chiara

as if the thought had traveled, the woman lifted her head. conjured, their eyes caught, a small collision. azzi, eyes as dark as a burial; the stranger’s, startled, flushing, mouth wet and newly embarrassed with a blush the color of berries crushed. azzi took it in, how she was so bright with panic, so pinked with shame.

they both held, absurdly intimate, but then azzi saw the slight waver. she couldn’t resist.

carefully, she lifted a long finger to tap at her own lips. a deliberate instruction. here she was, signalling this woman’s blemish, the bit of apple skewed across her lower lip.

paige hated it when she embarrassed other people. well, it was more that paige hated when she degraded anyone else.

the woman fumbled, dabbing, smearing, and grew frantic with the effort to erase the evidence of her hunger. azzi smiled when she finally succeeded. a stretch so thin, cold, companionable, as if they were girlfriends on a smoke break, watching each other’s backs. then azzi turned, just as easily, laughed high and bright at a joke she hadn’t heard, her attention already gone.

paige was watching her. always watching, that one. within minutes, her phone was turned on, pushed into a flat blue glow. paige, unable to leave it the fuck alone.

you okay?

for a moment, azzi did nothing, said nothing, teeth working at her inner cheek. she stared down at the pink heart next to the end of her girlfriend’s name, radiating. you love whatever is wrong with me, she thought. you live for it. you’d crawl inside of me if i allowed it.

finally, she typed:

yeah, babe. i’m fine!

she looked up, puffed out her cheeks, raised her brows in a cartoonish little face that made paige laugh across the table. safe again. warm again.

azzi gave it to her, that safety. she always did.

her gaze slipped back to the apple. nearly gone. a man had taken the empty chair across from the woman, the fruit stripped down to its core between them.

shame.

contact was the first crisis. azzi had always known this. so, she took it away.

and it pleased her, sometimes, to pretend at anger. anger was another form of intimacy. another way of putting your teeth around someone's throat and never biting down.

it was fun, she had to admit. especially with paige.

they were a perfect match, said by many, but no one had ever truly asked why. azzi agreed. they were perfect, ideal. and the reason was very simple: paige let herself be undone. paige craved the edge. paige was eternally eager to please.

azzi had never been one to defer; she found "people-pleasing" to be an endless stretch of victimhood.

choose, she often chided paige. you already know what you want. paige made her best decisions only when azzi urged her.

so, azzi urged her.

it began with minute disturbances, nothing strong enough to immediately sound an alarm. a good avalanche needed the foundation of a steady build before it buried. things were changing, but quietly. small pushes that furthered paige's stumble in the dark.

okay to ok to k. all of this instead of a sentence. to follow, a delay of three hours, where once her replies came quickly, seamless, too eager. paige noticed—she always did, the girl was near an addict for attention—but azzi noted the refusal to name it. instead, paige called. once, then twice. a third time. azzi let it ring until paige's voice sounded hollow and tinny through the speaker,

hey, baby, it's me, call me back when you can—silence.

the silence was the real play.

paige was used to azzi's mercurial moods, but she wasn't used to absence. she was wired to the rhythm of azzi's at-times overwhelming need, her necessity: the voice notes in the middle of the night, the half-ironic good morning texts, the photos sent from bathrooms, locker rooms, lecture halls. azzi provided contact like oxygen, she spoiled her, and now she retracted it.

azzi thought of her most recent notes:

"when the lungs are deprived of air, the body launches into a cascade of increasingly desperate responses. the lungs themselves are passive structures that are unable to perform well without airflow, but the brain's respiratory center immediately detects the oxygen shortage and carbon dioxide buildup, triggering more forceful breathing attempts and ramping up heart rate to circulate whatever oxygen remains in the bloodstream. […] the brain, being extremely sensitive to oxygen loss, begins malfunctioning within minutes, followed by other organs in order of their oxygen dependence. […] permanent brain damage typically occurs after just 4-6 minutes, making air deprivation one of the fastest ways the body can reach a critical state."

azzi squinted at the memory.

days accrued this way. paige sat with her phone clutched in her hand, fingers curling hesitantly like a body on an oxygen tank. she felt like a relic. her teammates made easy jokes about how often she checked it, her restlessness, how sharp her body was now. she laughed with them, but the muscle of it ached, like she was grinning over broken teeth.

