” 

“We’re moving on.”

“Sure.”

Just statements. Little facts that don’t give any kind of accurate representation about the state of the relationship between Paige and Azzi in the time between Abu Dhabi and today; days upon days when she couldn’t do anything but revisit memory row, second and third and fourth guessing every important interaction she and Azzi ever had. 

“I’m trying,” she admits, opening herself for scrutiny. Inviting Gabby’s judgement. “I’m trying so hard to be good to her. To be good for her. And it’s so fucking hard when I’m in the goddman dark.”

If Gabby’s got anything to say in response, she doesn’t get the chance. 

“PAIGE.” 

It’s Jana, calling down the hallway. She appears a moment later, poking her head into the kitchen. She seems to read the tension in the room and then shrug like she doesn’t care. “Azzi wants you.”

Paige nods, and follows after her. She tells herself it’s not running away. 

—-------

Azzi: 3:01:...the idea of gen-eds, in quotation marks. They’re general education for a reason and the more universities specialize, the more it becomes apparent that we’re absolutely failing as a society. To flourish is to evolve and through evolution a key component is adaptability. We’re just ridding ourselves as a human race of that ability. I swear the…

—-------

Gabby’s words linger with Paige. They play in her brain over and over again, a strain of music that she just can't excise. 

You being good to her?

It’s part guilt and part longing. Paige wants so badly to be good to Azzi, to be the kind person she always imagined herself to be. But all her actions during the first part of the season — since she found out about Azzi leaving Mercedes, really— point to someone different. Someone young. Inexperience masquerading as confidence with a touch of arrogance. 

More than a touch, really. 

She sweats in the gym, a post-day workout that’s probably inadvisable. But she can’t quiet her mind and the need to move is humming in her veins. Driving a car’s not an option, not really. Not as fast as she wants to go. 

Seeing Gabby again is fucking her up. Because Gabby’s a reminder of everything that’s different. She’s a walking, talking, yapping reminder of all the ways that Paige and Azzi aren’t what they used to be. 

She puts the set of dumbbells she’s been curling back on the rack and sits on the bench to take a breather. Really, she should quit. She should go and take a shower, get herself ready for bed. Do some meditation and some stretching and prepare for her race. 

Instead, she pulls her phone out. Opens up her photos app, scrolls up and up and up, until she gets to the pictures from December. From the end of last season. There’s a picture of Nika, drinking a cup of Qahwah when they had breakfast on the Friday morning before the Bahrain race. And before that, in Suzuka; a photo of Azzi in front of Nagoya Castle. She’s looking up at the structure, a curious look on her face. Paige probably took the photo while Azzi was yapping about the history of the castle, spitting facts from the travel brochure. She’d noticed Paige taking  a photo, because the next picture is her hand, reaching out to turn Paige away. 

She swipes back, letting the photo of Azzi staring up at the castle settle in the center of the screen. 

Paige stares until it goes dark. 

—--

There’s final work being done to the car. 

Adjustments, double checks, triple checks. Paige sits on a tool cabinet, rolling a washer along her knuckles. She’s looking at the car but she’s not seeing it. Not really. Her mind is on the track, on the curves, the turns, the acceleration and the straight line speed. 

“You look like a serial killer,” Jana comments. She’s entering data at a computer, standing just a few feet away. 

“I’m concentrating.”

“On how you’re gonna kill someone?”

“Would you talk to Alyssa Thomas like this?”

Jana only laughs. “Please. She’s more of a serial killer than you are.”

That’s fair. 

Paige sighs, thumping her head against the wall and trying to find a way to sit with the electricity that’s started humming through her body. Race day, race day, race day. 

Starting on pole is great, is ideal, is everything that a driver wants. She’s starting first at Monza. It still doesn’t feel real, sometimes. It won’t, probably, until she does it all again next year. Repetition ruins enjoyment, or whatever the phrase is. 

The Mclarens are coming for them. Paige can tell. It’s in Phee’s steely gaze on the paddock, in the lock of her jaw as she walks.  Nothing bad, nothing that would sour the air between them. But Phee’s a competitor. A world champion. 

She doesn’t like being showed up by a rookie. 

Paige is going to need to have her elbows out. It’s fine. She’s bony.

—-

They all suffer through the driver’s parade. The Tifosi are out in force, massive swaths of red sections and a roar that accompanies the swell of color. They cheer for their gods; for Kah and Julie, for the prancing horse, for the cars that have won them championships. 

There are big pockets of black, of the gold bull; Paige and Soni sit on the back of the convertible and wave, feeding on the energy. 

There’s something different about racing in Italy; it feels like more. Paige won in Imola and she wants to win in Monza, and everything that happens off the track matters less and less as the minutes tick away. 

She sits through strategy briefings, through the last minute data readouts. Diana gives a pep talk, Dorka gives instructions. The pit crew boss gives advice. 

All of it washes over Paige. Part of her brain takes it in, incorporates it into what she needs in her foot and between her hands, but she doesn’t break concentration. 

In her driver’s room, she kneels, just in a sports bra and her boxers. Her weight rests on her heels, her hands resting lightly on her thighs, palms facing up. It’s not prayer, what she does. Sometimes. But not always. Not today. 

Because she’s feeling a lot. Too much. They aren’t early in the season anymore; things feel different now. It’s less about having something to prove and more about showing what she can do. 

The door opens and Nika slips inside, though Paige doesn’t open her eyes. A hundred things are probably calling for Nika’s attention, for her focus. But she’s here, with Paige. 

“We gonna talk about it?”

Surprised, she looks over. “About what?”

“About how you’re fourteen points back from championship leader and Caitlin Clark is starting at the back of the grid today.”

It’s in her mind. How could it not be? She has the opportunity to take the lead in the championship today. A clean race would do it. 

“Let’s focus on finishing today in one piece,” she says, deflecting. Winning a world championship isn’t something she can focus on today. It’s all about Monza. 

“We got this, Twin.”

We got this. 

—-------

Azzi: 41 seconds: Did I ever tell you about my first F1 race? I swear to god, Paige, it felt like the world had changed.

—-------

A different driver emerges from the ready room. 

Still Paige, still her. But another version of herself. Someone who only cares about being in the car.

There’s the pageantry of the anthem and the nonsense statement about diversity — nonsense because all this sport cares about is money, about winning. And then Paige is standing in the garage with DiJonai getting ready to walk out. 

Gabby’s in the garage, nestled amongst the celebrities and the other onlookers; Paige sees her but doesn’t dive any deeper. She can’t. 

She’s got a race to win. 

As she climbs into the car and the formation lap begins — with her right in front — she doesn’t look at the crowd. Only the pavement. Only the circuit. 

They’re in the Ferrari temple and what Paige wants to do feels like desecration. Her foot is itching, her hands are twitching. As she waits on the starting line she shakes her hands, wiggles her feet. She let’s the ants out and pulls herself together. 

4. 3. 2. 1. 

It’s not a great start. It’s good, but not great. With Soni behind her she’d be able to fly into first but it’s Phee who’s in second, so Paige has to cut the racing line off and dart to take the front. She manages the swing and then she’s roaring out ahead, the orange of Phee’s McLaren a blur in her mirrors. 

“Hold steady, Paige.”

Nika’s a cucumber, keeping Paige steady. She talks her through the chicanes, through defense, through the tyre degradation. She keeps first place and pits first to stop Phee from an undertake; it’s a sub-two second stop, and Paige gets released into a beautiful spot. 

“Beautiful stop everyone, thank you,” she says into the radio. 

The rest is on her. 

It’s hard, because it’s always hard. Nothing comes easy in this sport. Everything is earned. 

But when Paige crosses the line first, adding twenty-five points to her name and taking first place from Caitlin Clark in the driver’s championship, the relief is quick. 

“That’s a win for Lamborghini and a lead for you, Paige Bueckers,” Nika says on the radio. 

“Well done, Paige. Great drive. Let’s celebrate,” Diana says. 

When Paige pulls to a stop and jumps out of the car, it crashes down upon her. She grits her teeth against the tears, against the onslaught of emotion. But she runs into Nika’s arms and buries her face — helmet and all — in her best friend’s neck. 

“Championship leader, twin.”

“Fuck, we’re really here, twin.”

She turns to receive Soni, who started and finished third, and then she goes to weigh and take her shit off. 

While she’s waiting, after she downs most of a bottle of water, she squats down, her head ducked and turned away from the camera. She wants to remember this moment, this feeling. Even if it all goes away after next race. Even if it never comes back. She’s leading the championship. 

Paige stands up when Nastya starts to interview Soni, and finishes the bottle of water, immediately grabbing for the next one. As she looks at the team all assembled her eyes search for and find Azzi. 

She’s standing at the barrier with Gabby by her side, arms draped over and elbows perched on the edge. They’re talking to each other, some kind of conversation that doesn’t require eye contact – because they’re both looking at Paige. 

Paige doesn’t know what kind of expression Gabby has on her face, what she’s thinking; if she’s glaring daggers or looking at Paige like she’s not worthy, if Gabby hates her for the terrible things Paige said or if she thinks that Paige didn’t fight hard enough for Azzi. Paige can’t see any of that because all she sees is Azzi. 

Their eyes lock and the rest of the world falls away. 

She’s here because of Azzi. In first place, at Lamborghini, in Formula 1. And while Paige is the one who gets all the credit, she would never have made it without her. Azzi helped her in a million different ways. Taught her, supported her, led her. 

Planned her races. 

Her strategy. 

At the end of the day, Paige is just the tool. 

—----

Media after the race is a blur. People keep asking Paige what it feels like to be leading the championship, to be the first rookie to lead the championship. She says the same soundbites over and over, because staying on message with the media is easy. 

A state of gratitude. Focusing on where her feet are. On repeat. 

There’s more sponsor appearances — pictures are taken, autographs signed — but then she’s released to the strategy meeting, and the room gives her a standing round of applause as she enters. 

“Please stop,” she begs. “We’re still in first as a team, that’s all that matters.”

Her eyes rove over the occupants, and immediately find what’s missing. 

“Where’s Azzi,” she asks Nika, her brows pulled together. 

“Gabby’s leaving,” Nika says, gesturing in the direction of the paddock exit. “Azzi went to walk her. Just now.”

Paige doesn’t give it much thought. “I’ll be right back,” she says, leaving Nika and the rest of the room behind as she beelines out of the maze of the garage tunnels and makes her way to the paddock. 

She jogs though, ducking people wishing her well and calling congratulations, until she reaches the designated lot that the staff can use to catch the team rideshare or pick up private rides. 

“Hey,” she calls, as she approaches. 

Azzi and Gabby are standing next to one of the private car charters, likely booked to take Gabby to the Milan airport. Gabby has one hand on the open rear passenger door, but they both turn as Paige reaches them. 

“I um…” 

She pauses, not sure of what she should say. She just ran all the way out here like an idiot; she’s still in her racing overalls, for fuck’s sake. Unzipped and looking cool, obviously, but still kind of an idiot. 

And she doesn’t even know what to say. 

But then Gabby steps away from the car, moves away from Azzi. She clasps Paige’s hand between their chests and reaches out with her other arm to hug Paige.  

“Don’t let me be wrong about you, Bueckers,” she says in Paige’s ear, her voice low and melodic. 

Gratitude floods Paige’s system, the relief coursing through her at an astonishing rate. She needed this, needed it from Gabby. And she might be wrong — she might be so wrong — but Paige chooses to believe that Gabby’s rooting for her, and for a reason. And that gives her hope. 

“Be safe,” she says, knocking their temples together. 

Then Gabby pulls away. She tugs Azzi into one more hug and kisses her forehead, before setting her backpack in the car and sliding in. Paige watches Azzi shut the door and step back, their shoulders brushing as they watch the car pull away and start the drive to the circuit entrance.  

“She’ll be okay,” Paige says, turning to look at Azzi in profile. Azzi’s not crying because she’s not like that, but her eyes are dark as they follow the car. 

“I know.”

She turns toward Paige, the late afternoon sun reflecting off her hair. Paige would swear she can see rainbows in the way the strands gleam. 

“First place in the Driver’s Championship,” Azzi says. “I hope you feel proud.”

They aren’t eye to eye, exactly. Azzi’s an inch or two shorter, so Paige just has to tip her face down the barest bit for eye contact. She bites her lip, emotion threatening to make another appearance. 

She’s moving before she can think it through, before she can second guess or ask permission. Paige hugs Azzi, wrapping her arms around the woman she loves, the woman she’s loved for so long. 

Azzi freezes, her limbs seemingly locked up for a moment, but then she melts into the embrace. Her hands come up Paige’s back and press to her tightly, right under the bra line; Paige is wearing the turtleneck of the fireproofs so she can’t feel the touch of Azzi’s skin to hers but the heat soaks in. More than the engine, more than the weather, more than the fire that always seems to be blazing inside. 

I did it for you, she wants to say. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into Azzi’s temple. 

It’s an acceptable hug to have in public, an understandable exchange for the two of them to have in full view of everyone who could possibly be watching. 

“Thank you,” she whispers again, the smell of Azzi’s curly shampoo filling her nostrils. The faint scent of motor oil’s there too. Paige is so at peace she feels lightheaded for a moment. 

Azzi doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move to put distance between them. “You don’t need to thank me for anything,” she says. “You did it.”

But Paige knows the truth. 

They hold each other for another five, seven, ten seconds. 

“We should get back to the debrief,” Azzi says, taking a step back. Her hands slide away slowly. 

“Yeah,” Paige agrees. She also takes a step back, deliberately putting space between them. Not too much. 

But just enough. 

CHAPTER THREE: Access Granted

Participant 220456 exhibited stable baseline readings, such as moderate reactivity to reunion stimulus— elevated, but not extreme response to betrayal, and respiratory variability that was within the expected range. Average.

