pazzi devotee

She signs every single one, because that’s who she is. These are the people who fill the stands week after week. The kids with wide, awestruck eyes. The adults who followed her from college to Europe to here. Families dressed head to toe in Spirit navy and red. This is part of the job, part of the privilege that comes with getting paid to play the game she loves. 

Even tonight, when exhaustion hums deep in her bones and all she wants is a scalding shower and a drink with her teammates, Azzi keeps the smile plastered on her face. She moves down the barricade, scribbling her name across fabric and paper, murmuring thank-yous, and letting herself be pulled into quick photos while fielding shouted compliments.

Finally, she reaches the end.

The crowd thins, voices drifting away toward the parking lot as engines start and doors slam. The cool air seeps through her damp jersey, and Azzi exhales a long, grateful breath as she caps the marker and rolls her shoulders, working out the stiffness settling in. She’s just about to head toward the tunnel when she spots two navy blue Fudd jerseys draped over the fence.

Her smile shifts immediately.

“I didn’t know you two could make it!” she calls, stepping closer.

Paige is there in an instant, arms wrapping around her, familiar vanilla-and-woodsy scent cutting through sweat and grass. Emma follows, her hug gentler but just as comforting. Azzi holds them both tightly, relief settling in her chest at the sight of them together, smiling and relaxed. Whatever had weighed Paige down earlier this week, it looks like they worked it out. The grateful, sheepish grin Paige shoots her over Emma’s shoulder confirms it.

“We wouldn’t miss it! Can we get an autograph from the superstar?” Emma teases, holding out her jersey.

Azzi laughs, snapping out of the silent exchange with Paige. With exaggerated flair, she signs both jerseys and steps back to admire her work. When they tug them on, grinning at each other like kids on Christmas morning, something warm spreads through her.

“You guys know I could’ve gotten you those for free, right?”

They shrug, still smiling, like that part doesn’t matter at all.

Paige leans forward, mischief lighting her blue eyes. “Maybe we can get a game-worn autographed one to hang up in our house?”

Azzi rolls her eyes, amusement tugging at her mouth. Before she can fire back, someone shouts her name from across the field. A few teammates wave, talking about where they’re heading next.

The stadium is nearly empty now. Lights cast long shadows across damp grass. The scent of fresh grass lingers, mixing with popcorn and spilled beer. 

Azzi turns back to Paige and Emma.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward Emma’s belly, “and I can also get one made for the little guy, too.” 

Their faces light up instantly, and that alone makes it worth it.

For a moment, the three of them just stand there, watching the last fans filter out. Parents herd sleepy kids toward cars as the buzz of the night fades into something quieter. A breeze slips through the lot, lifting strands of Paige’s hair as she unties the button-up from her waist and drapes it around Emma’s shoulders, rubbing her arms to warm her.

Azzi smiles at the gesture, then finally asks, “You feeling up for a little celebration with my team?”

Emma nods without much hesitation. “I could use a fun night out. This one keeps me locked up in the house like I could break at any moment,” she says, elbowing Paige.

Azzi looks to Paige, waiting for the protest, but it never comes. Paige presses her lips together, clearly surrendering. It’s a losing battle anyway. Azzi always sides with Emma and they all know it.

“Where should we meet you?” Paige asks, pulling Emma closer against the chill.

Azzi stretches, rolling her ankle, working through the ache left behind by a rough tackle earlier. Worth it, she thinks, remembering how she shut down the other team’s shifty Brazilian striker and helped lock in a 2–0 win.

“We’re heading to the West Alehouse,” Azzi says. “Back room’s reserved. Just give them my name. You’re on the list.”

Paige and Emma exchange exaggerated looks.

“Oh babe, we’re on the list,” Paige teases, with a smug grin. “We must be special.”

Azzi smirks and swats her arm before she can dodge it. Paige yelps dramatically, rubbing her arm with exaggeration.

“You’re ridiculous,” Azzi says with a shake of her head. “I’ve gotta shower and change, but I’ll meet you there shortly.”

They part ways, Paige guiding Emma toward their SUV, Azzi heading for the locker room.

The locker room is nearly empty when Azzi gets there, smelling like shampoo and sweat. She’s grateful the rookies already left, and took their annoyingly bass-heavy playlist with them.

