lucy

"yeah she's right there," nodding in your direction, olivia smirks at courtney.

"and how the fuck's she here?"

shrugging, olivia just gets into position, still lowkey staring. "she's still hot though,"

"damn right, how'd you bag her?"

by now, the ball is in motion, and the women are running down the court together.

"i mean, it definitely wasn't hard,"

"she easy?"

snorting, olivia nods.

spotting the ball, olivia side steps, jabbing her shoulder and knocking down jessica sheppard.

"jesus, fuck that was brutal," you mumble under your breath, knowing exactly what paige is about to do.

the first quarter had barely ended before everyone in the arena realized something was going on.

sitting courtside in the family section, your legs bounce nervously as you watch the game unfold. you've been to enough w games to know what competitive trash talk looked like and this definitely wasn't it.

every possession and remark between Paige and Olivia felt personal and brutal.

it's been almost a year since you and Olivia had broken up and it hadn't ended badly- not really- but it hadn't ended cleanly either. there were too many lingering feelings, too many loose ends, and way too many people assuming the two of you would eventually find your way back to each other. stupid twitter.

but then paige happened and she definitely wasn't supposed to happen.

everyone knows and everyone also knows olivia used to date you.

which makes tonight complicated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

midway through the second quarter, paige steals the ball, sprinting down the floor as olivia catches up with her, just enough to contest a layup.

their bodies collide as the whistles blow.

"you good?" olivia asks, though the smirk on her face suggests she already knows the answer.

but instead of giving the reaction olivia wants, paige just rolls the ball back to the ref. "i'm great."

olivia's eyes drift past paige and towards you.

"you still sitting courtside?" she said loud enough for just you and paige to hear. "guess some people really do move on fast." she says the last part with a snarky tone in her voice as she just shakes her head.

the crowd couldn't hear it, but again, paige definitely could.

"what'd you say?" her head snaps back as she begins stalking towards liv who just shrugs innocently.

"nothing."

"no." paige steps. "say it again."

"you heard me."

walking over, the ref attempts to calm them down."let's go, ladies-"

olivia just smiles.

"i'm just saying," she continues. "funny seeing someone cheering for a different jersey now."

now it's paige's turn to laugh. just once, though, and not because it was funny. oh hell no, definitely not that. but, because she couldn't believe the audacity.

"you talking about my girlfriend?"

the word girlfriend echoes louder than the arena speakers as your stomach flips and olivia's expression hardens.

"i'm talking about whoever wants to listen."

"you mean the girl you dumped?"

olivia takes another step, her eyebrows scrunching up as she looks at paige accusingly. "i didn't dump her,"

"no?" your girlfriend tilts her head. "could've fooled me."

players from both teams immediately started moving closer, sensing the obvious tension.

blowing the whistle again, the ref begins stalking over. "enough!"

but neither of them listens.

"you think you're special?" olivia asks tauntingly.

"i know i am."

scoffing, lliv just shakes her head. "you've been around for five like minutes."

"and somehow she still smiles more with me than you."

clenching her jaw, olivia's hands curl into fists. "you don't know anything,"

"i know she doesn't cry every night anymore"

there's silence on olivia's end because it's true. your relationship with liv had been filled with uncertainty, your relationship with paige however- it felt easy.

"whatever helps you sleep."

smiling, paige raises her eyebrows. "her next to me usually does,"

"oh my god," a player mutters.

and it begins. stepping forward, olivia shoves paige's shoulder, not hard, but enough. enough that paige, obviously, shoves back.

immediately, every player on the floor rushed between them.

"HEY!"

"BACK UP!"

"PAIGE!"

"LIV!"

"CALM DOWN GUYS!"

with the arena erupting, you were already standing before you even realized it.

heart pounding against your ribs as coaches and teammates dragged them apart, you watch as paige never takes her eyes off olivia and your ex girlfriend never looking away either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the game ends nearly an hour later with the media already exploding over clips of the confrontation.

waiting outside of paige's locker room, you finally spot her emerging, still sweaty with her backpack slung over a shoulder.

her gaze is hard and focused, but as soon as she sees you, everything about her softens. "i'm sorry, baby."

blinking, you're honestly shocked. "what?"

"i shouldn't have lost my cool."

stepping closer, you place your hands on her chest, heat radiating off of her. "you were defending me."

"i still shouldn't have."

reaching up, you fix a loose strand of her hair. "do you know why I fell in love with you?"

smiling, she smirks a bit. "because I'm ridiculously attractive?"

"that helps." you laugh, shrugging.

"what else?"

"you always make me feel chosen."

smile disappearing, it's replaced with something gentler. "and i'll choose you every time."

wrapping your arms around her waist, you nod as she buries her face against your hair. "i know."

pulling away, she makes sure to make eye contact with you, clarifying the situation. "i'm not threatened by olivia, if you think i am,"

"i know,"

"i just-" she sighs, she pulls you back in.

"i hated hearing her act like you were an object and not a person."

retaliating her last move, you pull her away just enough to look her in her pale blue eyes.

"i'm not anyone's ex before I'm your girlfriend."

your girlfriend nods slowly.

"i know that."

"and i definitely don't want her,"

"i know,"

"so you don't need to fight old battles for me,"

smiling sheepishly, she laughs. "can i fight new ones?"

punchig her lightly, you giggle. "no."

"what if she starts it?"

"still no."

"what if-"

"just don't, paige,"

dramatically, she groans, whining."you're no fun."

"You shoved an All-Star on national television."

"Allegedly."

"You literally did."

"There's no proof."

You pulled out your phone.

The clip already had over three million views.

She stared at it.

"...okay."

giving her a pointed look, you raise your eyebrow.

"so there might be a little proof," you can't help but laughing as she shrugs, guiltily, flashing her signature smile at you.

leaning down, she presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "still worth it, though."

"you're impossible," rolling your eyes, you reluctantly take her hand.

"can we just go?"

"where are we going?"

you've had migraines since you were fourteen you know the shape of them by now, the aura first, sometimes, little silver fractures at the edge of your vision, and then the slow tightening, like someone's hand closing around the base of your skull you know what to do; dark room, water, lie still and just wait it out.

what you don't know is how to do any of that in a wnba locker room twenty minutes before tip-off.

"you good?" cotie calls from across the room, already half into her warm-up jacket. "yeah," you say, because you are, technically, still standing you're not lying exactly you've played through worse.

but the light is starting to do that thing where it smears at the edges, and your stomach has gone tight and hollow in a way that means if you don't sit down soon you're going to have to sit down anyway, just on the floor instead of a bench.

you find a wall to lean against and close your eyes to breathe and then, without you asking, without you saying anything at all, someone moves the equipment bag off the bench next to you and sits down.

not touching you, not talking just there a quiet, solid kind of there you crack one eye open sonia she's got her headphones around her neck instead of over her ears, which is unusual for her she's usually plugged into something low and instrumental until the second the buzzer calls them out and she's just sitting, looking straight ahead, giving you absolutely nothing to perform for.

"migraine?" she asks quite not even really a question. "how'd you know."

"you get a look," she says. "like you're listening to something underwater." you almost laugh, except laughing requires moving muscles in your face and your face currently feels like it belongs to someone else. "that's annoyingly accurate."

she doesn't say anything else, doesn't ask if you're okay, doesn't tell you to go to the trainer, doesn't do any of the things people do when they want migraines to be a smaller, more manageable problem than they are.

she just sits with you in the two minutes before someone yells five out, and when she gets up, she leaves her water bottle on the bench next to you without a word, like she'd noticed yours was empty without you ever having said so.

you don't think much of it not that night you play the first half with a vague, throbbing wrongness behind your eyes and you ice it after with a towel over your face in the dark of the training room, and by the time you're on the bus back to the hotel it's mostly receded into something dull and survivable.

it's not until the third time three weeks later, on a road trip, in a different city, in an entirely different kind of too-loud room that you notice the pattern.

travel days are the worst for you, they always have been something about the pressure changes, the recycled air, the way everyone talks slightly louder on a plane than they think they are you've learned to sit near the front, away from the engine roar, headphones on, eyes closed, and just survive the descent.

this time you don't even make it that far before the aura starts little silver commas at the edge of your vision, multiplying and you know, with the dull dread of experience, that you have maybe twenty minutes before this becomes a real problem.

the team is scattered across the gate area, some on phones, some watching film clips on a tablet propped against a backpack, georgia laughing too loud at something on her screen you find the quietest corner you can, which isn't very quiet, and put your hood up like that's going to do anything.

sonia's seat is two rows down she's reading an actual paperback, dog-eared, the kind of low-tech that nobody on a team full of phones seems to carry anymore and when you sink down two seats from her without really deciding to, she glances up once, takes in whatever's visible on your face, and goes back to her book without a word.

it should feel like nothing it doesn't it feels like relief, almost like she's a pressure valve you didn't know you needed, someone whose presence doesn't ask anything of you.

she doesn't fill silence she doesn't need you to fill it either by the time boarding starts, the aura's mostly faded, replaced by the duller ache that means you got lucky this time, you caught it before it became a full siege, and you're not totally sure if that's because of the timing or because something about sitting near her quiet had let your nervous system unclench enough to not spiral.

"you always read paper books?" you ask, mostly to have something to say, mostly because your brain has decided this is information you need.

she looks up again, marks her page with a finger. "phones make my eyes hurt on planes. the screens flicker weird with the cabin lights." a pause. "didn't peg you for someone who'd notice."

"i notice things that don't make noise," you say, before you can stop yourself, and something flickers across her face not quite a smile, but close, the corner of her mouth doing something complicated. "that's a weirdly specific skill," she says.

"migraines do that to you, you start sorting the whole world into loud and not loud." she studies you for a second longer than feels purely casual. "and which one am i?"

you don't answer right away, because the honest answer feels like it's giving away something you haven't fully looked at yet not loud, you'd say, if you let yourself. the quietest thing in every room you're in, and somehow it's the only thing i can hear clearly when my head's trying to kill me.

what you actually say is, "guess." she goes back to her book, but you catch the smile this time. small private like she's keeping it for herself.

it becomes a thing without either of you naming it, not deliberate, not discussing just a slow accumulation of small adjustments, the kind that only becomes visible if you stack them all up at once and look at the shape they make.

sonia starts sitting at the end of the bench closest to the tunnel, where the crowd noise breaks first and softest, and somehow you end up there too, more nights than not.

she starts keeping a spare pair of the over-ear headphones, the good kind, noise-cancelling, not just earbuds in her bag, and the first time you reach for them without asking, she doesn't even blink, just slides her bag toward you with her foot.

"how long have you had those?" you ask, turning them over they're not new there's a small scuff on the left ear cup, like they've been carried around a while. "couple weeks," she says, not looking up from retaping her ankle. "you bought noise cancelling headphones."

"i bought headphones," she says. "they happen to cancel noise."

"sonia."

"what."

"you bought them for me." she finally looks up, and there's something steady and unembarrassed in her face, no flush, no scramble to deny it, just a flat, simple kind of honesty that you're starting to realize is just how she is. "you get migraines on planes and in arenas and basically everywhere sound exists and seems practical."

"that's —" you don't actually know what word you're looking for thoughtful feel too small, intimate feels too big for a pair of headphones you settle for, "thank you."

"don't thank me just use them." you use them, you use them so often that eventually they're not really hers anymore, not in any way that matters, and neither of you ever brings it up again, like the headphones simply transferred ownership through sheer repetition of you reaching for them.

the locker room thing keeps happening too you've started to track it without meaning to the way that on nights your head is bad, your eyes go looking for her before they go looking for anything else not in a way that's obvious, you don't think just a habit your body's developed, like checking for an exit in a new room.

she's good in chaos that's the thing you keep coming back to she doesn't get loud when things get loud, doesn't get frantic when the schedule gets tight, doesn't need to fill space with sound the way some people seem constitutionally unable not to she just exists, steadily, at whatever volume the room can tolerate, and somehow that steadiness becomes a kind of harbor.

you tell her this, eventually badly on a night your head's bad enough that your filters are mostly gone, sitting in the dark of a team bus with your forehead pressed to the cool of the window glass and her shoulder a warm, solid line against yours.

"you're like— " you start, and stop, because the sentence in your head sounds either too clinical or too much, and you can't find the version that's neither. "i'm like what," she says quietly not pushing.

"the only thing that doesn't hurt," you say finally. "when my head's like this. everything else hurts. light hurts. sound hurts. people's voices hurt, even when they're trying to be nice, because trying to be nice is still a sound i have to process. but you don't — " you gesture vaguely, eyes still closed, " — you don't ask anything of me. you're just there. and it's the only thing that doesn't feel like static."

she's quiet for a long moment long enough that you start to worry you've said too much, tipped some careful unspoken thing into something that has to be addressed now, acknowledged, possibly walked back then she says, "i used to get migraines too. when i was younger. not as bad as yours. but bad enough that i remember what it's like when somebody talks at you like you're supposed to perform being okay."

"i didn't know that."

"you never asked," she says, but there's no edge in it. "i try not to do that to you. talk at you like you owe me a reaction."

"you don't owe me an explanation for being quiet either," you say. "i just i notice it. that's all. i notice you."

her shoulder shifts against yours, just slightly, like she's turning that sentence over and finding she likes the weight of it. "i notice you too," she says, and it sounds like it costs her something to say, like she's been holding it further back than you have.

neither of you says anything else for the rest of the ride but her hand finds yours in the dark between your seats, careful, asking permission with the slowness of it, and you give it without hesitation, lacing your fingers through hers like you've been waiting for the excuse.

it shifts, after that not all at once neither of you is the type for grand declarations, you're starting to learn, you're both quiet in your own particular ways but in small, deliberate increments.

she starts texting you the night before travel days, just to check what time your head usually starts acting up, so she can plan around it.

you start noticing the way she watches you across the locker room before games, like she's running the same check you are, sorting the room into loud and not-loud and finding her way back to you each time.

the team notices before either of you says anything out loud of course they do you're not as subtle as you think, sharing headphones, sitting in the same two seats on every flight, the way sonia's gone from the player who keeps to herself to the player who's always somehow in your orbit.

"so," kiki says one practice, not even looking up from her free throws, "you and sonia."

"there's no me and sonia."

"you wore her hoodie on the bus yesterday."

"it was cold."

"you don't get cold, you get migraines, there's a difference." you don't have a response to that, because she's right, and because you're starting to realize that whatever this is has stopped being deniable even to people who aren't paying particularly close attention.

it comes to a head gently, the way most things with sonia do on a night off in a hotel room that isn't either of yours, technically, but has become a kind of shared territory anyway.

the lights are off because your head's doing its low, grinding thing again, not bad enough to be an emergency, just bad enough to want darkness and quiet and the particular comfort of not being alone in it.

sonia's sitting against the headboard, your head in her lap, her fingers moving slowly and absent through your hair in a rhythm that you suspect she's not even fully conscious of, the kind of touch that exists more for her hands to have something to do than for any performed effect. "can i ask you something," she says, low, careful not to disturb the dark.

"mm."

"this — " she gestures, vaguely, at the space between you, at the hand still tangled in your hair, at the whole unspoken architecture you've built without ever drawing up a blueprint. "what is it to you."

you think about it honestly, because she deserves honesty, because she's never once asked you to be anything other than exactly as much or as little as you are on any given day.

"i think you're the only quiet i've ever wanted to stay in," you say. "not escape. stay in. like — i used to think quiet was just the absence of pain. with you it's not absence of anything. it's just — full. on its own."

her fingers still in your hair for a second when she speaks again, her voice has gone thinner, more careful, like she's handling something breakable. "i think i fell for you somewhere around the second time i gave you my water bottle," she admits. "i just didn't know what to do with that. you don't really get a how-to guide for falling for your teammate over headphones and migraines."

"we could write one," you say. "for science."

"i'm being serious."

"i know." you tilt your head up, just enough to see her face in the dim spill of streetlight through the curtains — the soft, unguarded way she's looking at you, none of the careful neutrality she wears around everyone else. "i'm serious too. i think i've been falling for you since the locker room. i just didn't have a word for it yet because it didn't feel like falling. it felt like finally being able to put something down."

she leans down, slow, asking the same quiet permission her hand always asks, and you meet her halfway, and the kiss is soft and unhurried and tastes faintly like the mint she always keeps in her bag for exactly this kind of slow afternoon.

it doesn't feel like a beginning so much as a confirmation like something that had already been true for weeks, finally being said out loud in the only language either of you has ever been fully fluent in: quiet.

later much later, the kind of later where careful has stopped being the only mode available to either of you, she traces the line of your jaw in the dark and asks, low, "headache?"

"none," you say, and mean it in more ways than one.

"good," she murmurs, and the rest of what passes between you that night needs no words at all — just her hands finding the places that ache and learning, with patient, deliberate attention, all the ways she can be the thing that softens them instead.

the room stays quiet it stays yours it stays, finally, both of yours — the one room in your whole loud, aching life that has never once asked you to perform being okay.

you don’t fall asleep right away neither does she the room’s gone soft and dim and a little too warm, the streetlight still leaking gold through the gap in the curtains, and she’s got one arm slung loose across your waist like she’s not quite ready to stop touching you, like she wants proof you’re still there even with you pressed right up against her.

“hey,” she says, after a while, voice rough and low in a way that makes something in your chest go warm all over again. “hey.”

“you still good? head, i mean.”

“still none,” you say. “i think you broke it in a good way.” she laughs, quiet, the kind of laugh that’s mostly breath, and you feel it against your shoulder more than you hear it. “i didn’t know that was a thing i could do.”

“neither did i.” her fingers trace slow, absent shapes against your hip, not going anywhere, just existing there, the same unhurried attention she’s given you all night. “can i tell you something kind of embarrassing.”

“always.”

“i used to time how long i could stay quiet in the locker room before like i’d see how long i could go without anyone noticing me, just to see if i could disappear a little. it felt safer that way.”

a pause. “and then you started finding me. on purpose every single time and i stopped wanting to disappear.” you turn your head against the pillow to look at her properly, find her watching you with an openness she doesn’t show anywhere else, ever, to anyone.

“you were never disappearing to me,” you say. “i think i clocked you the first week. the quietest person in every room, and somehow the loudest thing i could feel.”

“that doesn’t make any sense.”

“none of this makes sense. i fell for you over a water bottle.”

“a good water bottle,” she says, mock-offended, and you laugh, and she pulls you in closer, tucking your head under her chin like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like your bodies had already worked this out long before either of you said anything true out loud.

“stay,” she murmurs into your hair, not really a question, more like she’s testing how the word feels out loud for the first time. “tonight. tomorrow. however long you want.”

“i wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” you say. “you’re the quietest room i’ve ever been in. i’m not in a hurry to leave it.”

she doesn’t answer that, not in words she just holds on a little tighter, her breathing slowing into something even and unhurried against your hair, and you let yourself sink into it the warmth, the quiet, the steady drum of her heartbeat under your palm until sleep takes you both somewhere soft and wordless and entirely safe.

morning comes in slow and gray-gold through the curtains, and you wake up before she does, which almost never happens, usually it’s the opposite, you surfacing to the sound of her already moving quietly around whatever room you’re in, careful not to wake you.

this time it’s just you, blinking against the soft light, her arm still heavy across your waist, her face slack and unguarded in a way she never lets it be when she’s awake.

you watch her for a minute longer than is probably normal, take in the small things you don’t usually get to study this closely the way her jaw is less sharp like this, less braced, the faint crease between her brows even in sleep like some part of her is always half-alert.

you think, not for the first time, that you’ve never seen anyone look this soft and this strong at the same time.

she stirs when you shift, blinking awake slow, and the first thing she does before good morning, before anything is check your face, the same quiet scan she always runs, sorting you into okay or not-okay before she’s even fully conscious herself.

“head?” she mumbles.

“perfect,” you say. “you’re a menace to my migraines. completely unfair advantage.” she laughs, rough with sleep, and pulls you in closer instead of letting you go anywhere. “good stay there a while.”

“i have nowhere better to be.”

“i know,” she says, smug and sleepy at once. “that’s the appeal.”

you lie there a long time, not talking much, just existing in the quiet in the way you’ve gotten so good at doing together her thumb tracing slow circles against your spine, your ear pressed to the steady drum of her heart, the whole apartment hushed and golden and entirely yours.

eventually she gets up to make coffee, padding around the kitchen in one of your old practice shirts, humming something low and off-key that you’ve never once heard her sing out loud before, and you watch from the doorway, half-dressed and grinning, thinking that this, this exact, unremarkable, soft thing might be the loudest your heart has ever been about anything.

“what,” she says, catching you staring, mug halfway to her mouth. “nothing. just you.”

“that’s not an answer.”

You had stopped being surprised by Paige Bueckers a long time ago.

Not because she was predictable. Paige was one of the least predictable people you had ever met. She could wake up calm and decide by breakfast that she was going to argue with somebody about a card game from two weeks ago. She could limp into practice after a long lift, sore and quiet, then spend the next hour talking like she had personally invented basketball. She could be sweet for exactly three minutes before saying something so obnoxious that Nika threatened to throw a towel at her head. She could make a room louder by walking into it and softer by looking at you across it.

So no, Paige herself was not predictable.

But the way she loved you was.

That had become one of the steady things in your life. As regular as the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. As familiar as the cold Connecticut mornings that made you pull your sleeves over your hands on the walk to practice. As known as the little rhythm your day had fallen into after almost four years at UConn and almost three years of Paige being yours in every way that mattered.

She texted you at 8:03.

outside.

Not good morning. Not come out. Not hurry up because we’re gonna be late, even though both of you knew she was thinking it.

Just outside.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed with one shoe on and one shoe still somewhere under your desk, hair half-fixed, hoodie bunched around your waist because you had gotten distracted looking for your charger. Your practice bag sat open on the floor, one side sagging with a pair of slides, tape, an extra shirt, and the water bottle you swore you had filled last night but had probably left empty because you were you.

You glanced at the text and smiled before you could help it.

She did this every morning she could.

Sometimes it was before class. Sometimes before breakfast. Sometimes before practice. Sometimes after a lift if your schedules split weird and she had ten minutes to spare. Same building, same athlete housing, same familiar path between your doors, close enough that Paige had turned walking you places into a habit so deeply carved into her routine that neither of you really talked about it anymore.

You found your other shoe under a sweatshirt, shoved your foot into it, and opened your door.

Paige was leaning against the wall outside, hood up, one foot crossed over the other. In one hand, she held her own drink. In the other, she held yours.

Iced matcha. Oat milk. Light ice. The sweetness level you liked. The one you had mentioned, casually, once, freshman year, before either of you had gotten together, before Paige had started looking at you like you were something she was trying not to want too obviously.

She had remembered it anyway.

She looked up when your door opened, and the lazy little grin that slid onto her face was so familiar it made your chest warm in that quiet, annoying way she always managed to pull out of you.

“You look late,” she said. She lifted your drink slightly, but when you reached for it, she pulled it back just enough to make you look at her.

You paused. “Seriously?”

Paige’s grin spread slowly. “Delivery fee.”

You stared at her.

She stared back, completely unbothered.

There were people who thought Paige had no shame, and they were mostly right, but this was different. With everyone else, Paige’s confidence was loud. With you, it was softer, still cocky but warmer, like she had learned exactly how far she could push before you rolled your eyes and gave her what she wanted anyway.

“You’re charging me now?” you asked.

“Inflation.”

“For a drink you chose to buy?”

“Service industry is hard.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet.” She leaned slightly closer, her voice dropping into something sweet enough to make your stomach do that stupid little flip it still did even after all this time. “You want your matcha or not?”

You tried to hold your stare.

You lasted maybe two seconds.

Then you leaned in and kissed her.

It was meant to be quick. A small morning peck, soft and familiar, the kind you had given her a thousand times in hallways and elevators and outside locker rooms when nobody important was looking too closely. But Paige smiled against your mouth like she had won something, and that made you laugh, which made her chase the kiss for one extra second before letting you pull away.

Her eyes were still on your mouth when she handed you the cup.

“Pleasure doing business,” she murmured.

You took the matcha and gave her a look over the lid. “You’re annoying.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling, and Paige saw it. She always saw it. Her whole face shifted for half a second before she hid it by reaching for your bag.

You already had the strap over your shoulder, secure and settled, but Paige’s hand went to it without hesitation. Gentle. Automatic. Her fingers hooked under the strap near your collarbone, careful not to tug your hoodie too hard, and she lifted it slightly like she was asking without asking.

You barely paused. Just tilted your shoulder toward her so she could slide it off.

That was how normal it was.

You turned back toward your room to grab your keys, but Paige was already reaching around the doorframe, plucking them off the small hook beside your closet where you always forgot them. She held them up between two fingers, shaking them once.

“You were gonna forget.”

“I was not.”

“You literally turned around without them.”

“I was testing you.”

“I passed.”

“Barely.”

Paige made an offended sound, like the idea of barely passing anything in relation to you physically pained her. “Do not disrespect my job.”

“Your job?”

“Yeah.” She stepped back so you could lock your door, shifting your bag higher on her shoulder without thinking. “Making sure you don’t walk around this campus helpless.”

“I am not helpless.”

“You’d lose your keys in your own hand.”

“And yet I somehow survived before you.”

Paige looked at you like that was the most insulting thing you had ever said to her. “Barely.”

You laughed, and that was the thing: Paige heard it. She always heard it. Her whole face changed for half a second, pleased and soft before she covered it with attitude again, like she had not just lit up because of one small laugh in a hallway she had walked through a thousand times.

She fell into step beside you as you started down the hall.

You did not ask for your bag.

She did not offer it back.

That was just how it went.

By the time you reached the elevator, she had already pressed the button, already tugged gently at the back of your hoodie because the tag was flipped, already nudged you away from the corner where the floor was still wet from someone’s spilled water bottle.

You barely noticed any of it.

Paige noticed everything.

That was another thing people did not always understand about her. They saw the loudness first. The talking. The smirking. The ridiculous confidence that came out every time someone challenged her to anything, even if the challenge was stupid. Paige Bueckers would compete with a wall if the wall looked at her wrong. She argued calls. She argued card games. She argued rankings, music, cereal, whether or not Nika had traveled during a drill three months ago, and once, for twenty minutes, whether soup counted as a meal or a warm beverage with responsibilities.

She had opinions about everything.

Except when it came to you.

With you, she still had opinions. She just delivered them softer. Or swallowed them entirely if you gave her that look. The one she pretended did not work on her even though everybody with eyes knew it did.

The elevator doors slid open.

KK was inside, backpack hanging off one shoulder, scrolling on her phone. She looked up, eyes flicking from your drink to Paige’s hand on your bag to Paige standing half a step behind you like a bodyguard who had forgotten she was not actually employed.

KK’s mouth twitched.

“Morning,” you said.

“Morning,” KK replied, still looking at Paige. “Dang. She pick you up every day?”

Paige frowned. “Why you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you got commentary.”

KK lifted both hands. “I’m observing.”

“You’re always observing too much.”

“I’m learning the ecosystem.”

You snorted into your drink.

Paige immediately looked at you, smiling because you smiled, then caught herself and turned back to KK with a scowl that had no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

KK looked delighted. “Oh, I’m definitely learning.”

“You’re learning how to run today,” Paige said.

“You gonna make me?”

Paige opened her mouth.

You took a sip of your matcha and said casually, “Paige, don’t bully the freshman before breakfast.”

Paige stopped.

Just like that.

Her mouth closed. Her shoulders dropped. She leaned back against the elevator wall, grumbling softly, “Wasn’t bullying.”

KK stared.

You didn’t notice, or maybe you did and chose not to say anything. That was the problem with you. You had gotten so used to Paige folding around you that half the time you treated it like weather. Like of course Paige stopped arguing when you told her to. Of course Paige carried your bag. Of course Paige slowed down if you slowed down. Of course Paige’s attention snapped to you the second you said her name.

KK, however, had not been at UConn long enough to fully absorb the sight without reacting. She looked between you and Paige.

Then she pointed at Paige’s chest.

“You just sat down.”

Paige’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“She said don’t bully me and you just sat down.”

“I was already leaning.”

“No, you got domesticated in real time.”

You choked slightly on your matcha.

Paige stepped forward. “Bro,”

You put one hand lightly on Paige’s forearm. “P.”

Paige stopped again.

KK’s mouth fell open.

The elevator dinged.

You walked out like nothing had happened.

Paige followed immediately.

Behind you, KK whispered loudly, “This is crazy.”

Paige threw a look over her shoulder. “I heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

You laughed again, and Paige’s irritation lasted exactly half a second before it softened at the edges.

It was not that Paige did not realize how she was with you. She knew she loved you. She knew she liked being near you. She knew she got this ridiculous, embarrassing pull in her chest when you looked at her like she was your favorite person in the room. She knew she felt calmer when she had your bag on her shoulder, your drink in her hand, your knee pressed against hers under a table, your voice cutting through noise and landing directly in the part of her brain that cared about nothing else once you called for her.

She just did not think of it as unusual.