when azzi answered, the tone was different. sentences continually clipped down to their bones, punctuation missing, nothing soft to catch the edge. busy. practice. ttyl.

i love you, was missing. gone. i love you.

love you.

love you, love you, love you.

loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveoyulove—

paige called during her limited downtime, half-snapped and frantic, the sound of her voice already pitched toward apology.

az, hey. hi, baby. just—just wanted to check in. know you're busy, know—i know—i just… yeah. um, call me when you get a chance, okay?

the messages piled up. azzi listened to them all. she never responded.

instead, one mundane evening, she posted a photo to instagram: her face, made up beyond belief, relentlessly beautiful as she pretended to kiss a '335' sign in black and white. the caption was nothing but a black heart. paige saw it immediately, felt it lodge under her breastbone like shrapnel.

she scrolled through the comments, saw one that said “u really love her, don’t u?”

saw azzi’s, “yeah, i really do.”

the shrapnel loosened.

azzi watched her type and re-type and never send. she smiled, teeth gleaming in the dark. she knew it drove paige insane, the posturing.

and that was the point, really.

the point wasn't the photo. the point was that paige knew. knew it was a performance, understood that it was meant to be seen. understood that it wasn't hers to interpret, only hers to endure.

by the end of the week, paige was brittle with the ache. she tried strategy, soft words, harsher ones, and silence in return. nothing worked. azzi had her in a chokehold of distance, and paige was the one gasping. but she always did like a hand around the throat.

"…just 4-6 minutes, making air deprivation one of the fastest ways the body can reach a critical state."

she dreamed of azzi constantly: her hands, her eyes, azzi's voice withholding. she woke up sweating, the name carved into her teeth.

paige was adrift, frantic, directionless.

azzi, steadied somewhere in connecticut, smiled at her phone and put it face down.

she should probably be concerned with the fact that she was acting this way. there was no explanation, though she'd searched since she was young. she sat, small and still, touching her breasts, thumbing at her sore nipples. her mouth twisted, then she slid a hand down to the small of her back where a small sun of pain was beginning to radiate.

further down went the reach, then she was into herself. her face twisted further as she mapped the flesh, then she pulled her hand back up. in the light, it glistened, damp and bright red.

second day. less agony.

this was not why.

and life went on.

paige should not have driven the whole way up from dallas. that’s what she told herself, over and over, mile marker after mile marker, the drone of the highway pushing into her skull until she could barely hear anything but her own self-recrimination.

she was ridiculous. she was weak. she was her father’s daughter, impulsive, unable to hold a line—his favorite. but then there was azzi, who had been nothing but removed for the past two weeks, who glanced at the shallow pump of paige’s heart in her palm and then punctured it as if it was entertainment, as if she was testing how long it would take to make paige claw at her own throat.

the thing was, paige knew she was being tested. understood this with the kind of animal clarity that came from living too close to someone so unapologetically wrong. it had been years of this by now. and she needed it. so still—she drove.

because azzi was good for her. this was why azzi was good for her. azzi was able to hold a line. she could reach into that soft, open part of paige and force her to the extremes paige was wanted to test. she could hold her down and reveal a truth paige had been unaware of living. just…right there. this whole time.

by the time she pulled up to uconn’s campus, everything felt bleached out: the sky, the dorm facades, even the cheap vinyl shine of her rental car.

she hadn’t even driven her own car.

paige had been avidly rehearsing anger on the way, the fantasy growing a body of its own the further she made it into the drive: how she’d storm in, how she’d take azzi by the wrist and make her listen.

but anger was fragile when carried too far. it collapsed under its own weight, turned into desperation, then apology.

by the time paige turned off the car, the fantasy’s bones had been broken twice over, and she was shaking with the need, with the nature of it. with the knowledge that azzi was above somewhere, counting on her to prove how much this meant to her.

the off-campus apartment was tucked into one of those narrow two-story houses that always smelled faintly of mildew and fryer oil. she didn’t miss this. paige climbed the stairs two or three at a time, heart in her throat, hand balled into a fist before she even knocked. and when she did—when the door creaked open—azzi was already there.

sitting.

waiting.

a black tank, clinging to her shoulders. low-rise panties that framed her hips, emphasized how her ass was a perfect bubble. bare feet tucked under her on the mattress like she was posing for some obscene, accidental portrait. she didn’t look startled, not in the slightest. she didn’t even flinch. instead, azzi tilted her chin, studied paige the way someone might study the weather: mild interest, no urgency. a half-finished glass of wine glowed on the nightstand, red so dark it could pass for blood.

