MILLIE

When Paige built the reading nook, she thought she was doing something sweet — a little gift for her bookworm wife before the baby came. You’d shown her a Pinterest post one morning, talking about how you’d never have time to read once Hazel was here. Paige didn’t say much at the time, just tucked it away in her mind and showed up three days later with wood, nails, and more confidence than skill.

There was swearing. There was at least one dramatic sigh. But when she was done, it actually looked good — a perfect little window seat with soft curtains, a shelf for your books, and enough pillows to make it feel like a cloud.

She didn’t realize she’d created her own replacement.

At first, it was cute. You’d sit there in the mornings, your tea steaming beside you, the sun hitting your face, hand resting on your belly. Paige would grin, kiss your forehead, and head to practice, thinking how peaceful you looked.

Then it started getting… suspicious.

By week two, the nook wasn’t just your favorite place — it was your habitat. You ate there, napped there, read there. Paige started calling it “the other woman.”

One evening she came home from practice, sweaty and tired, dropping her gym bag by the door. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

She peeked into the kitchen — nothing. Living room — empty. Then she saw the glow from the guest room. There you were, tucked into the nook, blanket around you, music playing softly as you flipped another page.

“Babe,” she called, leaning against the doorway.

You hummed in acknowledgment, eyes still glued to the page.

“I’m starting to think that thing stole you from me.”

You smiled without looking up. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Paige crossed her arms. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t your prenatal you took this morning?”

“I had grapes,” you said casually.

“Not a meal, sweetheart. That’s a light snack.”

You giggled, turning another page. “I was in a groove.”

“Yeah, a six-hour groove.” Paige sighed and made her way over, sitting on the edge of the cushion. “You’ve been in here all day.”

“You built it for me.”

“Not to live in,” she said, pretending to sound annoyed even as she smiled.

“You’re jealous.”

“Of what?”

“The nook,” you said simply.

Paige stared at you for a beat, then let out a laugh. “That’s insane. I’m not—” She stopped when she realized she absolutely was. “…okay, maybe a little.”

You patted the space beside you. “You can share.”

She squeezed herself into the tiny nook, knees pulled up awkwardly, bumping your book once or twice. You leaned against her shoulder, and she rested her chin on your head, mumbling, “Okay. I kinda get it now.”

That night, she caught you there again.

It was past midnight, the lamp still glowing from the corner of the room. She’d just finished brushing her teeth when she realized the bed was empty. Paige rubbed her eyes and sighed, heading toward the nook.

“Baby,” she said softly, “it’s late.”

You didn’t even look up. “Okay, but this part is crazy.”

“You said you’d come to bed an hour ago.”

“I will. After this chapter.”

“You said that two chapters ago.”

“It’s a long chapter.”

Paige leaned against the frame, trying not to smile. “Alright, that’s it. Give me the book.”

You gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.” She came closer, grabbing it gently.

“Paige!”

She grinned, scooping you up like it was the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon, baby. Bedtime.”

“Hey—my bookmark!”

“I’ll find it tomorrow.” She tucked you in, kissing your forehead. “You and Hazel need to sleep.”

You pouted. “You’re mean.”

Paige smiled, brushing her thumb along your cheek. “I’m mean because I love you.”

It rained the next afternoon, one of those soft, steady Texas rains that hums against the windows. Practice got canceled, and Paige came home excited to have a quiet day with you. But the second she stepped inside, she heard the faint turning of a page.

You were in the nook again, hair slightly disheveled, cocoa steaming beside you. The sight made her heart ache and her eye twitch at the same time.

“You know,” she said, kicking off her shoes, “if you ever go missing, I’m just telling the cops to check here first.”

You looked up with a grin. “You say that like I’d be anywhere else.”

“What if I wanted to spend the rain with you?” Paige asked, crouching beside you.

You didn’t even hesitate — you shifted over and patted the cushion. She squeezed in, limbs all bent, clearly too big for the space, but you smiled when her arm wrapped around your waist.

For a while, you read aloud, voice quiet over the sound of rain. Paige rested her hand over your belly, her thumb brushing slow circles as Hazel kicked faintly beneath her palm.

“Okay,” she admitted after a while, “I get why you love it here.”

“Told you it’s magic.”

A few nights later, Paige woke up to an empty bed again.

Her heart stuttered for a moment — until she saw the light coming from down the hall. She peeked in and found you curled up in the nook, fast asleep, book open on your lap.

She laughed quietly to herself, walking over to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “You really couldn’t make it to bed, huh?”