To Paige, loving you had always been active. It was doing things. Watching things. Remembering things. Carrying what you forgot. Giving you the better seat. Taking the outside of the sidewalk. Handing you your water before you asked because you always forgot to drink when you were locked in. Knowing when you were tired from the set of your mouth. Knowing when you were annoyed by the way you got quiet instead of loud. Knowing when you needed space and when you only said you needed space because you did not want to be a burden.

She had spent almost three years being your girlfriend and nearly four years knowing you, and she still felt like she was learning you.

Still felt lucky every time you let her.

Breakfast was loud, the way breakfast with the team usually was. Nika was already at a table with Azzi and Ice, talking with her hands and accusing somebody of lying about something you had missed. Aaliyah was scrolling through her phone, occasionally looking up to make a comment sharp enough to make everyone laugh. Ashlynn and KK were arguing about music. Someone had stolen someone else’s seat. Someone was definitely going to claim it was their seat even though there were no assigned seats and everyone knew it.

Paige guided you toward the table without touching your back, just hovering close enough that you could feel her. you slid into the seat you usually took, and Paige put your bag down beside your chair before sitting next to you.

Nobody acted like Paige carrying your things was breaking news.

That was just Paige with you.

Still, when Paige pushed the small container of fruit toward you before you reached for it, Nika’s eyes flicked up. When Paige took the napkin dispenser from the middle of the table and set one beside your plate, Azzi’s mouth curved like she was trying not to smile. When you got distracted answering Ice’s question and Paige quietly unwrapped your straw for you because your hands were full, KK looked at Azzi again.

Paige, for her part, seemed completely unaware she was doing anything worth noticing. She was busy talking about the shooting drill from yesterday, arguing lightly with Nika over whether or not Nika had counted one of her own makes after the buzzer.

“I’m just saying,” Paige said, leaning back in her chair with the kind of confidence that made people want to argue with her even when she was right, “if the ball’s still in your hand when the time’s done, that’s not a make.”

Nika stared at her. “It left my hand.”

“After.”

“During.”

“After.”

“You were not even looking.”

“I felt it.”

“You felt it?”

“Yeah. Spiritually.”

Nika blinked. “You are so annoying.”

“You’re mad because I’m right.”

“You are loud because you are wrong.”

Paige grinned. “I’m loud because I got a voice.”

You reached across Paige for the honey packet near her tray, and before your fingers even touched it, Paige picked it up and handed it to you.

Still arguing. Still looking at Nika. Still mid-sentence. But the honey packet was in your hand.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Paige’s voice dropped out for half a beat. She turned toward you, expression easing. “Yeah.”

Nika stopped talking. Only for a second. Then she looked at Azzi with a flat expression.

Azzi pressed her lips together.

“What?” Paige asked, noticing too late.

“Nothing,” Nika said.

“Your face says something.”

“My face says I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired when you’re losing.”

Nika shook her head, but she was smiling now. “Eat your breakfast, Paige.”

Paige looked like she might push back, so you bumped your knee lightly against hers under the table.

Paige sat back.

Picked up her fork.

Started eating.

Nika’s eyes dropped to the movement.

KK saw it too.

The table went silent for half a beat.

Then KK nearly lost it.

“Oh my god,” she said. “No way.”

Paige pointed her fork at her. “You want attention so bad.”

KK shook her head, eyes bright. “Nah, this is educational. I’ve never seen somebody go from talking crazy to trained that fast.”

“I’m not trained.”

Nika made a face. “Mmm.”

You glanced at Paige, amused. “You’re not.”

Paige immediately relaxed, like your words had settled something in her. “Thank you.”

You took another sip of matcha. “You just listen well.”

Nika gagged.

“Actually disgusting,” she said.

Paige smiled down at her plate, trying and failing not to look pleased.

That was the thing that got her teased the most. Not that she listened to you. Not even that she was softer with you. It was that she liked it. Paige, who had a comeback for every person at every table, got visibly happy when you praised her for something as simple as bringing the right drink or remembering your slides or waiting by the door.

You could ruin her with a soft “thank you.”

You never abused it. That was why it worked.

You were not demanding. You were not constantly telling her what to do. If anything, you asked less of Paige than Paige wanted you to. You carried your own weight, on and off the court. You were steady and sharp and calm in ways Paige admired even when she pretended to be too cool to say it out loud. You did not need Paige to take care of you.

That was exactly why she liked doing it.

It felt like being chosen for a job nobody else even knew existed.

By the time practice rolled around, Paige had gone through three different arguments, won two of them by volume alone, and lost the only one that mattered because you had tilted your head and said, “Let it go.”

She let it go.

Nika saw.

Nika suffered.

Practice was the one place where the softness sharpened into something else.

You and Paige had always had chemistry on the court. It was one of the first things people noticed about you as freshmen, before either of you admitted what was happening, before the late-night talks and lingering hallway moments turned into something too obvious to keep pretending around. Back then, it had been basketball first. Timing. Trust. The kind of connection that made passes look cleaner than they were because both of you were already moving before the ball left the other’s hands.

Paige knew where you wanted it.

You knew when Paige was about to cut.

She could throw a pass through traffic without looking and you would be there. You could drift to the corner half a second early and Paige would find you. You screened for her without needing the call. She slipped the ball to you in pockets that made coaches nod and teammates roll their eyes because of course.

Of course it was you two.

Of course Paige could be triple-covered and still somehow locate you.

Of course you could be running full speed and still know exactly where Paige had gone without turning your head.

The team had stopped reacting dramatically because it had been years. But KK still noticed sometimes. The newness had not worn off her yet. She would watch Paige thread a pass to you on the wing, watch you catch in rhythm and knock down the shot, watch Paige point at you with that smug little look like she had personally assisted the sun into rising.

Then KK would look at Azzi like, “Do they always do that?”

And Azzi, who had seen too much, would just nod.

That day, during a half-court drill, Nika was pressing Paige high, talking in her ear the entire time.

“You’re not getting by me.”

Paige dribbled low, grinning. “I’m already by you mentally.”

“You are so annoying.”

“You love guarding me.”

“I love humbling you.”

“You can try.”

Nika bumped her with her chest. Paige laughed, shifted her weight, eyes flicking once to the left.

You saw it.

You cut.

The pass came before Nika could turn her head.

It snapped through a narrow lane, quick and clean, landing in your hands exactly where you liked it. You rose into your shot without thinking. It dropped.

Paige’s grin went wide.

“Talk to me nice,” she told Nika.

Nika turned slowly, expression flat. “You passed.”

“And?”

“To your girlfriend.”

“And?”

“That is not humbling me. That is flirting with cardio.”

You laughed, jogging back on defense.

Paige looked entirely too proud of herself.

A few possessions later, your shoe came untied.

Later, during a pause in drills, you found yourself holding a ball under one arm, your water bottle tucked awkwardly against your side, and a towel hooked over your fingers when you looked down and realized your lace had come loose.

You made a face.

Paige was several feet away, mid-bicker with Nika again.

“I’m telling you, that was a foul.”

“It was not a foul.”

“You grabbed me.”

“I breathed near you.”

“You wish.”

“You complain so much.”

“You foul so much.”

You shifted the ball against your ribs and called, “Paige?”

Paige stopped mid-sentence.

Not gradually.

Immediately.

Nika’s mouth stayed open around whatever she had been about to say.

Paige turned. “Yeah?”

“Can you help me real quick?” you asked, polite and distracted, glancing down at your shoe. “My hands are full.”

Paige was already moving.

You did not even ask. She crossed the space between you, dropped down to one knee, and tied your shoe like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Because to her, it was.

The gym went weirdly quiet for one second.

Not fully quiet. Balls still bounced. Someone’s sneakers still squeaked. Coaches were still talking. But the pocket around you shifted, just enough for the people closest to notice Paige Bueckers, who had been arguing a foul call like she was preparing a court case, suddenly kneeling in front of you with your shoelace in her hands.

You looked down at her.

She double-knotted it.

“You gotta stop leaving them loose,” she muttered.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always do it.”

“You always fix it.”

Paige glanced up.

Bad idea.

Very bad idea.

Because you were looking at her with that small, private smile, the one that made her forget there were other people in the room. Her hands paused at your shoe, and for a second she just stared up at you, eyes soft and stupidly fond, like she could not believe this was her life.

Nika made a sound of genuine distress.

“I hate this,” she said.

KK, from somewhere behind her, whispered loudly, “She got on one knee.”

Paige snapped out of it and stood so fast she almost bumped your shoulder.

“It was untied,” she said defensively.

KK’s mouth twitched like she was physically fighting the urge to say something.

Nika made a face over her water bottle, eyes flicking from Paige to you and back again, unimpressed in the way only Nika could pull off without actually being mad.

By the time practice ended, the story had already become bigger than it was. Not because anyone was shocked, exactly, but because KK had narrated it like a sportscaster in the locker room until even Azzi told her to breathe.

“She said, ‘Paige, can you help me real quick?’” KK insisted, sitting on the bench while pulling off her shoes. “Casual. Normal, right? And Paige stopped like somebody hit pause on her whole body.”

Paige, from two lockers over, threw her towel at KK.

KK caught it and kept going. “Then she said her hands were full, pointed at the shoe, and Paige dropped. Dropped. Like we were watching a proposal video.”

“It was a shoe,” Paige said.

“It was history.”

Nika nodded grimly. “Freshman is right.”

Paige looked betrayed. “You’re encouraging her?”

“I am processing trauma.”

You sat at your locker, laughing quietly while you changed into slides. Paige heard it and turned toward you instantly, her annoyed expression easing before she even realized she was doing it.

KK pointed. “There. Again.”

Paige looked back at her. “What?”

“You heard her laugh and forgot you were mad.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You smiled.”

“People smile.”

“Not like that.”

Paige opened her mouth, then seemed to decide there was no way to win without making it worse. She turned back to her locker, mumbling something under her breath.

You leaned closer as she sat beside you to tie her own shoes.

“You’re getting cooked today,” you said softly.

Paige looked at you from under her lashes. “You enjoying it?”

“A little.”

“That’s messed up.”

“You make it easy.”

“I make a lot of things easy for you.”

Her voice dropped just enough that the words slipped under the noise of the locker room, warm and teasing in a way that made your stomach flip even after all this time.

You gave her a look.

Paige smiled.

There she was. Cocky again, but only because she knew she had gotten to you.

“Careful,” you said.

Her smile grew. “Or what?”

You did not answer right away. You just reached over and tugged gently at the front of her hoodie, barely enough to move her. Paige leaned in without hesitation, like her body had accepted your gravity years ago and never bothered resisting after that.

Her knee touched yours.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then Nika groaned from across the room.

“Not in the locker room.”

Paige did not look away from you. “Nobody told you to watch.”

“You are both in public.”

“You’re just jealous nobody ties your shoes.”

Nika stood up. “I’m transferring.”

Azzi, calm as ever, said, “You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it yesterday too.”

You laughed again, pushing Paige lightly away before she could get herself in more trouble. She let you, of course. She always let you. But she stayed close enough that her knee remained pressed against yours.

That was how your day was supposed to go.

Practice. Teasing. Food. Maybe film. Maybe homework neither of you wanted to do. Paige pretending she was not going to end up in your room later, sitting on your floor while you studied, claiming she was only there because your Wi-Fi worked better even though you lived in the same building.

You had forgotten, almost completely, that your childhood friend was coming.

Not because you did not care.

Just because Storrs had a way of swallowing everything into its routine. Basketball, classes, lifts, team meals, recovery, sleep, repeat. Outside people became messages you answered late at night and calls you returned walking between buildings. Home existed, but differently. Childhood existed, but in flashes.

Then your phone buzzed while you and Paige were leaving the practice facility.

Eli: just got here Eli: this campus is confusing as hell btw Eli: if i go missing it’s uconn’s fault

You stopped walking.

Paige stopped too, because you stopped.

She did not ask why immediately. She just looked at you, then at your phone, reading your face first.

“Oh,” you said. “Eli’s here.”

Paige’s expression did something small.

Not enough for most people to notice.

You noticed.

“Today?” she asked.

“Yeah. I told you he was visiting this weekend.”

“I know.”

“You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.”

You raised your eyebrows.

Paige shifted your bag on her shoulder. “I remembered conceptually.”

You smiled. “That means you forgot.”

“It means I remembered there was a concept of him arriving.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet you keep me.”

She said it lightly, but there was something underneath it. A tiny searching thing she would deny if you called it out.

Eli texted again.

Eli: are you ignoring me already Eli: fame changed you

You shook your head, typing back quickly.

me: stay where you are. i’ll come get you.

Paige watched you text. She was quiet in a way that was not quite quiet. Paige had many versions of silence. There was tired silence. Thinking silence. Annoyed silence. Film-room silence, rare and usually forced. This one was the kind where she was pretending she was not curious.

You put your phone away. “He’s by the student union.”

Paige nodded.

“You coming?”

Her head snapped toward you.

You almost laughed at how fast it happened.

“You want me to?” she asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

“I mean, yeah.” You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Unless you had something else.”

“No.” Too fast. “I’m coming.”

You looked at her.

She looked away.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

“Maybe you’re cute.”

Paige’s face changed instantly. The attitude vanished so quickly it was almost funny, replaced by that pleased, slightly bashful look she only got when praise came from you. It was not that Paige did not know she was cute. Paige had confidence for days. She knew what she looked like. She knew the effect she had. But compliments from you landed differently. They got under the armor.

She cleared her throat. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay?”

“Trying to be humble.”

“You?”

“It’s new. Support me.”

You laughed again, and she smiled like she had earned something.

The walk to meet Eli took longer than it should have because Paige kept slowing whenever you got a notification, kept shifting closer whenever a group passed too near.

By the time you spotted Eli, he was standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking around with the slightly overwhelmed expression of someone who did not spend most of his time on a campus where everyone seemed to be either carrying a backpack, wearing athletic gear, or moving like they were late to something.

He saw you and grinned.

“There she is,” he called. “Miss Big East.”

You groaned before you even reached him. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, too humble now?”

“I was always humble.”

Eli laughed and pulled you into a hug.

It was normal.

It was childhood-normal. Easy. Familiar. The kind of hug that belonged to old photos and family barbecues and summers when you had both been shorter, louder, and convinced adulthood would feel more organized than it did. He smelled faintly like airport air and cold wind, and for a second you remembered being thirteen and racing him down a street near your old house, both of you breathless and dramatic over absolutely nothing.

Paige stood beside you, holding your bag.

She did not move. She did not interrupt. She did not look upset, exactly. But her posture shifted.

When you stepped back, you turned immediately. “Paige, this is Eli. Eli, Paige.”

Eli’s eyes moved to Paige.

Recognition hit him quickly, because of course it did. Even people who did not follow women’s basketball closely tended to know Paige, or at least knew enough to do a small double take when they realized she was standing in front of them with your practice bag on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Eli said, smiling. “I know who Paige is.”

Paige gave him a polite nod. “What’s up?”

Not rude.

Not warm.

Controlled.

You glanced at her.

She glanced back, and her expression softened for you immediately before she looked at Eli again.

Eli noticed.

You didn’t.

Or if you did, you filed it away with all the other Paige things that had become normal over the years.

“Good to finally meet you,” Eli said. “I’ve heard a lot.”

Paige’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You cut in before Paige could decide whether that was a challenge. “He means from me.”

Paige looked at you. “You talk about me?”

The question came out softer than she probably intended.

You stared at her. “Paige.”

“What?”

“You know I talk about you.”

“I mean, I assumed.”

“You assumed?”

“Was hoping.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“But you do?”

Eli looked between you with the growing expression of someone who had just realized he had walked into a conversation with its own private rules.

You shook your head, but you were smiling. “Yes, P. I talk about you.”

Paige nodded, trying to look cool and failing because the corner of her mouth kept betraying her.

“Cool,” she said.

Eli looked like he was fighting a laugh.

Paige watched the two of you go back and forth, and there it was again. That small, quiet pinch in her chest. Not jealousy in the sharp, ugly way. Not distrust. Nothing that made her doubt you.

Just awareness.

Eli knew a rhythm with you that Paige did not.

He knew how to tease you from before. He knew old versions of your expressions. He knew references she had not been there for. He knew the shape of your life before Storrs, before UConn, before Paige had learned your drink order and your favorite practice socks and the exact way your voice changed when you were trying not to laugh.

Paige did not like not knowing things about you.

She especially did not like when somebody else did.

But she stayed quiet, because it was not her place to make that your problem.

That was the thing about Paige’s jealousy. It could be loud in her head, but she had learned where the boundary was. She could be clingy. She could hover. She could make one too many jokes. She could insert herself into plans with embarrassing speed.

But she would not make you smaller to make herself feel bigger.

Eli was your friend. Your childhood friend. He had come to Storrs to see you. Paige understood that.

She just wished understanding made her less annoyed.

You spent the next hour showing Eli around the parts of campus that mattered to you. Not the formal tour version, though he joked that you were a terrible guide because half your descriptions were things like “this is where Nika yelled at someone once” and “that hallway always smells weird after games” and “Paige almost ate it on that patch of ice sophomore year.”

“I did not almost eat it,” Paige said immediately.

You looked at her. “You grabbed my sleeve and screamed.”

“I slipped.”

“You screamed.”

“It was a strategic noise.”

Eli laughed. “Strategic?”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I can picture it.”

“She was very dramatic,” you said.

Paige pointed at you. “You promised not to bring that up.”

“I did not.”

“You did emotionally.”

“That’s not legally binding.”

“It should be.”

Eli grinned. “She always this argumentative?”

You and Paige both answered at the same time.

“Yes,” you said.

“No,” Paige said.

You looked at each other.

Paige sighed.

Eli laughed again.

The thing was, Paige did argue. Constantly. With everybody. With Nika, with KK, with Azzi when Azzi was in the mood to entertain it, with coaches under her breath when she thought they were wrong but knew better than to say too much. She argued because she cared, because she was competitive, because her brain moved fast and her mouth often got there even faster.

But with you, she folded around the edges.

The first time Eli saw it clearly was outside the dining hall.

Nika had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, because Nika had a talent for entering scenes already annoyed.

“There you are,” she said to Paige. “You still owe me.”

Paige frowned. “For what?”

“For lying.”

“I lie about a lot of things. Be specific.”

“For saying you beat me in shooting yesterday.”

“I did beat you.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You counted one twice.”

“You missed enough that it didn’t matter.”

Nika stepped closer, hands up. “You are so—”

“Paige,” you said, barely looking away from your phone.

Paige stopped arguing.

Again.

Instantly.

She turned toward you. “Yeah?”

You held out your empty matcha cup. “Can you help throw this out?”

Paige took it from your hand before the question fully finished. “Yeah.”

She walked to the trash can.

Eli watched her go.

Nika watched Eli watching her.

Then Nika looked at you, looked at Paige, looked at Eli again, and made a face.

“See?” she said to Eli, despite the fact that nobody had asked her anything. “This is what I deal with.”

Eli blinked. “What?”

Paige returned. “Don’t talk to him.”

Nika ignored her. “All day. She talks crazy to me, then Y/N says one thing and suddenly she’s customer service.”

“I’m helpful,” Paige said.

“You are house-trained.”

Paige’s mouth dropped open. “Bro.”

You coughed around a laugh.

Paige looked at you immediately, then smiled despite herself.

Nika pointed at her own face like she was presenting evidence. “Disgusting.”

Eli was laughing now, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that made Paige want to be annoyed but also weirdly proud. Because yes, fine, maybe she was easy for you. But that was not embarrassing to her in the way everyone seemed to think it should be.

She liked being yours.

She liked when people could tell.

Not too much. Not enough to put words on it that you had not both agreed to share. But enough that people understood there was a line around you, and Paige lived somewhere inside it.

KK joined you near the entrance, looking way too excited for someone who had only caught the tail end of the conversation.

“What happened?”

Nika pointed at Paige. “Same thing that always happens.”

KK’s eyes lit up. “She folded?”

“I did not fold,” Paige said.

You looked at her.

Paige glanced at you and lowered her voice. “I didn’t.”

KK slapped Nika’s arm. “She said that quieter to Y/N.”

Nika nodded. “Different tone.”

“Y’all study me too much,” Paige said.

“You make it easy,” KK replied.

Eli leaned closer to you as Paige got pulled into another bicker with Nika and KK. “Are they always like this?”

“Yes.”

“And Paige is always like…” He trailed off, eyes flicking toward her.

You followed his gaze.

Paige was pointing at Nika, fully animated again. “You literally foul every possession and then act confused.”

Nika fired back instantly. “Because you complain every possession and then act like a victim.”

“I am a victim.”

“You are a problem.”

KK looked thrilled. “This team is so unserious.”

Paige turned toward her. “You’re part of the team.”

“I’m observing as a scholar.”

“You’re observing your way onto the line.”

You smiled, then said, “P, leave the freshman alone.”

Paige stopped. Her hand dropped. “She started it.”

Nika closed her eyes like she was in pain.

KK whispered, “That is insane.”

Eli looked at you.

You looked back at him, confused. “What?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Nothing.”

Because to you, that was just Paige.

Your Paige.

The one who would talk back to the entire world and then hand you obedience like it was the easiest thing she had ever given anybody.

Dinner was not supposed to become a thing.

That was how it happened.

Eli, after wandering campus and pretending not to be tired from travel, rubbed a hand over his stomach and said, “I actually haven’t eaten since this morning. You wanna grab something?”

Paige answered too fast.

“We were actually going somewhere.”

You turned your head slowly.

Paige did not look at you immediately.

Eli looked between you. “Oh. My bad. Can I come along?”

There was a pause. Not long enough to be rude. Long enough for Paige’s soul to briefly leave her body.

You could see her processing it. She had inserted herself because she wanted to be included, because you were hers and she was not above being obvious about it, but now Eli had done the reasonable thing and asked to come too. Paige could not say no. It was not her place. He was not her friend, not really, but he was yours. He had come all this way. He was being nice. He had not done anything wrong except exist with childhood memories and apparently no girlfriend, which Paige had already decided was suspicious on principle even though she had not yet confirmed it.

So she swallowed whatever first response had tried to climb out of her mouth.

Then she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s fine.”

The words were polite.

Her face was not thrilled.

You smiled at her softly.

Paige caught it and looked away, jaw shifting like she was trying not to smile back because she had a reputation to maintain and was currently losing it in front of everyone.

Eli did not ask what that meant.

He was starting to understand.

You ended up at a casual spot not far from campus, the kind of place athletes drifted toward when the dining hall felt too loud or too repetitive and everyone wanted something that did not taste like it had been planned by a nutritionist with a clipboard. The evening had settled cold around Storrs, the sky dark early in that Connecticut way that always made the day feel shorter than it was. Paige walked on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, switching places with you so smoothly that Eli noticed before you did.

You were talking about something from childhood, hands moving as you explained a story involving a bike, a hill, and Eli apparently making a terrible decision at age twelve.

Paige listened.

Mostly.

She was trying.

But every old story felt like opening a door into a room she had never been inside. You as a kid. You before UConn. You before the girl Paige met freshman year, sharp and pretty and impossible not to look at across a gym. Paige knew that version. She knew who you became under pressure. She knew how you handled bad shooting nights and sore knees and exam weeks. She knew the way you taped your fingers. She knew how you looked when you were locked in during a close game. She knew your coffee order when you were too tired for matcha. She knew your favorite hoodie, the one you denied was hers even though it had started in her closet. She knew what made you laugh now.

Eli knew what made you laugh then. That should not have bothered her.

It did anyway.

Inside the restaurant, you slid into a booth, Eli across from you. Paige sat beside you before anyone could even pretend there was another arrangement. Her thigh pressed against yours under the table. She spread the menu open with one hand, her other resting near her own knee.

You leaned slightly into her without looking, shoulder brushing hers.

She relaxed instantly.

Eli saw that too.

The conversation stayed easy at first. Food orders. Travel complaints. Eli making fun of how cold Storrs was. You telling him he was dramatic because it was not even winter yet. Paige muttering that he would not survive January, which made you laugh.

Then Eli mentioned an old nickname. It slipped out casually, like he had said it a thousand times before.

Paige’s head turned.

You groaned. “Do not call me that.”

Eli grinned. “What? It’s classic.”

“It is not classic. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s history.”

“It’s banned.”

“You can’t ban history.”

“I can ban you.”

Paige looked at you. “What nickname?”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m asking.”

“You’re starting by asking.”

“I wanna know.”

Eli smiled like he had just been handed a weapon. “You don’t know?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to him.

There was no heat, not really.

But there was something.

You felt it immediately.

Not jealousy, exactly. Something softer and more sensitive than that. Paige hated being outside of anything involving you. She would never say it that plainly, but you knew. She wanted every version of you she could get. Not to own, not to control, but to understand. To keep safe. To love properly.

You nudged her knee under the table.

She looked at you.

Your hand slipped down, quiet and easy, finding hers under the table.

Paige went still.

Then her fingers wrapped around yours.

Just like that, the sharp thing in her expression eased.

Nobody above the table needed to know.

Eli kept talking, but his gaze dipped once. Maybe he saw the movement. Maybe he only saw how Paige’s shoulders dropped the second your hand touched hers.

Either way, he did not mention it.

Your food came, and Paige immediately pushed the sauce you liked closer to your side before you reached for it. She pulled a napkin from the dispenser and put it beside your plate. When you got distracted answering one of Eli’s questions, she moved your drink away from the edge of the table because you had a habit of gesturing too much and almost knocking things over.

Eli watched all of it.

After a while, he started testing it. Not cruelly. Just curiously.

“You always take care of her like that?” he asked Paige.

You looked up, confused.

Paige did not hesitate. “Yeah.”

Your face warmed.

Eli’s eyebrows lifted, amused by the directness.

Paige shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. “She forgets stuff.”

“I do not forget stuff.”

Paige looked at you.

You looked back.

She said nothing.

You frowned. “Okay, I forget some stuff.”

“You forgot your keys this morning.”

“I was testing you.”

“She says that every time,” Paige told Eli.

Eli laughed. “Sounds like her.”

Paige’s smile tightened at the edges.

There it was again.

Sounds like her.

Like he knew. Like he had known longer.

Your thumb moved over Paige’s knuckles under the table.

She inhaled quietly.

You kept talking to Eli, but your hand stayed in hers.

Paige clung to that small contact like it was a lifeline.

The night got warmer after that. Not because Paige stopped feeling strange, but because you kept choosing her in ways that did not interrupt the conversation. Your knee stayed against hers. Your hand returned to hers whenever you could. Once, when Eli was telling a story about some mutual childhood disaster, you leaned sideways and murmured, “You okay?” so softly only Paige heard.

She nodded.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re quiet.”

“Listening.”

“To him?”

“To you.”

You looked at her then, and Paige looked right back, no joke ready, no smirk, just that open fondness she sometimes forgot to hide.

You squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

Eli watched you both from across the table and smiled faintly to himself.

Later, when Paige stepped away to take a call from one of the staff members about something schedule-related, Eli waited until she was out of earshot before leaning back in the booth.

“So,” he said.

You looked up from your drink. “What?”

He nodded toward the direction Paige had gone. “That’s Paige.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Obviously.”

“No, I mean…” He smiled. “That’s Paige.”

You looked down, fighting the way your mouth wanted to curve. “Yeah.”

“She’s intense.”

“She’s Paige.”

“She looks at you like you hung the moon.”

You went quiet.

That was not the kind of teasing you could swat away easily.

Eli softened a little, elbows resting on the table. “You happy?”

The question settled between you.

You looked toward the hallway where Paige had disappeared, then back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

He nodded. “Good.”

You stirred your straw through the ice in your cup.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The noise of the restaurant filled the silence: silverware, voices, the low hum of music, someone laughing too loudly near the front. It was strange, having someone from before sit across from you in the life you had built after. Strange, but not bad.

Then Eli asked, quieter, “Who is she to you?”

You did not answer right away.

Not because you did not know.

You knew exactly who Paige was to you.

She was the girl outside your door with matcha. The hand under the table. The pass before you cut. The hoodie on your chair. The person who had learned you in details so small other people would have missed them. She was cocky, impossible, soft where it counted, annoying when she wanted attention, loyal in a way that made your chest ache. She was the person who could make you roll your eyes and feel safe in the same breath.

But the relationship was not only yours to hand out.

Even after almost three years, even when the team knew, even when people close to you could figure it out, you were careful with it. Not ashamed. Never ashamed. Just protective. Paige was not a headline to you. She was not gossip. She was not something you tossed casually onto a table just because someone asked.

You looked toward the hallway again.

Paige was still gone.

Then you smiled faintly.

“She’s important,” you said.

Eli studied you for a second.

Then he nodded, like he understood exactly what you were not saying.

“Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”

You did not deny it.

You did not confirm it either.

You only took a sip of your drink, still smiling down at the table like you could not quite help yourself.

Eli leaned back, satisfied. “For what it’s worth, she seems good for you.”

“She is.”

“She’s also wildly obvious.”

You laughed.

“She is not subtle,” he said.

“No,” you admitted softly. “She’s not.”

“And you don’t notice?”