Paige watched the live feed scroll across her monitor from the corner of her eye while she annotated some prior files. The lab lights hummed softly overhead. The air in the lab always smelled faintly metallic, like recycled ventilation and static.

220456 shifted in the participant chair across the room from her with the sensors still attached, and his eyes were trained on the stimulus screen.

Paige typed without looking at him.

Emotional volatility: low-moderate.

Predictive attachment classification: secure-leaning, minimal defensive compensation.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Her fingers moved automatically across the keyboard. She did not need to lean forward to interpret the graph spikes anymore, because she could feel patterns before they formed.

A small vibration of her phone against her thigh broke the rhythm. She did not check it immediately.

Participant 220456’s betrayal spike crested predictably. He inhaled sharply with minor jaw tension. Paige marked it, then her phone vibrated again.

Her pulse shifted, not dramatically, but enough to register. She slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew the device, then angled it discreetly toward her lap.

azzifudd: I’ve read that article you sent me 4 times.

Paige’s breath stalled. Four times? And, this was initiation on Azzi’s part. Not a response, not just compliance, but return engagement.

Her eyes moved over the message again to ensure accuracy. Four times. A warmth spread outward from the center of her chest, both precise and controlled, but unmistakable. Reinforcement. Bond stability increasing, Paige thought to herself.

She lifted her gaze briefly to the participant screen. 220456’s graph flattened back toward baseline. Average. She looked back down at her phone to send Azzi a reply.

pbsbaseline: that suggests either intellectual curiosity or resistance to integration.

azzifudd: lmao see this is what I mean

azzifudd: who talks like that

azzifudd: you’re so intense

Paige swallowed as she read. Intense.

The word landed somewhere lower than it should have. This wasn’t an insult, nor was it a dismissal. This was teasing. Her skin felt warmer under her shirt.

pbsbaseline: precision is efficient.

pbsbaseline: did you disagree with the findings?

azzifudd: I didn’t disagree. I just don’t know if I like how accurately it fits.

Paige’s spine straightened. “You don’t like being legible,” she murmured under her breath.

pbsbaseline: you prefer to be perceived as adaptable rather than patterned.

Participant 220456 shifted again over at the computer table, and let out a cough. Paige did not look over. Her eyes stayed on her phone screen.

azzifudd: okay wait

azzifudd: how do you DO that

azzifudd: I didn’t even say that

Paige’s lips parted slightly as she leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. Correct.

pbsbaseline: you didn’t need to.

A small tremor ran through her fingers, not from nerves, but from stimulation. She imagined Azzi reading the message and pausing to process it. She thought about the way her eyebrows likely knit slightly when she was thinking. Paige pictured it vividly.

Participant 220456’s session then concluded with a soft audio chime. Paige stood, composed herself, and began detaching the sensors from his wrists. “Thank you for your participation,” she said evenly. “Your research credit will be visible on your account by tonight.”

He mumbled something about it being interesting, and she went back to her laptop to log his data without enthusiasm.

As soon as the lab door shut behind him, she sat back down and reopened the DM thread fully.

azzifudd: okay miss psychoanalysis

azzifudd: tell me something else you’ve concluded about me

The teasing should have irritated Paige, but instead, heat pooled low in her abdomen. Challenge accepted.

pbsbaseline: you don’t like disappointing people.

pbsbaseline: even when they deserve it.

The typing bubble vanished, returned, and then vanished again. Paige’s pulse ticked harder against her throat.

azzifudd: …that’s rude

azzifudd: and unfortunately accurate

Paige leaned back further in her chair. She felt validation settle into her like a locked mechanism clicking into place.

pbsbaseline: it’s not a flaw.

pbsbaseline: it’s a regulation strategy.

azzifudd: see

azzifudd: this is why I read that article four times

azzifudd: you say things and I have to figure out if you’re insulting me or fixing me

Fixing. Paige’s fingers stilled. She did not like that word. She wasn’t fixing Azzi, because there was nothing to fix about such perfection. She was just… refining. Modeling and understanding.

pbsbaseline: neither.

pbsbaseline: i am just observing.

azzifudd: why attachment though?

azzifudd: like of all things you could study

azzifudd: why that

The question lingered. This was Azzi’s attempt at a personal inquiry. Paige felt the shift immediately, and it was subtle, but significant. Azzi wasn’t asking about data, she was asking about her.

Paige did not answer right away. She first minimized the participant file and reopened 220175 — Priority Subject unconsciously. The graphs, notes, and images all started to pop up, and her focus sharpened.

Why attachment?

Because attachment predicts behavior.

Because attachment explains deviation.

Because attachment determines proximity tolerance.

Because attachment determines who leaves.

She did not type any of that.

pbsbaseline: attachment governs response under stress.

pbsbaseline: it predicts relational behavior with high reliability.

It was true, it just wasn’t complete.

azzifudd: that’s the textbook answer

azzifudd: I meant why do you care about it

Paige’s eyes narrowed at this screen. Personal self-disclosure required, she thought to herself. Unnecessary. She chose to redirect.

pbsbaseline: most people misinterpret their own patterns.

pbsbaseline: understanding attachment reduces error.

pbsbaseline: you said the article felt accurate.

pbsbaseline: did that make you uncomfortable?

azzifudd: maybe

azzifudd: I don’t love feeling predictable

pbsbaseline: predictability isn’t weakness.

pbsbaseline: it’s consistency.

pbsbaseline: you’re consistent.

The typing bubble flickered quickly this time.

azzifudd: that sounded almost like a compliment

Almost. Paige felt the corner of her mouth lift slightly.

pbsbaseline: it was.

There was a long pause, long enough that Paige reopened the lab file and pretended to skim Participant 220456’s summary again.

azzifudd: okay

azzifudd: what if we continue this conversation somewhere that’s not Instagram

azzifudd: and maybe not accidentally this time

The words seemed to brighten on the screen. Azzi was suggesting chosen contact, not engineered proximity. This was an invitation. Paige’s pulse accelerated in a clean and sharp spike. This was not coincidence, not scheduled interference, and not inferred timing. Azzi was selecting her.

A feeling of reinforcement surged through her system, both steady and controlled, but deeper than before.

She stared at the message long enough to memorize its phrasing. Not accidentally this time.

pbsbaseline: specify location and time.

azzifudd: coffee tomorrow?

azzifudd: 3pm?

azzifudd: you can analyze my drink order in person

Paige’s throat tightened. Azzi was teasing, but she had no idea— none at all— of what that did to Paige internally. In person, planned, and sustained.

pbsbaseline: acceptable.

pbsbaseline: I won’t need to analyze your drink order.

azzifudd: oh yeah?

azzifudd: what am I getting then

Paige didn’t even hesitate.

pbsbaseline: something caffeinated but not bitter.

pbsbaseline: you don’t like harshness unless you choose it.

azzifudd: you’re ridiculous

azzifudd: see you tomorrow at 3

That message ended the exchange, but Paige stared at the thread until the screen dimmed. Then, she locked her phone and placed it face down on the desk. Her chest felt tight, but not uncomfortable. More focused.

Chosen contact. The difference was structural. Engineered proximity relied on pattern inference, but this relied on mutual selection. Her attachment circuitry adjusted accordingly.

Priority Subject? No, something else now. Something more.

She turned back to Participant 220456’s file and typed:

Data integrity: intact.

She had some work to finish, but her mind had already shifted to 3pm tomorrow. And for the first time, she was not calculating how to be present. She was anticipating it.

—

Hartwell’s campus had a coffee shop tucked into the corner of the humanities quad that was half glass, half brick, and had ivy curling lazily along one wall.

The Lantern Room.

It was quieter than the main student café. It had warm lights, mismatched wooden tables, and constantly played soft instrumental music low from the speakers. The air smelled like espresso and toasted sugar.

Paige arrived at 2:52 p.m. She chose a table against the wall— strategic angle. Clear sightline to the entrance, minimal foot traffic, and controlled variables.

She placed her phone face down beside her cup, which was black coffee, of course, no additions, and folded her hands loosely in front of her.

At 2:59, the door chimed, and Azzi stepped inside. Paige’s focus narrowed on to her immediately.

Azzi was wearing a cropped hoodie and loose jeans, with her hair pulled back— but not tightly. A few strands escaped at her temples. She scanned the room briefly before her eyes landed on Paige. Her face changed. It was subtle, but Paige saw it. Paige saw everything. Recognition → warmth → a small lift at the corner of her mouth that didn’t fully form into a grin yet.

Micro-sequence duration: less than two seconds, Paige mentally logged.

Paige stood, and Azzi walked toward her with open energy and relaxed shoulders. “You’re early,” Azzi said.

“Three p.m. was the agreed time. Early arrival reduces unpredictability,” Paige responded.

Azzi laughed softly. “There she is.”

They stood awkwardly for a half-second. This was the moment where most people defaulted to a hug, but Paige did not move forward, and Azzi noticed. Instead of forcing it, she just gestured towards the employee behind the counter.

“I’m gonna go order,” Azzi said, then turned to walk away. Paige registered the choice. Azzi had respect for boundary. Paige’s desire intensified accordingly.

“You got plain black,” Azzi said once she was back, and nodded toward Paige’s cup.

“Yes,” Paige said flatly.

Azzi pressed her lips together. “That’s so on brand for you.”

Paige didn’t ask what she meant by that. “You ordered something with foam.”

Azzi blinked. “You didn’t see me order.”

“You don’t prefer bitterness without buffer.”

Azzi shook her head and smiled as she set her oat milk latte down. “You’re impossible.”

Paige didn’t respond. She was too busy watching the way Azzi wrapped both hands around the cup before taking a sip. Heat-seeking behavior. Self-soothing under mild anticipatory stress.

“You look… different here,” Azzi said after a moment.

Paige tilted her head. “Clarify.”

“Less lab. More… person.”

Paige absorbed that without a reaction, and Azzi leaned back slightly in her chair. Paige mirrored the movement unconsciously. Azzi noticed that too, and a flicker of amusement formed in her eyes.

“So,” Azzi said, stirring her drink even though it didn’t need stirring, “is this uncomfortable for you?”

“Uncomfortable?”

“Being somewhere that isn’t controlled.”

Paige held her gaze steadily. “This is controlled,” she said. “You chose the time and the location. Environmental variables are minimal.”

Azzi stared at her for a second. Then laughed again, more softly this time. “I meant like… socially.”

Paige paused. Her instinct was to redirect, but instead, she said, “I prefer structured interaction.”

“That checks out.”

“But I agreed to this.”

Azzi’s eyes softened. “I know.”

There was something different in her tone now. It was less teasing and more genuine. Paige felt it land, and they held eye contact longer than necessary. Paige didn’t feel the need to look away first, which was new.

“You know,” Azzi said quietly as she traced her finger along the rim of her cup, “you were right about something.”

Paige’s attention sharpened. “Specify.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. “About disappointing people.”

Paige did not interrupt. Azzi continued, her gaze dropping briefly to the table before returning. “I was in this… thing last year. Not like—” She waved her hand vaguely. “Not super official, but we were close.”

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and Paige immediately cataloged it.

“She hated conflict,” Azzi went on. “Or said she did. But really she just… avoided it. So I would smooth everything over. Always, even when I was upset.”

Betrayal stimulus containment curve. There it is, Paige thought to herself.

“I thought if I stayed steady enough,” Azzi said with a quieter voice now, “she wouldn’t leave.”

Paige felt the air shift. Azzi hadn’t meant to go this far. It was visible in the way her shoulders drew in slightly after the admission, as if she was bracing for judgment.

Paige leaned forward, just a fraction. “You equated stability with security,” she said, and Azzi’s eyes flicked up.

“You overcompensated for her inconsistency. You didn’t lose her because you weren’t steady enough,” Paige continued evenly. “You lost her because she relied on you to regulate what she refused to regulate herself.”

Azzi went very still, and her fingers stopped tracing the cup. The noise of the coffee shop blurred at the edges, and Paige watched the micro-expressions cascade across Azzi’s face in real time: surprise, recognition, and then… relief.

“You didn’t need to be more,” Paige said. “You were already compensating.”

Azzi swallowed, but she didn’t speak immediately. Her eyes were locked on Paige’s now, like she was searching for something. “That’s…” she started, then stopped. Paige held steady.

“That’s exactly what it felt like,” Azzi finished.

There it was. Azzi felt deeply seen. Paige hadn’t required any overexplanation.

Azzi’s shoulders lowered, as tension she hadn’t consciously noticed released. She smiled, but it wasn’t her wide public smile. It was smaller and softer.

“You do this thing,” she said quietly, “where you just… say the thing. The exact thing.”

Paige felt pride bloom under her ribs. Not arrogance, but precision satisfaction. She had calibrated correctly.

“I observe,” she replied.

Azzi shook her head faintly. “It doesn’t feel like just observing.”

Paige did not answer that, because it wasn’t.

A silence settled between them. Not awkward, but thick. Then, Azzi’s foot moved under the table and brushed lightly against Paige’s ankle.

Paige stilled, but the contact lingered. Azzi didn’t retract. Instead, her foot slid slowly upward along Paige’s shin, both deliberate and exploratory, like she was testing something.

Paige’s breath caught. Historically, she did not like unexpected physical touch. It overwhelmed and distracted her. Surprisingly, this did not. This sharpened her.

Her body reacted before she processed it. She felt warmth pool low, and her pulse accelerated. Her skin was hyperaware of every inch of contact. Paige did not pull away.

Azzi watched her carefully in a non-aggressive way. Instead, she looked curious.

Paige’s jaw tightened slightly, and she kept her hands remained folded on the table, outwardly composed. Underneath, sensation climbed higher. Her mind flickered briefly as she cataloged the data— compliance without resistance. Proximity tolerance: sustained.