You mumbled something half-asleep — something about a “plot twist” — and Paige couldn’t help but smile. She picked you up carefully, whispering, “You’re gonna give me gray hairs before Hazel even gets here.”

When she laid you back down in bed, you instinctively curled toward her, your hand finding hers in your sleep. Paige kissed your forehead, voice low. “Hazel, your mom’s addicted to that corner. I’m just warning you now.”

The weeks passed, and the nook somehow became the center of your home. Where Paige learned to feel Hazel’s kicks. Where she would tell you about her day.

Then one night, close to your due date, you were sore and exhausted and couldn’t find a comfortable position anywhere. Paige guided you back to the nook, fluffing the pillows and helping you sit.

She picked up one of your books, flipping through it nervously. “You always read to me,” she said softly. “My turn.”

You smiled, curling up against her side. “You hate reading out loud.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I hate seeing you frown more.”

She started reading slowly, voice steady and low. You closed your eyes, head against her shoulder. Hazel kicked once, then again, right under Paige’s palm.

“She likes your voice,” you whispered.

Paige smiled. “Yeah?”

“She’s your biggest fan.”

She looked down at you, at the way your belly rose and fell under her hand, and whispered, “Nah. That’s me.”

Outside, the rain tapped against the window. Paige kept reading until your breathing evened out, until Hazel settled, until the whole house felt like it had exhaled with you.

The nook had started as a project — something simple, something sweet — but it became so much more than that. It became your safe place, her quiet place, and the little corner where love seemed to live.

The living room smelled like stale air and broken promises.

Billie sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, staring blankly at the divorce papers spread across the coffee table. Her eyes were bloodshot, not from the drugs—not this time—but from the hours she’d spent crying, pleading, begging Y/N to reconsider. But the silence stretching between them felt like a final nail in the coffin.

Y/N stood by the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, the same arms that used to hold Billie at night, the same hands that once traced gentle lines down her back. Now, they were cold, distant. Detached.

Billie’s voice cracked as she tried again, even though she knew it was useless. “Please, Y/N. Don’t do this. Don’t take Ro from me.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched, her gaze hardening. “I’m not taking her, Billie. I’m protecting her.”

Billie flinched like she’d been slapped. She knew she deserved that. Deserved worse, probably. But the idea of losing her daughter—their daughter—was a suffocating weight pressing against her chest.

“I’m clean,” Billie whispered, her voice hoarse and desperate. “I swear. I haven’t touched anything in—”

“How long?” Y/N shot back, her voice sharp enough to cut through glass. “A week? Two? Until the next time you spiral and we find you passed out on the bathroom floor?”

Billie’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms until it hurt. She wasn’t mad at Y/N. She was mad at herself. Mad at the empty promises, the late nights, the lies. Fuck, she was pathetic.

“I can do better,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. “Just… don’t take her from me. She’s all I have.”

Y/N’s face softened for a moment, but it wasn’t enough. “We were supposed to be all you had, Billie. But you chose meth. Over me. Over her.”

Billie shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. “No, I didn’t—fuck, Y/N, I didn’t mean to! I was just… I didn’t know how to stop, but I’m trying. I’m trying, okay?”

Y/N let out a hollow laugh, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve been trying for years. And where has that gotten us?” She gestured around the crumbling apartment, the mess that Billie had made of their lives.

Billie’s chest heaved with sobs. She crawled forward, grabbing at Y/N’s hand, but Y/N pulled back like she’d been burned.

“Don’t do this,” Billie whispered, her voice cracking. “Please. I can’t lose her.”

Y/N’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she shook her head, resolute. “You already did, Billie. You just didn’t notice until now.”

Billie collapsed onto the floor, her body wracked with sobs. She was begging now, and it was pathetic, but she didn’t care. She’d do anything—say anything—to keep Rosie in her life.

“I’ll go to rehab,” she choked out. “I’ll get help. I swear to God, Y/N, just… don’t take my baby from me.”

But Y/N was already walking toward the door, her shoulders stiff with the weight of finality. She paused for just a second, her hand on the doorknob.

“I hope you do get better, Billie,” she whispered. “For your sake. But Ro deserves better than this. Better than you.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut, leaving Billie alone in the suffocating silence. She stared at the empty space where Y/N had stood, at the divorce papers still fluttering on the table, and felt the full weight of her downfall.