Azzi peels off her jersey, drops it into the overflowing laundry bin, and steps into the shower. The heat hits, sinking into tired muscles, loosening everything that’s been wound tight since kickoff.

This is her reset.

Wins feel euphoric. Losses crawl under her skin. But she’s learned not to live in either place for too long. The season moves fast and the next game always matters more than the last.

Still, tonight feels different.

Under the steady stream of water, she breathes deep. It’s early but they’re sitting at the top of the standings, with a game in hand. Proof she made the right choice coming home, that she belongs here. And tonight, there’s a room full of people waiting to celebrate her. She didn’t have that in Munich.

The thought fades as a slow smile spreads across her face. She shuts off the water, dries off, and pulls on dark jeans and a cropped tee, pulling her wet hair back into a messy bun. She casts one last glance in the mirror, bag slung over her shoulder, before heading for the parking lot, ready for whatever the night brings next.

***** *** *****

Fifteen minutes later, Azzi pushes through the doors of the bar and straight into controlled chaos.

The place is packed wall to wall, the air thick with the smell of fried food and beer. Laughter ricochets off the exposed brick and a throwback rock song thumps through the floorboards, the bass vibrating faintly through her boots. The floor beneath her feet is just slightly tacky, the unmistakable sign of a very busy night.

Azzi barely makes it ten feet inside before a pair of warm hands land on her shoulders. Then comes the squeal.

She doesn’t need to turn around to know exactly who it is.

“Hey, Caroline!”

Azzi spins just in time to brace herself before she’s pulled into a tight hug, laughter bursting out of her before she can stop it. A small crowd gathers almost instantly, old college teammates, friends who made the drive into town for the game, faces she hasn’t seen all together in years. She hugs them one by one, soaking in the exaggerated compliments and relentless teasing, the familiar energy filling her up with joy.

For the first time in a while, she feels right. Like she’s standing exactly where she’s supposed to be.

A cold beer is pressed into her hand, condensation slick against her palm, and her friends herd her toward the back room where the rest of the team has already taken over. It’s loud and crowded and full of overlapping conversations. Spirit teammates mingle easily with her UConn crew, and Azzi watches with quiet satisfaction as introductions turn into inside jokes faster than she expected.

What Azzi doesn’t expect is for the night to turn into a competition of who has the most embarrassing stories about her.

It starts harmlessly enough—a comment about her pregame poop ritual, a jab at how seriously awful her indecision is—but then Kayleigh leans back in her chair, beer in hand, eyes gleaming.

“Oh, you guys don’t even know half of it,” Kayleigh says, smirking. “There was this one time Az caught the freshmen sneaking out to drink the night before a game. And you know what she did? Made them all stay after the match to run suicides. And she ran with them. After playing a full ninety.”

The room erupts.

Azzi groans, dropping her face into her palms. “Alright. I need another drink if I’m going to survive this.”

She slips away before anyone can dig up more horror stories, weaving through the tightly packed crowd toward the main bar. Bodies press close on either side of her, heat radiating through the space,  as she wedges herself between two patrons, waiting for the bartender’s attention.

Suddenly, someone bumps hard into her side, right into the bruised rib she picked up earlier.

Azzi sucks in a sharp breath, irritation flaring instantly. She turns, already halfway through an annoyed response. “Excuse me—”

She stops cold when piercing hazel eyes meet hers.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman says quickly, stepping back. Her gaze flicks over Azzi in a brief, assessing sweep before she gestures behind her. “Some guy bumped into me.”

The edge drains from Azzi’s annoyance almost immediately. “It’s okay,” she says, waving it off. “I just figured it was some drunk guy and not a… uh…”

The woman arches an eyebrow, lips curving. “A beautiful woman?”

Azzi lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cough as her brain glitches at the woman’s confidence. Though, she’s not wrong. The crowd shifts, shadows passing over them as the overhead lights dim just enough for her to really see her—long hair that looks strawberry blonde under the neon glow, a white lace tank top skimming toned shoulders, confidence rolling off her like it’s second nature.

Oh.

Oh, she’s flirting.

Warmth creeps up Azzi’s neck, and she realizes too late that she’s leaned in slightly, mirroring the woman’s posture. She swallows, throat suddenly dry.

“Uh… yeah,” Azzi manages.

The woman’s smile deepens, like she’s fully aware of the effect she’s having. Before Azzi can embarrass herself further, the bartender calls out for her order, cutting through the moment like a lifeline. 