“hey, baby,” azzi said. nothing more.

and paige was undone.

because this wasn’t a reunion, it was a staging. the whole apartment was a fucking stage, and azzi was directing it with the elegance of someone who had never doubted her role. paige felt sweat stick at her collar, felt the grime of the drive still under her fingernails, and azzi looked as though she’d been waiting for her all night. lounging, unbothered, queen of the ruin.

“azzi,” paige said, sharp, too sharply. she tried again, softer, but it faltered. this strain of tenderness would not take. “you’ve been ignoring me.”

azzi shrugged, a movement so minimal it was almost cruel. “i’ve been busy.”

busy. paige laughed, high and too loud. off. “busy? you couldn’t answer one call? you couldn’t—”

azzi cut her off with a glance. a long, slow rake of her eyes up paige’s body, as if to catalogue the mess of her, and then back down again. paige flushed hot, hated herself for it.

“paige,” azzi said finally, voice languid, stretched thin with the ease of command. “you came all this way.”

that was it. no explanation. never an apology. just the fact of paige’s arrival, laid bare, was proof that azzi had already won.

paige took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough to smell azzi’s perfume: iris, fig, musk, a deep, deadly amber. azzi didn’t move, didn’t yield. that was never an option. she let paige hover at the edge of the bed like a supplicant.

“why are you doing this?” paige asked. it came out far too real, far too small. “why are you—”

azzi smiled, thin and knowing, her gaze hardening. “always asking the wrong question. why do you allow it?”

paige exhaled, trembled with it. her brain felt ill-fitting, unstructured.

“cause—’m—”

azzi leaned back on her hands, palms pressing down into the duvet with a precision that spoke to her own desires, tank riding up just enough to expose a hard, flat brown line of stomach. she stretched her legs out, crossed them at the ankle, the posture of someone who had never been afraid of losing anything.

and paige realized it—thought back. the thing she’d been trying not to understand: we all know paige runs a tight ship.

she realized—what should have been said, what azzi had desired at the time: no. azzi decides. she knows when the silence begins and when it ends.

“you don’t get it,” paige whispers, almost begging. “i can’t—”

“you can,” azzi interrupted, quieter this time, diamond-edged. “you can and you will. you’re such a smart girl, baby. it’s why i love you.”

it’s why i love you. the words dangled, and paige felt a sob rising. it’s why i love you.

azzi leaned forward. “why do you allow it, paige?”

paige felt it form like a lake iced over. “because it feels good.”

there it was. the blood azzi had been after like a shark in the water, a hook in the mouth. and paige, for all her discipline, for all her fury, felt her own trapping and let the reel bring her in.

azzi tapped the space beside her, slowly, tenderly. an invitation, or maybe a command; it was impossible to tell the difference. paige hesitated, but only for a second. then she sat.

the silence was a pressure of its own.

azzi came close, not touching, just near enough for paige to feel the heat. “next time,” she murmured, “maybe i won’t pick up at all.”

paige shut her eyes. she hated her. she needed her.

liar.

she loved her. she wanted her. she would kill for her.

truth.

and azzi knew it. knew it, and used it, and smiled.

paige reached to the side, clutched at azzi’s thigh.

“need you to fucking touch me,” she sobbed.

“oh, baby,” azzi cooed. “all you had to do was ask.”

one of the best things about paige was how pretty she was. and everywhere, too; her pussy was no exception.

she was so fucking pink, body flushing, blood coming running to fortify the heat. her slit was tight, lips slightly swollen with arousal, clit engorged. true to her nature, she could keep nothing in, which meant that azzi could see the glaze of her arousal growing sticky and sweet as she got wet, then wetter. azzi shifted from where she was sitting between paige’s legs, two fingers coming to spread her open. she watched hungrily as paige’s pussy dribbled over them, down her wrist, the whimper that paige released in perfect timing with its clench.

she looked up, took her in. paige was spread-eagled, blonde hair sanctifying her as it pooled underneath her head, tits perfect and full, nipples hard and straining. she was pink there too. azzi’s eyes trailed down to her stomach, where her abs were carved—rigid with the force of her breath—and then lower, back to her cunt.

she knew if she turned paige over, she’d find her as she left her: ass red, palm prints all over the skin, blood at the surface, and paige drooling as she struck her into cumming.

azzi’s fingers didn’t stop. not a second. they simply slid into what was always waiting for her. paige’s pussy was slick, hot, quivering under the patience of her touch, and azzi traced every ridge, every sensitive curve like she was memorizing it all over again. paige gasped, hips jerking, arching into the pressure, eyes rolling back, but azzi held her just there, balanced on the razor’s edge of release.