The house always felt busiest in the morning. Violet had a habit of dragging her little backpack from the bedroom to the kitchen like it weighed more than she did, Hazel liked to shuffle around half-asleep until someone finally reminded her to put socks on, and Paige… well, Paige was Paige. She moved through it all with a calm that made you wonder how she wasn’t late more often.

Since training camp had started, mornings had shifted. Practice fell right after school drop-off, so Paige had volunteered—well, insisted—to take the girls in the mornings. “Makes sense,” she’d said, tucking Violet’s curls into a ponytail the first day she tried it. “You get a breather, I get extra time with them. Win-win.”

And it had worked. Most mornings now ended with you leaning against the doorframe, watching the three of them stumble out—Hazel clutching her water bottle like it was survival gear, Violet hopping on one foot to get her sneaker tied, Paige balancing both while still managing to kiss you goodbye.

That morning was no different. Paige slung Hazel’s lunch bag over her shoulder, crouched to zip Violet’s jacket, then looked up at you with a crooked smile.

“You good?” she asked, like she always did.

“I’m good. You’re the one running late.” You reached over to brush a crumb from Hazel’s cheek before sending her off.

Paige stole a quick kiss, one hand lingering at your hip before Violet tugged her sleeve impatiently. “Bye, love you,” she said, already backing out the door.

“Love you,” you called back, watching the three of them pile into the car. The house fell quiet in their absence, and you let yourself breathe.

It wasn’t until later—Hazel’s chatter at dinner, Violet’s casual retelling of her day—that you started to notice the pattern. Miss Carter this, Miss Carter that. Hazel mentioned how “Miss Carter gave Mommy another cookie today.” Violet proudly told you that her teacher had brought a Wings jersey into class and Paige had signed it “like it was nothing.”

At first, you brushed it off. Paige was recognizable, of course. Fans found her in grocery store aisles, airports, you name it. Teachers weren’t exempt. But there was something about the way the girls described it—cookies, coffee, a jersey pulled from her tote bag—that sounded… extra.

When you asked Paige, she shrugged it off. “She’s a fan. Harmless. Probably just excited a Dallas Wings player drops her kid off every morning.”

You wanted to believe that. You did. Except harmless fans didn’t linger their hand on someone’s shoulder when handing them coffee. They didn’t act like you weren’t standing right there during pickup. And if Miss Carter was such a devoted fan, she should’ve known better—Paige’s wife and two daughters weren’t exactly a secret.

That irritation settled into the back of your mind. And then came the game.

Friday afternoons were usually yours. Pickups had become part of your routine, a rhythm the girls counted on—you waiting by the gate with snacks stashed in your bag, Hazel running ahead to tell you the day’s drama, Violet trailing behind with her drawings. But that Friday, the house was torn apart by contractors tearing into tile and drywall, and you couldn’t leave without holding things up.

You called Paige.

“Think you can leave practice early today? Just this once?”

“Yeah, of course,” she said without hesitation. “What time do I need to be there?”

By three-thirty, Paige was the one leaning against the car outside the school. Hazel spotted her first, bolting across the grass with her backpack half unzipped. Violet followed, braids bouncing, her squeal carrying over the crowd: “Mommy!”

Miss Carter trailed out last, clipboard tucked under her arm. Her eyes lit up when she saw Paige, like she hadn’t been expecting her.

“Oh! I’ve never seen you at pickup,” she said brightly, smoothing her blouse as she walked over. “You usually get morning duty.”

Paige smiled, shifting Violet’s backpack higher on her shoulder. “Yeah, Y/N usually picks them up. Today was a little different.”

“It’s so nice to actually see you outside of the rush,” Miss Carter went on, her voice dipping almost conspiratorial. “I, uh, managed to get tickets for tonight’s game. Figured it’d be fun to see you in your element, instead of just here in the parking lot.”

“That’s great,” Paige said, genuinely pleased. “Hope you enjoy it.”

The girls tugged her toward the car then, Hazel already asking for snacks. Paige waved her goodbye and didn’t think twice about it.

You didn’t hear about any of it until later, when Hazel piped up at dinner, crumbs dusting her chin.

“Miss Carter said she’s going to Mommy’s game tonight.”

That stopped you mid-bite. “She did?”

Hazel nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. Violet chimed in, “She was excited. She said she’s never been before.”

You pressed your lips together, letting it slide. Miss Carter was entitled to go to a game. But still—if she was such a fan, she had to know. Paige wasn’t exactly a mystery; her wife and daughters had been in plenty of photos, interviews, even broadcasts. Pretending otherwise felt deliberate.