Unwilling to embarrass herself anymore, Azzi takes it. She flashes the woman a quick, awkward smile and turns to order another beer. After a moment, he slides it across the bar, and Azzi motions to add it to the tab before retreating with it in hand. When she glances back, the woman is still watching her, amused, curious, eyes lingering.

Flustered and annoyed about it, Azzi mutters something about it being nice to meet her and disappears back into the crowd.

She doesn’t make it far before she nearly collides with Paige. The blonde is staring at her like she just witnessed a minor crime.

“What the hell was that, Fudd?”

The grin on Paige’s face says everything. Azzi groans, cheeks burning. Yep. She was definitely flirting.

“Not now,” Azzi mutters, pushing past her.

Paige laughs, lifting the water glass she’s holding for Emma, but Azzi is already heading back to the safety of the group. She tries to shake it off, but the woman’s confidence clings to her thoughts, curling there like fog she can’t quite clear.

She sips her beer, tucks herself between familiar shoulders, and rests her head against Caroline’s as old stories resurface. She feels content, until Paige opens her big fat mouth again.

“Has Azzi always been super awkward around attractive women?”

The room goes quiet and every head turns towards Paige.

Caroline squints and nods knowingly. “Uh, yes. She’s terrible at picking up girls. Almost as bad as when they try to pick her up.”

Laughter explodes around them, and Azzi stiffens, mortified, because it’s true. She’s confident on the field, decisive under pressure—but flirting? Especially now, after everything? She’s wildly out of practice.

“Alright,” she warns, “that’s enough.”

Too fucking late.

Paige grabs her wrist and starts dragging her toward the bar.

Azzi’s stomach drops. “No. No. No. No. Paige, don’t you dare!”

But Paige is already tapping the woman on the shoulder. 

She turns, confusion flickering across her face before recognition dawns. Those hazel eyes meet Azzi’s again, widening. Amusement follows quickly as Paige leans in to say something over the music. The woman’s smile turns slow and deliberate, pulse-skippingly confident, as she whispers back in Paige’s ear.

Paige steps back, wearing the smuggest grin Azzi has ever seen as she gestures casually at the woman behind her. “Her name is Nora,” she says over the music. “She likes dry martinis. Buy her one and try actually talking this time.”

And then she shoves Azzi forward and vanishes into the crowd, leaving Azzi’s heart pounding and a beautiful stranger waiting.

Azzi barely has time to process Paige’s absolute betrayal before the woman—Nora, apparently—tilts her head, studying her with open, unmistakable interest.

“I’m Nora,” she says, leaning in just enough that Azzi catches the faint trace of something floral. Her voice is smooth and assured, and her warm breath brushes the shell of Azzi’s ear as she speaks.

Azzi swallows, forcing her focus to lock back in. She introduces herself, shaking Nora’s hand, and immediately regrets how aware she is of the contact. Her body feels warm all over, heat pooling low in her stomach, and she can’t quite tell what’s to blame—the alcohol, the sweat-heavy haze of the bar, the embarrassment of being pushed into this situation, or the way Nora’s grip lingers.

The air between them shifts.

It’s subtle, but Azzi feels it all the same. An undercurrent she hasn’t let herself acknowledge in a long time. Not since Germany. Not since… her. She should feel uncomfortable under Nora’s assessing gaze, she should instinctively pull back. Instead, something steadier takes hold. Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline from the win, still buzzing through her veins. Maybe it’s the three beers already working their way through her system. Either way, she feels oddly emboldened, like she’s standing on the edge of something unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome.

Nora’s lips curve into a half-smile as she steps closer. “Want to get a drink? My treat.”

Azzi exhales, steadying herself. She hesitates just long enough for old ghosts to stir—memories of mistakes she promised herself she wouldn’t repeat. But the warmth of Nora’s hand and the steadiness of her gaze, makes her shove those thoughts back down. It’s just a drink. That’s all.

“I’ll buy,” Azzi counters, feeling some of her confidence slide back into place. “I hear you like martinis.”

Nora nods, clearly pleased. Her hand settles at the small of Azzi’s back as she guides her toward the bar. The touch is light, almost casual, but it sends a slow, unmistakable burn across Azzi’s exposed skin.