“you feel so good, baby,” azzi murmured, voice low, velvet-dark, licking over each word like she was softening it, wetting it enough to get paige to swallow. “so fucking good. so wet for me. i love it when you want me. when you need me.”

paige’s breath hitched, hiccupping already, hands clawing at the sheets, heels digging into the mattress as azzi leaned closer, pressing her mouth near paige’s ear.

“you’re dripping for me,” she said. fingers spreading her open again, circling her clit with relentless, exquisite precision. “look at you. my clingy, needy girlfriend. always taking it, no questions asked.”

paige’s head fell back further, hair fanning like pale fire, tears glimmering at the edges of her lashes. she tried to hit back, tried to protest, but it came out as a mewl, a choked, “azzi, please,” and azzi giggled, dark and delighted, knowing exactly how much more she could make her girlfriend take.

she glanced down, clicking the vibrator on, for what must’ve been at least the sixth time. the bullet buzzed against paige’s clit—as pink and bright as the rest of her—whining high and insistent, and azzi leaned over, pressing her mouth to paige’s, tasting her own power, feeling her girl shiver against her lips.

one finger, then two, then teasingly three, stretched paige’s body further, worked to keep her open and gaping, just shy of the edge. over and fucking over, teasing, denying, forcing: the tremble, the hiccup, the harsh sob into azzi’s neck.

“fuck,” paige gasped, voice cleaving in two, nails indenting the thin skin of azzi’s shoulders, dragging, cutting—everything. “fuuuuuuck. please—’m—i can’t, baby, i—”

“shh,” azzi whispered, fingers relentless, thumb brushing impossibly soft against the most hypersensitive point. “you can, baby. you always can. look at you. so tight. so wet. so fucking accepting of me.”

and paige’s body betrayed her entirely, the overstimulation overwhelming her senses, collapsing her into a borderline delirious mess. just like azzi wanted. the edges blurred, the pleasure unbearable, and paige couldn’t think, could never think, only fuck down on azzi’s fingers, on the toy, knowing that this was how it should always be.

“look at you,” azzi murmured, teeth grazing the shell of paige’s ear as she smiled. “you like this, don’t you? you love being stretched like this for me.”

“mmhmm,” paige moaned.

her hips bucked, trying to escape, only to be pressed back down, held, broken further. every flick of azzi’s thumb, every glide of her fingers across the glistening folds of paige’s pussy, brought her closer to the edge.

azzi hummed with faux-sympathy, face dipping so that her tongue could lap languidly at paige’s cunt. paige gasped then, throat constricting. azzi slid a hand up her stomach to clutch at her throat. she pulled back.

“you need a little more, baby?”

“yeah—please, mommy. mmhmm, need more, need—,” paige cut herself off, back bowing as azzi fucked into her again. her legs trembled, thighs quivering, hips lifting involuntarily. “oh, fuckkk, azzi.”

the words were barely that, more of a statement threatening a scream.

azzi paused for a heartbeat, just long enough for paige to catch her breath. or at least think she could. eyes dark and calculating, azzi rose slightly, leaning to the side, hand outstretched for the strap-on on the nightstand. the silicone glistened, cherry red and slick with lube, a harbinger.

paige gazed on deliriously, watching as her girlfriend adjusted it, sliding it snug, feeling the cold buckle press against her hips.

“it’s okay, baby. i got you. it’s your turn, now,” azzi murmured, voice almost rhythmic, nearly maternal, but her tone carried that edge paige had long learned to obey without question.

paige nodded, fumbling slightly as she tried to assist with the harness, a hand slick with her own arousal, the other grasping the edge of the mattress. azzi leaned in, guiding her, then taking over, pressing tenderly along paige’s hips, making sure the straps were cinched securely, aligned.

there it was—no deus ex machina—paige was slotting herself in under azzi’s exacting control. and she, delirious with sensation, thought for a fleeting second that this could actually be her. that this—this fullness, this ridiculous, intense arousal, the way her pussy kept spilling all over, the way azzi’s fingers still refused to leave her—was hers to wield, hers to bear.

she had never felt so powerless, so thoroughly held by someone else.