Hours later, in the buzz of the arena, you saw it play out. Paige had barely finished showering and changing after the win when Miss Carter appeared near the tunnel, waving like an old friend. Paige’s face lit up with easy recognition.

“Oh, hey! You made it,” she said, stepping over to greet her.

Fans’ phones were already out, flashes popping as Paige stood there, smiling politely while Miss Carter leaned in close, talking fast, animated. To anyone scrolling Twitter or Instagram later, it would look like something more than what it was.

And all you could think was: if Miss Carter really knew Paige—really knew the Dallas Wings—she’d know exactly who was waiting for her at home.

You were in the kitchen later that night, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, trying not to burn dinner while refereeing Hazel and Violet’s squabble over who got the purple cup. The cutting board was a mess of half-chopped vegetables when your phone buzzed against the counter.

At first you ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and reached for it, only to see your notifications blowing up. Mentions, tags, screenshots — all of the same thing. A picture of Paige, post-game, standing in the tunnel with Miss Carter. The two of them angled close enough that the camera caught it at just the right moment, like it was something intimate.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. The caption someone had slapped on one photo made you snort.

“Paige Bueckers spotted with mystery woman after win 👀👀”

Mystery woman. Mystery woman. You almost laughed, except it was so damn irritating. Paige’s fans were already tearing it apart in the comments, posting receipts: photos of you and Paige courtside with the girls, your wedding anniversary post, Violet asleep on Paige’s chest during last year’s championship parade. Half of them were tagging you directly.

One girl had tweeted: “Imagine thinking you can soft launch yourself as Paige’s new gf when her actual wife and kids exist??”

You set the phone down, shaking your head. This wasn’t even about jealousy—you trusted Paige with your whole chest—but the embarrassment of it made your skin prickle. Miss Carter wasn’t just some random fan. She was Violet’s teacher, someone who knew your family, who saw the drawings taped to Violet’s cubby and the way Hazel clung to Paige at drop-off.

And still, here she was, standing in the tunnel like she was auditioning for a rumor mill.

The front door clicked open a few minutes later, and Paige’s voice carried through the hall. “We won by fifteen,” she called out, like that was all that mattered. Hazel and Violet ran to meet her, shrieking, climbing up her legs before she even got her shoes off.

You stayed in the kitchen, stirring the pan a little harder than necessary.

When Paige finally wandered in, still flushed from the game, she leaned against the counter and gave you a look. “What’s wrong?”

You lifted your phone, screen glowing with one of the photos. Paige frowned at it, then back at you, confusion written all over her face.

“She was just saying hi,” Paige said slowly. “That’s all.”

“I know,” you answered, setting the phone down again. “But it’s embarrassing. You can’t even walk out of the tunnel without it turning into… that. And the worst part? She knows better. She sees our kids every day.”

Paige sighed, running a hand through her hair, sheepish. “I didn’t even think about it like that.”

“I know you didn’t.” You nudged her arm, softer now. “That’s the problem.”

Paige leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the chaos of the kids. “Let them talk. They all know exactly who I’m coming home to.”

And just like that, some of the sting eased. But you still made a mental note: Miss Carter was getting watched from now on.

By Monday, the photos had cooled off online, but not completely. Enough chatter lingered that the Wings’ media team couldn’t resist. After practice, while players were cooling down, Paige ended up at the podium for a quick presser.

The usual questions came first — her shooting percentage, the team’s defense, the next road trip. Then one of the media staffers, grinning, slipped in what everyone had been waiting for.

“So, Paige,” he started, clearly amused, “fans want to know — do we have to be worried about this new mystery woman that showed up in the tunnel the other night?”

Paige blinked, then actually laughed, shaking her head. “Mystery woman?” she repeated, incredulous. “That was my kid’s kindergarten teacher. Not exactly mysterious.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the room.

Paige leaned closer to the mic, deadpan now. “Look, I’m married. Happily. Everyone knows that. And if you don’t, you must not follow us very closely. My wife sits courtside half the time with our girls. So… no mystery. Just Violet’s teacher saying hi.”

Another reporter chuckled, “Your fans kind of dragged her online.”