Before she can overthink it, Azzi glances back toward the booth where Paige and Emma sit, surrounded by teammates and old friends. They’re all watching her with barely concealed anticipation, like she’s lining up to take the game-deciding penalty kick in a World Cup final.

Nora follows her gaze and smirks. “You’ve got a good friend in that one.”

Azzi groans, dropping her head as she draws in a slow breath. “I guess I do.”

The heat of the packed bar presses against her back, but standing this close to Nora, she barely notices it. They slide up to the bar together, and Azzi risks one last glance over her shoulder.

Paige catches it immediately, winks, and flashes a triumphant thumbs-up.

Azzi shakes her head, smiling despite herself, before turning back to Nora and leaning across the bar to flag down the bartender. Whatever this night was supposed to be, it’s already taken a turn she didn’t expect.

This post-game gathering was meant to celebrate a win.

And tonight, she decides, she’s going to enjoy every second of it.

***** *** *****

Azzi blinks against the bright sunlight cutting through a narrow gap in the blackout curtains, the sudden intrusion making her wince as she stirs. Her head throbs, heavy and sluggish, as hazy fragments of the night before drift in and out of focus.

Please tell me I didn’t go home with that woman, she thinks. 

Her stomach twists, dread curling tight in her chest. She lies still, afraid to turn over, heart thudding as she braces herself for confirmation. When she finally gathers the courage to reach out, her fingers brush cool, undisturbed sheets.

Relief floods her lungs in a shaky breath.

Whatever happened last night, at least she didn’t cross that line. She may have felt the pull, may have danced dangerously close to it in her drunken haze, but that’s never been her style. Not really. 

Her phone vibrates violently against the wooden nightstand, rattling Azzi from her thoughts. The screen lights up, probably the fifth missed call, and she groans, burying her face in the pillow. 

She tries to ignore it and go back to sleep. Then comes the knock, firm, insistent, and impossible to ignore. 

“Shit,” Azzi mutters, forcing herself upright despite the pounding in her skull. Her body aches as she swings her legs over the side of the bed, muscles protesting every movement. She snatches an oversized UCONN t-shirt from the floor and pulls it over her head, the fabric barely grazing the tops of her thighs. She doesn’t bother checking herself, knowing the woman knocking won’t care.

Yawning, she reaches for the heavy wooden door and pulls it open without checking the peephole.

“Well then…” 

Azzi’s blood runs cold at the sound of Paige’s voice.

That is not who she expected. She’d assumed it was her elderly neighbor again, fumbling with her keys and needing help.

Paige, it seems, is just as caught off guard.

Azzi looks up, blinking as Paige freezes on the other side of the threshold, blue eyes widening before she quickly turns away. A faint blush creeps up the blonde’s neck as she clears her throat, rubbing the back of it like she’s trying to scrub the image from her brain.

“Um… hey…” Paige says, her voice noticeably higher than usual.

Azzi tightens her grip on the door, angling it slightly to block her bare legs as awareness crashes in all at once. Locker rooms are one thing, but this is something else entirely. She’s suddenly acutely aware of how long Paige’s gaze lingered, how quickly she looked away, and the realization sends a strange twinge through her.

“What are you doing here?” Azzi hisses.

Paige still doesn’t turn back. “Last night, we made plans to grab lunch and take you to your car. I tried calling a few times. Emma’s waiting in the car.” 

She jerks her thumb toward the parking lot, voice tight, determined to power through the moment.

Azzi scrubs a hand over her face, sighing. She doesn’t remember agreeing to lunch, but that tracks. Drunk Azzi always makes plans that Sober Azzi comes to regret. She winces, guilt cutting through the fog when she realizes Paige is just trying to help.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi says, offering a sheepish smile. “Rough morning. Can you give me a few minutes?”

Paige finally risks a glance back, brows lifting in mock confusion. “You mean you weren’t planning on wearing that?”

Azzi laughs before she can stop herself, the sound breaking the tension instantly. The awkwardness shatters, her headache easing just a fraction in the wake of Paige’s teasing. Leave it to Paige to diffuse a moment like this with humor, something Azzi’s grown very used to over the last few months.

“You’re an asshole,” Azzi mutters, shaking her head. “And I’m only going because I need my car. And also… I might need you to fill me in on what actually happened last night.”

Azzi steps aside, opening the door wider in invitation.