But then, it dissolved almost immediately into something thicker. Something she categorized as need.

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “You okay?” she asked softly.

“Yes.” The word came out lower than usual.

Azzi’s lips parted just a fraction, but she didn’t move her foot, and neither did Paige. Heat layered beneath the conversation now, subtly but undeniably.

“You’re not as unreadable as you think,” Azzi murmured.

Paige’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

“You look proud when you get something right.”

Paige’s throat tightened. She hadn’t known that. She didn’t ever analyze herself, only others.

Azzi’s foot then pressed just a little firmer against her shin. “And I like that,” Azzi added.

Like, Paige repeated mentally. The word landed heavier than intense had. She felt it everywhere at once, the pride, heat, and desire threading together until they were indistinguishable.

She wanted— nope. She needed to recalibrate and maintain control. But still, she did not move her leg away, nor did she break eye contact.

Across the small wooden table in The Lantern Room, chosen contact had shifted into something else entirely. This was not engineered and it was most definitely not accidental. It was mutual.

And Paige, who was steady, composed, and obsessively precise, felt the pull deepen into something she could no longer pretend was purely observational.

—

The lab was quiet in the late afternoon the next day. The fluorescent lights were steady, and the air hummied faintly through the vents. Room 314C felt contained in a way the outside world never did. Predictable and ordered with its clean lines and labeled drawers.

Paige sat at her desk with her laptop open. Not the public dataset, but the private one.

220175 — Priority Subject

She had just added a new section header:

Café Observation: Environmental Variable Shift

Beneath it, she typed with precise deliberation.

Subject initiated vulnerability disclosure regarding prior relational instability.

Emotional tone: reflective, not reactive.

Eye contact sustained during interpretive feedback.

Observable somatic relaxation following cognitive reframing.

Physical contact initiated by subject (lower extremity)

Duration: sustained.

No withdrawal upon non-response.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She could still feel it, that slow glide of Azzi’s foot against her shin. Specifically, the warmth and the pressure.

In the past, unexpected touch had felt abrasive to her. It was like too much information at once. She would always become overwhelmed. This hadn’t felt that way, though. This had narrowed the world to a single point of contact.

She flexed her hand on the desk and replayed the sensation with uncomfortable clarity.

Did Azzi notice?

The way Paige held herself. The way she spoke, both direct and stripped of cushioning. The way she didn’t default to small talk or soften statements.

Did she notice that Paige moved differently through social space?

That conversations felt like equations to her. That she preferred fluorescent quiet to crowded warmth.

Paige stared at the blinking cursor. Does Azzi perceive deviation?

She did not mind being different, but she minded being misread.

Her jaw tightened faintly. Azzi had not recoiled, she had leaned in. The thought sent a low and steady heat through her chest. Her phone then vibrated against the desk, and she glanced at it.

azzifudd: are you in your lab rn

pbsbaseline: yes.

azzifudd: do you have a participant

pbsbaseline: no.

azzifudd: okay

azzifudd: I’m coming by

Azzi had given no explanation, and did not formally request. She just stated that she was coming. Paige stared at the message longer than necessary. This was more chosen contact. Physical space immersion.

Her gaze lifted slowly to the door of 314C, the same door that she had posed in front of for the grant article. This was her space. She felt like she owned it. Her heartbeat ticked faster, but not from anxiety, just anticipation.

Five minutes later, there was a soft knock. Paige stood immediately and opened the door.

Azzi leaned casually against the frame for half a second before straightening when she saw her. “It really is just you in here,” she stated as she glanced past Paige.

“Yes.”

Azzi then stepped inside, and the shift was immediate. Her energy moved differently here, kind of soft, almost reverent. She glanced at the equipment, the participant chair, and the monitor screens.

“This is really cool,” she said quietly.

Paige felt something tighten in her chest. Something like pride.

314C wasn’t large. There was a table with a computer on it, which was the participant setup, and the sensors were coiled neatly in labeled containers. A whiteboard was positioned against the wall and filled with formula fragments and predictive models.

Azzi approached the participant chair. “This is where I sat.”

“Yes.”

Azzi ran her hand lightly along the armrest, and Paige watched the movement with acute focus.

“This is your favorite place on campus, isn’t it?” Azzi asked.

Paige didn’t answer immediately. “Yes,” she said finally.

Azzi smiled, both small and knowing. “I can tell.”

Paige stepped closer to her laptop again. She opened the primary dataset file, with the rows of participant numbers, anonymized graphs, and clean formatting. She angled the laptop slightly so Azzi could see it. “This is the aggregate data,” she said. “All participants.”

Azzi leaned beside her to look, very closely. Almost too close, to the point where their shoulders nearly touched. Paige felt the proximity like static.

“So that’s mine?” Azzi asked, pointing vaguely at one graph cluster.

“No,” Paige said. “That’s everyone’s. I also code everyone’s separately.”

That was accurate. Paige did not tell a lie, she just left out some detail.

Azzi hummed thoughtfully. “You really built all this?”

“Yes.”

Azzi glanced at her sideways. “That’s kind of insane.”

“It’s methodical.”

Azzi laughed softly as they moved into the hallway together. The walls held framed research posters, attachment studies, behavioral mapping diagrams, and cognitive processing models. Azzi drifted slowly along it and brushed her fingers lightly against the frames.

“This one’s yours?” she asked, stopping in front of a poster with Paige’s name listed beneath the title.

“Yes.”

Azzi leaned in closer to read, and Paige watched her mouth move silently over the words. Azzi’s hair fell forward slightly, and the hallway felt narrower suddenly.

They then continued down to the copier room, which was both small and functional. Scanner glass reflected the overhead light, and the low mechanical smell of toner filled the air.

Azzi stepped inside first, and she ran her hand across the top of the copier before tapping the buttons curiously. “You basically live here,” she said.

“I have told you I prefer predictable systems.”

Azzi turned to face her. “And people?”

Paige held her gaze. “People are variable.”

Azzi smiled faintly. “I’m not that unpredictable.”

Paige stepped closer to her before fully deciding to. “You were at first,” she said quietly. Azzi tilted her head, looking intrigued. The distance between them shrank.

The wall behind Azzi was lined with laminated data posters. For a fraction of a second, Paige’s mind detached from the present.

She imagined—

Her own back against the wall and Azzi’s hands braced beside her shoulders, that warm breath close enough to disrupt Paige’s composure.

Or maybe— Azzi bent slightly over the copier glass, laughing and unaware with Paige’s hand firm at her waist. Control transferred.

The images flashed vividly and intrusively, and wetness pooled in her boxers so suddenly it almost disoriented her.

She felt physical and possessive. She wanted to see how Azzi would respond to restraint, pressure, and deliberate closeness.

Her pulse thundered once as Azzi’s voice registered in her ears. “Paige?” She called out. The sound of her name snapped her back into focus.

Azzi was watching her carefully. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” Paige replied evenly.

Azzi’s eyes flicked over her face as if searching for something. Not suspicion, but concern. There was more engagement.

“You zone out when you’re thinking,” Azzi said.

“I don’t zone out.”

“You do.”

A small smile tugged at Azzi’s mouth. “And I kind of love it.”

Love. Paige knew she didn’t mean that literal— probably, but she still felt the word strike somewhere deep and unprotected.

She straightened slightly. “You’re interested in my environment,” she observed.

“Yeah,” Azzi said easily. “It matters to you, so it matters to me.”

The simplicity of that statement unsettled Paige more than the fantasies had. It was not strategic, it was genuine. Paige studied her face to search for irony, but found none. Azzi was here because she wanted to be. Not to be analyzed, not to be measured, but just to be with her.

Paige’s desire sharpened again, but was layered now with something more dangerous. Something she logged as exclusivity.

She wanted Azzi in 314C more often. She wanted this space— her space— to become shared. She wanted to associate comfort with her, and to align safety with proximity.

Azzi brushed past her lightly to exit the copier room. The contact was brief, but deliberate. Paige’s body reacted immediately, and she felt another flare of heat she could not suppress.

She followed Azzi back toward 314C, steady on the surface, but felt obsessive underneath.

The lab door stood open. The door to her domain, and now Azzi was inside of it.

—

Azzi didn’t realize that she was smiling until someone passed her on the quad and smiled back.

She adjusted her backpack on her shoulder and kept walking toward her dorm, with the late afternoon light slanting gold across Hartwell’s brick pathways. Azzi liked the way campus felt at this hour. Most classes were over at this point and campus would start to clear out. It felt like everything was exhaling.

Her brain, however, was not. Instead, it was replaying— Paige standing in the doorway of 314C, with one hand still on the handle like she hadn’t fully decided to let her in. The silver placard on the wall catching the light. The way Paige’s posture had shifted, almost imperceptibly when Azzi stepped inside. It had seemed like Paige was territorial of her space, but not unwelcoming. It felt more… selective.

Azzi’s cheeks warmed again at the memory. She’d felt it immediately that she wasn’t just walking into a room, but more being allowed into something. Paige didn’t strike her as someone who handed out access casually.

The lab hadn’t felt sterile the way it felt when Azzi was there as a participant in Paige’s study. It had felt curated this time. Every drawer was labeled, every cable was coiled neatly, and the whiteboard was filled with sharp and clean handwriting. It had felt like Paige’s brain externalized, and Paige had let her wander.

Paige had let her touch the armrest of the participant chair, let her lean over the laptop to look at the data, and let her ask question after question without any irritation.

Azzi had also noticed the way Paige had watched her move through the room. Not lazily, and not in a distracted way, either. More intently, like she was mapping her in real time.

That thought should have unsettled her, but it didn’t. A lot of things about Paige should’ve unsettled her, but none of them did. They just made her pulse kick.

There was something about the way Paige looked at her, steady, unflinching, and unhurried. No stammering, no tonal shifts, just that same even, measured, and controlled cadence. It was almost disarming.

Most people performed subtle fluctuations when they were nervous or trying to impress someone. Paige didn’t seem to perform at all. Her voice stayed level whether she was explaining statistical models or telling Azzi she was unpredictable.

I’m not that unpredictable.

You were at first.

Azzi exhaled slowly at the memory. That moment had done something to her. Something in the way Paige said it hadn’t felt like a tease. It had felt observational, precise, and accurate.

Azzi then cut across the grass instead of sticking to the sidewalk, and replayed the copier room moment in sharper detail. She had asked if Paige was okay, and there had been a split second where Paige looked far away.

She wasn’t disassociating, and she didn’t seem distracted. It was more like she was calculating— like her mind ran deeper tracks than most people’s.

You zone out when you’re thinking.

I don’t zone out.

You do.

Azzi huffed softly to herself. She liked that about Paige, the bluntness and the refusal to cushion. It felt honest.

And the way Paige had said, You’re interested in my environment.

Not in an accusatory way, just natural curiosity. Azzi pressed her lips together and felt heat rise up her neck again.

She’d meant what she said. It mattered to Paige, so it mattered to her.

A realization settled in Azzi’s chest. She hadn’t cared about anyone’s “environment” in a long time. Not since last year.

The breakup had been messy in a quiet way. There wasn’t any screaming or a dramatic final scene, just erosion. The girl who Azzi had been talking to had said she was “too much.” Too expressive, too quick to attach, and too open.

So, since then, Azzi had tried to scale herself back. She had tried to be less. Safer. She hadn’t let herself feel any flicker of crush energy in months, because she hadn’t wanted to be the one leaning forward again. And yet, Paige.

Azzi laughed under her breath and shook her head. It wasn’t like Paige was exactly… smooth. She was awkward, and direct to the point when it was almost jarring. She didn’t soften her edges, and sometimes her eye contact felt almost surgical.

Not to mention, she analyzed everything. Literally everything. Azzi had caught it at the café, too— the way Paige’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long after she’d said something vulnerable. Not in a judgmental way, but like she was assessing the situation.

Azzi had felt dissected in that moment, but not in a bad way. She felt studied, like someone was actually trying to understand the structure of her.

Azzi kicked a loose pebble off the path as she thought to herself— Does Paige do that with everyone?

Paige was a researcher. Attachment theory was her entire academic focus, so it made sense that she observed people and broke them down into patterns and tendencies.

Azzi imagined Paige doing the same thing to random students on the quad— predicting their behaviors and categorizing their expressions.

The idea made her smile. That’s just how she is, she told herself. She’s dedicated and focused. It wasn’t personal, except… it didn’t feel general, either.

When Paige looked at her, it didn’t feel like a blanket study of humanity. It felt kind of targeted.

She replayed the moment by the posters and the way Paige had stepped closer without seeming to realize she was doing it. The air between them had thickened then, and there had been something there. Not just academic curiosity, but something heavier.

Azzi slowed down near her dorm entrance with her heart beating a little faster. Is she interested in me? Not academically, and not as a participant, but in me.

She tried to catalog the evidence the way Paige might.

The DM initiation had escalated quickly into coffee.

Paige had remembered details from their first conversation with unsettling precision.

She had responded perfectly when Azzi mentioned her ex. Not with generic reassurance, but exact phrasing.

And today… she let her into the lab.

That last one felt especially significant. Paige didn’t seem like someone who let unimportant people just wander through her sanctuary.

Azzi’s fingers brushed her own arm absentmindedly as she recalled the way she’d nudged past Paige in the copier room. She could still feel the faint heat that had radiated off her.

Paige hadn’t pulled away, but she hadn’t leaned in, either. She’d just… stayed still and present. The memory made Azzi’s skin prickle in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

The thing was, she didn’t feel scared. If anything, she felt chosen, like Paige had selected her out of a crowd, filtered her through whatever internal algorithm she used, and decided she was worth proximity. Something about that was deeply flattering.

Azzi then pushed open the dorm door and stepped inside. The cool air brushed her flushed face.