You frowned. “Notice what?”

Eli stared at you.

Then he started laughing.

“What?”

“You’re kidding.”

“What?”

“She follows you around like you’ve got her on a leash.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “She does not.”

“She absolutely does.”

“That’s just Paige.”

“With you,” Eli said. “I’m getting the sense that is just Paige with you.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Because the easy answer was to deny it. To say Paige was like that with everyone. Helpful. Touchy. Loyal. Big-hearted beneath all the attitude.

But that was not fully true.

Paige cared about her people. She would do anything for her team. She would show up, protect, support, fight, love hard. But with you, there was a softness that had its own shape. A quiet automatic obedience that did not appear anywhere else. Paige could argue with a coach, a teammate, a ref, a wall, and herself.

But you said her name, and she stopped.

You had never really thought about how that looked from the outside.

Before you could answer, Paige came back.

Her eyes moved between you and Eli immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said.

She did not believe you. “Why you smiling like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you were talking about me.”

Eli lifted his drink. “We were.”

Paige slid into the booth beside you, suspicious. “What about me?”

You leaned toward her, shoulder brushing hers. “Good things.”

Her suspicion wavered.

“Good things?” she repeated.

You nodded.

Paige tried to hold onto the attitude, but your knee pressed into hers under the table and your fingers found her wrist. Her entire expression softened again, helplessly.

Eli watched it happen.

Then he laughed under his breath.

Paige looked at him. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep saying nothing.”

“Because it’s nothing.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “You’re annoying.”

Eli pointed at you. “She used to say that to me all the time.”

Paige’s attention snapped toward you. “Did you?”

You blinked. “Probably.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You had other annoying people before me?”

You smiled. “P, nobody is annoying like you.”

She looked pleased before she could stop herself.

Eli covered his mouth with his hand.

“You’re laughing again,” Paige said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just seeing the vision.”

“What vision?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Paige looked at you. “I don’t trust him.”

You patted her hand under the table. “Be nice.”

Paige immediately muttered, “I’m being nice.”

Eli whispered, “Leash.”

You kicked him under the table.

He laughed so hard he almost choked on his drink.

Paige looked between you again. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, but you were laughing now too.

Paige huffed, but she was smiling because you were smiling, and that was usually all it took.

By the time dinner ended, Paige had relaxed more. Not fully. She still watched Eli with that quiet competitive focus whenever he mentioned something from your childhood. She still asked too many casual questions that were not casual at all. She wanted to know how long you had known each other, when you stopped living near each other, whether he visited often, whether you two still talked a lot, whether he had a girlfriend.

That last one came out too smooth.

Too smooth meant dangerous.

“So,” Paige said, pushing fries around her plate like she did not care. “You got a girlfriend or something?”

You turned your head slowly.

Eli blinked, then smiled. “Subtle.”

Paige shrugged. “Just asking.”

“Uh, no. We broke up a few months ago.”

Paige’s hand paused.

You felt it because you were still holding it under the table.

There it was.

The clocking.

The immediate mental file opening in Paige’s head.

Single childhood friend. Knows your old nickname. Makes you laugh. Came to Storrs. Hazard level: annoying.

You squeezed her hand before she could spiral too visibly.

Paige looked at you.

You gave her the smallest smile.

She exhaled through her nose and nodded once, like fine, okay, she would behave.

“Sorry,” you told Eli. “That sucks.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “It was mutual. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Okay, maybe not fully mutual.”

You gave him a sympathetic look.

Paige, to her credit, said nothing mean.

You were proud of her.

So proud, actually, that under the table, you brushed your thumb over the inside of her wrist.

Paige’s posture changed.

A tiny shift. Barely visible.

But you felt it. The way she melted in increments, like you had found the exact place to touch to make the jealousy drain out of her. Her shoulder pressed more firmly into yours, and when you did not move away, she stayed there.

Eli saw that too.

He smiled to himself again, less teasing this time.

Something gentler.

After dinner, the three of you walked back toward campus under streetlights, the air cold enough that your breath showed faintly when you laughed. Eli told more stories. Paige listened more than she spoke, but she was not withdrawn anymore. She made comments. Teased you. Asked questions. Got offended when Eli claimed you used to be faster than you were now.

“She is faster now,” Paige said immediately.

Eli lifted his hands. “I’m just saying, at twelve—”

“At twelve she was racing you on a street. Now she’s training every day.”

You glanced at her, amused. “You sound personally offended.”

“I am.”

“On my behalf?”

“Always.”

The word came out too easy.

You looked at her.

Paige looked back, realizing after the fact what she had said. Her cheeks pinked slightly, though she would blame the cold if anyone asked.

Eli looked away politely.

You let your hand brush hers as you walked.

Paige caught it.

Just for a second, your fingers linked.

Then you let go before it became too obvious to anyone passing by.

Paige did not complain.

She just smiled at the ground.

Eventually, Eli had to head back to where he was staying. He hugged you goodbye, promised he would text in the morning, and told Paige it was good to meet her.

Paige nodded. “You too.”

Then, after a beat, she added, “For real.”

Eli seemed to understand the effort in that.

He smiled. “Take care of her.”

Paige’s expression shifted.

Not defensive.

Certain.

“I do,” she said.

Your heart did something stupid.

Eli glanced at you, then back at Paige. “Yeah. I can tell.”

When he left, the quiet that followed felt bigger than it should have.

You and Paige walked back toward the dorms side by side. For the first minute, neither of you spoke. The cold pressed in around you. Somewhere in the distance, people were laughing. A car passed, headlights sliding over the sidewalk before disappearing around the curve.

Paige had her hands in her hoodie pocket.

You had your arms crossed against the chill.

Normally, she would have said something by now. A joke. A complaint. A dramatic comment about the cold. A question she pretended was casual.

Instead, she stayed quiet.

You glanced at her. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“P.”

She looked at you.

You stopped walking.

Because that still worked too.

Paige stopped immediately, turning to face you.

The streetlight caught the side of her face, softening the sharpness of her features. She looked younger like this, hood up, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes searching yours with the kind of openness she rarely gave anyone else.

“You were hovering,” you said.

Paige’s mouth twitched. “Was not.”

You gave her a look.

She held out for maybe two seconds.

Then she folded.

“A little.”

You smiled. “A little?”

“Medium.”

“P.”

She sighed. “Fine. A lot.”

Your smile widened.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it. “Don’t look all happy.”

“I’m not happy.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I think it’s cute.”

Paige looked away quickly.

There it was again. That pleased, shy little crack in her confidence.

“You think everything I do is cute,” she muttered.

“Not everything.”

“Name one thing.”

“When you leave your socks on my floor.”

“You love that.”

“I do not.”

“You love that I’m comfortable.”

“I love you. That is different.”

Paige went quiet.

It still got her sometimes.

Even after almost three years.

Especially after almost three years.

Her eyes came back to yours, softer now. “Yeah?”

You stepped closer. “Yeah.”

The tension in her shoulders dropped.

For all her confidence, for all the attitude and cockiness and noise, Paige still looked at you sometimes like she could not believe she had gotten this. Like there was a part of her still standing in freshman year, watching you across a gym, wondering how someone could be that pretty and that good and that calm under pressure. Like some part of her was still amazed that you had chosen her back.

You reached for her sleeve, tugging her closer.

She came immediately.

Of course she did.

“You know you don’t have to compete with him, right?” you said.

Paige’s eyebrows pulled together. “I wasn’t.”

“P.”

She looked down.

You waited.

The thing about Paige was she could argue with everyone else forever, but with you, silence usually worked better. You did not have to push. You just had to stay.

Finally, she said, “He knows a lot about you.”

“He knew me when we were kids.”

“Yeah.” Paige swallowed. “That’s the part.”

Your chest softened.

There it was.

Not jealousy, not really.

Want.

Paige wanted every version of you. The teammate. The girlfriend. The girl who forgot her keys. The girl who hit corner threes. The girl who got quiet when she was tired. The girl who used to race bikes down hills and apparently had an embarrassing childhood nickname she refused to share.

She wanted all of it.

Not because she felt entitled to it.

Because she loved you so much she hated the idea of missing anything.

You slid your hand down her sleeve until your fingers found hers.

“You can ask me anything, you know.”

Paige looked up. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What was the nickname?”

You groaned immediately. “No.”

“You said anything.”

“I said anything, not that.”

“That is included in anything.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately.”

Paige smiled, bright and victorious. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

You looked at her.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The nickname landed soft and low, wrapped in that pleading tone she only used when she wanted something from you and knew she had a decent chance of getting it. Paige could be shameless when she wanted attention. Worse, she knew you liked it.

“Don’t baby me,” you said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Is it working?”

You stared at her.

She smiled.

You sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“But it’s working?”

“Maybe.”

She stepped closer, fingers tightening around yours. “Then tell me.”

You looked around, even though nobody was close enough to hear. “If I tell you, you can’t laugh.”

Paige’s face turned serious immediately. Too serious. Fake serious. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Not at you.”

“At the nickname.”

“That’s different.”

“Paige.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t laugh.”

You hesitated.

She leaned in slightly, eyes fixed on yours like this mattered more than anything else in her entire night.

So you told her.

Quietly.

Paige stared at you.

Her lips pressed together.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Her shoulders shook once.

“Paige.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are literally laughing.”

“I’m holding it in.”

“P.”

She stopped.

Mostly.

Then she cleared her throat, face red from the effort. “It’s cute.”

“It is not cute.”

“It’s very cute.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“You’re done.”

“No, wait—”

You started walking again.

Paige followed instantly, still holding your hand.

“Baby, wait.”

“No.”

“I’m serious. It’s cute.”

“You’re never allowed to say it.”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

You glanced at her.

She looked sincere for about half a second.

Then she said it under her breath.

You stopped.

Paige immediately tried to run.

You grabbed her sleeve, laughing despite yourself. “Paige!”

She was laughing now too, stumbling backward as you pulled her close. “I had to.”

“You promised!”

“I said it quiet.”

“That does not count.”

“It counts emotionally.”

“You are so annoying.”

“But you love me.”

“Barely.”

Paige gasped. “Barely?”

You tried to pull away, but she caught your waist gently, tugging you back in like it was instinct. Not rough. Never rough. Just enough to make you step into her space, your hands landing against the front of her hoodie.

Her face was close now.

Too close for a public sidewalk, maybe.

But not close enough for either of you to move away.

“You love me barely?” she asked, voice softer.

You looked up at her. “Maybe medium.”

“Medium?”

“Fine. A lot.”

“How much?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re needy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

That shut you up.

Paige smiled, but it was not cocky this time. It was honest. Warm. A little vulnerable around the edges.

“I am,” she said, like she had decided there was no point pretending otherwise. “I’m real needy for you.”

Your fingers curled in her hoodie.

“Everyone noticed,” you said softly.

“I don’t care.”

“You cared earlier.”

“I cared that he knew stuff I didn’t.” Paige’s thumb moved lightly at your waist. “Not that he noticed I’m obsessed with you.”

Your face warmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am.” She leaned closer, nose brushing yours for half a second. “Still got you though.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“Still don’t know how.”

Your expression softened.

Paige said it like a joke, but her eyes gave her away.

You lifted one hand to her face, thumb brushing her cheek. She went still under the touch. Completely still. Paige Bueckers, who could not stop moving most days, who bounced and shifted and talked with her whole body, froze like your hand on her face had turned the world quiet.

“You don’t have to know how,” you said. “You just have to stay.”

Her eyes searched yours.

Then she nodded once.

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

“I’m good at that.”

“You are.”

“Best thing I do, probably.”

“You play basketball pretty well too.”

Paige smiled. “Pretty well?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You laughed, and Paige kissed you before the sound could fully leave your mouth.

It was quick, soft, familiar. A kiss that belonged to quiet sidewalks and cold nights and the kind of love that had been built over years of mornings, practices, passes, arguments, teasing, and Paige waiting outside your door with your drink in hand.

When she pulled back, she was smiling.

You tapped her chest. “Come on. It’s cold.”

Paige immediately stepped beside you.

Then, after two steps, she gently took your hand again.

You looked at her. “You’re clingy tonight.”

“I’m clingy every night.”

“True.”

“You like it.”

You did not answer.

Paige bumped your shoulder. “You like it.”

“Maybe.”

“You do.”

“P.”

She grinned. “Okay.”

And just like that, she stopped pushing.

The walk back was quiet after that, but not empty. Paige kept your hand in hers until you reached the building. She opened the door for you. Followed you inside. Pressed the elevator button before you could. Stood close enough that your shoulders touched as you waited.

When the doors opened, KK was inside again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor. She looked at your joined hands.

Then at Paige.

Then at you.

A slow grin spread across her face.

“Damn,” KK said. “Still on the leash?”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “You got one more time.”

You squeezed Paige’s hand.

Paige shut her mouth.

KK’s grin got huge. “Oh, this is sick.”

You stepped into the elevator, laughing.

Paige followed, muttering, “I hate everybody.”

KK looked at you. “She don’t hate you.”

“No,” you said, leaning slightly into Paige’s side.

Paige looked down at you, all soft again, all helpless again, all hers and yours and gone in that way everyone could see except maybe the two of you.

“No,” Paige said quietly. “I don’t.”

KK made a gagging noise.

Paige ignored her.

You smiled.

And when the elevator doors closed, Paige was still holding your hand, still carrying your bag, still standing close enough to follow wherever you went next.

Like always.

Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Like she had never once wanted to be anywhere else.

You learned very quickly that there were different versions of Paige Bueckers.

There was the Paige everyone got on camera, the one who could walk into a gym with cameras already pointed at her and somehow make it look casual, like attention was just weather and she had learned to move through it without blinking. That Paige was all easy grins and loose shoulders, all tilted chin and quick jokes, the kind of confidence that made every clip usable because even when she was not trying, she looked like she knew exactly where the light was. There was the Paige her teammates got, louder and dumber in the best way, collapsing into laughter with KK over some joke that barely made sense, arguing with Nika about something small and dramatic, tossing a ball across the gym with one hand while pretending she had not been listening to every single conversation around her. Then there was the Paige you got, and the problem was that you did not know it was different until other people started looking at you like you were insane for missing it.

You were not on the team. That was the thing you kept reminding yourself whenever your brain got too bold, whenever Paige did something tiny and stupid and sweet enough to make you forget how normal friends were supposed to act. You were just part of the athletics media staff, technically a student photographer, technically the girl who helped shoot practice content, behind-the-scenes clips, warmup photos, short-form edits, and whatever else the department needed when someone wanted the team to look good online. You were around because you were good with a camera, because you knew how to catch motion without making it look stiff, because you had an eye for the kind of candid moments fans ate up before the team even realized those moments existed. You were around because it was your job. That was it. That was the line you had drawn for yourself the first month you started working with them, and it had been very helpful, very mature, very professional—until Paige Bueckers started treating the line like something she could dribble around.

At first, you thought she was just like that. Paige had that kind of personality, the type that made closeness seem easy, like she could lean over your shoulder to look at a camera screen and not realize your entire nervous system had just gone into manual mode. She was friendly, playful, nosy in a way that felt natural on her. She would ask to see photos before you were done sorting through them, squint at the screen like she understood your settings, then say something deeply unhelpful like, “Yeah, that one’s tough,” while pointing at a blurry warmup shot you had already planned to delete. She stole your water once because she claimed hers was too far away, even though hers was three feet behind her. She learned your class schedule by accident, or at least she said it was by accident, because after a late practice shoot she had glanced at you packing up and asked, “You got that art history thing tomorrow morning, right?” with the kind of casualness that made you pause with your camera halfway into your bag.

“Photography history,” you had corrected, mostly because you needed something to do with your mouth before it betrayed you.

Paige had only shrugged, rocking back on her heels, sweat still drying at the edge of her hairline and her practice shirt clinging to her shoulders in a way you were determined not to notice. “Same thing.”

“It is literally not the same thing.”

“You take pictures. History. Boom. Photography history.”

“That was almost impressive, actually. Like, the confidence for someone so wrong?”

She had grinned at that, bright and pleased like getting you to argue with her was the whole point, and then she had reached down before you could stop her, taking the heavier equipment bag off the floor with one hand. “You walking back?”

“I can carry that.”

“Didn’t ask if you could.”

You remembered staring at her for a second too long, trying to decide whether she was being annoying or kind, and landing somewhere dangerous in the middle. “You know I do this literally every week, right?”

“Good thing I’m here this week, then.”

That should have been your first sign. Maybe your second, if you counted the time she had noticed you were cold during a media day shoot and had tossed her hoodie at you without even looking directly at you, like the gesture was so automatic it did not require discussion. You had been standing near the baseline with your camera strap cutting across your chest, trying not to shiver because Gampel had that specific indoor chill that never seemed to care what season it was, and Paige had been mid-conversation with Azzi when she suddenly pulled the hoodie over her head and threw it in your direction. You had barely caught it against your stomach. It smelled like laundry detergent and something warm you refused to put a name to.

“You’re shaking the camera,” Paige had said, still not making a big deal out of it.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I have stabilization.”

“Cool. Now you got a hoodie too.”

Azzi had looked between you both with an expression so calm it was somehow louder than if she had screamed. You ignored it. You put the hoodie on because you were cold, not because Paige’s eyes flickered over you for half a second after you did, not because her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. You told yourself this was normal. Teammates shared stuff all the time. Friends shared stuff. Paige probably gave people hoodies constantly. Paige probably remembered everyone’s class schedule and stole everyone’s camera to take unflattering point-five selfies and walked everyone back after late shoots because campus got dark and she “was going that way anyway,” even when she absolutely was not.

The team did not agree.

KK was the first one who made it a problem.

You were sitting on the floor near the side of the practice court one afternoon, legs crossed, laptop balanced on your knees as you skimmed through a folder of photos from warmups. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but the gym still had that leftover energy clinging to it, sneakers squeaking somewhere in the distance, someone laughing too loudly near the tunnel, the faint echo of a ball bouncing even after everyone should have been done. You were supposed to be narrowing down photos for a game-day post, but Paige had taken it upon herself to hover beside you, one knee bent as she leaned over your shoulder, her hand braced on the floor close enough to your hip that you could see the veins across the back of it every time you looked down.

“Delete that one,” Paige said.

You did not look at her. “I’m not taking editing notes from the subject.”

“I’m helping you.”

“You are insulting my work.”

“That’s not work. That’s a crime. Why you got me looking like that?”

“You mean like your face?”

Paige made a noise under her breath, amused and offended at once, and leaned a little closer to look at the screen. “You’re funny today.”

“I’m funny every day. You just don’t listen.”

“I listen to you.”

It was too easy, the way she said it. Too quick. Too soft under the noise of the gym. Your fingers paused over the trackpad for maybe half a second, not enough for a normal person to notice but apparently enough for KK, who had wandered over with a water bottle in one hand and the kind of grin that made you instantly suspicious.

“Oh, you listen to her?” KK said, drawing the words out like she had just discovered evidence at a crime scene. “That’s crazy, because you don’t listen to nobody else.”

Paige straightened immediately, which was funny because she had no reason to look caught. “I listen.”

KK looked at you. Then at Paige. Then back at you. “She do not listen.”

“I literally listen,” Paige said.

“Nika told you to move your shoes out the locker room walkway four times yesterday and you looked her dead in the face and walked away.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but there was a smile pulling at her mouth. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because that was Nika.”

“See?” KK pointed at her like she had just proven her entire argument. “But Y/N says one thing and you’re all, ‘yeah, okay, you need help with that bag? you cold? you hungry? you want my hoodie? you want my whole apartment?’”

Your face warmed so fast that you had to look down at your laptop, pretending to adjust the brightness. “KK.”

“What?” she said, all innocence and no shame. “I’m just observing.”

“You observe too much.”

“I’m a point guard. That’s my job.”

Paige scoffed, but she did not deny it fast enough. That was what made it worse. She just stood there with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed at KK in warning, like she was trying to intimidate a freshman who had absolutely no interest in being intimidated. “You done?”

KK grinned wider. “Not really.”

“You should be.”

“You mad because I’m right?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“I always look like this.”

“You look like you wanna throw me into the stands.”

Paige’s jaw shifted, and for one wildly embarrassing second, you thought about how much you liked watching her try not to smile. That was the thing about Paige. She was not hard to read exactly, but she had layers of defense, little habits she used to keep things from looking too serious. A joke when something landed too close. A smirk when she felt exposed. A roll of her eyes when somebody said something true. You had photographed her enough to know the difference between her camera face and her real face, but knowing that felt intimate in a way you did not want to examine too closely.

“I think the photos look good,” you said, because the moment had started to feel like it had teeth.

Paige’s eyes dropped back to you immediately. “Yeah?”

There it was again. That shift. Not huge, not dramatic, but enough. With KK, she was all attitude. With you, her voice settled. With you, she looked for your reaction before she let herself have one. You were not sure what to do with that, so you turned the laptop slightly in her direction and showed her a shot of herself mid-laugh, head tipped back, eyes crinkled, one hand lifted like she was about to shove Azzi away from her. It was warm and bright and annoyingly perfect. Paige looked at it for a moment, then nodded like she was trying to be humble and failing.

“That one’s hard.”

“You say that about every good photo of yourself.”

“Because they’re hard.”

“You’re so humble.”

“I know. It’s a gift.”

KK made a gagging sound. “This is disgusting.”

You shut the laptop halfway, laughing despite yourself. “What is?”

“Whatever this is.” She waved a hand between you and Paige. “I feel like I’m interrupting something and y’all not even doing anything.”

Paige looked at her sharply. “Then leave.”

KK’s mouth dropped open with delight. “Oh?”

“I meant because you’re annoying.”

“No, no, no, say less. I’m leaving. Y’all need privacy for photo editing.”

“KK,” you warned, but you were smiling, and that only made her worse.

She backed away dramatically, still pointing at both of you. “I support this. Whatever this is. I support women in media. I support women in basketball. I support delusion. I support love.”

“There’s no love,” you said too quickly.

The gym seemed to get quiet at the worst possible time. Paige looked down at you, and the humor on her face did not disappear, not completely, but it changed shape. It softened into something you could not name without feeling ridiculous. You hated that you had said it like that, hated that you sounded defensive, hated that some tiny part of you wanted to check if Paige looked bothered by it. But she only nudged your sneaker lightly with the toe of hers and said, “Damn, okay,” like she was joking, like it was nothing, like your stomach had not twisted.

KK froze three steps away. “Interesting.”

“Go away,” Paige said.

“I’m going, I’m going.” KK lifted both hands, but she was smiling like she had just been handed the first page of a playbook. “But I saw that.”

You watched her leave, then looked back down at your laptop, trying to gather whatever was left of your dignity. “She’s dramatic.”

“She’s nosy.”

“She’s sweet.”

“She’s annoying.”

“You like her.”

Paige tilted her head. “Yeah. Still annoying.”

You smiled, opening the laptop again because if your hands were busy, maybe your chest would stop doing that weird fluttery thing. “She’s going to keep saying stuff now.”

“Let her.”

You blinked. Paige was looking at the screen, not at you, but her shoulder was close enough that you could feel the warmth of her beside you. “Let her?”

“She don’t know what she’s talking about.”

The answer should have been comforting. It should have put everything back where it belonged, in the safe little folder labeled jokes and teammate teasing and nothing serious. Instead, it felt like a door closing gently before you could decide whether you wanted to walk through it. You hummed, pretending to study a photo of Ice celebrating after a made three, and told yourself you were being stupid. Paige was Paige. She was friendly. She was charming. She was the kind of person people watched too closely because she made things look meaningful even when they were not.

You were not special.

That thought lasted until she reached over, took the edge of your camera strap where it had twisted near your collarbone, and fixed it with careful fingers.

“You always let this thing sit weird,” she said.

Your breath caught so quietly you hoped the gym swallowed it. “It’s a strap, Paige.”

“It’s gonna bother your neck.”

“You’re weirdly concerned about my neck.”

The second it left your mouth, you regretted it. Paige paused, eyes flicking to yours with a spark of amusement so quick it felt like a match striking. For a second, she looked like she was going to say something cocky, something that would make you shove her away and laugh too loud. But then her fingers dropped from the strap, knuckles brushing the fabric of your sweatshirt, and she only said, “Somebody gotta be.”

By the time you left the gym that night, KK had already texted you three times.

The first message was just eyes. The second was a blurry photo she had clearly taken from across the gym of Paige leaning over your shoulder, the angle terrible and incriminating. The third said, be honest.

You stopped walking outside Gampel, the cold air hitting your face as you stared down at your phone. Around you, campus was dark in that early evening way, blue-black sky, yellow windows, the distant sound of someone shouting near the sidewalk. You could hear the team behind you, voices spilling out of the building in a cluster, sneakers dragging, laughter bouncing. You typed back before you could overthink it.

about what?

KK replied instantly.

girl.

You rolled your eyes even though she could not see it.

use words.

The next message came with terrifying speed.

paige.

You stared at the name longer than necessary. It was only five letters. It should not have made your pulse act stupid.

what about paige?

KK sent a voice message. You did not play it. Absolutely not. Not with Paige walking out of the building behind you, hood up, backpack slung over one shoulder, her head turning toward you like she had already expected you to be there. She said something to Azzi, then broke away from the group without making it look like a big decision. That was one of her talents, you were starting to realize. Paige could make deliberate things look casual. She could cross a room for you like she had simply drifted there.

“You good?” she asked, slowing beside you.

You locked your phone so fast it was embarrassing. “Yeah.”

“You look guilty.”

“I’m not.”

“That was suspiciously quick.”

“You always accuse people like you’re a detective.”

“I got instincts.”

“You have nosiness.”

“Same thing.”

She fell into step with you like it was routine, like she had not come out with the rest of the team and then chosen your pace instead. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, but before you could get it settled, Paige’s hand was already there, lifting the strap slightly to ease the weight.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know.”

“You do this every time.”

“And every time you act shocked.”

“Because it’s my equipment.”

“And I’m carrying it.”

“You’re not even going toward my building.”

Paige glanced at you, eyes bright under the edge of her hood. “You tracking me now?”

“You literally live the other way.”

“Maybe I like the scenic route.”

“There is no scenic route. It’s campus.”

“Campus can be scenic.”

“Name one scenic thing.”

Paige looked around, pretending to think deeply. The sidewalk stretched ahead, damp from earlier rain, streetlights reflected in small patches across the concrete. A couple of students passed by laughing, bundled in hoodies and jackets, one of them glancing at Paige and then quickly pretending not to. Paige ignored it in the practiced way she ignored most attention, but when her eyes came back to you, the grin she gave you felt private.

“You,” she said, and then immediately looked forward like she had not just ruined your ability to walk normally.

You almost tripped over nothing.

Paige laughed under her breath, low and pleased. “Careful.”

“Shut up.”

“What? I answered.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You asked.”

“I asked for a scenic thing, not for you to be corny.”

“That wasn’t corny. That was smooth.”

“That was terrible.”

“You smiling though.”

You were. You hated that you were. You bit the inside of your cheek and looked away, but that only made her laugh again, and the sound settled somewhere warm in your ribs before you could stop it. Maybe that was why you missed the way KK and Ice were watching from several yards behind you, huddled together like they were witnessing live television. Maybe that was why you did not see KK slap Ice’s arm repeatedly, silent screaming with her whole body while Ice tried to pull out her phone again. Maybe that was why, when Paige walked you all the way to your building and handed your bag back with a soft little “text me when you finish editing,” you nodded like that was a normal thing for her to ask.

It was not until you got upstairs, kicked off your shoes, and finally played KK’s voice message that you realized you had a problem.

“Y/N,” KK’s voice hissed through your phone, full of barely contained laughter, “I’m saying this with love because you my girl, but you cannot be this dumb forever. Paige does not act like that with everybody. She does not. I have eyes. The team has eyes. The walls have eyes. She likes you. And before you say ‘no she doesn’t, that’s just Paige,’ I need you to know that I already know you’re gonna say that and you’re wrong. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

You stood in the middle of your room with your coat still on, staring at the message like it had personally attacked you.

Then, because you apparently had no self-preservation, you whispered, “No she doesn’t. That’s just Paige.”

Your phone buzzed immediately after, like the universe had comedic timing.

paige: send me the ones from today when u done paige: not the ugly ones tho paige: actually send those too paige: i know u got jokes

You stared at the texts until your mouth started doing something dangerously close to a smile. Then you opened the thread and typed back.

y/n: why would i send ugly photos to the subject paige: bc u like bullying me y/n: maybe stop making bullyable faces paige: bullyable is crazy paige: that even a word? y/n: it is now paige: photography history major making words up y/n: still not my major paige: same thing

You sat down on your bed with your laptop still in your bag and Paige’s hoodie still folded over your desk chair from the last time she had given it to you and forgotten to ask for it back. Or maybe she had not forgotten. You did not know anymore, and that was the problem. Once someone pointed out a pattern, it became impossible not to see it everywhere. Paige texting you after practice was normal, except it happened almost every time you shot content. Paige asking for photos was normal, except she used it as an excuse to keep talking long after you had sent them. Paige carrying your bag was normal, except no one else did it. Paige calling you out when you skipped dinner to edit was normal, except she was the one who showed up ten minutes later with food and said, “Don’t make it weird, I was already getting some,” even when the receipt had your exact order on it.