Paige smirked, shrugging as she stood to leave. “Yeah, they don’t play about my wife. And neither do I.”

because you’re the one who does pick-up most days. that’s just how your life works right now. paige’s schedule is chaos - practices, travel, media, games, things constantly pulling her in twelve different directions and you’re home, the stable one, the routine, the person who knows which days jelly insists on wearing the sparkly shoes and which days she absolutely cannot be convinced.

so you know jelly’s pre-k teacher, miss carter.

mid-late twenties, maybe. always dressed like she walked straight out of a pinterest board titled soft neutral teacher aesthetic. very gentle voice, very patient. the kind of teacher you immediately liked because jelly immediately liked her, which is honestly the only metric that matters.

for weeks, everything is normal.

you walk in, jelly runs to you at full speed like she hasn’t seen you in years instead of six hours, miss carter gives you a little rundown of the day.

“she did really well with sharing today,” or something like “we worked on letters, she’s very determined.”

all very cute, all very fine.

then one afternoon paige does pick-up.

rare weekday miracle. she had an early practice, no meetings after, texted you something dramatic like guess who’s a present and available mother today and you’d laughed because yeah, okay, she’s ridiculous, but also you know how much she means it.

you decide to let her have it.

you stay home. enjoy the silence while everyone is out. drink coffee while it’s still hot for once.

and when paige walks through the door twenty minutes later, jelly glued to her side, something is… different.

“how was pick-up?” you ask, not really thinking about it.

paige drops her keys on the counter, shrugging. “fine. why?”

“no reason.”

but you see it - the tiniest smirk.

“what?” you narrow your eyes.

she tries to look innocent. fails immediately. “nothing.”

“paige.”

she grins. “her teacher is very nice.”

“…okay?”

“like very nice,” she adds, clearly enjoying herself now.

you stare at her and then it clicks.

“no,” you say flatly.

paige laughs. “i’m just saying.”

“no.”

“she just seemed very excited to see me.”

“oh my god.”

jelly, meanwhile, is completely uninterested in this conversation, busy emptying her backpack onto the floor with the intensity of someone unpacking after a long journey.

“mommy came to my school,” she announces proudly.

“she did,” paige says, immediately softening, crouching beside her.

you watch them for a second, because you always do, because they’re cute and you’re weak.

but still, it lingers in your brain.

after that, you can’t unsee it.

miss carter is still polite to you, still friendly.

but there’s a shift. tiny, absolutely deniable.

the next day at pick-up, you walk in like always. jelly spots you, lights up, runs over.

normal.

miss carter looks up from her desk, also normal. but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes the way it used to.

“hi,” you say, because you’re not weird, you’re not going to be weird about this.

“hi,” she replies, tone perfectly pleasant, just… cooler.

you blink.

okay.

maybe you imagined it.

“how was her day?”

“good,” miss carter says. short, efficient, no extra details.

you wait for the usual adorable anecdotes.

none come.

“…anything i should know about?”

“nope.”

oh.

okay then.

you leave slightly confused, but still not convinced it means anything. teachers are human. maybe she’s tired. maybe it’s a long day. maybe you’re, in fact, being insane.

except it keeps happening then you notice the pattern.

on the rare days paige does pick-up, she comes home with glowing reports.

“she was so engaged today.”

on your days?

“she was fine, normal day.”

you’re not jealous, exactly.

more like… vaguely offended on principle.

and a little amused, because honestly? of course this would happen to you. of course your extremely charming, extremely recognizable wife would accidentally become your daughter’s teacher’s crush. you don’t even blame her - look at paige.

you mostly let it go, until the day it’s not subtle anymore.

it’s a thursday.

long day. jelly is tired. you’re tired. everyone is tired.

you walk into the classroom and immediately know something is off because jelly isn’t sprinting toward you like a tiny missile.

she’s sitting at a table, arms crossed, lower lip pushed out in full pout mode.

uh oh.

you kneel beside her. “hey, baby.”

she looks at you, deeply betrayed by something. “no.”

great.

“what happened?”

“no,” she repeats, because that’s her favorite word now.

you glance up at miss carter, expecting the usual gentle explanation.

instead, you get a sigh. a very pointed sigh.

“she’s been like that all afternoon,” miss carter says.

you blink at the tone.

“…like what?”

“difficult.”

the word lands wrong, you feel it instantly.

“she’s three,” you say carefully.

miss carter gives you a tight smile. “yes. i’m aware.”

okay, that was… sharp.

you help jelly gather her things, trying not to overthink it, trying not to get defensive over toddler behavior (which is famously unhinged).

but as you’re zipping her backpack, miss carter adds, almost absentmindedly-

“she’s much calmer when your wife does pick-up.”

you pause, slowly look up.

“…excuse me?”