She didn’t feel watched or unsafe, she just felt… wanted. The intensity in Paige’s gaze didn’t read as hunger to her. It read as focus, commitment, and intentionality— and after a year of someone slowly losing interest, of watching texts get shorter and calls get rarer, intentionality felt intoxicating.

What would it be like to date someone like Paige? Someone who thought before she spoke, who remembered everything, and who seemed almost incapable of half-heartedness.

Azzi paused outside her door with her hand hovering over the handle. Would Paige even know how to flirt? The mere thought made her grin.

She pulled out her phone and opened their DMs.

azzifudd: you didn’t tell me that copier room is kind of a vibe

azzifudd: educationally speaking, obviously

She hit send before she could overthink it, and inside her chest, something warm unfurled.

She wasn’t oblivious to the way Paige studied her. She noticed it, but she didn’t interpret it as predatory. Instead, she interpreted it as care and fascination— and if she was being honest with herself, she liked being fascinating to someone.

Even if she didn’t fully understand the depth of it. Even if she couldn’t see the layers beneath the surface. All she knew was, when Paige looked at her, she felt singular, and right now, that was enough.

—

The shower at Paige’s apartment had even water pressure, and she liked that.

That was predictable, but it carried some unpredictability. For example, the left knob always needed a sharper turn, and the temperature always ran slightly hotter than the marking suggested. These were variables she had mapped the first night she moved in.

Steam filled the small bathroom and fogged the mirror, softening the edges of the tile. She stood under the spray with her eyes closed and replayed.

Azzi’s shoulder brushing hers in the lab— light, but deliberate, her laugh echoing off the hallway walls, and the way she’d moved through 314C like she belonged there. Like she’d been invited.

Paige tilted her head back and let the water run down her throat. Azzi had not asked for permission to exist in that space, she had just simply existed, both confident and curious. In Paige’s lab. The memory sent something dark and electric through her.

Her hand started to slide down her own stomach slowly, her fingertips trailing through water and heat. She paused just above her cunt— that had been buzzing low and constant since the copier room.

She didn’t do this often, because she just didn’t feel the need to. Physical urges were typically distant for Paige. They felt like background noise she could compartmentalize and manage, but tonight, the sensation wasn’t in the background. It was insistent.

She pressed her palm flat against her abdomen and inhaled sharply as Azzi’s voice threaded through her mind again.

It matters to you. So it matters to me.

Paige’s jaw tightened, and the warmth between her legs deepened, feeling both heavy and undeniable.

She lowered her hand further and let her fingers slide through her folds. Her free hand shot out to brace against the tile wall as she began rubbing tight and deliberate circles against her clit— fast, controlled, and purposeful.

When Paige touched herself, it was typically efficient and functional. She would build sensation, reach the necessary peak, recover, and move on. No indulgence or narrative were necessary.

But right now, her eyes were squeezed shut, and that gave her mind the permission it needed to drift somewhere she usually refused to let it go.

Paige disliked hypotheticals unless they were data-related. Speculation without empirical grounding felt wasteful— and yet, her brain betrayed her.

Azzi straddling her lap while Paige spoke about attachment theory with clinical certainty.

Azzi’s mouth at her neck as she explained the similarities between their majors, and the compatibility that was implied.

Azzi’s hand sliding up her thigh while Paige pointed out response graphs, calmly articulating why hers was the most statistically interesting.

The images weren’t chaotic, they were structured and sequential. They were intimate in a way that felt terrifyingly plausible.

Paige bit down on her lip to suppress the sound threatening to escape as her hips pressed forward into her own touch. She didn’t need more. She didn’t need to slow down or deepen the stimulation. This was enough to get her there, more than enough.

Her orgasm hit her fast and hard, the climax ripping through her with startling force. Her hand on the wall slipped, and her fingers scraped uselessly at the tile. Her knees weakened but held.

She bowed forward with her forehead pressing against the cool ceramic as she sucked in sharp breaths, her lungs struggling to regulate the spike in her pulse.

Water continued to pour over her shoulders, and for several seconds, she didn’t move. Instead, she cataloged her body processes.

Heart rate elevated. Muscle tremor present. Respiration uneven but stabilizing.

Her eyes opened slowly as the pleasure receded, but something else remained.

Not shame— Paige did not moralize desire. Not confusion— the stimuli-response pathway had been clear.

What lingered instead was intensity. Her climax had not felt abstract, but targeted. She had not imagined a generic body, but instead, Azzi.

This was new for her. The fact that the pleasure had amplified when the scenarios involved intellectual proximity, shared space, and a shared focus.

Her brain replayed one of the imagined images again, but slower this time. Azzi leaning into her as she explained data, her mouth brushing her skin, and all of her attention fixed on Paige and Paige only.

It hadn’t just been about sex. It had been about access. About Azzi choosing her space, touching her environment, and listening. The orgasm had fused desire with ownership.

Attachment deepens with repeated contact.

Her body had just reinforced that hypothesis. Neural pathways were strengthened by association, and reward response was linked to subject-specific imagery.

Her system was now calibrating around Azzi. Pleasure now had a face and a voice, when it never had before.

Paige turned off the shower, and silence filled the bathroom, both thick and private. As she reached for her towel, one thought crystallized with unsettling clarity: she did not want this response diffused across variables, she wanted it anchored to one.

—

The bathroom felt cooler when Paige stepped out. The steam thinned around her shoulders as she toweled off, her movements precise and efficient as always. She didn’t linger in the mirror, and definitely didn’t examine the flush that was still high on her cheekbones.

She dressed in soft sleep shorts and an oversized Hartwell Psychology Department tee, both routine and controlled, but something inside her felt less contained.

She turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into her bedroom. It was 11:42 p.m. She moved to her desk without hesitation, sat down, and opened her laptop, where the folder hierarchy appeared instantly. She did not have to search for the file she was looking for, because it was always right there, under Recently Viewed.

220175 — Priority Subject

The file opened, but she didn’t type anything. She didn’t add a single note, she just stared.

The main dashboard displayed timestamps, behavioral charts, and categorized observations. Beneath that, was the private archive, the images and screenshots Paige had curated to match the response curves from Azzi’s participation in her study.

Her cursor hovered over one of the images, then she clicked, and the selfie filled the screen.

Azzi, smiling wide, with her cheek pressed against another girl’s— dark hair, hazel-ish eyes. Paige had not yet identified who she was.

The file name read: IMG_azzifudd_021.

Paige zoomed in on it, specifically on Azzi’s face. She let her vision scan across the softness at the corners of her eyes, and the relaxed openness of her mouth.

Then, she shifted the frame to the other girl. Her hand rested casually on Azzi’s shoulder, portraying something familiar and possessive.

Paige’s lip caught between her teeth, and a sharp and unfamiliar irritation sparked in her chest. Who is she?

She opened up another tab and pulled up Azzi’s Instagram page. She had posted a story with this same girl earlier this morning— a photo of the girl with a coffee in hand.

Posted 15 hours ago—

Text typed near the bottom of the image: “my person 🤍”

Paige’s fingers curled slowly against the desk. Her person. The phrase echoed unpleasantly.

Attachment deepens with repeated contact.

She had written that same sentence in her abstract when she applied for the Psychology Lab grant— cited properly and empirically supported. Proximity increases bond salience. Consistency increases emotional reliance. Repeated contact.

Paige leaned back slightly in her chair with her eyes never leaving the screen. Azzi had come to her lab without being prompted. She had initiated the DM earlier, and asked about the study— about her. The engagement metrics were rising.

She pulled up the post that included the selfie of Azzi and the unnamed girl. Azzi didn’t usually tag anyone in her posts, so she would have to investigate another way. She opened up the comments, and her eyes scanned over them.

Most of them were fairly normal. Nothing eye-catching. Some emojis, surface-level compliments, but then—

caroline.ducharme: my pretty girl

Paige’s eyes immediately narrowed. Azzi hadn’t mentioned Caroline directly to her yet, but Paige could tell that their relationship— whatever level it may be— was strong.

After Paige did a bit more scrolling through Azzi’s account and analyzed each and every comment posted by Caroline, she went back to the data file and inserted a few more notes under the selfie image.

Frequency of interaction: high.

Comment history: familiar tone, inside jokes and pet names commonly used

Her jaw tightened, then she zoomed in on the image again. This time, she isolated the space between their shoulders. They were too close. Like, unnecessarily close. She imagined replacing Caroline’s hand with her own, and imagined Azzi turning her head slightly to smile at her instead.

Attachment deepens with repeated contact. Paige kept repeating that sentence over and over in her head.

Attachment deepens with repeated contact, so she would become the repeated contact. Not Caroline, and not anyone else who thought they had baseline access.

Azzi had chosen her today. She had entered her space, asked questions, and opened up. Those were not random behaviors, they were signals, and signals required responses.

Her gaze traced Azzi’s face on the screen—slow, reverent, and hungry. She felt desire, yes, but layered beneath it was something harder. Possessiveness.

Paige realized that since Azzi had participated in her lab study, she had invested intellectual and emotional resources. Paige had given her time, energy, and observation. Investment created expectation.

Azzi had engaged with her, and that engagement meant something, like… progression.

Paige’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, because she was tempted to document the feeling, to reduce it to language and control it. She ultimately decided against it. Instead, she whispered softly to the empty room:

“I’m your safest variable.”

The words felt true, because Paige was safer than unpredictable friends and past partners who left. Paige would not erode or drift. She would remain constant. A constant contact, and a constant presence.

She zoomed out slightly and restored the full selfie, her eyes lighting up as Azzi’s smile filled the screen again. Caroline, though, blurred into the edge of the frame.

Paige’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. Repeated contact… yeah, she could engineer that. She didn’t see it as manipulation, but rather, optimization.

She closed the image but kept the file open as she stared at the dashboard header:

220175 — Priority Subject

Her obsession had shifted tonight. It was no longer just fascination and desire. It had now calcified into something directional.

She didn’t simply want Azzi, she wanted primary position, and in Paige’s world, primary position was not left to chance.

—

The next day, 314C was quiet again. The lights were steady, and the air vent hummed at the same low frequency Paige had grown accustomed to since the beginning of the semester.

She stood on her toes to reach the top corner of the whiteboard, and wrote in careful block letters:

220462 — Tues 2:30

220471 — Tues 3:45

220489 — Wed 2:15

Each number was evenly spaced, and each time was aligned precisely beneath the last.

She capped the marker, then stepped back to assess. Everything was balanced and predictable. That’s how she kept things in the lab.

Her routine after this would be simple:

1: Save the updated scheduling spreadsheet.

2: Power down the secondary monitor.

3: Sanitize the participant sensors.

4: Turn off the overhead lights.

5: Lock the door.

She always completed them in that order. Her phone then vibrated in her pocket, but she didn’t check it immediately. She finished aligning the eraser tray first, then pulled her phone out.

azzifudd: you on campus?

azzifudd: i’m at the library studying. come join me?

azzifudd: it’s too lonely in here

Paige’s gaze lingered on the last message.

Too lonely in here.

Azzi had initiated again. This wasn’t lab-related, or research-related, it was just… her.

Paige glanced at the whiteboard once more.

She knew she should finish the routine. She needed to power down the monitor and log the updated IDs.

pbsbaseline: which floor

She didn’t shut down the monitor or wipe the sensors. She didn’t even look back at the board. She just grabbed her bag, turned off the main lights, and left 314C without completing the sequence.

Her brain registered the incompletion, and it left a faint itch beneath her skin, but it was overridden by something stronger— repeated contact.

—

The third floor of the library smelled faintly like paper and old carpet. Paige spotted Azzi immediately at a corner table tucked near a window with her laptop open, highlighter uncapped, and one earbud dangling from her collar.

Azzi looked up at the exact moment Paige approached, and her face lit in a way that felt unfiltered. “There you are,” she said, smiling.

Paige sat across from her, and then she mirrored Azzi’s setup. She opened her laptop and then slid her backpack next to Azzi’s on the floor by the table leg.

For a few minutes, they worked in parallel silence. Their keyboards clicked and their textbook pages turned, but then Azzi sighed dramatically and leaned back in her chair.

“Okay. I need to vent.”

Paige’s eyes snapped up. “Proceed,” she said evenly.

Azzi huffed out a small laugh. “You always sound like you’re granting access to classified information.”

Paige finally met her eyes. “You requested to vent. I’m confirming clearance.”

Azzi’s smile softened. “Okay. Clearance accepted.”

She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. “My Molecular Bio group project? It’s a disaster. I’ve done, like, eighty percent of the work.”

Paige stilled. “Clarify.”

“There are two other people in my group. They keep saying they’ll handle sections, and then they just… don’t. So I end up doing it because I don’t want our grade to tank.”

“Have you confronted them?”

Azzi shook her head immediately. “No. I mean— I’ve hinted at it, but I don’t like conflict. I’d rather just fix it.”

Paige studied her face carefully. She had slight tension at the jaw, and some micro-tightening around the eyes. This wasn’t anger, but… resignation. “You consistently absorb other people’s responsibilities,” Paige said.

Azzi blinked. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I guess I do.”

Paige’s voice remained steady and uninflected. “You deserve people who respond to you consistently.”

The words landed between them, and Azzi’s posture shifted before she leaned in closer.

Paige continued. “Group dynamics should not require unilateral compensation. If you are repeatedly over-functioning, the imbalance becomes reinforced.”

Azzi let out a soft breath. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

Paige tilted her head slightly. “Some people just don’t understand your processing style.”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed just a fraction curiously. “My processing style?”

“You are proactive,” Paige said. “And future-oriented. When others delay, it creates cognitive friction for you. You resolve it by taking control.”

Azzi stared at her. “That’s… uncomfortably accurate.”

Paige didn’t smile, because she didn’t need to. She wasn’t much of a smiler. She instead, held that unwavering eye contact. “You are not unreasonable for wanting reliability.”