“good girl, baby. you’re doing so well for me,” azzi assured her.

paige let her head drop, eyes fluttering until azzi tapped her on the cheek with gentle insistence. she looked back at her, found her paused just long enough to make sure paige could see the bulging outline of her cock pressing against her entrance, teasing her anticipation.

fingers lingered on paige’s hips, thumb brushing over the slick folds of her pussy as paige jerked slightly with anticipation.

with rapt attention, paige watched her girlfriend bear down until the head of the dildo began to split her open. she watched as azzi fucking blossomed, pink peeking through full brown lips before fully exposing itself. she watched azzi’s pussy seize as it began to feel the girth of the intrusion, and paige couldn’t help it, couldn’t help the little buck of her hips she did to push it through.

it was worth it regardless because there was that slick ‘pop’ of her fucking winning, of her stuffing the tight pocket of azzi’s cunt until it gave. paige swore to god that she could fucking feel it. she could fucking feel it. she could—

“holy shit,” paige moaned. “oh, fuck, mommy. shiiiiit.”

azzi shifted inward, lips brushing paige’s collarbone, teeth grazing her shoulder. her mouth had fallen open, control momentarily relinquished in the face of this pressure. nothing could ever challenge just how full paige made her. her eyes closed, and with it went her memory of the vibrator she still had buzzing against paige’s clit, merciless, cruel, and—

azzi leaned in, pressing herself closer, hips brushing paige’s, testing, testing, always testing.

but now, herself.

“azzi,” paige rasped, mind unmoored, body uncontrollable. her hands clawed at azzi’s hips, then the sheets, then suck into her own hair, trying to hold herself together, trying to make sense of the fire. the intrusion, the press into azzi’s tight cunt, the band drawing thin in her stomach—it all blurred together, and for a fleeting second, she almost believed it was real.

that it was her dick inside her girlfriend, capable of fucking her into the reality of having a mini-me, a mini-them. the thought made her jerk again, fucking further up into azzi, who squealed in surprise, tits bouncing.

azzi laughed slightly, as intoxicated as she always got when caught on paige’s cock, teeth glinting, and finally moved, pushing herself up over paige’s tip, then down again.

again, paige could fucking feel it. maybe it was just the strength of the overstimulation, but she would swear on anything that it was real. she’d tell anyone right now that she was in that shit.

azzi was gummy around her cock, paige groaned as azzi sank back over the tip. up, then down again, then up. paige bent her head back, mind split into two as she tried to process anything over this push and pull.

but then azzi remembered. remembered what she had been doing before, and it was as though she’d never once stopped, never once faltered, thumb circling, dragging paige closer, denying. fucking denying.

paige started crying, pussy spasming over the drag of azzi’s fingers, over the strap, over herself; she couldn’t tell where she ended and azzi began.

“shhh. such a good girl. and you’re all mine,” azzi whispered. “you feel so fucking good, princess. can you feel it? can you feel your cock in me? hmm? i know you can. know you’re trying your hardest to fill me up. such a good fucking girl.”

paige couldn’t answer. she was giving up. words dissolved into nothingness, into something hard to reach, tears pricking the edges of her lashes. she felt dizzy, brain dead, suspended in a space where pleasure and obsession intertwined, where her body blurred and her mind whispered, this is mine, this is real, i’m fucking her, i’m in her, she’s letting me in. fuckfuckfuckkkk.

azzi tracked it all, noting her every reaction like a pulse, feeding off it, reveling in it, gorging on her ecstasy. paige arched back, mouth open, hips risen, utterly lost, aware of every glide, every bounce, every deliberate, piece of perfect pain azzi pressed into her.

and in this heat, paige understood a fundamental truth: she was never at risk, could go under completely, because azzi’s need would always mirror her own. they were ideal: mutual, vicious, and absolutely consuming.

azzi shifted, riding earnestly now, tits threatening to smother as she slanted slightly forward, thighs flexing as she fucked herself down. it was about getting off now, using paige as nothing but a life-sized toy. her mouth grazed paige’s shoulder and neck, murmuring hungrily, provoking paige. always finding the wound.