Maybe you had been ignoring it because noticing felt too risky. Because Paige was not just some girl from your class who borrowed pencils and sat too close during lectures. She was Paige. She was the name people chanted from the stands, the face on edits, the athlete everybody watched, the person who somehow seemed both untouchable and unbearably human when she was standing in front of you complaining that you made her look short in a photo. Liking her felt like standing too close to a camera flash. Bright, stupid, impossible to pretend you did not see.

So you did what any reasonable person would do.

You ignored KK.

For exactly two days.

It might have lasted longer if KK had not decided subtlety was beneath her.

The next time you were assigned to shoot a short behind-the-scenes piece for the women’s basketball team, the media room was already loud when you arrived. It was supposed to be a simple content day, nothing intense, just quick portraits, a few candid clips, and some fun team questions for social. The kind of shoot where the players rotated through stations, answered prompts, laughed at each other, and pretended they hated being filmed while secretly making sure their hair looked right. You liked those days because they were less rigid than game coverage. You could catch personalities better. You could get Ice laughing with her whole face, Nika rolling her eyes at something off-camera, Azzi smiling softly when someone else said something ridiculous, KK doing too much on purpose because she knew it would make the edit.

Paige was already there when you walked in.

That should not have mattered. It did.

She was sitting backward on a chair near the backdrop, arms folded over the top of it, talking to Aubrey with her head tilted slightly, hair pulled back, a gray UConn hoodie loose over her frame. She looked comfortable, too comfortable, like the room had arranged itself around her without asking. Then she saw you, and her expression shifted before she could stop it. It was not a huge smile. It was worse. A small one. A real one. The kind that tugged at one corner of her mouth and softened her eyes for half a second before she covered it with a nod.

“Photographer girl,” she called.

You tried not to smile. “Basketball girl.”

KK, who was sitting nearby, immediately looked at Ice.

Ice looked at KK.

You pretended not to see either of them.

Paige pushed herself up from the chair and wandered over while you set your camera bag on a table. “You shooting today?”

“No, I brought all this for decoration.”

“Smart mouth already.”

“It’s noon.”

“Exactly. Early.”

“You’re sensitive.”

“You’re mean.”

“You keep coming over here, though.”

Paige’s eyes stayed on yours for a beat too long. “Maybe I like being bullied.”

From across the room, KK made a strangled noise into her sleeve.

You looked away first, busying yourself with your camera because your hands needed a job. “Go get ready. I need lighting tests.”

“I’m ready.”

“You are not.”

Paige looked down at herself. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. You look too comfortable.”

“Damn, my bad for looking comfortable.”

You laughed, and Paige grinned like she had earned something.

The shoot started messy, because it always did. Someone kept walking into the frame. KK answered every question like she was auditioning for her own reality show. Nika complained that the prompts were stupid and then gave the funniest answers. Ice tried to be normal and failed because KK kept whispering things beside her. Paige was supposed to rotate in after Azzi, but she kept drifting toward your station between takes, looking at the monitor, asking what lens you were using, making comments that were half genuine interest and half excuse to stand close enough for her sleeve to brush yours.

At some point, one of the male student interns from the athletics department came in carrying extra batteries and a clipboard. His name was Tyler, you thought. Maybe Travis. Something with a T. He had helped on shoots before, mostly football and men’s basketball, and he was nice enough in that vaguely overconfident way some guys got when they realized they were not bad-looking. He set the batteries down beside you and leaned over to look at the camera screen.

“These are clean,” he said. “You shot the last game too, right?”

You nodded, adjusting the focus. “Yeah. The second half mostly.”

“I saw those photos. They were fire.”

“Thank you.”

“No, like actually. You made the lighting look way better than it is in here.” He smiled, and you smiled back because that was polite, because he was complimenting your work, because nothing about the interaction felt like anything worth noticing.

Except Paige noticed.

You did not see it at first. You were checking exposure, listening as Tyler asked what lens you liked using for indoor sports, answering easily because photography was one of the few things you could talk about without getting nervous. But then the room shifted. Not loudly. Not enough that anyone who was not already watching would catch it. Paige stopped joking with Azzi. Her shoulders squared slightly. The ball she had been spinning in her hands slowed, then stopped. Her eyes moved from Tyler to you, then to the camera screen where he was still leaning a little too close.

KK saw it immediately.

Of course she did.

She had been sitting on the floor near the wall, waiting for her turn, and the second Paige’s expression changed, KK’s eyebrows shot up like she had just been handed a gift from God. She nudged Ice with her elbow. Ice looked over, followed her gaze, then pressed her lips together so hard it was obvious she was trying not to laugh.

Paige did not say anything. That was the thing. She was not obvious. She did not storm over or interrupt or do anything dramatic. She simply walked to your side of the room with the calm, deliberate pace of someone who had decided she had every right to be there. When she reached you, she did not look at Tyler first. She looked at the camera.

“You need me?” she asked.

You blinked up at her. “For what?”

“You said lighting test.”

“That was like ten minutes ago.”

“Still need it?”

Tyler glanced at Paige, then at you, then back at Paige. “I think she’s good. We were just talking lenses.”

Paige finally looked at him.

It was not a glare. Paige was too smart for that, too aware of rooms, too aware of how quickly people could read her if she gave them too much. But it was something close. A flat, unimpressed look wrapped in a half-smile, the kind of expression that said who are you without wasting the words. Lowkey. Polite enough to deny. Sharp enough to feel.

“Cool,” Paige said.

Tyler’s smile faltered just slightly. “Yeah.”

You looked between them, confused by the sudden weirdness in the air. “Paige, I’ll call you when I need you.”

“You can call me now.”

“I don’t need you now.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Paige nodded slowly, like she was accepting that answer under protest. Then she reached past you, picked up one of the spare batteries Tyler had brought, and turned it in her hand. “This charged?”

Tyler cleared his throat. “Yeah, all of them.”

Paige nodded again. “Good.”

The silence that followed was so strange you almost laughed, but KK did it for you from across the room, badly disguising it as a cough. You shot her a look. She widened her eyes like she had no idea what you were accusing her of.

“Okay,” you said, taking the battery gently from Paige’s hand. “Thank you for your very helpful battery inspection.”

Paige’s mouth twitched. “Anytime.”

“You can go now.”

“Bossy.”

“I’m literally working.”

“And I’m helping.”

“You are standing.”

“Supportively.”

Tyler looked like he was trying to decide whether to leave or evaporate. “I’m gonna check with the main desk.”

“Thanks,” you said, smiling at him because again, polite, normal, nothing. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

Paige made a tiny sound under her breath.

You turned to her the second Tyler walked away. “What?”

“What?”

“You made a noise.”

“I breathe.”

“That was not breathing.”

“Damn, you monitor my breathing now?”

“Paige.”

She lifted both hands, but the look on her face was still wrong. Not angry exactly. Not even jealous in a way you could confidently accuse her of. Just irritated beneath the surface, like something had gotten under her skin and she was pretending it had not. “What?”

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I came to help.”

“With batteries?”

“Important job.”

“You don’t even know which ones fit my camera.”

“I could learn.”

You stared at her, and she stared back, stubborn as ever. The room moved around you, players laughing, someone calling for the next prompt, the media assistant adjusting the tripod, but for a second all of it blurred into background noise. Paige’s jaw was set just enough for you to notice. Her eyes flicked once toward where Tyler had disappeared, then back to you. Something warm and reckless bloomed in your chest before you could stop it, the kind of feeling that made you want to ask a dangerous question just to see what her face would do.

Instead, you said, “You’re distracting me.”

Paige leaned a fraction closer, the irritation easing into something more familiar, more playful, because this was safer ground and you both knew it. “Am I?”

Your mouth went dry.

KK yelled from across the room, “Y/N, do you need me to remove distractions?”

Paige turned her head slowly. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say your name,” KK said, grinning.

“You ain’t have to.”

“I just care about the workplace environment.”

“You care about being in people’s business.”

“Same thing.”

You pressed a hand over your face, but you were laughing now, and Paige looked pleased with herself even though she was still standing too close. That was the most annoying part. She could be jealous, or whatever that had been, and then make you laugh two seconds later like your brain was supposed to keep up. You hated how good she was at slipping out of moments before they could fully become something.

The rest of the shoot continued with the team in full chaos mode, but after Tyler left, Paige stayed near your station more than she needed to. She kept pretending there was a reason. She needed water from the table behind you. She wanted to see the last take. She was asking what question she had to answer next. She was checking whether the camera was “making her look tall,” which you told her no lens on earth had that kind of power. She gasped like you had wounded her, then spent the next five minutes trying to stand straighter every time you lifted the camera.

KK, meanwhile, watched everything like she was collecting evidence for court.

By the time the shoot ended, you were exhausted in the way that came from too much noise, too much light, and too much Paige. Your memory card was full, your shoulders ached from holding the camera, and your brain kept replaying the exact look Paige had given Tyler even though you had told it several times to stop. Everyone was packing up, drifting toward the exit in groups, when you crouched near your bag to organize your batteries. You heard footsteps before you saw her.

Paige crouched beside you.

“You need help?”

You did not look up. “With batteries?”

“With anything.”

“You ask that a lot.”

“You need help a lot.”

“I do not.”

“You carry too much.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“Your job is taking pictures. Not breaking your back.”

You glanced at her then, and the softness of her expression caught you off guard. There was no audience in her face now, no cockiness, no performance. Just Paige, close and quiet, one hand resting on her knee, watching you like your answer mattered. It made you want to look away. It made you want to lean closer. Both instincts were equally inconvenient.

“I’m fine,” you said, gentler than you meant to.

Paige nodded, but she still reached for the heavier bag. “Cool. I’m still carrying this.”

“Paige.”

“Y/N.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I been told.”

You sighed, but you let her take it, because some battles were fake and both of you knew it. As you stood, KK appeared beside you like she had been summoned by the scent of romantic tension. She looked at Paige holding your bag, then at you, then back at Paige.

“Wow,” KK said. “So helpful.”

Paige gave her a warning look. “You need something?”

KK smiled sweetly. “No. I just love seeing community service.”

“It’s not community service,” you said.

“You’re right. It’s devotion.”

“KK.”

“What? I’m using my vocabulary.”

Paige shifted the bag higher on her shoulder, but the tips of her ears had gone faintly pink. You noticed because you were cursed. “You always this annoying after shoots?”

KK tilted her head. “You always carry media girls’ bags after shoots?”

There was a beat.

Not long. Just enough.

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “Media girls?”

KK shrugged, too innocent. “That’s what she is, right? Student photographer. Media girl. Very talented. Very pretty. Gets compliments from random interns. Has certain people acting different.”

Your stomach dropped and flipped at the same time. “KK, please.”

Paige did not look at you. She looked at KK, and the flatness from earlier returned for half a second. “You done?”

KK’s grin softened just slightly, like she knew exactly how far to push and when to pull back. “For now.”

“For now,” Paige repeated under her breath.

“You walking her back?”

Paige’s answer came too quickly. “Yeah.”

KK’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t ask you.”

You closed your eyes. “Oh my god.”

Paige opened her mouth, shut it, then shook her head like she could not believe she had walked right into that. KK looked delighted. Ice, who had wandered over just in time to hear the exchange, covered her mouth with both hands.

“You know what?” Paige said, pointing at KK. “You’re benched from talking.”

“Can’t bench me. I’m essential.”

“To who?”

“To this plot.”

You blinked. “This what?”

KK froze, then smiled. “Nothing.”

Paige stared at her. “You’re weird.”

“And yet I’m right all the time.”

“You are literally never right.”

“I’m right about this.”

You did not ask what this meant. You already knew. Or at least, you knew what KK wanted it to mean, and that was dangerous enough. So you grabbed your smaller bag, thanked the staff still cleaning up, and started toward the hallway before KK could say anything else that made your heart attempt to exit your body.

Paige followed, of course.

She always did.

The hallway outside the media room was quieter, the overhead lights humming softly, the walls lined with UConn graphics and framed photos that made every step feel like walking through a history you were only borrowing. Paige walked beside you with your equipment bag over her shoulder, her pace slower than usual so you did not have to rush. For once, neither of you said anything right away. The silence was not awkward, exactly, but it was full. Full of KK’s teasing, full of Tyler’s compliment, full of Paige’s strange little battery inspection, full of every moment you had been pretending not to notice for weeks.

“You like him?” Paige asked suddenly.

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

She kept looking forward. “The intern.”

“Tyler?”

“That his name?”

“You know that’s his name.”

“I don’t know that man.”

You almost laughed. “He works with athletics.”

“So do a lot of people.”

“He was being nice.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

“You kind of looked like you wanted him removed from the building.”

Paige huffed, but there was no real humor in it. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“I looked normal.”

“You looked like you were mentally asking who he thought he was.”

That made her mouth twitch, but she fought it. “Maybe he was standing too close to your camera.”

“My camera?”

“Expensive equipment.”

“So you were protecting my camera?”

“Exactly.”

“From a guy who brought batteries?”

“Could’ve been a threat.”

You laughed then, unable to help it, and Paige finally looked at you. There was something relieved in her expression, like making you laugh had loosened whatever had been sitting in her chest. But there was something else too, something low and stubborn that did not fully leave her eyes.

“He was complimenting my photos,” you said.

Paige shrugged. “They’re good.”

“You compliment my photos.”

“Because they’re good.”

“So what’s the difference?”

The question slipped out softer than you intended. Paige’s steps slowed for half a second, and the hallway seemed to stretch around you. She looked at you like she knew there was an easy answer and a true answer, and for once she could not decide which one to give.

Then she smirked.

“Difference is I got better taste.”

You groaned, shoving her lightly in the arm. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re jealous of a battery man.”

Paige stopped walking.

You stopped too, turning back to face her with your heart suddenly beating too hard for a joke. The word had come out before you could soften it, before you could tuck it safely behind sarcasm. Jealous. It hung between you, bright and obvious. Paige’s face changed, not dramatically, but enough. The smirk stayed, but her eyes sharpened, and for a moment she looked almost challenged.

“Jealous?” she said.

You swallowed. “I’m kidding.”

“You sure?”

No. “Yes.”

Paige stepped closer, just one step, but the hallway was empty enough that it felt louder than it was. Your equipment bag hung from her shoulder. Her hoodie sleeves covered part of her hands. She looked comfortable and dangerous and way too pleased with how quickly you had lost your nerve.

“I don’t get jealous,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to recover. “No?”

“Nah.”

“Right. You just inspect batteries aggressively.”

“Exactly.”

“And ask if I like random interns.”

“Conversation.”

“And stare like you’re about to start a fight.”

“I’m from Minnesota. That’s just my face.”

You laughed again, because she was ridiculous, because you were nervous, because the space between you had started to feel too small. Paige smiled at the sound, and the sharpness in her face softened into something that made the joke feel less like a joke. For a second, you thought she might say something else. Something real. Something that would make KK insufferable forever.

But then voices echoed from behind you, the rest of the team spilling into the hallway, and Paige stepped back before anyone could see how close she had gotten.

“There they are,” KK called, sounding far too happy. “The media department and her security detail.”

Paige turned around slowly. “KK.”

“What? I love safety.”

You looked down, smiling despite yourself, but your chest still felt strange. Like something had almost happened and then politely decided not to. Paige started walking again, and you followed, the team catching up around you in a wave of noise and laughter. KK slipped beside you, bumping her shoulder into yours gently.

“She jealous?” she whispered.

“No,” you whispered back.

KK’s eyes went wide with theatrical disbelief. “Girl.”

“She said she doesn’t get jealous.”

“Oh, well, if Paige said it, it must be true. Paige never lies. Paige is famously emotionally honest.”

You bit back a laugh. “Stop.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You do. Bad.”

Ahead of you, Paige looked back, eyes narrowing like she knew she was being discussed. KK smiled at her and wiggled her fingers. Paige rolled her eyes, but her gaze slid to you afterward, lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist again.

You hated that KK might be right.

You hated even more that you wanted her to be.

By the time Paige walked you back to your building again, the sky had gone dark and the air had sharpened with cold. She carried your bag the whole way without asking this time, and you let her without arguing, which felt like its own kind of confession. The conversation was easy on the surface. She complained about KK. You defended KK. She called you loyal. You called her dramatic. She asked when the photos would be done. You told her not to rush art. She said your “art” included pictures of her blinking. You told her those were your favorites. She looked offended for exactly two seconds before smiling.

At your building entrance, she handed the bag back but did not leave right away.

“You editing tonight?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“You eat?”

You gave her a look. “Paige.”

“What?”

“You ask me that all the time.”

“Because you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Coffee is not dinner.”

“It can be.”

“It cannot.”

“You’re very passionate about this.”

“Somebody has to keep you alive so you can keep making me look good.”

“There it is. Self-interest.”

Paige grinned. “Always.”

But she stayed there, hands tucked into her hoodie pocket, watching you like she was waiting for something. You wondered if this was what KK meant. Not the big stuff, not the teasing or the bag-carrying or the jealousy dressed up as camera protection. This. The staying. The way Paige lingered in small endings, stretching goodbyes until they became something softer. The way she looked at you like leaving was easy but not preferred.

“I’ll eat,” you said finally.

Paige nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

“You too.”

“I always eat.”

“That is actually believable.”

“Damn.”

You smiled, shifting the bag on your shoulder. “Thanks for carrying this.”

“Anytime.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I mean it.”

There it was again, too simple and too much. You looked at her, and for once you did not immediately make a joke. Paige did not either. The quiet wrapped around you both, broken only by the muffled sound of someone entering the building behind you and the distant hum of campus. You wondered what would happen if you asked her why. Why she always offered. Why she cared if you ate. Why she looked at Tyler like that. Why she fixed your camera strap with careful fingers and remembered your classes and gave you hoodies and walked the wrong direction just to stand with you under bad dorm entrance lighting.

Instead, you said, “Text me if you want previews.”

Paige’s smile came back, small and private. “When.”

“What?”

“When I want previews. Not if.”

“You’re so entitled.”

“Only with you.”

You did not have an answer for that.

Paige seemed to realize it at the same time you did. Her smile softened, and for one second, she looked almost shy, which was absurd because Paige Bueckers did not do shy. Not on the court, not in front of cameras, not when half the world was watching. But here, outside your building, with your camera bag between your feet and her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, she looked like someone who had said a little too much and did not know how to take it back without making it obvious.

So she nodded toward the door. “Go eat, media girl.”

You rolled your eyes, grateful for the escape. “Goodnight, basketball girl.”

Her smile widened. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You went inside before your face could do anything embarrassing. But upstairs, when you finally opened your laptop and started importing the photos, you found that your favorite shot from the day was not one of the posed portraits, or KK laughing, or Azzi looking effortlessly pretty under the studio lights. It was an accidental frame from when you had lowered your camera too soon, catching Paige at the edge of the shot, slightly out of focus, looking not at the lens but at you.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then your phone buzzed.

kk: sooooo kk: battery man survived kk: but barely

You should not have smiled.

You did anyway.

y/n: she was not jealous kk: ur actually my charity case kk: she carried ur bag AGAIN kk: walked u home AGAIN kk: and looked at that man like he insulted her ancestors kk: but okay babe!

You leaned back against your pillows, laughing quietly to yourself. You wanted to deny it. You wanted to type back something sensible and firm, something that would put all of this back in the category of friendly teammate behavior even though Paige was not your teammate and you were running out of excuses that made sense.

Before you could answer, another text came through.

paige: previews? paige: and don’t send the ugly ones first paige: actually u probably think that’s funny paige: so nvm paige: send whatever ma

Your fingers froze over the keyboard.

You clicked on the accidental photo of Paige looking at you.

Then you sent it.

For a minute, there was no response. Then the typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

paige: why u send this one?

You bit your lip, heart tapping too fast against your ribs.

y/n: you asked for previews paige: i’m not even looking at the camera y/n: still a good photo paige: yeah? y/n: yeah

Another pause.

paige: keep that one then

You stared at the message, warmth rising slowly through your chest.

y/n: for the post? paige: nah paige: for you

You stopped breathing for a second.

Across campus, somewhere you could not see, Paige Bueckers had probably thrown her phone down immediately after sending that, or smiled at the ceiling like she had said something normal, or convinced herself it was not obvious. You did not know. What you did know was that your face was hot, your laptop was still open, KK’s warnings were suddenly very loud in your head, and the photo on your screen looked a lot less accidental than it had before.

For you.

By the time the team hangout happened, you had convinced yourself that everything was normal again.

That was how you survived most things with Paige. You let the moment happen, you panicked about it privately, you stared at your ceiling or your laptop or a text message for way too long, and then by the next morning, you decided you had exaggerated the whole thing. Paige telling you to keep a photo “for you” was probably just Paige being Paige. Paige calling you “ma” over text was probably nothing, just a casual word tossed into a sentence with no deeper meaning because athletes spoke like that all the time. Paige looking at Tyler like he had personally offended her bloodline was probably because Tyler was standing too close to your camera setup, not because he was standing too close to you. Paige carrying your bag, walking you home, checking if you had eaten, fixing your camera strap, saving you a seat, remembering your schedule, stealing your drinks, leaning over your shoulder, staying after everyone else left—normal. All normal. Friendly. Harmless. Easy.

The only issue was that the entire UConn women’s basketball team seemed committed to making sure you could not keep lying to yourself in peace.

It started with the invitation, which was not really an invitation because KK had sent it like a demand.

kk: team hangout tonight kk: u coming kk: don’t say u have editing kk: paige can survive one night without previews kk: actually no she can’t but that’s not my problem

You had stared at the messages from your desk, where you were, unfortunately, editing. Your laptop was open, your SD card was plugged in, and Paige’s face was frozen on your screen mid-laugh from the content shoot, slightly blurred at the edges because she had moved right as you took the photo. You had been sorting through selects for athletics, but somehow every time Paige appeared in a frame, your workflow slowed. It was not your fault. She photographed annoyingly well. Some people had faces the camera liked; Paige had the kind of face the camera understood before you did. Even in accidental shots, she looked alive, like the frame had caught only half of whatever she was thinking.

You typed back to KK with one hand while the other hovered over your trackpad.

y/n: i literally have editing kk: okay? bring ur laptop y/n: to a hangout? kk: yes??? be useful and social kk: multitask babe y/n: who’s there? kk: team kk: and u kk: because ur basically team-adjacent kk: like emotional support media

You laughed despite yourself, then immediately regretted it when another text came through.

kk: paige is coming too btw kk: since ik u were wondering y/n: i was not kk: u typed that too fast kk: guilty

You should have said no. You had every reason to. You had edits due, you were tired, and the responsible part of your brain knew that walking willingly into a room full of people who had made your crush their group project was a terrible idea. But then Paige texted you, separately, as if the universe was no longer even pretending to be subtle.

paige: kk bothering u? y/n: always paige: she told u to come? y/n: yes paige: u should

You stared at the words.

y/n: why? paige: bc u work too much paige: and kk gets louder when she don’t get what she wants paige: mostly the first thing tho

Mostly the first thing. That was the problem. Paige could make anything sound casual and still somehow place her concern right in the middle of it. You sat there for a minute, your fingers resting against the keys, trying to think of a response that did not expose how easily she could move you. Then you typed:

y/n: are you calling me boring? paige: i would never paige: to ur face y/n: wow paige: come hang out boring girl

You went.

Obviously you went.

The team hangout was in one of those common lounge spaces that somehow looked the same in every athletic building and dorm-adjacent area on campus: couches arranged in a loose square, low tables scattered with snacks, a TV mounted on the wall, leftover blankets tossed over chair backs, someone’s slides abandoned near the corner, the whole room lit by lamps instead of the overheads because nobody wanted to feel like they were being interrogated. It was already loud when you walked in, which was comforting. Loud meant less attention on you. Loud meant KK yelling at someone, Nika arguing, Ice laughing, Ashlynn talking over Qadence, and no one having the space to notice if you looked at Paige for half a second too long.

Except that was a lie, because KK noticed everything.

She saw you the second you stepped in, her whole face lighting up like she had successfully summoned you. “Y/N!”

You barely had time to adjust the tote bag on your shoulder before she was waving you over from the floor, where she had claimed a spot between Ice and Ashlynn with a bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously close to her knee. “Come sit. We saved you a spot.”

That sentence should not have made you nervous. A spot was just a spot. People saved seats all the time. But then you looked toward the couches and saw exactly where the spot was.

Beside Paige.

Of course.

Paige was sprawled across one end of the couch in a hoodie and sweats, one leg bent under her, her phone loose in her hand. She looked up when you came in, and the shift in her expression was small but immediate, like her attention had been waiting near the door before the rest of her caught up. The corner of her mouth lifted.

“Media girl made it,” she said.

You tried not to smile too obviously. “Basketball girl is still annoying.”

“Damn, first thing you say to me?”

“You started.”

“I greeted you.”

“You labeled me.”

“It’s a nice label.”

KK made a sound from the floor. “Oh my god, can y’all sit down before I throw up?”

“KK,” Azzi said from the other couch, not looking up from her phone but sounding like she had been listening the whole time.

“What? I’m sensitive to nonsense.”

Paige shot KK a look. “You’re sensitive to being quiet.”

“That too.”

You sat down beside Paige because refusing would have been more suspicious than accepting, but the second you did, your awareness of the room narrowed to the warm line of her next to you. Not touching, not really. Just close enough that your sleeve brushed hers when you shifted your tote bag onto the floor. Close enough that she noticed you were carrying your laptop and reached down without asking, taking it from the tote before you could stop her.

“Did you bring work?” she asked, half amused, half offended.

“You told me to come. You did not tell me to stop having responsibilities.”

“I said hang out.”

“I am hanging out with Adobe.”

“That’s sad.”

“It pays me.”

“Barely.”

“Why are you in my financial business?”

Paige grinned, setting your laptop carefully on the side table instead of letting it stay on the floor. “Because you make it easy.”

You looked at where she had placed it, then back at her. “You’re weirdly careful with my stuff.”

“Your stuff expensive.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it is.”

“Is this still about Tyler threatening my camera equipment?”

Paige’s face flattened so quickly that you almost laughed. Almost. It was not enough for the room to catch unless the room was full of nosy basketball players who had apparently been born to study Paige Bueckers’s microexpressions. Unfortunately, it was. KK’s head snapped up. Ice’s eyes widened. Azzi finally looked away from her phone. Even Nika, sitting sideways in an armchair with one leg thrown over the side, glanced over like she had heard a whistle only dogs and teammates could detect.

“Who’s Tyler?” Ashlynn asked, immediately interested.

“No one,” Paige said.

You turned to her, eyebrows lifting. “No one?”

“Battery man,” KK supplied helpfully, grinning around a mouthful of popcorn.

Paige pointed at her without looking. “Don’t.”

“Battery man?” Qadence repeated, already laughing.

“He’s an athletics intern,” you explained, even though you could feel this becoming worse by the second. “He brought batteries to the shoot.”

“And stood too close,” KK added.

“I’m gonna take your popcorn,” Paige warned.

KK hugged the bowl to her chest. “You can try.”

Nika leaned forward, suddenly entertained. “Wait, why do you care if he stood too close?”

Paige’s shoulders shifted, and you could feel her trying to settle into indifference like it was a hoodie. “I don’t.”

“You answered fast,” Azzi said quietly.

Paige looked betrayed. “Not you too.”

Azzi shrugged, very calm, very lethal. “I’m just saying.”

You wanted the couch to swallow you whole, but you were also trying not to smile because Paige looked caught in the most delicate way, annoyed but not truly upset, defensive but not mean. It made her look younger for a second, less like the Paige everyone watched and more like someone whose feelings had wandered into the room before she had given them permission.

“He was just complimenting my photos,” you said, mostly to rescue her.

Paige made the same tiny sound she had made at the shoot.

You turned your head slowly. “Again with the noise.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did it again.”

“She does that when she’s bothered,” Ice said, then immediately covered her mouth like she had not meant to contribute to the group attack.

Paige stared at her. “Ice.”

Ice’s eyes went wide. “I love you.”

“That’s not saving you.”

KK was practically vibrating. “No, because this is perfect. This is actually perfect.”

“For what?” you asked, though your stomach already knew it did not want the answer.

KK set the popcorn aside with ceremony. “Truth or dare.”

The room erupted at once. Ashlynn said yes immediately. Qadence started laughing before anything had even happened. Nika groaned like she was above it but shifted in her chair like she was absolutely staying. Ice looked nervous and excited. Azzi gave KK one long look, the kind that said she knew exactly what KK was doing and was deciding whether to intervene. Paige leaned back against the couch and crossed her arms.

“No,” Paige said.

KK smiled. “Scared?”

“No.”

“That sounded scared.”

“I’m not playing your little setup game.”

“My little what?” KK’s innocence was so fake it deserved an award.

“You heard me.”

You looked between them, your face heating. “Setup game?”