Azzi’s shoulders dropped and some of the tension drained visibly. “I didn’t even realize that’s what I wanted,” she said softly. “Reliability.”

Paige felt satisfaction at that response. She had pinpointed it— what Azzi needed to hear, again.

Across the table, Azzi’s gaze shifted into something less animated now, and more grounded. Like she felt seen.

“You make me feel less crazy,” Azzi admitted.

Paige absorbed that carefully. “You are not erratic,” she replied. “Your expectations are coherent.”

Azzi smiled, but it wasn’t the bright and public smile from the quad. It was something smaller and more private. “Thank you,” she said.

Paige felt something settle deep in her chest. Not joy, no, and not affection in the traditional sense. It was importance, and… centrality.

Azzi had come to her because she felt lonely. She had vented to her about frustration, and accepted her interpretation as the truth. This was the progression Paige had identified as necessary last night.

They returned to their laptops after that, but the energy at the table had shifted.

Azzi’s knee brushed lightly against the underside of the table once, then stayed there. Not accidental, not overt, but present.

After a few minutes, Azzi glanced up again. “Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?”

“Yes.”

“I think I get scared that if I confront people, they’ll leave.”

Paige’s fingers paused over her keyboard. Abandonment anxiety, she thought to herself. She logged the phrase internally. “You maintain connection by minimizing disruption,” Paige said.

Azzi swallowed. “Yeah.”

“You do not need to earn stability,” Paige said quietly.

Azzi’s eyes flickered, and something fragile passed through her expression. “Why do you always know exactly what to say?” she asked.

Paige held her gaze. “Pattern recognition.”

Azzi laughed softly, but her eyes were still searching. “It doesn’t feel like just that.”

Paige didn’t respond. Across the table, Azzi closed her laptop halfway. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I didn’t want to sit here alone while I was spiraling.”

“You requested presence,” Paige said. “I provided it.”

Azzi smiled again, that same private one. “And I appreciate it.”

Paige felt the word settle like a claim. Appreciated, needed, and consulted. Inside, Paige felt something more structural forming.

Azzi was beginning to route distress through her. She was starting to seek her interpretation and rely on her. It wasn’t isolation, not yet, but it was positioning.

As Azzi reopened her laptop and resumed working, calmer and steadier now— Paige experienced a quiet and internal certainty. Attachment deepens with repeated contact. She was going to make sure she remained the most consistent contact available.

Across the table, Azzi looked up once more and caught her staring. Instead of looking away, Paige held the gaze, and Azzi didn’t flinch, she just smiled— and Paige felt, with unsettling clarity, that the center was shifting.

Toward her.

—

Two nights later, Azzi was flat on her back in bed with the lamp off and her phone illuminating her face in a soft light.

Her roommate was already asleep in the other bedroom, and the dorm hummed quietly. Pipes ticked, and someone laughed faintly down the hall.

Azzi’s screen glowed with one open thread:

pbsbaseline

They had been talking for forty-three minutes. Not flirting, not exactly, because something adjacent to it.

azzifudd: okay but answer honestly

azzifudd: if you had to pick one personality trait that predicts long-term compatibility what would it be

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately, disappeared, then reappeared again. Azzi smiled into her pillow, because she liked that about Paige— the visible processing and deliberation.

pbsbaseline: emotional regulation

azzifudd: BORING

pbsbaseline: statistically robust

Azzi bit her lip as that feeling of warmth spread through her chest.

azzifudd: elaborate, dr. baseline

There was a longer pause this time. Azzi imagined Paige right now, maybe sitting at her desk with her posture straight and her expression neutral, analyzing the question like it was a grant proposal instead of a late-night text.

pbsbaseline: relationships deteriorate when one or both parties escalate or deescalate unpredictably

pbsbaseline: consistency stabilizes attachment systems

Azzi rolled onto her side and tucked the phone closer to her face. Consistency stabilizes attachment systems. That was such a Paige answer. Clinical and precise, and yet— there was something strangely comforting about it.

azzifudd: so you’re saying I need to date someone boring and emotionally stable

pbsbaseline: i am saying volatility feels exciting, but erodes trust

Azzi stared at that one longer than she expected to. Volatility feels exciting, but erodes trust. Her last relationship flashed briefly in her mind. The highs, the unpredictable dips, and the constant guessing.

azzifudd: hypothetically

azzifudd: what if someone is stable but still interesting

pbsbaseline: that would be optimal

Azzi pressed her face into her pillow to muffle a ridiculous grin. Optimal. Who even says that? Paige does, and for some reason, it made Azzi’s stomach flip.

Her phone then buzzed with another notification at the top of her screen.

Caroline: play me back in cup pong 🙄

Azzi glanced at it and smiled. She pressed her thumb down on it, then swiped it away without opening the thread.

She’d text her back in a minute, she was just mid-conversation right now, and this felt… important.

azzifudd: what do you think makes someone interesting

There was a longer pause now, long enough that Azzi’s mind started to wander, imagining Paige rereading the question, then parsing subtext.

pbsbaseline: specificity

azzifudd: that’s not a personality trait

pbsbaseline: it is to me

azzifudd: explain

pbsbaseline: most people speak in generalities

pbsbaseline: when someone is specific about what they think or feel, it indicates self-awareness

Azzi swallowed. Specific, like when she’d told Paige she gets scared to confront people because she thinks they’ll leave. Paige had been specific back.

You maintain connection by minimizing disruption.

azzifudd: so if I’m specific rn

azzifudd: and I say I like how your brain works

azzifudd: does that count

The typing bubble popped up, vanished, came back, then disappeared again. Azzi could practically see Paige sitting very still and calculating.

pbsbaseline: that is specific

That was it. No emoji and no reciprocal compliment, just that, and somehow, it made Azzi laugh softly into the dark.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered to her screen. Her phone then buzzed again and a message notification appeared at the top.

Caroline: hello???

Azzi knew she needed to answer. Caroline would absolutely have commentary on this entire exchange. She’d want screenshots, and then she would tease her about Paige’s use of the word optimal.

Azzi opened Caroline’s thread and quickly played her back in cup pong.

Azzi: ha, I win

Azzi: again

Azzi: I will call u tomorrow

She then flipped back to Paige’s chat, because she wanted to stay there, in that quiet, analytical, and slightly charged space.

azzifudd: okay your turn

azzifudd: what makes someone interesting to you

pbsbaseline: responsiveness

azzifudd: define

pbsbaseline: when you reach for someone and they actually reach back

The words were simple, but they didn’t feel academic. They felt… deliberate. She stared at them and her heart pounded lightly against her ribs.

When you reach for someone and they actually reach back.

She thought about the coffee shop, the lab, the library, and about tonight. She had reached, and Paige had responded— quickly, and consistently.

azzifudd: I think you do that

pbsbaseline: I am consistent

Azzi laughed quietly. “You are,” she murmured to her quiet room, and for the first time in a long time, consistency didn’t sound boring. It sounded safe.

Her phone buzzed again and Caroline’s name flashed at the top of her screen once more. Azzi didn’t open it. She’d respond tomorrow. Caroline wasn’t going anywhere.

This thing with Paige— it felt newer, more fragile, and more electric.

She rolled onto her stomach and kicked her feet lightly against the mattress— an unconscious and giddy movement that she hadn’t made since high school crushes.

Paige wasn’t flirting in the traditional sense. She wasn’t calling her pretty, sending winking emojis, or any playful teases, but every response felt like attention. Focused and undivided attention. Azzi felt chosen, like Paige had evaluated the entire world carefully and still kept deciding to answer her— to show up and respond.

And without realizing it, Azzi was beginning to do the same. Prioritizing the thread, letting other notifications wait, and routing her thoughts to Paige first.

She typed one last message before sleep started tugging at her eyes.

azzifudd: goodnight, consistent girl

pbsbaseline: night. remember, less screen time before bed leads to better sleep quality.

Azzi scoffed, then pressed her phone to her chest and smiled into the dark. She didn’t see the leverage forming, or feel the slow shift of gravity. To her, this was simple. She had a crush, and it was growing.

Azzi hadn't grown up wanting to "save" anyone. That was a naive notion for romance novels, not for a life built on logic and evidence. She grew up in a house where emotions were academic exercises to be dissected and debated. Her mother, a brilliant cardiologist, believed in measurable outcomes, in the predictable rhythm of a heart, not its unpredictable longings. Her father, a formidable law professor, believed in moral argument, in the clean, sharp lines of right and wrong. Dinner conversations were debates, intellectual sparring matches where the winner was the one with the most compelling argument. Pain was analyzed. Crying was inefficient. Vulnerability was a flaw in the system to be identified and corrected.

When Azzi was sixteen, her cousin Laila was arrested. A simple case of shoplifting spiraled, a chain reaction of poor choices and panicked decisions that turned into assault, which turned into probation, which ultimately turned into incarceration. Everyone said the same thing, a chorus of judgment and disappointment. "She threw her life away." Azzi didn't buy it. She visited Laila once in juvenile detention, a place of gray walls and despairing eyes. She sat across from her in a plastic chair bolted to concrete, a sterile, impersonal barrier between them. Laila didn't look evil. She looked tired. Scared. Alone. "What happened?" Azzi had asked, her voice soft. Laila just shrugged, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "No one was listening anyway."

That sentence lodged in Azzi's chest like a splinter, a tiny, sharp point of pain she could never dislodge. No one was listening. Not the teachers who had labeled her a problem. Not the judge who had seen her as a statistic. Not the family who preferred disappointment to involvement. Laila overdosed two years later. Accidental, they said. Azzi never believed in accidents after that. She went into psychology not because she was naive, but because she was furious. Furious at systems that labeled without investigating, at the ease with which people were discarded, at the profound, soul-crushing loneliness of being unheard.

Private practice came first, a world of polished offices and sanitized problems. Anxiety. Marital disputes. Corporate burnout. It bored her. The harm was subtle, wrapped in expensive clothes and polite language. It was a lie, and she had always preferred raw truth. Then she took a temporary contract at a juvenile detention facility. The first week she watched a seventeen-year-old girl, a child really, break a chair over another inmate's back. The staff called her a monster, a lost cause. Azzi read the file. Repeated foster placements. Three documented assaults. Two sealed reports of sexual abuse. Monster was a convenient word, a label that allowed them to wash their hands of her. Azzi stayed. From there, she moved to maximum security, to places like Wentworth. Because prisons didn't hide what they were. Prisons were honest. Violence wasn't disguised as civility. Power wasn't wrapped in corporate jargon. It was raw. And Azzi preferred raw truth to pretty lies.

She had rules. Iron rules. No physical contact beyond a professional, necessary handshake. No personal disclosure beyond clinically useful fragments designed to build rapport. No sessions outside designated, secure spaces. Never believe you are special to a patient. Never confuse attention with attachment. She wrote them after Elena. Elena had been her first love, a whirlwind of soft hands, storm-colored eyes, and a poet's soul with a cruel streak disguised as freedom. Azzi had fallen fast, deep, entirely. Elena left without warning. No goodbye. No explanation. Just absence, a void where a person used to be. Azzi learned two things from that. One, vulnerability without structure is chaos. Two, people leave. So she built structure. Boundaries became architecture. Architecture became safety. And she never blurred it again. Until Paige.

Paige Bueckers did not behave like other inmates. She didn't charm in the obvious way, didn't plead or sob or seduce with softness. She studied. She observed. She pushed exactly where the structure flexed, testing its limits with a precision that was unnerving. Most inmates tested authority to dominate. Paige tested it to understand it. That was different. That was dangerous. In their first session, Azzi had recognized intelligence. In the second, she recognized restraint. By the third, she recognized something worse. She enjoyed sparring with her. That should not have been true. Therapy was not meant to feel like chess. It was not meant to feel like tension coiled under the surface. It was certainly not meant to feel electric. But when Paige leaned in, when her voice dropped low and steady and asked, "Are you as real as you seem?" Azzi hadn't seen a predator. She had seen curiosity. And that unsettled her more than aggression ever could. Because aggression she could treat. Curiosity required response. And she had responded. She had closed her eyes. Just for a second. That second was everything.

It wasn't attraction that scared her. She was comfortable with her sexuality, had been for years. It wasn't even desire. Desire could be compartmentalized, filed away in a neat, labeled box in the back of her mind. It was the shift in power dynamic that terrified her. For the first time in her career, she felt aware of herself inside a session. Aware of how close her knee was to Paige's. Aware of the warmth between them. Aware of her own breath. Therapists are trained to notice the client's body language, not their own. Paige made her notice her own. That was unacceptable. Because if she became self-conscious, she lost neutrality. If she lost neutrality, she lost authority. And if she lost authority inside Wentworth, she was finished.

Azzi walked to her window and looked out over the yard. Women moved in clusters below, power shifting invisibly between them like currents in an ocean. Paige stood near the wall, a solitary figure of stillness. Even from a distance, Azzi could recognize the control, the gravitational pull. Leadership didn't always look loud. Sometimes it looked like silence that everyone watched. Paige had influence. And influence complicated treatment. Because if Azzi wasn't careful, she wouldn't just be treating an inmate. She'd be protecting a power structure. And that blurred ethics fast. She pressed her fingers to her temple, a dull ache starting to form. This was why therapists avoided emotional entanglement. Not because of scandal. But because attachment altered perception. And perception was everything in this place.

Did she believe Paige ordered the stabbing? Her clinical assessment said no. Too messy. Too public. Too reactive. Paige preferred surgical moves, quiet and devastating. But the fact that she wanted to defend her automatically, that her first instinct was to build a fortress of logic around her, that bothered her. Was it analysis? Or was it bias? She replayed the hallway argument in her mind. Paige's voice sharp, laced with a pain that was raw and real. "You looked at me and saw a killer. Just like everyone else." That wasn't manipulation. That was hurt. Azzi recognized authentic hurt. She also recognized when she wanted to soothe it. And that impulse, to soothe, was not clinical. It was personal. That was new. That was dangerous.