Paige hesitates for a brief beat before stepping inside, acutely aware of how close she is to her now. She keeps her gaze carefully trained anywhere but Azzi’s bare legs, focusing instead on the apartment as if it might offer something safer to look. Anything neutral. Anything that doesn’t make her hyper-aware of the way her pulse has picked up for no good reason at all.

Azzi heads down the hall to what Paige presumes is her bedroom, after telling the blonde she just needs a couple minutes. 

The apartment is a one-bedroom tucked into the heart of the city, only a few miles from the stadium. Paige inhales instinctively, registering the scent first, a citrus lavender mix from a candle, probably. Maybe even one Azzi forgot to blow out last night.

The living room opens up in front of her, modest but thoughtfully arranged. A plush charcoal-gray couch sits against the far wall, one cushion indented just enough to suggest it’s either Azzi’s favorite spot or has spent too long in storage before finally being freed. A coffee table anchors the space, cluttered with stacks of sports magazines and dog-eared novels. Paige pauses on that, surprised, though she doesn’t quite know why. 

The apartment feels homey, even if not fully settled. There’s comfort here, some personality and evidence of a life mid-transition rather than one freshly unpacked.

Artifacts from Azzi’s travels line the walls. Handwoven blankets from South America drape neatly over a chair. Ornate beer steins from Germany and Hungary sit arranged along a narrow shelf. Small trinkets, things most people would overlook, are placed with care, each clearly holding some private meaning. Paige trails her fingers over the thick wool of a Peruvian throw, her gaze drifting naturally toward a gallery of framed photographs mounted above it.

She steps closer.

Some images are familiar, Azzi with teammates, arms slung loosely over shoulders, grinning in front of landmarks Paige has only ever seen in travel documentaries. The Eiffel Tower. Big Ben. Christ the Redeemer towering above Rio. 

Then one photograph stops her cold.

Azzi stands on the edge of a cliff overlooking white sand beaches and impossibly blue water somewhere along a coastline. Her arms are outstretched, dark hair whipped wild by the wind, eyes closed like she’s drinking in the sun itself. There’s a sense of freedom in the image that steals Paige’s breath, a version of Azzi unguarded and unburdened, fully alive.

Paige’s fingers hover just above the glass.

She thinks, briefly, of the places she once dreamed of visiting. Of how different things might have been if her injury hadn’t rerouted her life entirely. Maybe, if circumstances had shifted just a little, she would’ve been standing beside Azzi in some of these pictures with teammates instead of studying them from afar. Paige had been good enough to start getting looks with the youth national teams before injury crippled her. 

The soft shuffle of footsteps in the hallway pulls her from the thought.

“Almost ready,” Azzi calls from her room.

Paige smiles faintly to herself, shaking her head. No matter the context, no matter the woman, she always seems to be waiting for someone to finish getting ready.

Her gaze drifts downward, catching on a small stack of dusty boxes pushed against the wall near the bedroom. Thick red CUSTOMS tape wraps around most of them, untouched, the edges worn from travel. One box, though, sits partially open. A small pile of photographs rests on top, slightly askew, like they were set down in a moment of indecision or haste, maybe.

Paige hesitates, but curiosity wins.

She picks them up carefully, flipping through them one by one. Most are older, from her college years or early days in Germany. Azzi looks younger in these, softer around the edges, still figuring herself out. Paige is about to put them back when one image makes her pause.

She isn’t sure what it is at first. Maybe it’s Azzi’s smile, wide and unrestrained. Or the way she’s looking at the woman beside her, eyes soft with something dangerously close to reverence.

Paige’s chest tightens as she flips to the next photo.

The lake behind them glows under a painted sunset, but Paige barely notices the scenery. Her focus locks onto Azzi, caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled as a stunning woman wraps her arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to her cheek. It’s intimate without trying to be, a moment shared just between them. 

And then Paige sees it.

A glint beneath the dying light. Subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

A ring.

The realization hits her all at once.

So this is her. 

This is the woman that broke Azzi Fudd. 

Paige exhales slowly, her grip tightening around the photographs. It’s not just heartbreak, but devastation. A loss deep enough to fracture something fundamental.

“Ready?”

Azzi’s voice comes from behind her.

Paige jerks, startled, the stack of photos slipping from her fingers and scattering across the floor.