Paige glanced at you, and something in her expression softened, like she regretted letting the words slip. “Nothing.”

KK clapped once. “Exactly. Nothing. Just team bonding.”

“I’m not on the team,” you said.

“You are spiritually on the team,” KK said. “You been through enough with us. You seen Nika yell at a vending machine. That bonds people.”

Nika pointed at her. “It stole my money.”

“It was out of granola bars.”

“It still took my money.”

“That’s between you and the machine,” KK said, then turned back to the group. “Okay. Rules. Truth or dare. No boring questions. No making people do anything illegal. No calling coaches. No recording unless the person says yes. And no lying because I can tell.”

Paige scoffed. “You cannot tell.”

“I can tell with you.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Paige, you lie with your whole forehead.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Paige turned to you with exaggerated offense. “You laughing?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m a little sorry.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Because your forehead does look guilty sometimes.”

“My forehead?”

KK slapped the floor. “See? She knows.”

Paige shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth. “Y’all are weird.”

The game started harmless enough, which was probably how KK planned it. She let Ashlynn dare Qadence to do an impression of Nika yelling at practice, which made Nika protest loudly enough to prove the impression correct. Ice chose truth and admitted she had once pretended not to see a text for three hours because she did not know how to respond. Azzi picked dare and had to read the last non-team-related text in her phone, which turned out to be painfully normal and therefore disappointing to everyone but her. Paige kept refusing to look amused, but she was laughing anyway, tucked into the couch beside you with one arm along the back cushion, not touching you but close enough that you kept noticing the space.

Then it was your turn.

KK looked at you like she had been waiting.

“Y/N,” she said, too sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

You did not trust her at all. “Truth.”

KK’s smile widened. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“No reason.”

“KK.”

“No reason,” she repeated, then tilted her head like she was thinking. The room quieted in that horrible way rooms did when everyone knew something was coming. Paige shifted beside you, and you could feel her attention sharpen. You kept your eyes on KK because looking at Paige felt dangerous. “Okay. Have you ever had a crush on someone you worked with?”

The room exploded.

“No,” you said immediately, then realized you had answered too fast and added, “I mean—what kind of question is that?”

“A truth question,” KK said, delighted.

“That’s so broad.”

“It is actually very specific.”

“I work with a lot of people.”

“Okay, then answer for the people you work with.”

“That does not make it better.”

Nika leaned forward. “Answer.”

You looked at her. “Why are you involved?”

“I like information.”

Paige had gone quiet. That was the problem. She was usually the first person to make fun of you, to throw in some comment, to make the moment lighter before it could pin anyone down. But now she was sitting beside you with her jaw relaxed in a way that seemed too intentional, like she was trying very hard not to look like she cared about the answer. Her eyes were on KK, not you, but her knee had gone still beside yours.

You swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck. “I mean… maybe.”

KK’s eyebrows shot up. “Maybe?”

“People have work crushes. That’s normal.”

“Is it current?”

“KK.”

“Just asking.”

“That’s another question.”

“So it is current?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands while everyone laughed. Paige did not laugh as loudly as the others. You heard it, or rather, you heard the absence of it. When you lowered your hands, she was looking at you already. Just for a second. Then away.

“Okay,” you said, trying to sound composed and failing. “My turn. KK. Truth or dare?”

KK looked thrilled by the danger. “Truth.”

“Have you ever made something your business when it absolutely was not your business?”

The team screamed.

KK placed a hand over her heart. “Yes. Constantly. God gave me a gift and I use it.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” Azzi said.

“I’m a helper.”

“You’re a menace,” Paige muttered.

KK pointed at her. “A helpful menace.”

The game kept moving, but after your question, the energy had changed. Not dramatically. Nobody was confessing. Nobody was cornered. But the room had tilted slightly toward something more charged, something hidden under laughter. The questions got bolder in the way they always did when people were comfortable enough to pretend they were joking. Ashlynn asked Nika if she had ever left someone on read because she was annoyed. Nika said yes without shame. Qadence dared Ice to give the most dramatic fake apology to the team for stealing someone’s snacks, and Ice got so into it that everyone was crying laughing by the end. Paige chose truth once and got asked what her biggest red flag was.

“Nothing,” Paige said immediately.

The whole room booed.

“That’s a red flag,” Azzi said.

“No, it’s confidence.”

“That’s two red flags,” you said.

Paige looked at you, offended and amused. “You too?”

“I’m being honest.”

“You supposed to be on my side.”

“Am I?”

She paused, and the room seemed to inhale quietly.

Then Paige smirked. “Yeah.”

It was one word. It still managed to make your stomach flip.

KK saw it. Because of course she did.

“Okay,” KK said, dragging the word out as she reached for the popcorn again. “Paige. Since you’re so confident. Truth or dare?”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Truth.”

“Boring.”

“Truth,” Paige repeated.

KK leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her expression shifting into something more dangerous than playful. Not mean. Never mean. But targeted, like she had finally decided to aim. “Have you ever gotten jealous over someone you’re not even dating?”

For a second, nobody spoke.

The question was not loud, not vulgar, not even that wild compared to what truth or dare could become. But it landed hard because everybody knew where it was supposed to land. You felt it before you understood it fully, the way Paige’s posture changed beside you, the way Azzi looked down at her lap to hide a smile, the way Ice went completely still, the way Nika’s eyebrows lifted. Your heart started beating in your throat.

Paige leaned back deeper into the couch, but it did not make her look relaxed. “That’s your question?”

KK smiled. “That’s my question.”

Paige looked at her for a long moment. “Everybody gets jealous.”

That was not a no.

You looked at her before you could stop yourself. Paige did not look back at you.

KK’s smile grew. “That wasn’t the question.”

“It answers it.”

“No, it avoids it.”

Paige shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“Fine,” KK said, but she did not sound defeated. She sounded like she had gotten exactly what she wanted. “So yes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“You been using that all night.”

“Because it works.”

Paige’s jaw shifted, and for one tiny moment, her eyes flicked toward you. It was so quick that if you had blinked, you would have missed it. But you did not blink. You saw it. You felt it like a spark jumping between you.

Then Nika, with the bluntness of someone who had grown tired of everyone else’s pacing, said, “It is not illegal to answer yes.”

Paige threw a pillow at her.

The room burst into laughter again, the tension breaking just enough for everyone to breathe. You laughed too, because it was funny, because Nika caught the pillow with one hand and looked unimpressed, because KK was practically glowing with victory. But underneath it, your thoughts were moving too fast.

Everybody gets jealous.

That was what Paige had said. Not I don’t. Not nah. Not a joke about battery men. Everybody gets jealous. It was the kind of answer that could mean nothing if you wanted it to. It was also the kind of answer that could mean everything if you were brave enough to let it.

You were not brave enough.

So when Paige’s turn came, and she looked around the room before her eyes settled on you, you prayed she would not pick you.

She picked you.

“Y/N,” she said, voice casual in a way that immediately made you suspicious. “Truth or dare?”

You held her gaze. “Truth.”

KK groaned. “Y’all are so safe.”

Paige ignored her. She tilted her head slightly, and for once there was no big smirk, no obvious tease. Just curiosity, sharpened by something she probably did not want to admit. “What’s your type?”

You hated the way the room reacted. It was not even loud this time. It was worse. Everyone got quiet in that fake way people did when they wanted to hear every syllable. Your face warmed instantly, and you shifted on the couch, suddenly too aware of Paige’s arm along the cushion behind you.

“My type?” you repeated, buying time.

“That’s what I asked.”

“Why?”

“It’s truth or dare.”

“Still.”

Paige’s eyes stayed steady on yours. “You scared?”

The challenge worked because you were unfortunately predictable. You sat a little straighter and tried to look like your pulse was not sprinting. “I’m not scared.”

“Then answer.”

You could have made it vague. You should have made it vague. You could have said funny, kind, smart, someone who cared about people. You could have said something so safe that the room lost interest. But Paige was looking at you like that, and KK had asked about work crushes, and Paige had just admitted without admitting that she got jealous, and some reckless little part of you wanted to push back. Not confess. Not yet. But push. Just enough.

“I don’t know,” you said slowly. “Someone confident, probably. But not in an annoying way.”

Paige’s mouth twitched.

KK made a tiny squeaking sound.

“Someone who’s funny,” you continued, looking down at your hands because eye contact suddenly felt impossible. “Like actually funny, not just someone who thinks they’re funny.”

“Damn,” Paige murmured.

You smiled despite yourself. “Someone who pays attention. Like, remembers little things without making it a big deal. Someone who acts like they don’t care but clearly cares a lot.”

The room went silent enough for you to hear someone shift on the floor.

Paige was not smiling now.

You looked up before you could stop yourself, and there she was, looking at you with an expression you could not read quickly enough to protect yourself from it. It was softer than you expected. Almost stunned. Like she had been ready to joke and then realized halfway through your answer that she did not know how.

“That’s specific,” Azzi said quietly, mercy and mischief balanced perfectly in her voice.

You cleared your throat. “It’s a type.”

“Mm-hmm,” KK said. “A very random, general type.”

“Exactly.”

“Could apply to anybody.”

“Anybody,” you agreed, too quickly.

Paige looked away then, but not before you saw the smile she tried to fight. It was small. Private. Ridiculous. It made you want to hide your face in your hands.

The game should have ended there. It would have been kinder if it had. But KK was apparently not in a merciful mood, and the rest of the team had entered that phase of the night where everyone was too invested to stop. The questions kept circling closer without ever landing directly. Ice got asked if she believed friends could become something more, and she answered yes while looking at the ceiling like she wanted no responsibility for how loud that answer felt. Qadence dared Ashlynn to give someone in the room a fake dramatic love confession, and Ashlynn chose Nika purely because Nika’s horrified expression was worth it. Azzi got asked who on the team had the worst poker face, and without hesitation, she said, “Paige when she is trying not to care.”

Paige looked personally betrayed. “What did I do to you?”

Azzi smiled. “Exist near us.”

“You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“I am. That is why I am honest.”

KK was laughing so hard she had to put the popcorn down again. You were laughing too, shoulders shaking, but Paige only rolled her eyes and shifted beside you, her knee brushing yours for half a second. The contact was so brief it could have been accidental. You still felt it.

Then came the dare that changed the room in a way no one expected.

It was Nika’s turn, and she picked dare because, in her words, she was not afraid of children’s games. KK, insulted, dared her to pick the person in the room she would trust most to set her up on a date. Nika stared at KK like the dare was beneath her, then looked around the circle with theatrical seriousness. Her eyes passed over Azzi, Ice, Ashlynn, Qadence, Paige, then landed on you.

“Y/N,” she said.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you observe. You pay attention. You would not set me up with an idiot.”

“That’s true.”

“And you have taste.”

You laughed, flattered and surprised. “Thank you?”

Nika shrugged. “You would be useful.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

“It is a compliment.”

KK leaned forward, eyes bright. “Okay, wait, actually. If Y/N had to set Paige up with somebody, who would it be?”

Paige immediately sat up. “That was not the dare.”

“No, this is a follow-up conversation.”

“I don’t need to be set up.”

“You sure?” KK asked. “Because you are not exactly taking initiative.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “With what?”

KK’s smile was all trouble. “Life.”

You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from laughing, but Paige caught it anyway.

“You laughing again?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You think I need to be set up?”

The question was directed at you now, and it should have been easy to answer. You could tease her. You could say yes, absolutely, because your ego needed balance. You could say no, because who would even be good enough? You could say anything except what your brain actually did, which was imagine Paige on a date with someone else and immediately hate the entire concept.

That was new.

Or maybe it was not new. Maybe it had been there the whole time and you were only noticing because the team had shined a flashlight directly on it. The thought of Paige sitting across from someone else, giving them that small private smile, carrying their bag, texting them late, calling them ma like it was nothing—it made something unpleasant twist in your stomach. Not anger. Not exactly. More like a sharp little no.

You looked down at the blanket folded beside your thigh. “I don’t know.”

KK tilted her head. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

Paige was watching you very carefully now.

You shrugged, trying to make your voice light. “I feel like Paige wouldn’t like being set up.”

That was safe. That was true. That was not the whole truth.

Paige leaned back, still watching you. “You right.”

“See?”

“Wouldn’t trust nobody’s taste.”

KK made a face. “Not even Y/N’s?”

Paige’s answer came slowly, and when it did, it was quieter than before. “Y/N’s maybe.”

Your breath caught.

The room reacted, but softly this time. A few murmurs, someone shifting, KK’s mouth opening and closing like even she needed a second. Paige seemed to realize what she had said after it landed, because she reached for a drink on the table and took a sip like she had not just made your entire chest feel too small.

“Maybe?” you said, because apparently you enjoyed danger.

Paige lowered the cup. “Don’t get cocky.”

“You just said you trust my taste.”

“I said maybe.”

“That’s basically a five-star review from you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“You’re so difficult.”

“You like it.”

The words came out easy. Too easy.

You both froze.

Not visibly enough for the whole room to call it out, but enough for you to feel the shift. Paige’s eyes stayed on yours, and for once, she did not smirk her way out of it immediately. You wondered if she heard herself. You wondered if she knew how it sounded. You wondered if everyone else could feel the air changing around you or if it only felt that way because you were sitting close enough to see the tiny flicker of uncertainty in her face.

KK saved you, if saving meant throwing gasoline on a candle.

“Okay!” she said loudly, clapping once. “My turn again.”

Paige looked away first, and you hated that you noticed.

KK spun the bottle cap someone had abandoned on the table, though nobody had agreed to use it as a spinner. It wobbled dramatically, making two full circles before pointing vaguely toward Paige and you at the same time. KK stared at it, then at both of you, then grinned like fate had just personally endorsed her behavior.

“Wow,” she said. “The universe is messy.”

“No,” Paige said immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

KK ignored her. “Paige. Dare.”

“I pick truth.”

“You picked truth last time.”

“That’s allowed.”

“Not emotionally.”

“KK.”

“Fine. Truth.” KK’s eyes sparkled. “If somebody in this room liked you, would you want them to tell you?”

There was a collective intake of breath.

You stopped moving.

Paige stared at KK like she was deciding whether team chemistry was worth preserving. “You ask the worst questions.”

“I ask useful questions.”

“That’s not useful.”

“It could be.”

“To who?”

KK shrugged, infuriatingly calm. “The person in the room who likes you.”

The words were technically general. They did not name you. They did not say anything outright. They floated into the room dressed as a hypothetical, harmless if everyone agreed to pretend. But you felt them land anyway. Your hands curled slightly into the sleeve of your sweatshirt. You could feel Paige beside you, still and quiet, the heat of her body suddenly impossible to ignore.

Paige’s voice, when she answered, was lower. “Depends who it is.”

KK’s expression shifted. Just a little. Less teasing now. More careful. “Okay. If it was someone you already cared about?”

Paige did not answer right away.

Your heart was so loud you were sure everyone could hear it. The room had lost its laughter, but not in a bad way. It felt like the moment before a song dropped, everyone waiting, nobody breathing too hard. Paige looked down at her hands, then back up at KK, but her eyes moved to you before she spoke.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’d wanna know.”

You forgot how to look normal.

KK’s grin softened into something genuinely happy before she covered it with dramatics again. “See? Growth.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but she did not take it back.

You sat there with the sentence ringing in your ears. I’d wanna know. You told yourself it did not mean what it felt like it meant. It was a truth or dare answer, pushed out of her by KK, spoken in front of everyone. It could mean anything. It could mean nothing. But Paige had looked at you. You knew she had. You could lie about a lot of things, but not that.

The game moved on because it had to. Nobody could live inside that silence forever. But after that, Paige stayed quieter, and so did you. The team filled the space around you, laughing again, pushing into safer dares, making Ice do a terrible TikTok dance, daring Qadence to speak in a British accent until her next turn, making Nika compliment everyone in the room with a straight face. It should have settled things. It should have made the night easy again.

Instead, everything felt more awake.

Every accidental brush of Paige’s sleeve against yours felt intentional even when it was not. Every time she laughed at something someone said, you caught yourself looking. Every time you looked, she seemed to already be aware of you. Not always staring. Not obviously. Just tuned in, like some part of her attention kept returning to you no matter what else was happening.

At some point, your phone buzzed in your lap.

kk: ur welcome

You did not look at her. You typed under the blanket with one hand.

y/n: i hate you kk: no u don’t kk: also she looked at u when she said she’d wanna know y/n: stop kk: i’m literally helping y/n: ur literally stressing me out kk: love is stressful babe

You locked your phone and refused to answer.

Paige noticed, because of course she did. “Who you texting?”

You glanced at her. “Why?”

“Just asking.”

“You ask that a lot.”

“You dodge a lot.”

“It was KK.”

Paige’s eyes moved to KK, who immediately pretended to be fascinated by the ceiling. “What she say?”

“Nothing.”

“That means something.”

“It means nothing.”

“She bothering you?”

The question was casual, but the tone under it was not. Paige had shifted closer without fully moving, her voice low enough that the rest of the room would not catch it unless they were trying. You looked at her, and the concern on her face was so immediate that it made you ache a little.

“No,” you said softly. “She’s not bothering me.”

Paige held your gaze for a second, then nodded. “Good.”

You could have left it there. You should have. Instead, maybe because the whole night had made you reckless, maybe because Paige had said she would want to know, maybe because KK’s stupid texts were still glowing in your mind, you asked, “Would you do something if she was?”

Paige did not blink. “Yeah.”

Your stomach dipped.

“What would you do?” you asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Paige looked at KK again, then back at you, mouth curving slightly. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How annoying she’s being.”

“She’s always annoying.”

“Then I’d always do something.”

It was ridiculous. It was soft. It sounded too close to a promise.

You looked away before your face could give you up.

The hangout started winding down close to midnight, though nobody officially called it. People just began stretching out on couches, checking phones, gathering empty bowls, arguing over who had stolen whose blanket. Nika declared she was leaving before the energy got stupid, which was funny because the energy had been stupid for at least two hours. Azzi got up with a quiet goodnight, giving Paige a look as she passed that you could not interpret but Paige clearly could, because she muttered, “Stop,” under her breath.

“What?” Azzi asked, innocent.

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You and KK do that.”

“Maybe you are just easy to read.”

“I’m not.”

Azzi smiled. “Okay.”

That one word sounded so much like a lie that even you laughed. Paige turned to you, betrayed again, but she was smiling too.

When you stood to grab your tote, Paige stood at the same time.

“Of course,” KK muttered from the floor.

Paige looked down at her. “You got something to say?”

KK smiled up at her. “Nope.”

“That’s new.”

“I’m growing.”

“You just said that about me.”

“Both of us can grow. It’s a team sport.”

You slipped your laptop into your tote, trying to hide your smile. “I can walk myself back.”

Paige reached for the tote anyway. “Nobody said you couldn’t.”

“You’re not carrying my stuff every time.”

“I already am.”

“You are so stubborn.”

“You knew that.”

“Unfortunately.”

Paige gave you a quick grin, but there was something underneath it now, something quieter left over from the game. She did not look away from you as quickly as she usually did. You felt it. KK felt it too, apparently, because she made a tiny noise and then buried her face in Ice’s shoulder.

“Do y’all need privacy or should we all walk together?” KK asked, voice muffled.

Paige did not even turn around. “You can stay here.”

“I was joking.”

“I’m not.”

The room laughed, and Paige looked pleased with herself as she lifted your tote onto her shoulder. You tried to tell yourself this was normal. You failed faster than usual.

The walk back was colder than you expected. The air hit your face the second you stepped outside, sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your sleeves. Paige noticed instantly and slowed down beside you.

“You cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because sometimes I am.”

“Not right now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You got your hands in your sleeves.”

“That’s just fashion.”

“That’s a cry for help.”

You laughed, and Paige smiled, but instead of making another joke, she shifted your tote higher on her shoulder and moved a little closer, just enough that her arm brushed yours as you walked. She did not offer her hoodie this time. Maybe because you were already wearing one. Maybe because giving you another would be too obvious after tonight. Maybe because both of you were more aware than you had been before, and awareness made even the sweetest habits feel dangerous.

For a while, neither of you mentioned truth or dare.

You talked about safer things. The shoot schedule for the next week. KK’s inability to be normal. Nika’s vending machine vendetta. Whether the photo of Paige not looking at the camera was actually good or if you had only said that to annoy her. Paige insisted it was good because you said it was. You told her that was a lot of trust in your artistic judgment. She said, “Told you I trust your taste, maybe,” and you nearly walked into a lamp post.

She laughed about that for a full minute.

“You’re so annoying,” you said, trying to recover.

“You good?” she asked, still laughing.

“I’m fine.”

“You almost lost to campus infrastructure.”

“Because you distracted me.”

Paige’s laughter softened. “I distract you?”

The question was quiet enough that it almost blended into the night. You looked at her, and immediately wished you had not, because she was already looking back. The streetlight caught the edge of her face, the curve of her cheek, the faint amusement still sitting in her eyes. But beneath it, there was something else. Something waiting.

You could have lied.

You almost did.

“Sometimes,” you said.

Paige’s smile faded into something smaller.

Neither of you stopped walking, but the pace changed, slower now, like both of you were stretching the path without saying it. Your building was not far. It never was. Paige always walked you anyway, always made the wrong direction look like it belonged to her.

“Me too,” she said after a moment.

You looked down at the sidewalk. “What?”

“You distract me too.”

Your chest tightened so quickly it almost hurt.

Paige cleared her throat, the way people did when they had said something too honest and needed to roughen the edges. “Like when you’re taking forever with the camera and bossing everybody around.”

You huffed out a laugh, grateful and disappointed at the same time. “I do not boss everybody around.”

“You boss me around.”

“You need it.”

“Maybe.”

The word hung there, soft and easy, but not empty.

When you reached your building, Paige stopped where she always stopped. She handed your tote back carefully, her fingers brushing yours around the strap. You both noticed. Neither of you said anything. The entrance light buzzed above you, unromantic and too bright, but somehow it still felt like every other goodbye with Paige had been leading to this exact version of silence.

“Tonight was fun,” you said, because someone had to say something normal.

Paige nodded. “Yeah.”

“KK is terrifying.”

“She’s doing too much.”

“She means well.”

“She needs a hobby.”

“I think this is her hobby.”

Paige laughed softly, then looked at you with a kind of fondness that made your stomach fold in on itself. “Yeah. Probably.”

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “You okay?”

Paige blinked. “Why?”

“You got quiet after the game.”

“I’m good.”

“Paige.”

Her mouth twitched at your tone. “What?”

“You always act like you’re hard to read.”

“I am.”

“You are not.”

She looked at you for a long second, and you watched the joke flicker across her face before she chose not to use it. That choice made your heart beat harder than the joke would have.

“I was thinking,” she said.

“About?”

Her eyes moved over your face, not in a way that felt too much, but in a way that felt careful. Like she was choosing what she could give you without giving away everything. “Stuff.”

“That is so specific.”

“I’m a private person.”

“You are literally famous.”

“Still private.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

Paige looked like she wanted to say more. You could see it in the way she shifted, in the way her hands tucked into her hoodie pocket, in the way her eyes dropped briefly to the ground and then came back to you. For a second, you wondered if she would mention KK’s question. If somebody in this room liked you, would you want them to tell you? You wondered if she would ask about your type again. You wondered if she would say Tyler’s name with that same irritated edge just to make you laugh. You wondered if she would do any of the brave things neither of you seemed ready to do.

Instead, she said, “Text me when you’re inside.”

You stared at her. “I’m literally at the door.”

“And?”

“You’re going to see me walk in.”

“And then text me.”

“You are impossible.”

“Been told.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you opened the door. “Goodnight, Paige.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You stepped inside, and because you were weak, you looked back through the glass.

Paige was still there.

She lifted her eyebrows like she had caught you, and you immediately looked away, pushing through the second door with your face burning. By the time you got upstairs, your phone was already in your hand.

y/n: inside paige: proud of u y/n: for entering a building? paige: big accomplishment y/n: ur so unserious paige: sometimes

You sat on the edge of your bed, still in your hoodie, staring at that word.

Sometimes.

Then another message appeared.

paige: did u mean it? y/n: mean what?

The typing bubble came and went twice.

paige: ur type

Your breath caught.

You could hear KK’s voice in your head. You could hear Paige’s answer too. Yeah. I’d wanna know.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen for a long time.

y/n: yeah y/n: i meant it

You sent it before you could lose your nerve, then dropped your phone onto the bed like it had burned you. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then it buzzed.

paige: good type

You pressed a hand over your mouth.

Another text came through before you could answer.

paige: whoever that is better not fumble

Your heart twisted.

Because you knew Paige. You knew her confidence, her jokes, the way she could step close to something real and then dodge it with a smirk before anyone could catch her. You could picture her sending that with her hood up, walking back across campus, trying to make it sound like a joke. You could picture her convincing herself she had not asked too much.

You typed carefully.

y/n: yeah y/n: she better not

The word sat there.

She.

You had not meant to send that. Or maybe you had. Maybe some part of you had been tired of hiding behind neutral words, behind someone and anybody and work crushes and maybe. Maybe some part of you wanted Paige to know that the possibility was not impossible. Not a confession. Not even close. Just a door left unlocked.

Paige did not respond for almost two minutes.

You stared at the screen the whole time, pulse loud, regretting everything and nothing at once.

Then:

paige: she?

Your face went hot.

You could have taken it back. You could have said typo, or you could have made a joke about grammar, or you could have pretended not to understand what she was asking. But the night had changed something. Truth or dare had not forced a confession, but it had pressed on the bruise of the secret until you both could feel it.

So you typed:

y/n: yeah y/n: she

This time, Paige answered faster.

paige: okay

Just okay.

You stared at it, your stomach sinking before another message followed.

paige: good to know

You fell back onto your bed and stared at the ceiling, smiling so hard it felt embarrassing. Good to know. That was not a confession either. It was nothing you could hold up as proof. It was not a date, not a kiss, not even a real admission. But it was something. It was Paige seeing the door you had left unlocked and not closing it.

Across campus, KK texted you again.

kk: did u survive kk: be honest kk: actually don’t be honest if it’s boring

You looked at the messages, then at Paige’s thread, then back at KK’s. You thought about the way Paige had gone quiet when you described your type. You thought about the way she had said she would want to know. You thought about the way her voice had changed when she asked if KK was bothering you. You thought about how her eyes had looked under the streetlight when she said you distracted her too.

Then you typed:

y/n: i think you’re making it worse

KK responded instantly.

kk: worse???? kk: babe kk: i’m making it possible

You hated that she was right.

You hated that you were smiling.

And somewhere between Paige’s good to know and KK’s impossible confidence, you realized the truth or dare game had not revealed the secret.

It had only made hiding it harder.

they use it in the headline the day the mystics sign you, splashed across the espn banner at the bottom of the screen while you’re still on the phone with your agent, and someone calls your arrival “the most anticipated debut since—” and the sentence ends different depending on who’s writing it, but the feeling underneath it is always the same.

she doesn’t flinch, sonia knows this is true and has extremely complicated feelings about it the complicated feelings are she loves it it’s one of the first things she loved about you, actually the steadiness, the way you move through contact like it’s a suggestion rather than a verdict, the way the game seems to slow down around you when it speeds up for everyone else. 

she loves it the way you love something that also occasionally makes you want to sit down on the floor of the arena and put your head in your hands which, as it turns out, is a little bit foreshadowing.

the carefirst arena is loud in the way arenas only get when something is actually at stake it’s mid-july, the season tilting toward the stretch where every possession starts to feel like it has a price tag, and the mystics are hosting the atlanta dream that has been playing with something to prove since february. 

the crowd has the specific energy of people who came ready to believe in something and are being made to work for it you’ve been working for it since the first quarter it’s not that the game has been bad it’s that it’s been hard in the specific way that good games are hard, the way that requires you to earn every inch and then defend the inch after you’ve earned it. 

the atlanta dream has a defensive scheme built to make you uncomfortable, built for someone who scouted you and took notes, and the fact that you’ve still managed fourteen points in three quarters feels less like performance and more like survival.

sonia has eleven she’s been finding you in the seams all night, the little passes that don’t show up in the box score but absolutely show up in the outcome the two of you have a rhythm that took most of the first half of the season to build and now feels like something you’d have to actively dismantle, like muscle memory that lives below the level of thinking.

third quarter mystics down four the shot clock is bleeding you catch the ball at the elbow off a skip pass from sonia her eyes finding you before the defense adjusts, the way they always do, the half-second of eye contact that means i see you, go and you’ve got one defender closing hard and another rotating from the weak side and you make the decision before it fully forms in your brain, which is the only way you make decisions that matter.

one dribble left the space isn’t there one dribble right, and it is and then you go through it shoulder dropped, head down, absorbing contact on the way up because you’re already committed, because the window is closing and the pull-up is off the glass and it goes in it goes in clean, the kind of shot that makes the net sound like a secret and the foul comes, the whistle cutting through everything, and you’re already landing, already done, already.

the floor finds the back of your head it’s not a fall, exactly you don’t fall that's the thing people will keep saying afterward she didn’t fall, it was more like and the sentence always trails off because there isn’t a clean word for it, the way the landing that should have been normal simply wasn’t, the way your momentum carried you back a half-step further than it should have and the hardwood was exactly where it always is, except this time it was also exactly where your skull was.

the sound it makes is not something you’ll remember but something seventeen thousand people will the lights above the carefirst arena are very bright and very far away you stay down across the court, sonia’s head turns before the whistle finishes blowing.

she’s been in motion since the possession started cutting baseline, reading the rotation, doing every piece of the choreography that doesn’t get her name attached to it but keeps the whole thing functioning and then she stops completely like someone found the switch.

you’re on the floor.

she’s seen you take contact a hundred times this season she’s seen you get fouled hard, get knocked sideways, get hit on the drive in ways that made her wince from the bench in preseason and made her chest go tight in a different way once she knew you better, once better became a significant understatement. 

she’s seen you bounce up off the floor and get to the line and knock down both free throws with an expression like nothing happened you are not bouncing up.

you’re on the floor with one hand pressed against the back of your head and your eyes open and aimed at the ceiling, and sonia is moving toward you in the same moment she registers that she’s doing it, crossing half a court in a way that probably looks purposeful to everyone watching and feels, from the inside, like her body making a unilateral decision.

the trainers get there first she stops at the edge of the forming circle she can see you can see your chest moving, can see your hand at your head, can see your mouth doing something that might be words and the trainers are already crouching, already talking to you, and she cannot hear what you’re saying and she cannot get any closer and she has never in her life been so angry about standard protocol.