Paige wasn't the first inmate to flirt. She wasn't the first to test a boundary. She was the first to make Azzi hesitate. The first to make her curious in return. The first to make her ask herself, briefly, what would it feel like without the bars. That thought alone was enough to make her step back physically in the next session. She would not let imagination infect reality. This was prison. She was staff. Paige was an inmate. End of story. And yet. When Paige smiled, not the smirk, not the weaponized one, but the rare, genuine one that reached her eyes and transformed her face, Azzi felt something tighten in her chest. Hope. And hope, she knew from experience, was the most destabilizing force of all.

She moved the chair back again. Another inch. Distance measured. Reinforced. She would correct course. No more shared vulnerability beyond necessity. No more proximity. No more charged silence. She would treat Paige like every other patient. Structured. Neutral. Contained. If Paige wanted war, she could manage that. If Paige wanted redemption, she could guide that. But she would not become part of the story. She had learned that lesson once, and she had survived it by building walls. She was not going to let one inmate, no matter how sharp, no matter how magnetic, dismantle architecture it had taken her a decade to construct. Even if, deep down, in a place she refused to acknowledge, she already knew the foundation had shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to feel it. And that was the part she could not admit to anyone. Especially herself.

***

The unit went quiet when KK walked back in. It wasn't a dramatic entrance. There was no yelling, no threats, no posturing. She just walked through the door, her steps slower now, a careful, measured gait that spoke of the stitched and bandaged wound hidden beneath her shirt. But her eyes were clearer than they'd been in weeks, the fog of rage and impulsive violence replaced by a chilling, calculating clarity. She wasn't humiliated. She was reborn, sharpened by the experience, honed into a more dangerous weapon.

Paige didn't look up from the table where she was sitting with Aaliyah, her attention seemingly focused on the grimy, scarred surface. That was deliberate. A calculated dismissal. A statement that KK was no longer a threat worth her time. KK noticed. Good.

Later, in the yard, under the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, KK didn't approach Paige. That would be too obvious, too expected. She approached Nika. Nika was alone at the weights, her movements smooth and powerful as she worked through her set, her focus absolute. KK stepped into her shadow, a sudden, unwelcome presence.

"You're wasted with her," KK said calmly, her voice a low, conversational murmur that was more menacing than a shout.

Nika didn't look up, her muscles tensing slightly as she completed another rep. "Careful," she replied, her voice a low growl of warning.

KK leaned against the weight rack, her posture deceptively casual, a predator feigning indifference. "You think she didn't know Kayleigh was circling me? You think she didn't see it coming?"

"She didn't," Nika said evenly, her voice flat, finally setting the weight down with a heavy clang.

KK smiled, a slow, cruel curve of her lips. "That's cute. That you actually believe that."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken threats.

"She let it happen," KK continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Didn't stop it. Didn't warn me. She just stood there and watched. Is that leadership to you? Is that the kind of person you want to follow?"

Now Nika looked at her, her eyes cold and hard as steel. "You attacked first. You went after Sarah's hands. You crossed the line."

KK shrugged, a gesture of dismissive contempt. "And now she's got a rep she didn't earn. A reputation built on someone else's blood. She's a fucking legend now, and she didn't lift a finger."

Nika just stared at her, her face a mask of stoic indifference, but Paige could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes from across the yard. She saw the way KK's words were landing, like tiny, poisonous darts, finding the cracks in Nika's loyalty.

"Reps matter," KK said softly, her voice a sibilant hiss. "Especially when parole boards read incident reports. They see a pattern. They see association. They see guilt by proximity. You align yourself with someone everyone already believes is capable of murder... what does that make you?"

That landed. Nika didn't react outwardly, not a single muscle twitched, but Paige knew her. She knew she had filed it away, turned it over in her mind, a seed of doubt planted in the fertile ground of her ambition.

KK stepped back, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "Think about it," she said. "Think about what you're throwing away for a ghost." She walked away before Nika could answer, her mission accomplished.

Across the yard, Paige saw the entire interaction. She saw every word, every gesture, every subtle shift in Nika's posture. And she didn't like it. Not one fucking bit. She felt a cold, hard knot of anger tighten in her gut, a familiar, unwelcome feeling. She was watching everything, her mind a whirlwind of calculations and strategies. She saw KK's game, a slow, insidious poison designed to isolate her, to turn her allies against her. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning. This was a war of whispers, and KK was playing to win.

Later that night, after count, after the lights had been dimmed to a low, sleepy glow, Paige lay on her bunk, staring at the ceiling, the conversation playing over and over in her mind. She heard the soft scrape of a boot on the concrete floor. Nika. She didn't sit up. She didn't speak. She just waited.

Nika leaned against the frame of Paige's cell, her silhouette a dark, imposing shape against the dim light of the block. "KK came to see me today," she said, her voice a low, quiet murmur.

Paige finally turned her head, her eyes a glint in the darkness. "I saw," she said, her voice flat.

"She's trying to get in my head," Nika continued. "Talking about parole boards and reputations."

Paige was silent, her body a coiled spring of tension. "And?"

"And it's bullshit," Nika said, her voice firm, unwavering. "All of it. She's scared. She knows she lost, and now she's trying to claw her way back by turning us against each other. It's a desperate, pathetic move from a desperate, pathetic bitch."

Paige felt a wave of relief wash over her, so potent it almost made her weak. She sat up, her feet swinging over the edge of the bunk. "You're not wrong," she said, her voice a low, rough murmur.

The dim light of the cell block cast long shadows, making Nika's silhouette seem even more formidable as she leaned against the doorframe. Her words hung in the air, a solid, unbreakable promise. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, her voice a solemn vow. "When I first got here, we didn't get along but that didn't stop you from not letting anybody fuck with me. And for that I'll always have ya back. That's not something I forget. KK can talk all the shit she wants. It doesn't change the facts. We're a team. You and me. And Aaliyah. And Sarah. That's our crew. That's our family now."

Paige looked at her, the hard lines of her face softening for just a moment, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. It was a fragile thing, but it was real. "You're a good person, Nika."

Nika snorted, a soft, humorless sound in the quiet of the block. "You're a pain in my ass," she replied, a flicker of her old, wry humor returning, a welcome warmth in the coldness of their world. "But you're my pain in the ass. And I'll burn this whole fucking place down before I let anyone take that away."

Paige nodded, the fleeting smile gone, replaced by a cold, steely resolve that settled over her features like a mask. The relief she felt was a fleeting warmth, quickly extinguished by the icy fire of her purpose. "Good," she said, her voice a low, dangerous murmur. "Because I think it's time we stopped playing defense."

Nika smiled, a slow, dangerous grin that was all teeth and no warmth, a predator's promise. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Paige swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, her feet landing softly on the concrete floor. She stood, her movements fluid and silent, a predator in her own right. She crossed the small space of her cell, stopping just inches from Nika, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "KK wants to play games? Fine. Let's play. She wants to turn my crew against me? Let's show her what happens when you corner a wolf pack."

Nika's grin widened, her eyes gleaming with a feral light in the dimness. "What's the plan?"

Paige's eyes were dark, her mind already racing, connecting the dots, seeing the angles, the weaknesses, the opportunities. "KK's power comes from fear," she said, her voice a low, steady hum. "She thinks she's the biggest, baddest thing in here. We take that away. We take her reputation, her respect, her entire fucking empire, piece by piece."

"And how do we do that?" Nika asked, her voice a low, eager growl.

"We start with her crew," Paige said, her voice cold and calculating. "They're loyal because they're scared. We show them there's a bigger, badder thing to be scared of. We show them there's a new power in Wentworth. And we show them that crossing us is a mistake they won't live to regret."

Nika nodded, her expression grim and determined. "And what about KK?"

Paige's smile was a slow, chilling thing, a promise of retribution. "She gets the message," she said. "Loud and clear."

The two women stood there in the darkness, a silent, unspoken pact passing between them. It was a declaration of war, a promise of violence, and a vow of loyalty, all wrapped up in the quiet, oppressive stillness of the cell block. The game had changed. And they were ready to play.

***

It happens two nights later. A routine shakedown. Nothing unusual. The ai in the block is thick with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the restless energy of women who know their privacy is about to be violated but are powerless to stop it. Officers move with a practiced, almost bored efficiency, their heavy boots a rhythmic, percussive beat on the concrete floor. They open lockers, flip through books, run rough hands over mattresses, a familiar, dehumanizing ritual.

Until Officer Jackson stops atPaige's cell. He's a big, burly man with a face like a slab of concrete and eyes that are small and piggy. "Out," he orders, his voice a flat, emotionless command.

Paige steps into the corridor calmly, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her expression a mask of bored indifference. She leans against the wall opposite her cell, her gaze sweeping the block, a silent, watchful predator.

Two officers enter her cell, their movements jerky and aggressive. One of them, a younger officer with a nervous, twitchy energy, flips her mattress, the dull thud echoing in the sudden silence. The other, a woman with a hard, cynical face, checks her books, her fingers rifling through the pages with a dismissive air. They open her locker, their hands rummaging through her meager possessions, a small, pathetic collection of contraband and keepsakes. The..

"Governor!" Jackson's tone shifts, a sudden, sharp urgency that cuts through the monotony of the shakedown.

Daley arrives seconds later, her heels clicking a sharp, frantic rhythm on the floor, her presence a sudden, oppressive weight. Officer Clark steps out of the cell, his face pale, his hand held out like he's holding a venomous snake. He's holding a sharpened metal shard, crudely honed to a vicious point, wrapped in a stained, dirty cloth. An improvised blade. A dark, crusty residue is visible on the edge. Blood.

The unit goes silent. The low hum of conversation dies, the restless energy stills, replaced by a collective, held breath. Every eye is on the weapon, then on Paige.

Daley turns slowly toward Paige, her face a mask of cold, triumphant fury. "You want to explain this?" she asks, her voice a low, dangerous purr.

Paige's face doesn't change. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of fear. Just a cool, dismissive calm. "That ain't mine," she says, her voice flat, even.

"It was under your mattress," Daley says, her voice rising with a righteous, prosecutorial glee.

Paige looks at Nika across the block, a quick, almost imperceptible glance. Just a flicker. A silent question. Nika's jaw tightens, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrified understanding.

Daley steps closer, her voice a low, triumphant hiss. "You were just interrogated over a stabbing. You were just in my office, claiming your innocence. And now this."

"And you didn't have anything then," Paige replies evenly, her voice a low, steady counterpoint to Daley's rising fury. "So you planted something. That's cute."

Paige scans the block, her eyes sharp, calculating, looking for the lie, for the traitor. Someone planted it. But who? Her gaze lands on KK's cell, a few doors down. KK watches from the shadows, her expression neutral, unreadable. But there's a flicker of something in her eyes, a deep, cold satisfaction. A smug, triumphant glow. And behind her, almost hidden in the gloom, one of her crew, a wiry, nervous woman named Maria, shifts her weight, her eyes darting away from Paige's, a telltale sign of guilt. Maria. The one with the cleaning detail. The one with access to every cell. The one who owed KK a favor.

Daley turns to the officers, her voice a sharp, commanding bark. "Isolation."

The word echoes, a death knell in the silent block.

Azzi hears about it within the hour. She's in her office, trying to focus on a stack of paperwork, but her mind keeps drifting back to Paige, to the charged silence of their last session. A guard knocks on her door, his face grim. "Doctor Fudd. You need to come to the isolation wing. It's Bueckers. There's been an... incident."

Azzi's heart sinks. She follows the guard down the long, sterile corridors, her mind racing. When she arrives, she finds Paige being processed, her hands being cuffed behind her back. Paige's face is a mask of cold, hard fury, her eyes burning with a righteous, unadulterated rage.

"What the hell happened?" Azzi asks, her voice sharp, demanding.

"Found a shiv in her cell," Officer Jackson says, his voice a flat, unemotional report. "Blood on it. Governor's orders. Straight to isolation."

Azzi turns to Paige, her eyes searching her face. "Paige," she says, her voice a low, urgent plea. "Tell me it's not true."

Paige looks at her, her eyes a swirling vortex of anger and betrayal. "You think I'm that fucking stupid?" she snarls, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "You think I'd keep a bloody shiv under my mattress after you told me to be smart? After I promised you I'd handle it? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I don't know what to think," Azzi says, her voice a desperate, honest admission. "I need you to tell me what happened."

"KK happened," Paige says, her voice a low, furious hiss. "She's playing me. She's playing you. She's playing everyone. And you're all falling for it."

Azzi looks at her, a storm of conflicting emotions churning inside her. She wants to believe her. She wants to trust her. But the evidence... the blood... the weapon...

"I need to see the evidence," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm command.

Jackson leads her to a small, sterile room where the weapon is laid out on a metal tray. It's exactly as described. A sharpened piece of metal, wrapped in a cloth. The blood on the edge is dark, dried, a damning piece of evidence.

"This is a setup," Azzi says, her voice a low, certain growl. "This is too perfect. Too convenient."

"The Governor doesn't think so," Jackson says, his voice a flat, unemotional counterpoint.

"The Governor is a fool," Azzi snaps, her voice rising with a sudden, volatile fury. "She's so blinded by her hatred for Paige that she can't see what's right in front of her face. This is a frame job. A classic, fucking frame job."

She turns to Paige, her eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire. "I'm going to get you out of this," she says, her voice a low, solemn vow. "I swear to god, I'm going to get you out of this."

Paige looks at her, her anger softening slightly, replaced by a flicker of something else. Hope. A fragile, dangerous thing. "You better," she says, her voice a low, rough murmur. "Because if I go down for this, I'm taking everyone with me."