Azzi watches Paige fumble with the scattered photographs, her movements hurried in an apologetic, frantic way that’s impossible to miss. The blonde’s fingers tremble just slightly as she gathers them into an uneven stack, afraid of what they might reveal if she lingers too long.

Azzi drops to her knees to help, her gaze landing immediately on a familiar image clutched in Paige’s hand. One she hasn’t seen in years. The recognition hits suddenly, a quick tug beneath her ribs that steals her breath before she can stop it.

She doesn’t let herself dwell. Without a word, Azzi wordlessly plucks the photo from Paige’s grip and slips it back into the open box. She presses the lid down harder than necessary, the cardboard giving a dull thud as it seals shut. Whatever Paige saw stays buried.

Azzi straightens slowly, brushing invisible dust from her jeans, her jaw tight as she schools her expression into something neutral. She bites the inside of her cheek, calming herself before looking back at Paige.

“Shall we?” she says, voice steady, but with an unmistakable edge to it now.

Paige hesitates. It’s brief, barely a flicker, but Azzi catches the way she shifts her weight, the way her mouth opens like she might say something and then closes again. For a moment, it feels like Paige is standing at the edge of something, deciding whether to step forward.

Thankfully, all she does is nod. 

“Yeah,” Paige says quietly. “Let’s go.”

Relief loosens Azzi’s shoulders. She turns away before Paige can change her mind, grabbing her apartment keys from where she’d flung them the night before. She slides her aviators onto her face as they head for the door, telling herself it’s for the glare of the sun and the lingering headache, not to hide the emotions threatening to crack through the surface.

She doesn’t think Paige buys it, but thankfully, she doesn’t call her on it either.

***** *** *****

Thirty minutes later, they’re settled on the patio of The Hive, a quaint bistro tucked into a quiet corner of the city. Inside, the hum of conversation drifts through open windows, mingling with the soft clink of silverware against ceramic plates. A waitress in a faded denim apron weaves between tables, balancing a tray of cappuccinos and flaky croissants, the rich scent of espresso lingering in the air alongside the sweetness of freshly baked pastries.

Outside, a light breeze stirs the leaves of potted plants lining the railing. It’s cool enough to bite, but Azzi insisted on sitting out here anyway. She needs the fresh air.

Azzi stabs at her salad as Paige launches into a dramatic retelling of the night before, her hands flying as Emma laughs beside her.

“You should have seen your face, Az!” Paige wheezes between bursts of laughter. “When I pushed you toward her and booked it back to the table, I thought you were going to murder me!”

Azzi rolls her eyes, though she can’t stop the smirk tugging at her mouth. “The thought definitely crossed my mind,” she admits, chewing slowly. “But I suppose I owe you a thank you.”

Paige’s grin turns smug instantly. “I mean, I am the best wingman, aren’t I, babe?” She nudges Emma like she’s expecting confirmation.

Emma just hums, unbothered. “Whatever you say.”

Azzi shakes her head, staring down at her plate as she struggles to spear a rogue crouton. “I remember talking to her for a while and introducing her to everyone.” She pauses, heat creeping up her neck. “Then a lot of shots happened and I woke up in my bed this morning.”

Paige and Emma exchange a look.

Azzi narrows her eyes. “What?”

Emma leans forward, her tone amused but honest. “You and Nora couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”

Azzi’s stomach twists, not with embarrassment, but with surprise. That isn’t like her. At least not anymore.

“She was nice,” Emma adds. “And she wasn’t trying to take advantage of you.”

Azzi glances between them. “What do you mean?”

“At the end of the night, she came up to me,” Paige says. “She asked me to make sure you got home safe. She was really sweet.”

Azzi blinks. Her memory of the night is fractured—neon lights, laughter, warmth—but then the memory floods in. Warm lips brushing hers in a dim hallway, hands slipping under the back of her shirt. 

Paige slides a napkin across the table. “She also asked me to give you this.”

Azzi looks down. It takes her a second to register the West Alehouse logo before her eyes find the number written in slightly messy handwriting. 

Her stomach drops. 

It isn’t the first number she’s been given since Lucina. But it’s the first one that’s made something shift inside her. She keeps her sunglasses on as her jaw clenches, grateful for the shield as a single tear pricks at the corner of her eye.

Paige watches her carefully. “You can thank me now.”

Azzi exhales through her nose. “Thanks,” she mutters, forcing a smile. “Maybe I’ll text her later.”