“hey.” the trainer’s voice, calm in the way that comes from practice. “can you tell me your name?” from her position at the edge of the circle, sonia watches you blink at the lights. “yeah,” you say.

the trainer exchanges a look with the second trainer over her shoulder. “she said yeah,” she says, quietly sonia makes a sound that she will later describe as nothing and that was, objectively, something.

“i know my name,” you say, with the particular conviction of someone whose brain is still loading. “it’s—” and then you say it you actually say it, the right answer, and the trainer nods once, and sonia feels something in her ribcage go loose in a way that’s almost worse than when it was tight because now she has room to feel the fear that was waiting behind the adrenaline.

“can you sit up for me?”

you sit up, you do it the way you do most physical things, quickly and with total commitment, and then your expression changes in a way that sonia clocks from six feet away, a brief reorganization of your face that means that was a mistake and i won’t be admitting that the hand at the back of your head presses harder. “can you tell me what day it is?”

a pause sonia counts the seconds. “tuesday,” you say as the trainer makes a mental note. “it’s wednesday.” sonia watches your face do something that on anyone else would be embarrassment and on you is just recalibration. “close,” you say.

“let me through.” sonia’s voice, quiet and specific, from the edge of the circle the mystics move they always move when she sounds like that there is a version of sonia citron that announces itself and a version that doesn’t need to, and this is the second version, the one that comes out in the fourth quarter and in certain moments that don’t involve basketball at all.

she crouches in front of you up close and you look fine you look like yourself, mostly your eyes are tracking, your color is okay, you’re holding yourself upright. the hand at the back of your head is the only tell, that and the fact that you’re still on the floor, which for you might as well be a medical emergency on its own terms.

“hi,” you say your voice sounds normal she hates how much that helps. “hi,” sonia says.

the trainer is still running through the protocol does anything feel blurry, any ringing you can hear, can you follow my finger and you’re answering each one in turn, correctly, and sonia stays in the crouch with her hand on your knee and her jaw tight and her eyes on your face, cataloguing. 

she will think about this later and feel strange about how much she was cataloguing the small things, the way you’re blinking the exact steadiness of your voice, the way you keep your expression deliberately neutral in a way that means you’re managing something you don’t want to make a thing of.

you always do that you have been doing that since the first week of the season and probably your entire life before it sonia has been slowly, quietly building a case against it for months brittney griner fouls you hard enough to put you on the floor and sonia is the one who can’t find wednesday as they walk you to the bench.

the crowd applauds the careful applause of seventeen thousand people exhaling at the same time and you lift your hand in acknowledgment, easy, like you’re waving from across a parking lot and not being escorted off the court with an ice pack materializing from somewhere and a trainer at your elbow. you almost smile at someone in the front row. 

sonia, walking one step behind you, watches this happen and feels something she doesn’t have an immediate word for of course, she thinks of course you wave.

the fourth quarter starts with the mystics, as if personally motivated by the sight of you on the bench with your head tipped back and ice pressed to your skull, go on a nine-two run sonia scores six of those points. she will not remember any of them clearly. 

she’s playing the game on one track and watching the bench on the other, the same way you watch the scoreboard in a close game peripheral, constant, always there the trainers run through the rest of the protocol sonia is cleared to stand next to you approximately five minutes after she starts doing it anyway. “wednesday,” the trainer says, once more, updating you.

“i know it’s wednesday,” you say. “i knew that.”

“you said tuesday.”

“i was testing you.” the trainer writes something down sonia looks at the ceiling.

“what’s my name?” you ask her genuinely tilting the ice pack back to look up at her. “i’m not doing the protocol with you.”

“it’s a easy question.”

“it’s an easy question, and i’m not—”

“sonia,” you say, “elizabeth citron, notre dame alumni, seventeen points on fifty percent shooting as of the third quarter, currently standing six inches to my left and pretending not to be upset.”

a beat passed softly between you. “not upset,” sonia says. “the vein,” you say, tapping your own temple, “by your eye.” she does not touch her temple, she does it very deliberately.

“i’m fine,” you tell her softer now, the game voice gone  just yours. “the trainers said i’m fine.”

“you stayed down,” sonia says and there it is the thing she’s been carrying since the moment it happened, the specific wrongness of it, the thing her body registered before her brain caught up. 

you stayed down with you, who she has watched take contact this entire season and not so much as stumble. you, who the rookie profile called relentlessly composed under pressure. 

you, who she has seen shrug off fouls that would’ve knocked her sideways and get to the line and drain them like the whole thing was inconvenient at most you stayed on the floor and your hand went to your head like you were holding something in. “i know,” you say. “griner got me.”

“i know griner got you.”

“she fouled me on purpose.”

“i know she fouled you on purpose, i was there—”

“no — i mean she did it on purpose,” you say, and sonia goes still, because she can hear what’s coming and she can already feel her response to it forming and it is not going to be a calm response. “like intentionally because she wanted to send a message.”

sonia stares at you. “a welcome to the league thing,” you say, with total sincerity. “she doesn’t do that to players she’s not worried about. she’s telling me she sees me.” the silence that follows is remarkable. “that,” sonia starts. “is a compliment,” you finish.

“is the most—” she stops. “you have an ice pack on your head.”

“which she gave me.”

“which she gave you by—”

“fouling me on the and-one, which i converted, by the way—”

“the and-one didn’t even go in—”

“the basket went in—”

“that’s not,” sonia says, with the specific energy of someone who knows they’re losing an argument that should not be loseable, “how you say that.”

“i made the shot,” you say, patiently. “during the foul. the shot went in.”

“what went in was the original attempt before—”

“sonia.”

“—you hit your head on the floor of carefree arena in front of seventeen thousand—”

“soni.” she stops you’re looking up at her with the ice pack held loosely and your eyes steady and the small smile you save for her, the one that doesn’t photograph well because it’s too specific, too quiet, the one she found in october and has been thinking about since november.

“i’m okay,” you say. “i’m actually okay. you can be mad about it later if you want.”

“i’m not—”

“you’re something.” she doesn’t answer she looks at your face and she looks at the ice pack and she looks at the way you’re holding yourself carefully, she notices, a little carefully, though you’d never say so and she thinks about the sound the floor made and the way your hand went up to your head like a reflex and the forty-five seconds between the foul and the trainers getting to you that felt like something she’d like to remove from her memory entirely.

“wednesday,” you say, quietly. “you’re sonia. i’m your girlfriend. i have fourteen points and a headache and griner respects me. everything is fine.”

“she doesn’t respect you, she was trying to send you a—”

“a message of respect.”

“of dominance—”

“which implies she sees me as a threat,” you say, “which is respect.”

sonia opens her mouth then closes it the mystics score on the other end of the court and the crowd goes up and the arena fills with sound and sonia stands there with her arms crossed and her jaw tight and the helpless expression she only ever lets you see, the one that means i cannot believe you in a way that has nothing to do with basketball.

you hold out your hand she looks at it looks at you takes it her hand closes around yours warm, familiar, the specific grip of someone who knows your hand well enough to know exactly where to press and she doesn’t say anything else, just stands there holding on, and the fourth quarter winds down around you and the mystics extend the lead and the crowd does what crowds do and none of it touches the six inches of space between you.

“the floor comment,” she says, finally, staring straight ahead at the court. “about it being a compliment.”

“yeah.”

“i’m going to be thinking about that for a while.”

“i know.”

“in a negative way.”

“i assumed.” she squeezes your hand once, hard, the way she does when she doesn’t have the words and also doesn’t need them. 

you squeeze back the ice pack is cold and her hand is warm and somewhere across the court brittney is setting a screen with the energy of someone who does not know she has inadvertently become a romantic catalyst, which honestly, from where you’re sitting, is maybe the funniest part of all of this.

The worst part about insomnia was that the world made it feel like a personal failure. Like sleep was this easy thing everyone else could do without thinking, a light switch they flicked off at the end of the day, while you lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it had answers written across it. You knew all the advice. You had heard it from everyone. No caffeine after noon. Put your phone away. Try tea. Try melatonin. Try white noise. Try sleeping on your side. Try not thinking so much, which was always the funniest one, because if you knew how to stop thinking, you probably would’ve done it years ago.

By now, you had a whole routine. A sad little bedtime performance for an audience of nobody. You washed your face, changed into soft shorts and an old oversized shirt, plugged your phone in, took whatever sleeping aid you were allowed to take, turned off the lights, and pretended like this time would be different. Like this time, your body would understand the assignment. Like this time, you would close your eyes around midnight and wake up like a normal person.

Instead, most nights went the same.

One a.m. became two. Two became three. Three became that horrible quiet hour where even the hallway outside your dorm seemed to stop breathing. Then five or six would creep in, soft blue light leaking through the curtains, and your brain would finally decide it was safe to shut down just as everyone else was starting their day.

You hated that part too. The way morning felt like losing.

And because you hated it, you got good at hiding it.

At UConn, everyone was busy enough that tiredness blended in. People were always running on too little sleep, too much schoolwork, too many practices, too many lifts, too much pressure, too much everything. So when someone asked why your eyes looked heavy, you shrugged and said you stayed up studying. When you zoned out during lunch, you blamed an assignment. When you yawned through a movie night, you made a joke about being secretly ninety years old.

It worked on most people.

It did not work on Paige Bueckers.

Paige noticed things in the most irritating way. She had this whole casual act, like she was just floating through life with her slides on and her hood up, joking around, talking trash, acting like nothing ever stuck to her. But she noticed everything. She noticed when someone changed their shot pocket. She noticed when a teammate was quiet at breakfast. She noticed if the energy in a room shifted even half an inch. And, unfortunately for you, she noticed the exact kind of tired you were.

Not regular tired. Not college tired. Not practice tired.

The kind of tired that sat behind your eyes.

The first time she called you out, it was after a late team hangout in one of the common rooms. You weren’t on the team, but you were close enough with some of the girls that you ended up around them often, half because you had friends there and half because Paige had made it extremely difficult not to be around her. She had a way of dragging you into things without really asking. A text that said come watch this movie, followed by another that said don’t be lame, followed by a third that said i saved you a seat, which was her version of being sweet without admitting she was being sweet.

You were sitting beside her on the couch, your knees tucked to your chest, trying to focus on whatever movie KK had insisted was “actually good” even though half the room was talking over it. Paige had one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, not touching you, but close enough that you were painfully aware of it. Her hoodie sleeve brushed your shoulder every time she shifted, and each time it happened, your brain reacted like a loser.

You told yourself it was because you were sleep-deprived.

Everything felt dramatic when you were sleep-deprived.

Paige leaned closer sometime near the middle of the movie, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “You good?”

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’ve watched like twenty minutes of this movie and I don’t think you processed a single thing.”

“That’s because the movie is bad.”

Paige’s mouth opened immediately, offended on behalf of a movie she had not even chosen. “See, that’s crazy, because you can’t even say that. You not even watching it.”

“I’m spiritually watching it.”

“Oh, spiritually?” she repeated, amused. “My fault. Didn’t know we had a film critic in the building.”

You rolled your eyes, but you smiled despite yourself. Paige smiled back, all smug and pretty, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Then her expression softened just enough to make your stomach twist.

“You look tired for real, though,” she said.

“I’m always tired.”

“Nah.” Paige shook her head. “Different.”

You looked back at the TV, pretending the conversation didn’t land the way it did. “What are you, my sleep doctor?”

“I could be.”

“You would be so bad at that.”

“Cap. I’d be great.” Paige shifted, her knee bumping yours. “First prescription, stop acting like you fine when you not.”

You gave her a look. “Very professional.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m fine, Paige.”

She watched you for a second too long. That was another thing about Paige. She could be loud and ridiculous and cocky, but when she went quiet, it was dangerous. Her attention felt too direct, like she was seeing more than you wanted to show.

Finally, she leaned back, but her arm stayed behind you. “Aight,” she said, like she didn’t believe you at all. “But I’m just saying. You been looking like you fighting demons.”

You huffed. “That’s so dramatic.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re annoying.”

“Still not wrong, though.”

You didn’t answer because she wasn’t.

The thing was, Paige didn’t push that night. She went back to joking with the others, yelling at the TV, laughing when KK said something dramatic, acting like the conversation had already left her mind. But later, when everyone started leaving and you stood to go back to your room, Paige walked beside you without asking.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said, glancing over at her.

She had her hands in her hoodie pocket, shoulders relaxed, hair pulled back messily from her face. “I know.”

“My dorm is literally not far.”

“I know.”

“So why are you walking me?”

“Because I want to.”

You stared at her, and Paige stared back like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like she hadn’t just said something that made your chest feel weird.

“You always this difficult?” you asked.

“Only when I’m right.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you still walking next to me.”

You tried not to smile. Failed. Paige noticed, of course, because Paige noticed everything, and her grin widened like she had just won a game nobody else knew you were playing.

At your door, you turned, expecting her to say goodnight and leave. Instead, she rocked back on her heels, looking at you with that same too-careful expression from earlier.

“You gonna sleep?” she asked.

You snorted softly. “That’s the plan.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You looked down at your keys, turning them over in your hand. “I’ll try.”

Paige nodded slowly. “Text me if you can’t.”

Your eyes flicked up. “What?”

“Text me,” she repeated. “If you can’t sleep.”

“Paige, you have practice.”

“And?”

“And you need sleep.”

“You need sleep too.”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

For a second, the teasing faded. Paige’s face went serious in a way that made you feel exposed, but not judged. Never judged. Just seen.

“I’m up late sometimes anyway,” she said. “So text me.”

You wanted to make a joke. You wanted to say something light enough to escape the warmth gathering in your chest. But Paige was still looking at you, waiting, and the hallway was quiet, and you were too tired to pretend you didn’t want someone to care.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Paige nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

“Bossy.”

“Helpful.”

“Annoying.”

“Pretty.”

You froze.

Paige grinned, eyes bright with trouble. “What? We just naming true things now, right?”

You felt heat rush to your face so fast it was embarrassing. “Goodnight, Paige.”

She laughed as you opened your door, but before you could disappear inside, she said, “Night, ma.”

You hated how much that one little word followed you into your room.

You really hated that it made you smile.

For the next week, Paige became part of your nights in a way you did not know how to explain. It started small. You didn’t text her the first night because you felt weird about it. You lay awake until almost six, phone face-down beside you, her message thread sitting there untouched like a dare. The second night, you typed something, deleted it, typed it again, deleted it again, then gave up and stared at the ceiling until sunrise.

The third night, at 3:17 a.m., your phone buzzed.

paige: u sleep?

You stared at the message, then smiled despite the ache behind your eyes.

you: obviously not paige: knew it you: creepy paige: observant you: annoying paige: pretty you: oh my god go to bed

Her response came almost immediately.

paige: can’t. someone told me to text if i couldn’t sleep you: that was YOU telling ME paige: same difference

You ended up texting for almost an hour. Nothing deep at first. Paige complained about class. You complained about your professor giving feedback that made no sense. She sent you a blurry photo of her ceiling fan with the caption “this thing loud as hell,” and you laughed quietly into your pillow, the sound feeling strange in your dark room. At some point, she asked what you usually did when you couldn’t sleep, and your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time before you answered.

you: nothing really you: just wait it out paige: every night? you: most nights

The little typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

paige: damn paige: that’s lonely

You swallowed.

Because yeah.

It was.

You didn’t know why that hit harder than advice. Maybe because she didn’t try to fix it right away. Maybe because she didn’t ask why, didn’t make you explain your entire brain at four in the morning. She just named it. Softly. Simply.

you: yeah you: kinda

Paige called you two seconds later.

You almost dropped your phone.

When you answered, whispering, “Paige?” her voice came through low and sleepy and warm.

“Hi.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because texting is slow.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“So are you.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m bad at it.”

Paige laughed quietly, and the sound settled something in you. “That’s crazy. You competitive about everything except sleeping.”

“I am not competitive.”

“You are.”

“I literally am not.”

“You arguing right now.”

You pressed your face into your pillow. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No. You didn’t.

You really, really didn’t.

After that, the calls became a thing. Not every night, because Paige was busy and you refused to let your insomnia become her responsibility, but often enough that you started expecting her name to light up your phone when the hours got too quiet. Sometimes she talked until her voice got heavy. Sometimes you listened to her breathe on the other end while she fought sleep like she had something to prove. Sometimes she told you random stories from practice, about Geno saying something dry, about Nika being Nika, about KK and Ashlynn acting like they had been placed on earth specifically to cause chaos. Sometimes she asked you about your day, and because it was dark and late and her voice made everything feel softer, you told her the truth more often than you meant to.

She learned little things.

That sleeping aids helped your body feel heavy but didn’t always shut your mind off. That nightmares made it worse because even when you did sleep, you sometimes woke up feeling like your heart had been dragged out of your chest. That you hated naps because waking up confused in the middle of the day made you feel worse. That you were embarrassed by how much it affected you. That sometimes, when people joked about “pulling an all-nighter,” you wanted to laugh because they had no idea how different it felt when it wasn’t a choice.

Paige listened.

Really listened.

And then, because she was still Paige, she also started sending the most ridiculous goodnight texts you had ever seen.

paige: close ur eyes challenge paige: if u sleep before 3 u get a prize paige: prize is me saying good job paige: actually that’s a fire prize idk why u not motivated

You told her she was insane.

She told you she was inspiring.

The flirty part was harder to survive.

Because Paige flirted like she breathed. Casual, confident, half-joking until it wasn’t. She called you pretty too easily. Told you your morning voice was cute the one time she called too early and you answered half-asleep. Said “miss me?” every time she walked into a room you were in, even if she had seen you twenty minutes earlier. When you got annoyed, she looked delighted. When you blushed, she looked victorious.

But she was also careful. More careful than people gave her credit for.

She teased you about being stubborn, about refusing help, about acting like you were allergic to being taken care of. But she never made fun of the insomnia. Never made you feel dramatic for having nightmares. Never acted like your tiredness was annoying or inconvenient. If anything, she got gentler with it over time.

One night, after a home game at Gampel, you stayed behind with some friends while the arena slowly emptied. Paige had played well, all sharp passes and smooth confidence, the kind of game where she looked like she could see the floor two seconds before everyone else. You had cheered until your throat hurt, bundled in a UConn hoodie that definitely was not yours even though Paige kept pretending she had “no idea” how it ended up with you.

Afterward, when she came out from the locker room, her hair still damp from a quick shower, she found you leaning against the wall scrolling on your phone. She looked tired but pleased, her bag slung over one shoulder, slides on, that familiar cocky tilt to her mouth appearing the second she saw you.

“You see me hoop?” she asked.

You looked up. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately is crazy.”

“You were okay.”

Paige stopped in front of you, eyebrows lifting. “Okay?”

“Decent.”

“Decent?”

“Like, you know. You had some moments.”

She stared at you, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You lucky you cute.”

Your stomach did something deeply embarrassing. “You say that to everyone who insults your game?”

“Nah.” Her eyes flicked over your face. “Just you.”

You forgot how to be normal for a second.

Paige noticed. Obviously. Her smile softened into something less teasing, and she tugged lightly at the sleeve of the hoodie you were wearing. “You look good in my stuff.”

You glanced down like you had somehow forgotten what you were wearing. “Your stuff?”

“That’s my hoodie.”

“You said you didn’t know.”

“I lied.”

You laughed. “Wow. Role model behavior.”

“Don’t steal from me then.”

“You literally gave it to me.”

“Borrowed,” she corrected. “But you can keep it for now.”

“For now?”

“Yeah.” Paige’s fingers were still holding the sleeve, thumb brushing once against the fabric near your wrist. “Looks better on you anyway.”

The hallway felt louder suddenly. Or maybe your heartbeat was just being annoying.

You cleared your throat. “Are you flirting with me after a basketball game?”

“After I won a basketball game,” Paige corrected. “Context matters.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re wearing my hoodie.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but your smile ruined it. Paige’s face softened again, and for one tiny second, neither of you said anything. The team noise echoed faintly behind her, voices and laughter from down the hall, but she kept looking at you like the world had narrowed to just this.

Then her gaze sharpened slightly.

“You sleep last night?”

The question caught you off guard. Your smile faded before you could stop it.

Paige saw that too.

“Some,” you said.

“How much is some?”

“Enough.”

“That’s not a number.”

“You’re so nosy.”

“Yeah.”

You looked away.

She let the silence sit for a second, then nudged your shoe with hers. “Bad night?”

You shrugged, trying to make it smaller than it felt. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmare?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Paige’s expression changed, not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice, but you did. Her jaw tightened a little. Her eyes softened. She shifted closer, enough to block you slightly from the busy hallway without making it obvious.

“You don’t gotta tell me here,” she said quietly.

Something about that almost hurt. The way she understood the difference between asking and asking in front of people. The way she gave you privacy without making a show of it.

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Come with me?”

“To where?”

“Walk.”

“Paige, you just played a whole game.”

“And I’m still faster than you.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

But she smiled when she said it, and you followed her because of course you did.

The walk was short, just around campus, cold air brushing your cheeks while Paige kept close beside you. She had changed into sweats and a hoodie, her hands tucked in her pockets, shoulders relaxed. Every now and then, your arms brushed. She didn’t rush you into talking. She told you about one of the freshmen messing up a play in practice, about Nika yelling something dramatic from the bench, about how she swore Ice had stolen one of her snacks even though Ice denied it with her whole chest.

You laughed at the right parts. Paige smiled like that was the point.

Eventually, when the campus got quieter and the cold made your fingers numb, Paige glanced at you. “You wanna come chill for a little? Not sleep. Just chill.”

You knew what she was doing. Making the offer casual so it didn’t feel like a big deal. Giving you an out. Giving you a place to be that wasn’t your room and your ceiling and the long stretch of night ahead.

“You sure?”

Paige gave you a look. “Y/N.”

“What?”

“You always ask that like I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I just don’t wanna bother you.”

“You don’t.”

“You have practice tomorrow.”

“Yup.”

“And class.”

“Sadly.”

“And you need rest.”

“So do you.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

Paige stopped walking.

You stopped too, turning toward her.

The teasing was gone now. Her face was serious, but not angry. Just steady.

“I know that,” she said. “I’m not here because I think you’re my responsibility.”

You swallowed.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Paige continued, voice low. “There’s a difference.”

The cold air pressed around you. You looked at her, at the way the streetlight caught the side of her face, at the softness in her eyes that she never tried to hide from you as much as she probably thought she did.

“You can’t say stuff like that and expect me to be normal,” you whispered.

Paige’s mouth twitched. “Who said I want you normal?”

“Paige.”

“What?” She stepped a little closer, cocky spark returning just enough to make your heart trip. “You cute when you nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You lying.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You say that a lot for someone who keeps hanging out with me.”

“Maybe I have bad taste.”

“Nah.” Paige’s smile turned gentle. “Your taste elite.”

You groaned, pushing lightly at her arm. She laughed, catching your wrist for half a second before letting go, her touch warm even through the cold. It wasn’t a big moment. Not a confession. Not a kiss. Not anything you could name properly. But it stayed with you anyway.

That night, you ended up in Paige’s room.

It wasn’t the first time you had been there, but it felt different after midnight. Softer. More private. Azzi was out, sleeping elsewhere after making some joke you didn’t fully process because you were too busy trying not to overthink the fact that you were sitting on Paige’s bed wearing Paige’s hoodie while Paige moved around the room like it was completely normal.

She tossed you a blanket. “Here.”

You caught it. “Bossy.”

“Cold people don’t get to complain.”

“I didn’t say I was cold.”

“You rubbing your hands together like a cartoon character.”

You looked down at your hands. “I hate that you notice everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

You pulled the blanket around yourself, settling against the pillows near the wall. Paige grabbed her laptop and climbed onto the bed beside you, leaving a respectful bit of space that somehow made you feel more insane than if she had sat closer. She opened Netflix, scrolling through options.

“You want something funny? Boring? Comfort show? Documentary that’ll put you out?”

“Are you trying to bore me to sleep?”

“I’m trying to win.”

“Win what?”

“Against your insomnia.”

You laughed softly. “That’s not how it works.”

“I know.” Paige glanced at you. “But I’m competitive.”

Something warm spread through your chest.

You picked a comfort show you had seen too many times, something familiar enough that you didn’t need to focus. Paige set the laptop between you, but as the episode played, neither of you really watched. Your body was tired in that awful wired way, heavy and restless at the same time. Paige sat with one knee bent, shoulder against the headboard, occasionally looking over to check on you.

You could feel it every time.

Eventually, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

You kept your eyes on the screen. “Depends.”

“When the nightmares happen… is it like, you wake up and can go back to sleep? Or you’re up after?”

Your throat tightened.

You appreciated the question, weirdly. She wasn’t asking what they were about. Not forcing details. Just trying to understand the shape of it.

“Usually up after,” you said. “Sometimes I’m scared to go back to sleep. Sometimes I’m just… awake. Like my whole body thinks something happened even though nothing did.”

Paige nodded slowly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

“Do you tell anybody?”

You gave her a look.

She sighed. “Yeah. Dumb question.”

“I don’t like worrying people.”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“That’s your favorite line.”

“It’s true.”

“Still don’t mean you gotta deal with everything by yourself.”

You looked down at your hands in the blanket. “I know.”

“Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Paige shifted closer, just a little. “Y/N.”

The way she said your name made your eyes sting, which was unfair and rude and entirely not your fault.

“I don’t want people thinking I’m dramatic,” you said quietly.

Paige’s expression softened so much it almost undid you. “Ma, you can’t sleep and when you do, you get nightmares. That’s not dramatic. That’s hard.”

You blinked fast.

“And you still show up to class and games and hangouts and act like you fine,” she added. “Which, honestly, kinda pisses me off.”

You looked at her, startled. “Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to be that good at hiding it.”

The room went quiet except for the low sound of the show. Paige looked away after she said it, like maybe she thought she had said too much. Like maybe vulnerability scared her too, just in a different way.

You leaned your head back against the wall. “You’re being really nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“You are absolutely not always nice.”

“I’m nice to you.”

“That’s different?”

Paige looked back at you. “Yeah.”

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

She held your gaze for a second, then cleared her throat and reached for the laptop like she needed something to do. “Anyway. We need a game plan.”

“A game plan?”

“Yeah. For tonight.”

“This is not basketball.”

“Everything is basketball if you’re smart enough.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Made sense to me.”

You laughed, and Paige smiled like she had been waiting for it.

Her “game plan” was simple. No pressure to sleep. No staring at the clock. No pretending you were fine if you weren’t. You could stay as long as you wanted. You could talk, watch something, sit in silence, whatever. If you got tired, you could rest. If you didn’t, that was okay too. Paige made it sound so easy that you wanted to believe her.

For a while, it worked.

You watched another episode. Then another. Paige got up at some point to grab water, handing you a bottle with a pointed look until you drank. She complained that you were “hardheaded as hell” when you refused the granola bar she offered, then looked way too pleased when you eventually took half. She dimmed the lamp without asking, making the room softer around the edges.

Little by little, your body started to loosen.

You didn’t realize you had leaned against her until Paige went still.

Not stiff. Just aware.

Your shoulder was touching her arm, your head tilted close enough that if you moved another inch, you’d be resting against her. You froze, about to pull back, but Paige spoke before you could.

“You good.”

Two words. Quiet. Certain.

So you stayed.

Paige shifted carefully, giving you an easier angle, and your head ended up on her shoulder. Her hoodie was soft beneath your cheek. She smelled like laundry detergent and something clean and warm, and you hated how safe it made you feel because safety was dangerous. Safety made you want things. Safety made you soft.