The officers lead Paige away, her footsteps echoing down the long, empty corridor. Azzi stands there for a long time, her mind racing, her heart aching. She knows, with a certainty that both terrifies and infuriates her, that Paige is innocent. And she knows, with a chilling certainty, that she's the only one who can prove it.

***

Paige isn't in her usual chair. She's in restraints. The session has been moved to a small, sterile observation room, a box of concrete and one-way glass designed for high-risk inmates. The air is cold, smelling of bleach and desperation. Paige sits at a metal table, her wrists and ankles cuffed to a heavy chair bolted to the floor, the chains a constant, clanking reminder of her new reality. She looks smaller like this, diminished, but the fire in her eyes is undiminished, burning with a cold, hard fury.

Azzi enters the small monitored room, her movements stiff, her expression a carefully constructed mask of clinical detachment. She doesn't sit close this time. She keeps her distance, choosing a chair on the other side of the table, a deliberate, physical barrier between them. Intentional. Paige notices immediately, her eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of hurt quickly masked by a familiar, defiant anger.

"They find what they were looking for?" Azzi asks, her voice a flat, professional inquiry, a stark contrast to the charged intimacy of their last session.

Paige scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound. "You tell me. You're the one who seems to have all the answers."

Azzi holds her gaze, her own eyes steady, searching for any sign of deception, any crack in the facade. "Did you have it?"

"No," Paige says, her voice a low, firm denial, a simple, unshakeable declaration of innocence.

A pause hangs in the air, thick with unspoken accusations and doubts. Azzi studies her face carefully, her expression a mask of clinical assessment, but her mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She wants to believe her. She needs to believe her. But the evidence...

"You understand how this looks," Azzi says, her voice a low, cautious murmur.

Paige's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in her cheek. "Do you?" she asks, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Do you understand how it looks when the one person who claimed to believe in me suddenly pulls back the second things get complicated?"

The air shifts, the tension between them thickening, becoming a heavy, oppressive weight. Not explosive. Not yet. Just heavy, suffocating.

"You asked me to believe you," Paige continues, her voice rising with a barely suppressed fury. "You asked me to trust you. And then you stepped back. You put your chair on the other side of the room. You looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was a monster."

"That's not fair," Azzi says, her voice a weak, defensive protest.

"Isn't it?" Paige shoots back, her eyes blazing with a righteous, betrayed anger. "You tell me what's fair about being framed for a crime you didn't commit. You tell me what's fair about having your so-called ally question you the second the pressure's on."

Azzi doesn't rise to it, her training kicking in, her professional persona a suit of armor she desperately needs. "That weapon had blood on it," she says, her voice a low, clinical statement of fact.

"And?" Paige replies, her voice dripping with contempt.

"And if it ties back to KK, if the blood is hers, it strengthens your defense," Azzi says, her voice a low, reasoned argument, a desperate attempt to find a logical path through the emotional minefield.

"It won't," Paige says, her voice a flat, certain declaration. "KK's smarter than that. She's not going to leave a trail that easy to follow."

"How do you know?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, suspicious probe.

Because Paige knows who did it. She saw the flicker of guilt in Maria's eyes, the nervous shift of her weight. She knows it was one of KK's crew, a pawn in her twisted game. She doesn't say that. She can't. Not yet. Instead she says: "I'm not sloppy."

Azzi registers that, the phrase echoing in her mind. Same phrase as before. Surgical. Not messy. It's a small, insignificant detail, but it's a crack in the wall of doubt, a sliver of light in the darkness.

Silence stretches between them, a long, uncomfortable pause filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Azzi shifts in her chair, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, but Paige notices. She notices everything. She's farther back. Distance reinforced.

"You leaned in last session," Azzi says quietly, her voice a low, hesitant murmur, a confession and an accusation all at once.

Paige's eyes flicker, a flash of surprise quickly masked by a guarded, defensive anger. "And you didn't move."

"I should have," Azzi says, her voice a low, regretful admission. "That was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. A moment of... unprofessionalism."

That lands harder than an accusation. It's a rejection. A denial of the connection, of the electricity that arced between them. Paige swallows it, a bitter pill of rejection, her anger softening slightly, replaced by a profound, aching sense of loss.

"That's not what this is," Azzi continues, her voice a low, desperate attempt to regain control of the session, of herself. "This isn't about proximity. Or control. Or testing boundaries. This is about you. About your future. About whether you want to get out of this place or not."

Paige studies her, her eyes a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions. "You pulled your chair back," she says, her voice a low, quiet accusation.

"Yes," Azzi admits, her voice a low, reluctant confession.

"Because you don't trust me," Paige says, her voice a low, hurt murmur.

"Because I trust myself," Azzi replies, her voice a low, firm declaration. "And because I know what happens when I let my guard down. When I let myself get too close. It doesn't end well. For anyone."

That hits. Hard. The room goes still, the air thick with the weight of Azzi's confession, a glimpse of the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide. Paige leans back against the restraint chain, the cold metal a stark reminder of her reality. A cold, bitter smile touches her lips.

"You're scared," she says, her voice a low, triumphant murmur.

Azzi doesn't deny it. She just sits there, her eyes locked on Paige's, a silent, trembling admission of her own fear.

"Good," Paige murmurs, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "You should be."

The session ends there. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Not dramatic, but unresolved. And colder than before. The air between them is thick with unspoken words and broken promises, a chasm of mistrust and regret that seems impossible to cross. And as Paige is led away, her chains clanking a mournful, rhythmic beat, Azzi is left alone in the sterile, silent room, a prisoner of her own fear.

***

Azzi doesn't storm into Daley's office demanding justice. That's emotional, messy, and ultimately ineffective. Instead, she approaches the problem with the cold, detached precision of a surgeon. She spends hours in her office, the only light from her desk lamp casting long shadows across the scattered files and crime scene photos. She reviews the timeline, her mind a whirlwind of calculations and connections.

The laundry attack, the chaos, the blackout. The medical transfer, the initial assessment of KK's wounds. The lockdown duration, a full forty-eight hours of rigid, controlled confinement. The cell searches, a routine shakedown that was anything but. She notices something small, almost insignificant, a detail that everyone else had missed.

The weapon found under Paige's mattress had dried blood, yes, but it was a specific kind of dried. The edges were tacky, not flaking. The color was a dark, reddish-brown, but not the deep, almost black crust of blood that had been sitting for days. KK was stabbed in the yard, in public, in broad daylight.

The weapon in Paige's cell had been wiped but not fully cleaned, a lazy, half-assed attempt to hide the evidence. If Paige ordered the hit, if she was the mastermind everyone believed her to be, why keep a bloodied blade in her own cell during a lockdown she knew was coming? Why not dispose of it immediately? It was too sloppy. Too reckless. Not her style.

Azzi brings this to Daley clinically, her folder of notes and timelines a silent, unarguable testament to her diligence. She finds Daley behind her desk, a fortress of polished oak and simmering resentment. Daley looks annoyed before Azzi even speaks, her lips already pursed in a tight, disapproving line.

"You're here about your pet inmate," Daley says, her voice a low, sarcastic jab, a clear attempt to put Azzi on the defensive.

Azzi ignores the jab, her expression a mask of calm, professional focus. "I'm here about a potential miscarriage of justice," she says, her voice a low, even tone. "The blade was found forty-eight hours after the stabbing."

"Yes," Daley says, her voice a dismissive drone, already bored with the conversation.

"The blood was partially dried but not oxidized enough to match that timeline," Azzi continues, her voice a low, insistent murmur, a calm, logical argument in the face of Daley's simmering impatience.

Daley narrows her eyes, her gaze a sharp, skeptical probe. "You're speculating, Doctor. You're playing detective, and it's not a good look for you."

"No," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm rebuttal. "I'm suggesting a forensic review. A simple blood analysis to determine the exact age of the sample. It's a standard procedure in any legitimate investigation."

Daley hesitates, her annoyance warring with a flicker of professional curiosity. Forensics in prison cases are expensive. Political. Embarrassing if wrong. It's a can of worms she's not sure she wants to open.

Azzi presses once more, her voice a low, persuasive murmur, a calculated appeal to Daley's ego. "Think about it, Governor. If Paige ordered it, she wouldn't keep evidence during a lockdown she knew was coming. It's illogical. It's not her M.O. She's smarter than that. You know that. I know that. Deep down, you know that."

Daley hates that. She hates the calm, logical certainty in Azzi's voice. She hates the fact that Azzi is right. Because it's logical. And Paige being innocent means someone manipulated internal security, someone planted evidence under the nose of the guards, someone made a fool out of her. It makes her look incompetent. Weak.

"Fine," Daley says, her voice a low, reluctant concession. "Order the review. But if it comes back as Paige's, or if it matches the timeline, I'm holding you responsible. I'll have your license, Doctor. I'll make sure you never work in this state again."

Azzi just nods, her expression a mask of calm, professional confidence. "Fair enough," she says, her voice a low, steady murmur. "But I'm right. And when I am, we're going to have a much bigger problem than one inmate with a shiv. We're going to have a conspiracy."

Daley looks at her, a long, silent appraisal. She sees the fire in Azzi's eyes, the unwavering belief, and for a moment, she's not just looking at a psychiatrist. She's looking at an ally. A formidable, dangerous ally.

"Just get it done, Azzi," Daley says, her voice a low, weary sigh, a flicker of something that might almost be respect in her eyes. "And keep me out of the shit."

Azzi nods, a small, triumphant smile touching her lips. "You got it, Governor," she says, her voice a low, confident purr. And as she turns and walks out of the office, she knows she's just won the first battle in a war she's determined to win.

***

The wait was a slow, agonizing crawl of time, each hour stretching into an eternity of uncertainty. Azzi found herself checking her email compulsively, a nervous habit she thought she had long since conquered. Then, the report arrived. A sterile, unemotional PDF from the state forensics lab, its findings a stark, black-and-white declaration that would change everything.

The blood on the weapon did NOT match KK. It matched someone else, a woman named Jenkins, who had been involved in a minor yard fight weeks prior. It was old residue, dried and flaking, a ghost of a past conflict. The blade had been planted with recycled blood, a clumsy, amateurish attempt to make it look connected to KK without the forensic consistency to back it up. It was a frame job. A sloppy, transparent, insulting frame job.

Daley is furious. Not at Paige. At the audacity. At the sheer, unmitigated gall of someone to manipulate her prison, to make a fool out of her, to play her for a fool right under her nose. She paces her office, a caged animal of rage and indignation, her heels a sharp, furious rhythm on the polished floor. She feels a cold, hard knot of anger in her gut, a burning desire to find the person responsible and make them pay, to make an example out of them that would be remembered for years to come.

In the interrogation room, Paige sits calmly again, the restraints gone, a small, symbolic victory, but the heavy weight of suspicion still hangs in the air. She's back in the usual chair, the metal table a familiar, cold presence between her and the world. She's been in isolation for two days, a solitary confinement that had given her nothing but time to think, to plan, to simmer in a cold, calculated rage.

Daley enters the room, her face a mask of cold, controlled fury. She doesn't sit. She just tosses the lab report onto the table, the papers skidding across the metal surface and stopping right in front of Paige. "Blood doesn't match KK," she says, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

Paige doesn't react. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of relief. She just looks at the report, her expression a mask of bored indifference. "Shame," she says flatly, her voice a low, sarcastic murmur. "I was so looking forward to the conviction."

Daley leans in, her hands flat on the table, her face just inches from Paige's, her eyes burning with a furious, interrogative intensity. "You want to tell me who's trying to frame you?" she asks, her voice a low, threatening hiss. "Because I swear to god, Paige, if you know something and you're not telling me, I'll find a way to make you talk. I'll bury you so deep they'll forget you ever existed."

Paige meets her eyes, her gaze a calm, steady challenge in the face of Daley's raging fury. "If I knew that, Governor… we wouldn't be having this conversation," she says, her voice a low, even murmur. "Because I would have already handled it. And you would have found the body."

Which is technically true. She has her suspicions. She knows it was Maria. She knows KK was behind it. But she doesn't have proof. Not yet. And she's not about to give Daley a half-baked theory that will only get dismissed as inmate drama. She's playing a long game now. A game of chess, not checkers.

Daley studies her, her eyes a sharp, analytical probe, searching for any sign of deception, any crack in the facade. "You're either very innocent," she says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur, a reluctant concession to the possibility of Paige's innocence. "Or very dangerous."

Paige doesn't blink. She just stares back, her expression a mask of calm, unreadable confidence.

Daley hates not knowing which. She hates the ambiguity, the uncertainty, the feeling that she's being played, that she's a pawn in a game she doesn't fully understand. She's used to being in control, to being the one with all the answers. But with Paige, she's always one step behind, always guessing, always questioning.

"You're a fucking mystery, you know that?" Daley says, her voice a low, frustrated growl, a reluctant admission of her own inability to categorize, to control.

"And you're a fucking bully," Paige replies, her voice a low, dangerous purr, a bold, defiant challenge. "But we all have our flaws."

Daley's eyes narrow, a flicker of anger in their depths, but she doesn't rise to the bait. She just stares at Paige, a long, silent appraisal, a battle of wills playing out in the sterile, oppressive silence of the interrogation room. She knows Paige is hiding something. She knows she's not telling her the whole story. But she also knows she's telling the truth about the frame job. And that's a problem. Because it means there's a snake in her garden, a traitor in her midst. And she has no idea who it is, or how deep the conspiracy goes.

"Get her out of here," Daley says to the guards, her voice a low, weary sigh, a wave of her hand dismissing them both. "Put her back in her unit. But keep an eye on her. A close eye."