“oh,” she says, waving a hand like this is nothing, like she didn’t just light a tiny fire in your chest. “i just mean, she seems to respond better to paige.”

respond better... to paige.

you stare at her.

because what exactly is that supposed to mean?

you don’t say anything mostly because jelly is already teetering on meltdown territory and you’re not about to argue with a pre-k teacher in front of twenty tiny humans, but the irritation simmers all the way home.

and for the first time, you tell paige.

“she said what?” paige asks, halfway through unlacing her shoes.

jelly is asleep upstairs, finally surrendered to exhaustion. dax is in the backyard shooting hoops. the house is quiet in that rare way.

“verbatim,” you say, still annoyed. “‘she’s much calmer when your wife does pick-up.’”

paige’s eyebrows shoot up. “that’s weird.”

“right?”

“also rude.”

“thank you.”

she straightens, expression shifting from confused to slightly offended on your behalf. “jelly is literally obsessed with you.”

“i know that,” you mutter. “but apparently i’m doing pick-up wrong.”

paige snorts. “impressive. didn’t realize there was a competitive ranking system.”

you laugh despite yourself but paige’s face stays thoughtful.

“i’ll do pick-up tomorrow,” she says suddenly.

you narrow your eyes. “paige.”

“what?”

“do not start something.”

“i’m not starting anything,” she says, already grinning in a way that tells you she absolutely is. “i just want to observe.”

the next afternoon, you go together.

purely logistical coincidence, obviously.

definitely not because paige is curious. not because you’re curious. not because you both want to see if miss carter suddenly develops a completely different personality.

you walk in first, like usual.

miss carter looks up.

the temperature drops ten degrees.

“good afternoon,” you say.

“hi,” she replies, clipped.

and then paige steps in behind you.

and it is honestly comical, like watching someone flip a switch.

“oh!” miss carter’s entire face lights up. “hi!”

you physically feel paige trying not to laugh beside you.

“hey,” paige says, polite but already noticing everything.

“jelly had such a good day,” miss carter gushes, suddenly overflowing with enthusiasm. “she was so sweet, so helpful-”

you stare.

because yesterday she was “difficult.”

paige glances at you, then back at miss carter.

something in her expression sharpens, professional athlete reading the court energy.

“that’s great,” paige says easily. “anything specific happen?”

“no, just a really lovely day,” miss carter beams.

jelly runs over, immediately reaching for you.

because of course she does, and that’s when it happens.

“come on, jelly,” miss carter says, a little too bright. “mommy’s here.”

you freeze.

paige freezes.

jelly looks deeply confused. because jelly calls you mama.

always.

paige’s head tilts slightly.

“she’s going with mama,” paige says lightly.

the smile on miss carter’s face flickers.

“oh,” she says. “right.”

it’s tiny, but it’s there. and paige sees it.

you know she does because her entire posture shifts in that subtle way it does when she’s about to absolutely dismantle someone without raising her voice.

“she usually leaves with mama,” paige says casually, adjusting jelly on her hip.

“yes,” miss carter replies.

“so why’d you say mommy?”

the question is soft but direct.

miss carter blinks. “oh, i just... habit, i guess.”

paige hums. not convinced.

“you also mentioned yesterday she’s ‘much calmer’ with me?”

you nearly choke. because wow, straight to it.

miss carter’s cheeks flush slightly. “i didn’t mean anything by that.”

“mm,” paige says.

still smiling, still pleasant.

but there’s steel under it now.

“because it sounded like you were implying something about my wife’s parenting.”

you stand there, heart pounding a little, because paige is not loud, not angry, but the energy is unmistakable.

miss carter stumbles. “no, i... of course not-”

“good,” paige says gently. “because she’s an incredible mom.”

the words land warm and unwavering.

no room for interpretation ordebate.

jelly, blissfully unaware of the tension, plays with paige’s necklace.

miss carter nods quickly. “i didn’t mean to offend anyone.”

paige’s smile softens again, just a touch. “i know. just wanted to clear that up.”

and just like that, it’s over.

no drama or no raised voices, just paige, effortlessly drawing a boundary like she’s done it a thousand times.

you walk out slightly stunned.

slightly smug, mostly in love.

in the car, paige finally loses it.

“did you SEE her face?” she laughs.

you groan. “you’re so annoying.”

“she hates you,” paige says cheerfully.

“oh my god.”

“i’m kidding,” she grins, reaching over to squeeze your knee. “mostly.”

you shake your head, smiling.

and from the backseat, jelly pipes up: “mommy scary.”

you both burst out laughing.

paige looks back at her. “only when necessary, baby.”

and honestly, yeah.

exactly when necessary.

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