Paige’s voice came low near your temple. “You comfortable?”

“No.”

She laughed under her breath. “Liar.”

You smiled faintly. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Your eyes opened.

Paige seemed to realize what she said at the same time you did, because the air changed immediately. Not uncomfortable. Just charged. Warm. Her shoulder shifted under your cheek, and when you looked up, her face was closer than you expected.

She looked down at you, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

Your breath caught.

Paige smiled, slow and unfair. “You nervous again.”

“Maybe you’re just annoying again.”

“Mm.” Her voice dropped slightly. “That what it is?”

You should have moved. You did not move.

The laptop kept playing some scene neither of you were watching. Paige’s gaze stayed on you, soft but confident, teasing but careful. Like she would keep going if you wanted, and stop the second you didn’t.

But then a yawn caught you off guard, sudden and deep, ruining the entire moment.

Paige blinked.

Then she started laughing.

You groaned, hiding your face against her shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Nah, that was crazy timing.”

“I hate my body.”

“Your body said wrap it up, lover girl.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You blushing?”

“I’m tired.”

“And blushing.”

You pinched her arm lightly.

“Ow,” Paige said, even though you barely touched her. “Assault after I opened my home to you.”

“Your home is a dorm room.”

“My sacred space.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“And yet…” She let the sentence trail off, her cheek brushing lightly against the top of your head. “You still here.”

You were still there.

And somehow, against all odds, you started to fall asleep.

It didn’t happen quickly. Sleep never came to you like that. It approached slowly, suspiciously, like a stray animal deciding whether your hand was safe. You drifted, woke a little, drifted again. Each time your body startled itself back toward awareness, Paige was still there. Sometimes scrolling quietly on her phone. Sometimes watching the show. Sometimes murmuring something stupid just to make you smile without fully waking.

At some point, you felt her hand touch the blanket near your arm.

Not grabbing. Not trapping. Just there.

“Paige?” you whispered, barely awake.

“Yeah?”

“If I fall asleep… wake me if I’m bothering you.”

“You not bothering me.”

“But—”

“Y/N.”

You went quiet.

Her voice softened. “Sleep.”

And because she said it like she meant it, because the room was warm and the blanket was heavy and Paige was steady beside you, you did.

For maybe forty minutes.

Then the nightmare came.

It wasn’t always the same, but it always felt the same. Panic with no clean edges. A dream made of running and not moving, speaking and no sound coming out, reaching for something that kept getting farther away. You woke with a sharp inhale, body jerking like you had been dropped back into it. For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The room was dark. The laptop had gone quiet. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

Then Paige sat up beside you.

“Hey,” she said immediately, voice calm but alert. “Hey, you’re okay.”

You couldn’t answer. Your breathing was wrong, too fast, too shallow, and embarrassment crashed in almost as quickly as fear. You tried to pull away, but the blanket tangled around your legs.

Paige didn’t grab you. She moved into your line of sight, careful and steady. “Y/N, look at me.”

You tried.

“There you go,” she said softly. “You’re in my room. You’re safe. It was a dream.”

Your hands were shaking. You curled them into fists, trying to hide it, but Paige saw.

Of course she saw.

“Can I touch you?” she asked.

The question almost broke you.

You nodded.

Paige reached for your hand, slowly enough that you could pull away if you wanted. When you didn’t, she wrapped her fingers around yours and squeezed once. Her hand was warm. Real. Anchoring.

“Breathe with me,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“You can. You are.” Paige shifted closer, eyes locked on yours. “In through your nose. Slow. I got you.”

You followed her because it was easier than following yourself. In. Hold. Out. Again. Paige did it with you every time, patient in a way that made your chest ache. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look annoyed. She didn’t look like she regretted letting you stay.

She just looked there.

After a while, the room came back. The shape of the desk. The hoodie thrown over a chair. The water bottle on the floor. Paige’s thumb moving gently over your knuckles.

Your breathing evened out.

Shame came next.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Paige frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t really asleep.”

“Still.”

“Y/N.” Her voice was firmer now. Not harsh. Just enough to stop you. “You had a nightmare. You don’t gotta apologize for that.”

You looked away, eyes burning.

Paige squeezed your hand again. “Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly.

Her face softened. “I’m serious. You don’t scare me. You don’t bother me. And I’m not sitting here thinking you’re too much.”

Your lips pressed together.

“I know that’s probably where your head goes,” she said, quieter. “But don’t put that on me. Let me tell you what I think.”

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Paige looked at you for a long second, and when she spoke again, her voice was gentle. “I think you’re tired. I think you been trying to handle something really hard by yourself for way too long. And I think I really wanna hold you right now, but I’m trying to be respectful and not make you pass out from stress.”

A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, shaky and small.

Paige smiled. “There she is.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“Made you laugh.”

“I had a nightmare.”

“And I’m still funny.”

You wiped at your face, embarrassed when your fingers came away damp. Paige pretended not to notice in the kindest way possible, looking down at your joined hands instead of your tears.

After a moment, you whispered, “You can.”

Paige looked up. “I can what?”

“Hold me.”

Her expression changed.

Softened. Warmed. Went so open that you had to look away again.

“You sure?” she asked.

You nodded.

Paige moved slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. She sat back against the pillows and opened one arm, and you shifted into her before you could overthink it. Your head found the space beneath her chin, your body tucked against her side, and Paige wrapped her arm around you like she had been waiting to do it all night.

Maybe longer.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

Her hand moved gently up and down your back, slow enough to calm you but not so soft it tickled. Your ear rested near her chest, close enough to hear her heartbeat. It was steady. Strong. You focused on it until your own started to match.

“You okay?” Paige murmured.

You nodded against her hoodie. “Better.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What did I just say?”

You sighed. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m trying.”

Paige’s hand paused, then continued. “That counts.”

You smiled faintly.

Outside, the world was still asleep. Or maybe waking up. You had no idea what time it was, and for once, you didn’t want to check. The clock always made you feel like you were failing. Paige’s room didn’t. Paige didn’t.

After a while, you said, “You’re weirdly good at this.”

“At what?”

“Comforting people.”

Paige made a thoughtful sound. “I mean, I got siblings. Teammates. Been through stuff. You learn.”

“That was a real answer.”

“My bad.” Her voice turned teasing again. “I’m also just naturally gifted.”

You laughed into her hoodie. “There it is.”

“Can’t stay humble too long. Bad for my brand.”

“Your brand is being annoying?”

“And pretty. And elite.”

“And humble.”

“Exactly.”

You tilted your head up to look at her. It was a mistake. Paige was already looking down at you, face close in the dim light, hair messy, eyes soft in a way that made your brain go quiet for once. Her hand had stilled against your back.

“What?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“Nothing.”

“That’s never nothing.”

“I just…” You hesitated. “Thank you.”

Something flickered across her face. “You don’t gotta thank me.”

“I want to.”

Paige’s gaze dropped again, just briefly, to your mouth.

Your heart remembered how to be annoying.

She looked back at your eyes. “You always this sweet after nightmares?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not.” Her smile was small. “I’m just asking.”

“You always flirt with emotionally vulnerable people?”

Paige huffed a laugh, but her cheeks looked a little warmer. “Only when they cute and wearing my hoodie.”

You smiled. “So specific.”

“I got standards.”

You should have looked away.

You didn’t.

Paige’s hand moved slightly on your back, fingers flexing once like she was holding herself in place. “Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta stop looking at me like that if you want me to behave.”

Your breath caught.

“Who said I want you to behave?” you whispered.

For once, Paige looked genuinely caught off guard.

It lasted half a second.

Then her smile turned slow, pleased, a little cocky. “Oh, okay.”

You hid your face immediately. “Forget I said that.”

“Nope.”

“Paige.”

“Nah, stand on it.”

“I was sleep-deprived.”

“You been sleep-deprived for weeks. That’s not a legal defense.”

You groaned into her chest while she laughed quietly, her arm tightening around you. The laughter helped. The teasing helped. Paige helped. She made the nightmare feel less like a monster and more like something that had happened, something you had survived, something that did not get to own the whole night.

Eventually, the room settled again.

You didn’t know how long you stayed curled against her. Long enough for your breathing to slow. Long enough for the last bits of panic to drain from your body. Long enough for Paige’s hand on your back to become familiar.

“I don’t think I can sleep,” you admitted quietly.

“That’s okay.”

“I want to.”

“I know.”

“It’s frustrating.”

“I know.”

You lifted your head slightly. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I do.”

“How?”

Paige looked at you for a moment, then shrugged. “Not the same way. But I know what it’s like when your body don’t trust peace. Like even when everything’s good, you still waiting for something.”

That landed somewhere deep.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“So we don’t force it,” she said. “We just chill. And if sleep happens, cool. If not, I’m still here.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from panic.

“You’re gonna regret saying that when I keep you up until six.”

Paige smirked. “Ma, I’ve played overtime. I’m built for this.”

“This is not overtime.”

“You right. This harder. You way more stubborn than any defender I’ve seen.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re still smiling.”

You were.

She looked proud of that too.

The second time sleep came, it was softer. No dramatic fade. No sudden heaviness. Just Paige talking quietly about nothing, her voice low and familiar, her fingers tracing absent shapes over the blanket near your arm. She told you about a shot she should’ve taken. About how she missed being able to eat cereal at weird hours without someone judging her. About how she was absolutely convinced one of the managers was hiding the good snacks. You answered less and less until your replies became hums.

At some point, Paige whispered, “You falling asleep on me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up.”

“You want me to keep talking?”

You nodded against her.

So she did.

You didn’t remember what she said after that.

When you woke again, the room was pale with early morning. Not bright yet, but close. Your first instinct was fear, that automatic check for panic, for nightmare residue, for the heavy dread that usually came with morning. But this time, you were warm. Wrapped in a blanket. Tucked into Paige’s side, her arm still around you, her head tilted back against the pillow, mouth slightly open as she slept.

You stared.

Then smiled so hard it hurt.

Paige Bueckers, loudest person alive when she wanted to be, looked ridiculously peaceful asleep. Softer. Younger. Still unfairly pretty, which was annoying, honestly. One of her hands was resting near your waist over the blanket, loose and careful even in sleep.

You tried to move without waking her.

Failed immediately.

Paige stirred, blinking slowly. “You good?”

Her voice was raspy with sleep, and it did something terrible to your stomach.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

She frowned, eyes barely open. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She studied you for a second through half-lidded eyes, then seemed satisfied. “You slept.”

“A little.”

“That’s a dub.”

You smiled. “A dub?”

“Big dub.” Paige shifted, pulling the blanket more securely around you like she wasn’t even thinking about it. “Might hang a banner.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You slept in my room one time and already disrespecting me in the morning.”

“I disrespected you before that.”

“True.” Her eyes opened a little more, and she smiled lazily. “Consistency. I like that.”

You were quiet for a moment.

Then you said, “Thank you for staying.”

Paige’s expression softened, sleep still clinging to her features. “Told you I would.”

“Most people say stuff like that and don’t mean it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“That was very humble.”

“I’m serious.”

You looked at her.

She looked back.

And yeah. She was.

“I know,” you whispered.

Paige’s gaze moved over your face, slower now, morning-soft and unguarded. “You scared?”

“Of what?”

“This.” Her thumb brushed lightly over the blanket near your side. “Me being here. You letting me.”

You thought about lying. You almost did. Then you remembered her voice in the dark, telling you not to pretend.

“A little,” you admitted.

Paige nodded. “Me too.”

That surprised you. “You?”

She gave you a look. “What, you think I’m just out here fearless?”

“Kinda.”

“Good. My image working.”

You laughed softly.

Paige smiled, but it faded into something more honest. “I don’t wanna mess it up,” she said. “With you.”

Your heart went very, very still.

“You won’t,” you said.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” you agreed. “But I know you try.”

Paige watched you like that meant more than you realized.

Then, because she apparently couldn’t handle sincerity for too long, she said, “So… does this mean I’m officially part of your sleep routine?”

You groaned. “Paige.”

“What? I’m asking important questions.”

“You are not a weighted blanket.”

“I could be.”

“You have practice.”

“I also have elite cuddling potential.”

“Elite?”

“Everything I do is elite.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that like you not literally still cuddled up with me.”

You looked down and realized she was right, which was deeply unfortunate for your pride.

Paige grinned. “Caught.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you not.”

“I should.”

“You should rest.”

“I already slept.”

“For like, what, two hours?” She gave you a pointed look. “Don’t start acting brand new.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

“I’m bossy all day.”

“True.”

Paige’s smile softened. “Stay a little longer.”

There it was again. That gentle honesty tucked beneath the teasing.

You felt yourself melt. Just a little.

“Okay,” you said.

Paige looked pleased but tried not to show it. Failed badly.

You settled back down, not quite as anxious this time. Your head found her shoulder again, and Paige adjusted like it was natural, like you belonged there, like her body had already learned the shape of yours. She pulled the blanket up, then rested her cheek lightly against your hair.

For a while, neither of you talked.

The sky outside got brighter. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. The day was beginning, whether you were ready for it or not. But for once, morning did not feel like proof you had lost the night.

It felt like you had made it through.

With Paige.

“You know,” Paige murmured after a while, voice still rough with sleep, “you really are pretty when you’re not fighting for your life at four a.m.”

You lifted your head. “That is the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”

“What? I said you’re pretty.”

“You added trauma.”

“Context.”

“You’re so bad at this.”

“I’m actually great at this.” Paige’s eyes dropped to your lips again, quicker this time but not quick enough to miss. “You just picky.”

You went quiet.

Paige did too.

The air shifted for the second time in that room, but this time, neither of you hid behind a yawn or a joke. Paige’s hand was still around you. Your faces were close. Close enough that you could see the tiny details of her expression, the hesitation beneath the confidence, the question she wasn’t asking out loud.

You could have answered it.

Maybe you would have.

But then Paige’s phone alarm went off, loud and violent, making both of you jump.

You burst out laughing first.

Paige grabbed her phone with a groan, shutting it off. “I hate that thing.”

“That was so romantic.”

“Don’t play with me. I can recover.”

“Oh, can you?”

“Absolutely.”

She turned back to you, still half-asleep, hair messy, eyes warm, and somehow more charming because of how unpolished she looked.

Then she leaned in and kissed your forehead.

It was soft. Slow. So gentle it made your laughter disappear in your throat.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were faintly pink, but her expression was steady.

“There,” she said quietly. “Recovered.”

You stared at her.

Paige looked smug for about two seconds before nervousness flickered across her face. “Was that okay?”

Your heart squeezed.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “That was okay.”

“Good.”

“You’re still annoying.”

“And you still like me.”

You should have denied it.

You didn’t.

Paige’s smile grew, bright and sleepy and beautiful.

“Yeah,” she whispered, like she already knew. “Thought so.”

Later, you would still have bad nights. The insomnia would not magically disappear because Paige held you once. The nightmares would not suddenly decide to be kind just because someone cared. You knew that. Paige knew it too. There would still be nights where sleep felt impossible, where your body fought rest, where the ceiling became too familiar again.

But something had changed.

Because now, when the world went quiet and lonely, your phone would light up.

paige: u awake? paige: don’t lie paige: i can feel u being stubborn from here

And sometimes, when the nightmares were bad, you would call before you could talk yourself out of it.

And Paige would answer.

Always with that same sleepy, steady voice.

“Hey, ma. I’m here.”

Not a cure. Not a fix.

But a hand in the dark.

A voice reminding you that morning was not a failure.

A person who stayed.

And maybe that did not make sleep easy.

But it made the night less lonely.

And for now, that was enough.

she comes out holding two pieces of ivory structured jacket in each hand, held up level like she's presenting evidence. "what do you think," she says when you look at them you look at her you say immediately "yes."

"you didn't let me finish."

"yes anyway."

she gives you a look, the one that means you're doing that thing and you sit up properly and look at the jackets with the seriousness they apparently deserve they're beautiful, they're the kind of piece that costs more than it looks like it does and looks like it costs exactly what it does, which is a particular kind of expensive thing that you've been learning about since you started spending time in her orbit.

the color reads ivory in her bedroom light but you know in the arena it'll go the softest shade of cream, warm, tonal, the kind of palette that photographs clean from twenty feet away and from a hundred feet away still reads as coordinated. "we're going to look insane," you tell her.

she hangs them both carefully on the back of the door and sits down next to you on the edge of the bed close enough that her knee presses into yours. "we're going to look good," she says, which is a correction, and she says it the way she says most things not like she's being arrogant, like she's just stating the geometry of the situation she is usually right about the geometry it's one of the more annoying things about her.

you look at the jackets on the door you look at her profile you say "they're going to lose their minds."

"probably."

"you know that, right? you know exactly what you're doing."

she turns her head and looks at you, and something in her expression settles into a register that doesn't have a name but that you've been cataloguing for three years, the one that means she's being precise on purpose, choosing her words the way she chooses her shots not rushed, not careless, just very clear about what she's going for. "yeah," she says. "i know."

you hold that for a second. "okay," you say.

"okay?"

"okay," you say again, and lie back down, and stare at the ceiling fan, and try to keep your face entirely neutral, which you fail at, and which she clocks and doesn't mention, because she is also, sometimes, merciful.

you've known maya since sophomore year at ucla, which means she predates lauren by about four months and has watched the entire arc of this from front-row seats with the specific energy of someone who invested early and is still waiting to cash out.

she texted you last week when you mentioned coming to the game does she know you're coming. you said yes maya sent back three emojis in a row and then nothing for six hours and then i'm wearing something neutral so you two can have the whole bit.

you love her you also, sometimes, want to close a door in her face she's waiting for you outside the arena in a cream blazer of her own — different, paler, clearly chosen to orbit your orbit — and when she sees you coming she puts a hand over her mouth and then takes it away and says "you actually did it."

"we're just wearing jackets."

"you're wearing the same jacket."

"it's a popular jacket."

"it came out three weeks ago." she falls into step beside you she's looking at you with an expression that you would describe as clinical admiration. "how long did she plan this."

"it was both of us."

maya stops walking for approximately one step and then resumes. "she planned it," she says, "and you went along with it immediately."

you don't answer maya takes this as confirmation, which it is.

"i want you to know," she says, as you push through the entrance, "that i have been waiting three years for you two to do literally anything publicly and this is exceeding my expectations. this is this is a statement. you understand that. without either of you saying one word this is a statement."

"we're just going to a basketball game."

"in matching designer jackets that are three weeks old—"

"complementary—"

"that you coordinated the night before—"

"we live close—"

"that are going to be photographed and posted within forty-five seconds of you sitting down." maya looks at you with the patience of someone who has known you long enough to wait for you out. "are you nervous?"

you think about lauren asking you the same thing in the hallway this morning, both of you standing in front of the mirror, jackets on you thinking about how you said no and she smiled like she didn't believe you.

you think about how she reached over and adjusted your collar, just barely, just with two fingers, fixed something you couldn't see was crooked, and then stepped back and looked at you the way she sometimes looks at you like she's confirming something she already knew.

"no," you tell maya maya says "you are such a liar," and links her arm through yours, and that's how you walk to your seats.

the arena fills around you and you learn something about yourself, which is that you are better at composure in the abstract than in practice in the abstract, standing in lauren's hallway last night saying yes, sure, we're going to look good, you were calm about this.

in practice, sitting courtside while the warmup music plays and the lights come up and someone three rows back says loudly to their friend wait hold on in practice you are exercising every social muscle you have.

maya is completely unhelpful she's on her phone already, watching something load, and she tips it toward you with a clip from the tunnel someone got a photo of you both coming in but the angle is not unflattering the jackets are extremely visible, it already has four hundred likes and it was posted eleven minutes ago. "put that away," you say.

"the comments," maya says reverently, scrolling, "are unwell."

"maya—"

"someone says and i quote: 'she has been wearing lauren's clothes on her body since at least 2022 but this is the first time they matched and i am going to need a minute.'"

you face forward with great dignity.

"another person says: 'the way they styled it differently so it's not costume-y but you can still absolutely tell they got dressed together. i'm not normal about this.'"

"i don't need a live update—"

"oh, this one—" maya presses her lips together. "this one says 'lauren betts has been looking at this girl from half court every home game for a season and a half and now they show up in coordinated fits and we're supposed to just watch basketball?'"

you open your mouth, you close it, you look at the court lauren is on the three-point line mid-stretch, one arm pulled across her chest, head tilted slightly she looks over finds you immediately she always finds you immediately, you stopped being surprised by this sometime in february and her expression does the thing where it shifts registers so fast that if you didn't know her you'd miss it.

something settles something confirms she raises her eyebrows well? you raise yours back they're losing it she already knows she lets her mouth curve just slightly, the version of her smile that belongs to a specific radius, the one that's been yours for three years, and turns back to the drill.

maya, who has witnessed this entire exchange in silence, says "i need you to understand that i saw that from two feet away."

"saw what."

"that whole — the eyebrows — the thing you just did."

"we were just—"

"that was a full conversation," maya says. "with your faces. you had a full conversation with your faces across a basketball court."

@bricksbylb — wait wait wait is she wearing the same jacket as the girl in the third row

@dcmysticstan — THEY ARE IN THE SAME COLORWAY. THE SAME. I AM GOING TO NEED EVERYONE TO LOOK AT THIS

@halfcourtshots — the girl who's always courtside for lauren's home games. been clocking her since the preseason. they did NOT do this by accident. that jacket is three weeks old.

@hoop.diaries — okay but they came in together through the tunnel. someone just sent me the photo. the way she's walking next to her like it's the most natural thing in the world.

@bricksbylb — WAIT THE JACKET. SAME JACKET. DIFFERENT STYLING. THEY LITERALLY PLANNED THIS AND THEN STYLED IT DIFFERENTLY SO IT WOULDN'T LOOK PLANNED BUT IT STILL LOOKS PLANNED I'M GOING TO LIE DOWN

@w.bballworld — can someone explain to me how lauren betts is out here doing a full pregame warmup and also somehow looking directly at the same courtside girl every thirty seconds. how is she doing both

@dcmysticstan — they've been doing this since ucla. i have receipts going back two years. this jacket is just the first time they stopped pretending we weren't all watching.

your phone has ninety-three notifications you turn it face-down on your knee and fold your hands on top of it and watch lauren catch a pass, pivot, go up for a mid-range that goes clean through maya, next to you, is vibrating with the contained energy of someone who is being very good by not saying anything you let her have it for about forty-five seconds. "fine," you say quietly. "i knew. i knew exactly what was going to happen and i did it anyway."

maya exhales like she's been holding it. "okay," she says carefully. "okay, and?" you watch lauren move through the lane, easy, like she takes up exactly as much space as she's supposed to and not one inch more. you watch her glance toward you again without meaning to, or maybe meaning to, you've never been entirely sure. "and nothing," you say. "that's it. i knew and i wanted to."

maya is quiet for a moment. then she says, very softly: "yeah. i know."

the buzzer sounds the warmup music shifts the lights come all the way up and the arena gets loud and you sit in it and feel, underneath the composed surface of yourself, something that has been building for three years and that has no particular name and that tonight, without a single word, you put on like a jacket deliberately, in the right color, styled to be unmistakably yours.

they win by nine you watch all of it every run, every adjustment, every timeout huddle where you can see her listening with her hands on her knees, head down, and then looking up like something clicked and maya is good company, the kind who knows when to be loud and when to let things breathe.

you feel, for most of the game, approximately normal you feel like yourself you feel like someone who has been doing this for long enough that the courtside part is ordinary, the watching-her-work part is ordinary, the fact of her in your life is ordinary, which is its own kind of extraordinary when you think about it too hard, which you mostly try not to.

your phone never stops buzzing, you leave it face-down the entire second half after, you wait in the corridor outside the locker room with maya, who has finally run out of tweet updates and is just standing quietly eating a pretzel and being decent about it.

other people filter through. some of them glance at your jacket, one of them is a beat reporter you've seen at maybe a dozen of these and she looks at you and looks at the jacket and looks at maya and then very professionally looks at her phone instead you appreciate that.

the door opens and lauren comes out still in warmup gear, hair re-done, face already clear of the game the way she gets after she processes fast, always has, moves on while you're still sitting in whatever just happened.

she spots you and maya immediately and the expression she lands on is the good one, the unguarded one, the one you got a long time ago in a parking lot at two in the morning and have been quietly carrying ever since.

she comes over, looks at you, looks at the jacket, then at her own jacket draped over her bag. "so," she says. "so," you say.

maya says "great game, lauren," and takes a large bite of pretzel and looks very pointedly at the middle distance lauren looks at you like she's asking a question you both already know the answer to.

you hold out approximately four more seconds of composure and then because she's looking at you like that, because maya is right there making no effort to leave, because ninety-three notifications became two hundred and you spent the whole second half not looking at your phone and feeling something warm and certain and entirely deliberate sitting in your chest like it had always been there, waiting you say "i loved it."

lauren tilts her head slightly waiting. "the whole thing," you say. "i loved it. i knew exactly what we were doing and i wanted to do it and i'd do it again."

she looks at you for a moment that sits long and quiet over the noise of the corridor then something in her face does what it does that particular settling, that confirmation of something she already knew and she says, soft enough that it's just for you."yeah. i know you did."

and she reaches over, just like this morning, just with two fingers, and fixes your collar again though you're pretty sure it wasn't crooked and then doesn't move her hand away immediately, leaves it there at the edge of your jaw for just a second, and you let yourself feel all of it.

the warmth of it, the length of it, three years of this building into an evening where you put on a jacket knowing full well and said yes anyway maya finishes her pretzel she doesn't say a single word.

she is, for once in her life, exactly the right amount of quiet you walk out of the arena together, all three of you, and somewhere behind you someone absolutely gets a photo, and tomorrow it will be everywhere, and you already know you won't mind.

you already know because you knew last night, in her hallway, when she held up two jackets and said what do you think and you said yes, obviously, before she finished the sentence on purpose both of you.

lauren pov:

she's already there when lauren comes out of the tunnel; this is not unusual; she is almost always already there early in the way that people are early when they care about something but don't want to make a thing of it, which is a quality lauren recognized immediately and has been quietly cataloguing ever since.

she sits in the same seat every home game, third row, slightly left of center, and she watches warmups with the focused stillness of someone who actually understands what she's watching, which is rarer than people think and which lauren noticed the first time and every time after.

tonight maya is with her lauren expected that what she didn't expect though she should have, because she knows her is the way she's sitting upright with a composed jacket on.

looking at the court with an expression that is doing a tremendous amount of work to appear casual, which means she's nervous, which means she's aware of exactly what tonight is, which means the yes from last night in the hallway was real and not just her being agreeable the way she sometimes is when she doesn't want to examine something too closely.

lauren goes to her spot on the three-point line and starts her stretch and finds her, the way she always finds her, the way that stopped being a conscious act sometime around november of last year she just looks over and there she is, it's that simple, it has always been that simple and something in lauren's chest settles into place like a mechanism clicking.

she raises her eyebrows: well?

she gets them back: they're losing it.

lauren lets herself smile, the real one, and turns back to the drill behind her she can hear, faintly, maya saying something emphatic she does not need to hear the words she has known maya long enough to know that whatever she is saying, it is accurate and slightly too loud and entirely deserved.

flashback westwood three years ago:

the party was at someone's apartment near campus, the kind where you know four people and spend most of the night finding corners maya had dragged you and then immediately disappeared with someone she'd been texting for a month, which was fine, which was genuinely fine, you were used to being left to navigate these things on your own and you were good at it in the specific way of someone who learned young how to seem comfortable in rooms where they don't entirely belong.

you were in the kitchen getting water when she walked in.

you noticed her the way you noticed weather not because you were looking for it but because the pressure in the room changed she was tall and she moved like she had decided exactly how much space she was going to occupy and had made her peace with that amount, which was more than most people and which she wore without apology.

she was with two other players you recognized from the women's basketball roster, and she was laughing at something one of them said, and then she stopped laughing because she looked up and saw you, you looked back this was probably your first mistake.

"excuse me," she said, navigating toward the counter. "sorry — is this—" and then she stopped she was close enough now that you could see her actually look at you, not the cursory social glance but the other kind, the one that takes inventory.