Paige stands, a slow, deliberate movement, and walks out of the room, her head held high, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She's won this round. But she knows the war is far from over. And as she walks down the long, sterile corridor, she's already thinking about her next move.

***

When it came down to it the governor realized Kayleigh didn't act alone. And KK, for all her bluster and bravado, didn't plant the blade. The real architect of this whole, sordid affair was someone else entirely. Someone they never saw coming. A guard. Officer Jackson. The big, burly man with the face like a slab of concrete and the piggy eyes, the one who had found the weapon with such theatrical, self-important urgency.

His motive wasn't loyalty, or revenge, or even ideology. It was colder, more pragmatic, more cynical than that. Chaos increases overtime. Lockdowns mean hazard pay. Extended shifts mean more money, more power, more leverage.

He had been playing a long game, a silent, invisible puppet master pulling the strings from the shadows. He was the one who had tipped off Kayleigh weeks ago, a casual, overheard comment about KK's latest score, a whispered suggestion that an opportunity for revenge was presenting itself.

He had encouraged the tension, stoking the fires of their feud with a carefully placed word here, a knowing glance there, a master of subtle manipulation. Then, when the time was right, he had planted the blade, a crude but effective device to keep the internal war going, to ensure the chaos, and the overtime, continued to flow. He had underestimated one thing.

He had underestimated Azzi's attention to detail, her relentless, almost obsessive pursuit of the truth, her refusal to accept the easy, obvious answer.

Daley, now fueled by a righteous, personal fury, uncovers the discrepancies in the security footage. She spends hours in her office, her eyes glued to the grainy, black-and-white images, a detective in her own kingdom. She sees it. Jackson "logged" cell checks during times when the cameras clearly show him elsewhere, lingering in a supply closet, having a quiet word with Kayleigh in a deserted corridor, his movements a subtle, damning dance of deception. He's suspended quietly, a swift, silent execution of his career. No public announcement. No fanfare. Just a quiet, discreet removal, a necessary sacrifice to maintain the illusion of control. Prison politics. A dirty, messy business.

The news spreads unofficially, a low, insidious whisper that crawls through the vents and the shadows of the yard. Paige is cleared. Not loudly. Not with a formal announcement or a public apology. But enough.

The whisper changes tone. It shifts from suspicion and fear to a grudging, almost awestruck respect. "She didn't do it." "They tried to frame her." "A guard did it." "She kept quiet and still came out clean." That is power. Real power. Not the loud, brutish power of a bully like KK, but the quiet, unshakeable power of a survivor, of a strategist, of someone who can endure the fire and walk out unscathed.

Because she didn't retaliate. She didn't panic. She didn't rage. She just sat. And she survived. She played the long game, and she won.

Nika approaches her that evening, her steps hesitant, her expression a mixture of awe and apology. "You knew it wasn't solid," she says, her voice a low, respectful murmur. "You knew it was a setup."

"I knew it was sloppy," Paige replies, her voice a low, calm murmur, a quiet statement of fact. "I knew it didn't fit. It wasn't my style. It wasn't anyone's style who actually wanted to get away with it. It was too loud. Too messy. Too desperate."

Nika nods once, a slow, deliberate gesture of understanding, of renewed loyalty. Loyalty restored. Not just to Paige, but to her methods, to her mind, to her unshakeable belief in her own innocence.

KK watches from across the yard, her face a mask of cold, hard fury. This changes the board. Her carefully constructed plan, her subtle campaign of psychological warfare, has just been blown to pieces. Paige now looks untouchable. A myth. A legend. A woman who can survive a frame job by a guard, who can endure isolation and suspicion and emerge not just unbroken, but stronger. She's no longer just a rival. She's an icon. And that's a much harder thing to fight.

***

Dr. fud doesn't gloat. It's not her style. It's Paige's first session back in her office after being cleared, the air still thick with the memory of accusations and isolation. This time, Azzi makes sure the chairs have enough space between them. Same as in the isolation room. But the energy is different. Not charged with suspicion, but heavy with something else, something unspoken and unresolved.

"The blood didn't match," Azzi says, her voice a low, quiet statement of fact, a simple declaration of the truth they both now share.

Paige watches her carefully, her eyes a sharp, analytical probe, searching for any sign of pity, any hint of condescension. "I know."

"You were right," Azzi says, her voice a low, reluctant admission, a concession she doesn't give easily.

A pause hangs in the air, a long, silent moment of shared understanding.

"I wasn't wrong," Paige corrects, her voice a low, firm murmur, a subtle but important distinction.

Azzi almost smiles. A flicker of amusement, of grudging respect, touches her lips, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. Almost. "I pushed you," she admits, her voice a low, honest confession. "I needed to be sure. I needed to know for myself, not just take your word for it."

"And now you are?" Paige asks, her voice a low, challenging purr, a test.

"Yes," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm declaration, a vow.

That's heavy. Because it's earned. Not just given, but fought for, proven through the fire of doubt and the crucible of suspicion.

Paige studies her, her gaze a long, searching look. "You went to bat for me," she says, her voice a low, quiet murmur, a statement of fact, not a question.

"I went to bat for evidence," Azzi replies, her voice a low, clinical correction, a desperate attempt to maintain her professional distance.

Paige tilts her head, a slow, deliberate movement, a predator's curious gesture. "That's not what I heard," she says, her voice a low, teasing purr, a challenge to Azzi's carefully constructed facade.

Silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Azzi doesn't deny it. But she doesn't confirm it either. That restraint. That professional, maddening restraint. That's what makes Paige snap.

She gets up, her movements fluid and silent, a slow, deliberate prowl across the small space of the office. She leans her hands on the edge of Azzi's chair, her body a warm, imposing presence, leaning in, invading Azzi's personal space, a deliberate, provocative act.

"Can we talk about how you're wearing that new shade of lipstick today?" Paige says, her voice a low, husky murmur, a sudden, unexpected shift in the conversation. She smirks, a slow, confident curve of her lips. "It suits you, by the way," she adds on, her voice a low, appreciative purr.

Azzi raises her eyebrows, her expression a mask of blank, professional surprise, staring at Paige's unreadable face.

"How does it taste?" Paige says, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, her eyes dropping to Azzi's lips, a bold, unapologetic challenge.

Azzi squirms in her chair, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, a physical betrayal of her composure. She shakes her head, a small, frantic gesture. "Paige," she says, her voice a low, warning hiss, a desperate plea for sanity.

"Or about how you cross your legs when I come closer," Paige says, her voice a low, observational murmur, a slow, deliberate dissection of Azzi's every move. "Or about why you smile when I walk into the room," she adds on, her voice a low, teasing purr, a playful, yet deeply insightful observation.

"And I know that smile," Paige says, looking Azzi in the eyes, her gaze a deep, intense probe. "And I know what it means," she says, her voice a low, confident declaration.

"You tryna to threaten me?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, defensive challenge, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.

"Why you say that?" Paige asks, her voice a low, innocent murmur, a mock display of confusion.

"Because you're trying to intimidate me," Azzi says, her voice a low, firm declaration, a statement of fact. "And I don't like it. I don't respect it," she adds on, her voice a low, steady rebuttal.

Paige sucks her teeth, a sharp, dismissive sound, and walks back to her chair, plopping down with a frustrated, restless energy. "I'm bored, Azzi," she says, her voice a low, frustrated growl. "I'm sick of everyone and I'm sick of myself."

"I hate it here," Paige says, her voice a low, raw murmur, a sudden, vulnerable confession, a crack in the facade of her tough, unbreakable persona.

"I know," Azzi says, her voice a low, soft, sympathetic murmur, a quiet acknowledgment of Paige's pain.

Paige looks at her, her eyes a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions. "Do you?" she asks, her voice a low, challenging purr. "Do you really know what it's like to be trapped in this place? To be constantly watched, constantly judged, constantly suspected? To have every move you make, every word you say, analyzed and dissected? To be a specimen in a fucking zoo?"

Azzi doesn't answer. She just sits there, her expression a mask of calm, professional empathy, but her eyes are a storm of conflicting emotions.

"You don't," Paige says, her voice a low, certain declaration. "You can't. You're on the other side of the glass. You're the one with the keys. You're the one with the power."

"That's not true," Azzi says, her voice a low, defensive protest. "I'm here to help you. I'm on your side."

"Are you?" Paige asks, her voice a low, skeptical murmur. "Or are you just here to study me? To analyze me? To use me for your research? To add me to your list of case studies?"

"That's not fair," Azzi says, her voice a low, hurt whisper.

"Isn't it?" Paige shoots back, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "You want to know about me, about my life, about my pain. But you don't want to share anything about yourself. You want me to be an open book, but you're a fucking fortress. You want me to trust you, but you don't trust me. That's not a partnership. That's a fucking interrogation."

"I do trust you," Azzi says, her voice a low, desperate protest.

"Then prove it," Paige says, her voice a low, challenging purr, a bold, unapologetic demand. "Tell me something real. Something about you. Something that isn't in your file. Something that scares you. Something that makes you human."

Azzi looks at her, a long, silent battle of wills playing out between them. She sees the challenge in Paige's eyes, the desperate need to connect, to find something real, something human she can relate to. And she knows, with a sudden, startling clarity, that this isn't just a game. This is a plea.

"I'm scared of heights," Azzi says, her voice a low, quiet murmur, a small, vulnerable confession.

Paige laughs, a short, sharp, humorless sound. "Try again, Doctor. Something real."

Azzi looks at her, her eyes a deep, intense pool of conflicting emotions. She takes a deep breath, a slow, deliberate act of courage, and decides to take a leap of faith. "I'm scared of ending up alone," she says, her voice a low, raw murmur, a confession so deep, so personal, it leaves her feeling exposed, vulnerable.

Paige looks at her, her expression a mask of surprised, respectful silence. She sees the truth in Azzi's eyes, the raw, unvarnished vulnerability, and it disarms her completely.

"I'm scared of that too," Paige says, her voice a low, quiet murmur, a confession of her own, a shared moment of raw, unfiltered honesty.

The room is silent, the air thick with the weight of their shared confessions, two very different worlds colliding in the quiet space of the office. And in that moment, something shifts. A wall comes down. A bridge is built. And for the first time since they met, they're not just a doctor and a patient. They're just two women, scared and alone, finding a moment of connection in the most unlikely of places.

Paige stands up, her movements slow and deliberate, and walks back to Azzi's chair. She doesn't lean in this time. She doesn't invade her space. She just stands there, a quiet, respectful presence. "You know," she says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur, "for a prison psychiatrist, you're not half bad."

Azzi looks up at her, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "And for a framed inmate, you're not half bad either," she replies, her voice a low, teasing purr, a flicker of her old, wry humor returning.

Paige laughs, a real, genuine laugh this time, a warm, rich sound that fills the small office with a sudden, unexpected joy. "I'll take that," she says, her voice a low, happy murmur.

"You should," Azzi says, her voice a low, confident purr. "It's a high compliment coming from me."

Paige looks at her, her eyes a deep, intense pool of conflicting emotions. She sees the smile in Azzi's eyes, the warmth, the genuine affection, and she feels a pull, a magnetic, undeniable attraction that is both terrifying and exhilarating. "You know," she says, her voice a low, husky murmur, a slow, deliberate shift in the conversation, "you're even more beautiful when you're not trying to be a fortress."

Azzi's smile fades, replaced by a look of surprised, vulnerable uncertainty. "Paige," she says, her voice a low, warning hiss, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.

"What?" Paige asks, her voice a low, innocent murmur, a mock display of confusion. "Can't I give a compliment? It's not against the rules, is it?"

"It's... complicated," Azzi says, her voice a low, frustrated murmur, a desperate attempt to find the right words, to navigate the treacherous waters of their complicated relationship.

"Everything's complicated," Paige says, her voice a low, philosophical murmur, a slow, deliberate shrug. "That doesn't mean we can't enjoy the moments that aren't."

She leans in, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes locked on Azzi's, a silent, unspoken question hanging in the air between them. "Can we?" she asks, her voice a low, husky whisper, a bold, unapologetic plea.

Azzi looks at her, a long, silent battle of wills playing out in her eyes. She sees the challenge in Paige's gaze, the desperate need for connection, the raw, unfiltered desire. And she knows, with a sudden, startling clarity, that she wants to say yes. She wants to cross that line, to shatter that boundary, to indulge in the forbidden fruit of their mutual attraction.

But she can't. She's the doctor. She's the one with the power, with the responsibility. She's the one who has to maintain the boundaries, to protect them both from the consequences of their actions.

"I can't," Azzi says, her voice a low, regretful whisper, a painful, necessary rejection.

Paige nods, a slow, deliberate gesture of understanding, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "I know," she says, her voice a low, quiet murmur. "But I had to ask."

"I know," Azzi says, her voice a low, sympathetic murmur, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared desire, their mutual frustration.

Paige looks at her, a slow, sad smile touching her lips. "You know," she says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur, "I think I'm starting to like you, Doctor Fudd. And that's a problem."

"Why?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, curious murmur.

"Because I'm not supposed to like you," Paige says, her voice a low, honest confession. "I'm supposed to hate you. I'm supposed to see you as the enemy. But I don't. I see you as... something else. Something more."

"And what's that?" Azzi asks, her voice a low, hesitant whisper.

"I don't know," Paige says, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "But I'm looking forward to finding out."

Hot Lap Chapter 8: Zandvoort

The first time Paige hears someone else talk about Azzi Fudd, she’s fourteen years old. She’s in her room, in the house, with the view that looks into the Oak Tree. The same Oak she’d nearly broken her wrist climbing down two months ago when she wanted to go to a party and Geno said hell no. 

It ended up being fine. Paige was grounded for a week, but she’d gotten to kiss Tara, so really it was all good. 

Tara isn’t her girlfriend or anything, but she’s sweet and fun to hang out with. And she’s a good kisser.