Paige and Emma share another look.

“What?” Azzi asks.

“You should text her now,” Paige says excitedly.

Azzi scoffs, trying to brush it off, but she knows Paige saw the photos. Saw the version of her that existed before everything broke.

“You deserve someone great, Az,” Paige adds.

The words hit Azzi square in the chest. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She doesn’t know if she believes that, not when the past still clings to her like a shadow.

“I guess,” she says finally.

Paige doesn’t let it drop. She nudges Azzi’s hand toward the napkin. “Just text her.”

Azzi hesitates, then pulls out her phone. She types a simple message, nothing dramatic. Her thumb hovers over the screen, pulse thrumming steadily. Without thinking, she rubs the inside of her ring finger, the place where a band once sat. The phantom weight is still there, stubborn as ever.

Then she exhales and hits send.

Emma smiles as the waitress clears their plates. “What are you doing today?”

Azzi shrugs. “I was going to nap. Maybe go for a run.” Her phone vibrates. She glances down at the message, her stomach flipping. “But maybe I’ll meet up with Nora later.”

Paige gasps dramatically. “Yes!” she shouts, pumping her first in the air, uncaring about the stares she earns. “I am the best wingman ever.”

Azzi shakes her head, laughing. She looks back down at her phone, fingers already typing.

there was no step back.

“tell me what to do with this,” paige said, low, and there was something desperate in her voice azzi hadn't heard from her before. she was devoid of her classroom bravado, and the easy teasing she regularly deployed on these walks; a note rawer underneath both of those, stripped strangely clean of performance.

“that's the whole point of you,” paige continued, her gaze never wavering. “you're supposed to know what to do with things i don't.”

there were moments—and they came less frequently now than they once had—when paige appeared every one of her twenty-two years, all sharp certainty concealing youth rather than replacing it. then there were moments like this, when she seemed impossible to age at all, as though intellect and longing had conspired to produce someone who had skipped several mandatory stages of becoming.

azzi didn't understand, not really, not in a countenance she could have explained if asked. but she understood enough to know the question wasn't really about anything either of them could speak to, so exposed to the public in the middle of this road. she reached up and closed her hand around paige’s wrist, meaning to pull it away, meaning to end this the way a reasonable person would end it.

paige's pulse beat there, so damnably young, so thrilled to be alive.

paige held on.

it was a rather nonviolent moment, which was somehow the worst part; she held fast with total refusal, and it made azzi’s hand feel suddenly very small around her wrist, an insistence that had nothing to prove and everything to keep.

then, just as abruptly as paige had taken it, she let go.

the world rushed back in. azzi stood there for a moment with her own pulse loud in her ears, ghost-print of paige’s fingers still warm against her mouth, and reached, without thinking, for something guileless to say, something capable of restoring proportion to the afternoon, something that would put them both back on solid ground. what came out instead was nothing at all.

it was paige who broke the silence. brave, reckless, paige; always striding through. her gaze drifted downward. she noticed, with a small private flicker of something azzi was unable to decipher, the faint stain at the corner of azzi’s own thumb, a trace of red gone slightly dark, smear left over from the raspberries she’d eaten too quickly at lunch and hadn’t properly disposed of.

azzi looked at it too, as though seeing her own hand for the first time.

paige took her hand before azzi could think to pull it back a second time, lifted it, and for one impossible second azzi believed she meant only to point it out. but then, without any of the hesitation that should have accompanied an act like this, paige brought azzi’s thumb into her mouth, behind her lips; a vanishing act.

warmth, barely more than that. the rasp of a tongue against skin so brief it might have been imagined had it not been for the astonishing precision with which paige watched her while doing it, pale irises fixed not on azzi’s hand but on her face, as though the gesture itself mattered less than whatever crossed azzi’s expression in response. she licked every remnant of red left behind, slow, her eyes lowering half-shut, savoring the taste, only leaving azzi’s gaze to take in the part of her lips while she did it.

paige let azzi’s thumb free, then said against her knuckle, “you must know—”

an abrupt halt. then she was gone.

turned already three steps down the road, nearly running, putting distance between herself and what it was she'd just done before she could be made to account for it, shoulders set with almost exaggerated composure, as though she had entrusted the aftermath entirely to azzi.

you're supposed to know what to do with things i don't. ❞