"never mind," she said, and leaned against the counter next to you instead of past you, and reached over your head for a cup you said."that was a committed redirect."

she looked down at you. "it was," she agreed, in a tone that offered no further explanation, and filled her cup, and didn't leave.

you talked for forty minutes in that kitchen you talked about nothing important the season, the campus, the specific social physics of parties where you only know four people and she was funny in a dry way that snuck up on you, and she listened the way very few people listened, like she was actually building a picture of you and not just waiting for her next sentence.

at some point her friends came through and she introduced you without breaking the conversation at some point your drink was empty and she handed you hers without being asked then someone needed her for something and she said hold on, two minutes, and was gone for fifteen, and when she came back you were gone.

you'd found maya and the night had moved and you'd told yourself it was fine, you were being practical, tall basketball players at late-night parties are exactly the kind of thing you don't follow up on if you're being sensible about your life.

three weeks later you were at a film screening for a class you hadn't expected to be in and she was there too, taking the seat next to you before she'd seen your face, and when she turned and realized she said. “you left.”

not an accusation just a fact just her, being precise you said. “you were gone for fifteen minutes.” but she said, “i came back.”

you didn't have an answer for when the lights went down you watched the film next to each other in the dark and afterward she said are you hungry and you said yes and that was the beginning of eight weeks of pretending you weren't both doing what you were clearly doing, which ended in the parking lot outside someone's end-of-semester party at two in the morning when you'd both run out of reasons to be anywhere else.

the parking lot was badly lit and the music from inside was still audible and she was leaning against a car that wasn't hers because the actual car she'd arrived in had left an hour ago with someone else and she'd stayed anyway, which you both understood the significance of and neither of you acknowledged directly.

you were sitting on the curb it was the kind of night that had already been long in the best way, the kind that sits loose and warm, and the conversation had gone somewhere real — families, what-you-want, the specific weight of being expected to already know the shape of your own future — and you were somewhere past the performance of it, both of you, which was new.

she said, at some point in the two-o'clock hour: "i kept looking for you. at things. after that party." you said. "you have my number."

"i know."

"you didn't use it."

"i know." a pause the music shifted inside. "i was being careful." you looked up at her from the curb you thought about the kitchen counter the film screening the fifteen minutes and the coming back.

you thought about eight weeks of careful and how it felt lately like something with too much pressure in it, something that was going to find its own release regardless of how sensible you tried to be. "about what," you said.

she looked at you for a long moment something in her face did the thing that settled, that confirmation of something she'd already worked out and she slid down the car until she was sitting on the curb next to you, shoulders touching, and said. "you."

that was all that was the whole sentence and you sat in it together until the sky started to go pale at the edges and eventually you went home and she texted you at eight a.m. the next morning like she'd been waiting for a reasonable hour, which she probably had, which was so entirely like her that you laughed out loud in your kitchen and maya came in and said what and you said nothing and you were smiling for the rest of the day.

that was three years ago that was before the draft, before dc, before courtside seats and pregame fits and ninety-three notifications and the jacket on the door before tonight

now:

the second half passes the way good games do fast, loud, with the particular momentum that makes the arena feel smaller and hotter, everyone leaning in maya has abandoned her phone this is how you know the game is good; maya has opinions about basketball that she normally drowns in running commentary but when it really gets going she goes quiet and just watches, and she's quiet now, both of you leaning forward in the third quarter when the mystics go on a seven-nothing run and the crowd gets loud enough to feel it in your sternum.

lauren gets six of those seven points when you watch her work and feel the thing you always feel watching her work, which is a kind of specific pride that you don't have a clean word for not possessive, not vicarious, just close like being near something that's operating at its full capacity and knowing you've seen it in every other mode too, have seen it tired and uncertain and funny at two in the morning, and understanding that those things are not separate from what you're watching now, they're part of the same whole.

she drives baseline in the fourth and you're on your feet before you've decided to be, and maya grabs your arm and you grab hers back and the shot goes in and the arena erupts and lauren jogs back up the court and doesn't look at you and you love her for that too, for the discipline of it, for the way she keeps those two things clean while she's working and then she does look, just for half a second, not the eyebrow thing, just a glance, just confirming, and you're already looking back.

maya makes a noise next to you that she would deny if asked.

@halfcourtshots — update: they have been making eye contact at regular intervals for two hours and the girl hasn't looked at her phone once. she is LOCKED IN. she is watching every single possession. i need to know who she is

@dcmysticstan — okay so her friend (brown blazer, has been on her phone all night) just grabbed her arm on that lauren betts baseline drive and she grabbed it back and i think i need to sit down

@bricksbylb — the way lauren betts has not once looked at the courtside girl during actual gameplay but the SECOND it goes dead ball she finds her in under a second. the SECOND.

@w.bballworld — someone in my mentions is trying to tell me the jackets are a coincidence and i just want to say: look at them. look at them and tell me that with your whole chest.

@hoop.diaries — it's the intentionality for me. it's not loud. it's not a show. it's just — they got dressed together and came here together and have been in each other's peripheral all night and none of it is for us. we're just allowed to see it.

lauren pov:

postgame is loud and fast and she moves through it on autopilot press availability, locker room, the particular comedown of a win which is different from a loss in that you have to perform being happy while also wanting very badly to be horizontal and quiet.

she answers three questions and thanks her teammates and changes and is out the door in twenty minutes because she has been doing this efficiently for long enough that it doesn't cost her much anymore.

the corridor outside is the corridor outside, same as every home game fluorescent and concrete and smelling like an arena, which is a smell she has known since she was twelve years old and that still, on good nights, feels like hers.

she sees the jacket before she sees the face of that particular ivory-cream against the gray concrete wall, and next to it maya's blazer, and between them the specific posture of someone who has been composed for several hours and is considering the cost of it.

she knows that posture she also knows has always known, since a parking lot at two in the morning that the composure is not dishonesty it's just the way she carries things she holds them close and steady and private until she decides to put them down, and when she puts them down she means it, and lauren has learned to wait for that because what's on the other side of it is worth whatever patience it takes.

she comes over she looks at her and at the jacket, at her own jacket draped over her bag she says."so."

she says. "so."maya is already looking at the middle distance, which lauren appreciates four seconds five and then something in her expression shifts releases and she says. "i loved it."

lauren waits. "the whole thing. i knew exactly what we were doing and i wanted to do it and i'd do it again."

lauren looks at her, she thinks of the parking lot, 2 a.m., the way the sky went pale she thinks of a film screening, the seat next to her in the dark she thinks eight weeks of being careful and then both of them giving it up at the same time she thinks about last night, standing in the hallway holding two jackets, watching her decide, and the yes that came before she'd even finished the sentence, which told lauren everything she already knew.

she says, soft: "yeah. i know you did."

she reaches over and fixes her collar, doesn't need fixing, she just needs to be touching her for a second, needs to close the distance by exactly that much and lets her fingers stay at the edge of her jaw a beat longer than necessary and watches her let it land.

both pov:

the beat reporter's name is diane chen she covers the mystics for a mid-size outlet, has done it for four seasons, and has seen approximately everything there is to see in a team corridor after a nine-point win.

she is a professional she has a professional relationship with the word no comment and uses it regularly she is standing fifteen feet down the corridor when lauren betts comes out and crosses to the two women waiting by the wall, and she watches the exchange with the practiced peripheral attention of someone who got into this job because she actually loved the sport and has spent several years learning to see the other things too the texture around the game, the things that don't end up in box scores.

she clocks the jackets she clocked them an hour ago, actually, when she was walking to her press seat and saw the third row, and made a small mental note that she filed under not my story, not tonight.

she watches lauren fix the collar she watches the way neither of them looks around to check who's watching.

she watches the friend who has been barely holding it together since at least the second quarter based on the body language finally exhale she makes another mental note and files it in the same place.

she has a player available to file in forty minutes she looks back at her recorder, clicks it on, and writes: betts: 24 pts, 8 reb, 6 ast. team-high in all three. said after: "just doing my job." she does not write anything else, some things are better witnessed than reported.

you walk out of the arena together, all three of you, and the night air hits you after hours inside and it's the good kind of cold, the kind that wakes you back up, and maya is on your left and lauren is on your right and somewhere behind you someone absolutely gets a photo you don't hear the shutter but you feel it, some sixth sense you've developed for being in lauren betts's peripheral, some calibration that comes from years of knowing what it means to be where she is — and you think okay. fine let them.

maya says. "i want it on record that i have been waiting for this specific evening for three years." lauren says."noted."

maya says. "i was there for the parking lot thing. i heard about it the next morning. i have been very patient."

"you have not been patient," you tell her. "you have been relentless."

"relentlessly patient." maya puts her hands in her pockets she is smiling the smile of someone who invested early and is finally watching the return. "i want it acknowledged."

"acknowledged," lauren says, and she sounds amused, genuinely, the low version of it that she saves for things she actually finds funny, and you feel it in the same place you felt the game, somewhere in the sternum, somewhere central.

you walk to the car the city is doing its late-night thing around you, traffic thinning, restaurants still lit, the specific urban quiet that isn't actually quiet, just a lower register of everything.

lauren's hand finds yours somewhere between the arena doors and the parking structure, easy, unhurried, not making a thing of it you don't make a thing of it either.

you just let your fingers close around hers and walk maya sees it she doesn't say anything she looks straight ahead and her jaw does a very small thing that means she is choosing silence as an act of tremendous willpower and you love her for it.

tomorrow it will be everywhere — the jacket photo, the corridor photo, probably the walking-out photo, all of it assembled into the narrative that people have been building in pieces for three years, finally given enough material to finish the picture.

there will be posts and reposts and the comments will be unwell and you'll probably read some of them in bed and feel the warmth of it, the particular warmth of something private going just barely public in exactly the amount you chose.

tonight, though tonight you're walking to a car in the cold and maya is on your left being very dignified about everything and lauren's hand is in yours and you're wearing the jacket, the one she held up in her hallway and said what do you think, and you said yes before she finished, and you meant it, and she knew you meant it, and you both knew exactly what you were doing and did it anyway.

"Thank god we were as far apart as we could possibly go," Lauren laughs, bumping into you accidentally as you walk across the gym. Media day is hectic as any would be, photographers running across the floor, equipment in hand, music blasting in the background, players mingling about, and multiple stations for different types of photos and videos. Being the only rookies on the team, you and Lauren had sort of been paired together today, assigned to keep each other company.

You nod, giggling. "We would have been absolute menaces,"

"More like you'd be an absolute menace," She gives you a pointed look, raising her eyebrow.

"I think UCLA scrambled your brain."

She retaliates, a snort coming out of her nose as she mumbles, "UConn might've done it worse though."

Slowly, you make your way through the various stations, facing teasing by each and every one of your teammates. The majority of the comments are suggestive as they waggle their eyebrows between the two of you.

But honestly, you definitely don't hate it. Would it be wrong to say that you enjoy it?

To be fair, in the last couple of days, you and Lauren had gotten really comfortable. Likeswappingspitlevel-comfortable. Oops! Did someone just say something?

Maybe once or twice, you had been caught by a teammate sleeping over at each other's apartments. But hey! You're just making friends, right? Trying to fit in!

Eventually, the day wraps up, camera crews pack up, images begin to get edited, and players begin to change back into sweats.

"You coming out with us tonight?" Georgia calls on her way out, not facing a particular person, but you know it's directed at you.

Not yet raising your voice, you look to the side at Lauren. "Are we?"

She just shrugs, nodding. "I mean, we can if you want, we can always postpone our plans," She says the last part with a smirk, implying certain activities that are definitely able to be repeated.

"Yep!" You call back, grinning as you and Lauren make your way to her car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You're tipsy. Not drunk enough to strip naked or pass out, but definitely drunk enough to do things you wouldn't think about sober. Curled up on Lo's lap, you rest your head on her chest, your arms wrapped around her torso as she talks. The feeling is soothing, the sound of her voice practically humming in her chest as you press your ear up to it. She feels… safe.

But after a while of listening and sipping on your Shirley Temple, you decide you're bored. Way too bored to be sitting at a table with a bunch of vets, no, you definitely couldn't do that. So, getting up, you drag Lauren with you, and obviously, she follows. There's not a complaint in sight as you lead her onto the dance floor and wrap your arms around her neck.

Wordlessly, she brings her hands to your hips as you lock your own against the nape of her neck, your thumbs rubbing gently over her soft skin.

"You look hot in red." You smile up at her, your cheeks flushed and confidence high.

"Oh yeah? You're gonna be seeing a lot more of that this year than," Nodding, you raise your eyebrows. "I know." You're tired, very tired. Your eyes practically droop as the words come out, but you manage to stay upright.

Somehow, Lo's sober enough to get the memo, putting a hand gently on the back of your head, she pulls you into her chest. Her palm holds you tight as you wordlessly sway to the music, something way too fast-paced to be doing this right now.

pazzishipper89

Liked by user9192, wbbfanstan, and 8,189 others

pazzishipper89 Lauren Betts and Reader seen together dancing at a local bar in Washington!

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user898 oh my god i knew it

user89283 shut up they're so cuteeeeeeee

I definitely think she’d call you “pretty girl.” Not even in a teasing way—more like something she says because she genuinely thinks it every time she looks at you.

You’d be standing in the bathroom getting ready, the light over the mirror warm and a little too bright while you fuss with your hair for the third time.

The sink is cluttered with your things—hair ties, a brush, the little bottle of perfume you always forget to put away.

You’re focused on the mirror, tilting your head slightly as you try to fix a piece that won’t sit right.

Caroline pauses in the doorway.

She doesn’t announce herself. Just leans her shoulder lightly against the frame, arms loosely folded, watching you for a moment with that quiet sort of fondness that settles into her expression when she thinks you’re not looking.

The way you scrunch your nose in concentration.

The little sigh you let out when your hair still isn’t cooperating.

After a second she pushes off the doorway and walks in.

You only notice when her hands slide gently around your waist from behind.

Her chin rests on your shoulder, her eyes lifting to your reflection instead of her own.

You catch her gaze in the reflection.

She doesn’t look away.

“What?” you ask, eyes narrowing slightly at her.

Caroline’s thumb moves idly against your side, slow and absentminded, like she isn’t even thinking about it.

“Nothing,” she answers sweetly.

You don’t believe her for a second.

You turn back to the mirror anyway, trying to flatten a stubborn piece of hair.

Another quiet second passes.

Her chin is still resting on your shoulder, her eyes following your movements.

Then, softly—

“You know you’re really pretty, right?”

You let out a small breath through your nose.

“You say that every day.”

Caroline hums quietly behind you.

Her cheek brushes yours as she shifts a little closer, her hands sliding together where they’re loosely wrapped around your waist.

You see her smile in the mirror before you feel it.

“Well,” she murmurs quietly. “You make it very easy to notice.”

You roll your eyes a little, even though the corner of your mouth twitches.

Caroline’s smile softens when she sees it.

“Pretty girl.”

⸻

I also feel like “sweetheart” would be one of her default nicknames. Especially when she can tell you’re overwhelmed.

The living room is dim except for the lamp by the couch, casting that soft golden light that makes everything feel quieter than it actually is.

You’ve been pacing the same stretch of floor for the last few minutes, running a hand through your hair as you talk.

“…and then they expect me to fix it like it’s my problem, which it isn’t, but if I don’t say anything it’s just going to—”

You turn again, already halfway into another sentence.

Caroline’s sitting on the couch watching you, one leg tucked underneath her. She hasn’t interrupted once, just following your back-and-forth path across the room with calm, patient eyes.

“…and I know it’s probably not even a big deal but it’s just—”

You stop for a second, mostly to breathe.

That’s when she reaches out.

Her fingers close gently around your wrist as you pass the couch, stopping you mid-pace.

You glance down at her.

She tilts her head up slightly, her grip soft but steady as she gently pulls you closer.

“Hey,” she breathes quietly.

You finally stop pacing and look at her properly.

Just the way she’s watching you—soft and steady, like she sees everything you’re feeling—makes some of the tension in your shoulders melt away.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, tugging lightly at your arm until you settle onto her lap.

Her fingers curl around yours, thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over your knuckles.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight, sweetheart.”

The word lands softer than the rest of her voice, warm and grounding.

She shifts slightly, rubbing your back in slow, comforting circles.

And honestly… just being here, pressed against her, feeling her warmth and attention, it suddenly feels easier to breathe.

⸻

“Baby” feels like something she’d say when you’re both being soft with each other, the kind of moment that isn’t about words so much as warmth.

You’re curled up together on the couch, half-asleep, the movie playing quietly in the background—just enough sound to fill the silence but not enough to pull you fully awake. The blanket is tangled around both of you, soft and heavy in all the right places.

You shift in your sleep, and your head slips from her shoulder.

Immediately, Caroline’s arm snakes around you, pulling you back flush against her. Her warmth presses into your side, steady and grounding.

“C’mere, baby,” she murmurs softly, voice low and almost a hum. Her other hand tucks the blanket tighter around you, cocooning you both.

Her fingers drift up to your hair, brushing it back from your forehead. The touch is slow and absentminded, comforting, like she’s quietly aware of you even in her sleep. You can feel her breath against your temple, gentle and steady.

You nuzzle slightly against her chest without realizing it, and your mind wanders just long enough to think: I could stay here forever.

Her thumb sweeps slow circles over your scalp, the steady rhythm and the warmth of her hoodie making your eyes flutter closed again.

“You’re so warm,” you mutter in your sleep, almost to yourself.

Caroline hums, voice a quiet smile against your hair. “Mhhh… so are you.”

You press closer without thinking, feeling the faintest spark of heat and happiness in your chest. Even in half-sleep, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

⸻

I feel like “honey” would be rarer with Caroline, but when she says it, it carries all her warmth.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, papers and sketches spread out around you. The soft light of the afternoon filters through the curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the sunbeams. The quiet hum of the apartment makes everything feel cozy, almost intimate.

Caroline leans against the arm of the couch, chin resting on her hands, watching you carefully. Her eyes track every movement you make—the way you hesitate over a line, the little furrow in your brow—and her lips twitch in a small, knowing smile.

You slide your project toward her, holding your breath just a little.

She studies it for a moment, eyes narrowing in focus, before finally looking up at you.

“That’s really good,” she says, voice soft, almost a whisper, like she’s letting you hear a secret.

You smile nervously.

Caroline nudges your arm lightly with hers, teasing just enough to make you glance at her.

“Literally everything you do is amazing, honey,” she murmurs, letting the word linger.

Her gaze meets yours, bright and warm, and there’s a playful glint in her eyes now, like she’s daring you to protest—but you can’t. Not with the way she’s leaning close, fingers brushing yours almost by accident, and the soft tilt of her head that makes your chest tighten.

You swallow and feel that little rush of heat in your stomach, the kind you always get when she’s looking at you like this.

She hums, lightly brushing a wayward curl back from your shoulder with her fingers, and you can’t help but think that “honey” is perfect—just like her.

⸻

And I love the idea that sometimes she just says “my love.” Not like a dramatic declaration—more like it slips out when she’s relaxed and comfortable with you, because that’s just what you are to her.

It’s late. The apartment is quiet except for the low murmur of music coming from Caroline’s laptop on the coffee table. The lamp beside the couch throws warm light across the room, soft enough that the edges of everything blur a little.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch with your laptop open, frowning down at the screen.

Caroline is stretched out beside you, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

You sigh for the third time.

Caroline glances over. “Okay, that one sounded dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” you mutter, squinting at the screen. “This thing just refuses to work.”

“What thing?”

You turn the laptop toward her. “This stupid formatting. It keeps shifting the whole page.”

Caroline leans closer to look. Her shoulder presses lightly against yours, warm through the fabric of your shirt.

“Did you try—”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but did you—”

“Yes,” you repeat, already smiling a little.

She huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re very patient with me tonight.”

“You should hear the things I’m thinking.”

“Rude.”

You click something again. The page jumps in a completely different direction.

You groan.

Caroline reaches over, gently nudging your hand away from the trackpad.

“Hey, hey,” she says softly, amused. “Let me see.”

You lean back into her a little while she studies the screen, her hair brushing your cheek.

Her fingers move over the trackpad for a second.

Two seconds.

Then the page snaps perfectly into place.

You stare.

“…how?”

Your girlfriend leans back again, clearly pleased with herself.

“Magic.”

You narrow your eyes at her.

“That was suspiciously fast.”

She just smiles.

Your attention drops to your hands where they’re resting between you. Without thinking about it, she reaches over and hooks her fingers loosely through yours.

Her thumb starts tracing slow circles against your knuckles.

The warmth of it pulls your attention away from the laptop entirely.

You look over at her.

She’s already watching you, a soft sort of fondness in her expression.

“Better?” she asks.

You nod slowly.

“Yeah.”

Your brain is definitely not thinking about formatting anymore.

Caroline squeezes your hand gently.

“Good,” she murmurs.

Then, almost absentmindedly, like the words just fall out—

“Anything for you, my love.”

The nickname lands so casually you almost miss it.

Almost.

Your head turns toward her.

“…did you just, call me your love?”

She pauses, clearly realizing what she said.

A faint pink creeps into her cheeks, but she doesn’t let go of your hand.

“…maybe,” she admits.

You’re smiling now, warmth spreading through your chest.

“Wow,” you say quietly. “That was smooth.”

She nudges your knee with hers.

“Don’t make it weird.”

Too late for that.

Because the way she’s still wrapped around you right now makes it pretty clear she didn’t say it by accident at all.

it's your sophomore year, her kentucky squad against your program in a november exhibition that doesn't mean anything in the standings and somehow means everything in your chest you guard her for the first twelve minutes of the first half and she scores eight points, two assists, zero turnovers, and she does all of it while stealing glances at you between plays like she's trying to figure something out.

"good defence." she says the second time you cut off her drive her accent rolls soft over the two words as it’s australian, you remember from her recruiting profile that you definitely did not read three times before the game.

"thanks." you say extremely normal, very chill as she smiles and jogs back on defense and you stand there for half a second too long and your teammate has to call your name to snap you out of it.

"y/n. y/n. ball's live."

"i know," you say as you did not know.

second half she starts guarding you on the other end and it's somehow worse she's close the way good defenders are close always in your peripheral, always a half step smarter than you want her to be and twice when you catch the ball on the wing she says nothing, just tilts her chin up like okay, show me what you've got, and both times you do something slightly stupider than you intended because she's looking at you like that.

you lose by six you score twenty-two afterwards in the handshake line she holds your hand a beat longer than everyone else's. "you're really good." she says, and she's looking right at you, steady and certain, like she's been thinking about it since the first quarter and has now confirmed her findings.

"you too." you say like a golden retriever who just learned two words but she laughs as it sounds like something you want to hear every day for the rest of your life as your teammate elbows you in the ribs the second she’s out of earshot.

"bro."

"shut up."

"bro."

"i said shut up."

"she held your hand."

"it was a handshake that's what a handshake is."

"for like four whole seconds."

"i will leave you here."

your teammate drops it but she's smiling the whole walk back to the locker room, and you are too, face turned slightly toward the floor so nobody clocks it you think about georgia for approximately the next hundred and thirty days.

you tell absolutely no one.

[april 13, 2026: barclays center, brooklyn, ny. ]

the barclays center smells like anticipation and expensive perfume and your mom keeps fixing your dress even though it doesn't need fixing. "mama, stop." you laugh, catching her hands.

"let me have this." she says, eyes already wet. "my baby's getting drafted."

"i haven't been drafted yet."

"you will be." she says it the way she's always said things like she already read the last page and she's just waiting for you to catch up as she smooths your dress one more time anyway, just to feel like she did something.

your dad is somewhere behind you taking pictures of everything: the ceiling, the floor, a stranger's hat as he's had that camera out since the uber from the hotel as you heard the shutter go off twelve times during breakfast.

your older sister is on her phone but you catch her smiling every few minutes, trying to hide it she's been at every game since you were seven years old, every 5am practice, every recruiting visit, every time you thought you weren't good enough as she drove four hours in a snowstorm junior year to watch you drop thirty-one against a top-ten program.

she looks up and catches you watching her. "what," she says. "nothing."

"stop looking at me like that."

"i'm not looking at you like anything."

"you're doing the face."

"i don't have a face."

"the soft little face you make when you're about to cry."

"i'm not." your dad appears between you both with his phone out, arm already extending. "smile." he says, not as a request.

you smile your sister puts her arm around you the flash goes off three times as the gc pings with your phone on your lap.

the powerpuff girls:

sonia 💛: OKAY WE ARE IN THE BUILDINGGGG!!

kiki 🫧: bestie you look UNREAL in those pre-show pics pls i'm obsessed!!! 😍

sonia 💛: THE dress who did you end up wearing!!

you: coach 😌thank u both i think i'm gonna throw up!

kiki 🫧:you are going top five. top FIVE. breathe.

sonia 💛: literally a lock also we will be coworkers soon lmaooo the mystics gc is going to be SO chaotic!!

you: wait are you guys already in there?

sonia 💛: yeah green room area!! also…

sonia 💛: georgia's here.

sonia 💛: she asked where you were.

you: she probably just asked where all the incoming rookies were she's just being a good friend.

kiki 🫧: i need you to know i just put my phone face down on the table.

sonia 💛: she asked SPECIFICALLY. like "where's y/n" specifically.

you: she knows my name because we might be on the same team this is not a thing

you: why did you send me a picture of a brick wall.

kiki 🫧: because i am going to walk directly into it.

you pocket your phone before your sister can read over your shoulder.

the dress is the color of deep plum, almost black in the wrong light and bruise-purple under the right kind. sleeveless, column silhouette, low enough in the back that your mama almost made you change it before she saw the full effect and went quiet for a moment and then said, okay. yeah. you're wearing that.

floor-length small train heels that add three inches you don't technically need as you look like someone who belongs here you feel like someone who might pass out.

the arena fills the way these things do slowly and then all at once the stage is all ceremony and clean light, the commissioner's podium centered like a pulpit you can see the other prospects scattered through the crowd, all of them wearing the same expression you probably are: look calm. do not actually be calm.

azzi is two rows ahead of you as you've watched her play for four years and meeting her briefly before the show felt like meeting a character from a book you love, slightly surreal, completely wonderful as she caught your eye and said your dress is incredible and you almost collapsed.

olivia is across the aisle, laughing with someone she's wearing this gorgeous suit as she looks like she's been drafted before and is simply here to do it again as a formality.

awa, composed and elegant three seats to your left, is the only person in this building who looks genuinely calm, and you respect her enormously for it your dad materializes at your elbow.

"pops!"

"just one."

"you've taken sixty."

"this is a different angle."

you let him take it your older sister leans over and rests her head briefly on your shoulder she doesn't say anything and just for a second, just the weight of her head and the quiet that means i'm here, i've always been here, i'm watching.

that's the thing that almost breaks you not the lights or the cameras or the twenty million people who are about to watch this just your sister's head on your shoulder you squeeze her hand.

"i'm proud of you." she says quietly just for you. "don't." you say. "i have press after this and i cannot."

she laughs when you both look back at the stage the broadcast opens as the music swells the way only a production with this kind of budget can make it swell, and the room shifts into something electric and waiting, and the commissioner steps up to the podium.

"with the first pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the dallas wings select—azzi fudd, university of connecticut."

the place erupts you're on your feet with everyone else, clapping until your palms sting, because she deserves every decibel of every second of this she hugs her family and walks up those stairs in a red dress and heels like she was born for exactly this moment, and from the way she carries it, maybe she was.

you sit back down and your heart rate climbs.

olivia miles minnesota lynx number two.

your mom's hand finds yours.

awa fam seattle storm number three.

she laces her fingers through yours and squeezes but she stopped pretending she wasn't crying about ten minutes ago your dad has the camera up. your sister shifts forward in her seat.

the commissioner returns to the podium the arena goes just slightly quieter as you've heard this described in interviews, in podcasts, in the personal essays of players who've stood exactly where you're about to stand but the moment before your name the last second you exist as just yourself, without a team in front of it without the rest of your life attached to it yet.

"with the fourth overall pick in the 2026 wnba draft —"

your dad makes a sound and your sister grabs your arm.

"the washington mystics select —"

your mom squeezes your hand so hard you lose feeling in two fingers.

"— y/n y/l/n."

the sound that comes out of you isn't a scream it's smaller than that, and more real as it comes from somewhere deep and quiet that you don't usually let anyone see.

your mom is fully crying your dad is somehow cheering and taking pictures simultaneously, which shouldn't be physically possible but your sister is shaking you by the shoulders and laughing and you stand up and your heels try to betray you and she catches your elbow with both hands—i got you, i got you—and you hug her first before your parents, before the cameras, before any of it you hug her first because she's always been the one who had you.

"that's you," she says into your shoulder. "that's you."

"that's me." you say, and your voice does something embarrassing.

"go," she says, and pushes you gently toward the stage. "go, go, go."

the walk up is somewhere between a dream and a fever with the lights being very bright, the commissioner shakes your hand as you both hold the mystics jersey and as someone tells you where to stand for the photos and you face the cameras and smile so wide your face aches.

you are a washington mystic georgia is a washington mystic these two facts exist in your brain simultaneously and one of them is significantly louder than it should be and you are going to deal with that later privately alone for now you smile for the cameras and hold your hat and let it be the best moment of your life.

your phone is a disaster by the time you get backstage.

the powerpuff girls:

kiki 🫧: FOURTH PICK WASHINGTON MYSTICS LETS ABSOLUTE GO!!

sonia 💛: WE ARE ALL MYSTICS WE ARE LITERALLY COWORKERS I'M SCREAMING!!

kiki 🫧: [attachment: video—sonia knocking an entire water bottle off a table while screaming]

sonia 💛: we don't talk about that 😭😭

you: i'm shaking. i genuinely cannot feel my hands right now.

sonia 💛: GIRL!!

sonia 💛: georgia stood up when your name was called.

you: people stand up when picks are announced.

kiki 🫧: not like THAT they don't!