“oh, fuck, paige. you’re so wet, baby, jesus. i can feel you, and i’m not even inside. you’re so fucking good at this, princess, always know what i need.” paige twitched, mouth slack, drool shining at the edges. “you gotta finish it, baby—shit, mmm, fuckk—gonna let go for me, right? gonna give it all up f’me.”

paige moaned, tears brimming, voice ragged: “i—i’m gonna—oh shit, azzi—” her voice went high. “imma make you dirty, az. ’m sorry—i can’t help it. can’t fucking help it.”

azzi’s laugh was weak, throaty, stretched thin with need.

“promise i won’t hold it against you, baby. not for a second. you can make me anything you want. i know it’s hard. i know you’re just that fucking easy for me. a real fucking slut—just—” she found the ability to cup the side of paige’s face, slowing her pace until the grind of her hips was nasty enough to take paige just over the edge. “it’s okay. you’re okay, princess. just let go for me. give mommy what she wants.”

and paige did.

white-hot, spilling, her body convulsing, legs shuddering into a wide spread as she pressed against the mattress, erupting. everything went out. there was nothing but azzi—"cumming on this dick, baby”—and every muscle in paige’s body beating in time, mouth open, brain wiped clean and rewired to take in nothing but raw, unbearable sensation. she felt herself squirt, warm and wild, every nerve singing, mind fractured into a thousand shards of visceral pleasure.

azzi leaned down, mouth covering paige’s, tasting and sucking at her tongue, grounding, whispering:

“mine. all mine. that’s my girl, look at you. shhh, so good, baby. such a pretty leaking pussy.”

paige’s eyes rolled back, breath coming in fast, breaking here and there into wet whimpers. her body finally slumped, limp and utterly spent. almost all of her was red with exertion; she was beautiful. azzi gingerly slipped off the dildo and unbuckled the harness, pulling paige close.

she clung to her, full body wrapping around her, letting paige feel the warmth, the solidity, the love that was seeded through every thought and action.

they stayed like that, bodies crushed together, breath layering, hearts pulsing out a code. azzi brushed damp hair from paige’s face, kissed her temple, murmured soft reassurances:

“you did so well, baby. so perfect. the most perfect girl in the world. you’re safe now, princess. just breathe. take what you need.”

paige curled further into her, coming down, voice nearly gone. “sorry, az. ‘bout the—you know. got it all over you.”

azzi hummed softly, gently drawing a hand over paige’s back, lips tracing her cheek.

“don’t worry about it, baby. i don’t care. i love all of it, all of you. every messy, desperate part of you.”

paige was half-asleep now, only coming back into lucidity when she felt azzi untangle them. she only relaxed when she realized azzi was getting a warm cloth to clean them up. she began to drift off again, hips twisting in slight discomfort as azzi wiped her down.

“grateful for you,” she muttered. “you know how to pull me open.”

azzi gazed at her from underneath her lashes, eyes unfathomably dark.

“and you know how to shut me up.”she looked away, a smile playing at her mouth. “that’s why you’re mine.”

“perfect,” paige slurred out. “perfect f’me.”

azzi settled back at her side, rolling paige until she was shielding her, big spoon over little.

“yeah, baby,” azzi said, almost urgently. “you are. jesus, baby, you’re so fucking perfect.”

you know p runs a tight ship. it’s said again, but by another this time.

and this time—this time, paige glanced at her briefly, before shrugging.

“kinda,” she murmured, voice dipping with humor. “sometimes, we switch.”

azzi didn’t move. she let the silence hold, eyes dark, still, calculating, stretching it taut like a violin string until paige’s thigh tightened. then, the corner of her mouth lifted.

“yeah,” she said finally. “yeah, we do.”

with permission, laughter broke. it was brief, but it cut clean. warm. like a private rite. paige’s eyes caught hers, bright and beautiful and blue, and for the smallest, sharpest instant, it was as if the world hinged on the wire between them, vibrating, electric, and able to hold.

azzi tilted her head, a small motion, almost imperceptible. her voice was low, nearly undetectable.

“‘cause i want you just as much.”

paige’s chest lifted, heartbeat leaping, and the world expanded. azzi resisted the urge to kiss her palm, settled for squeezing it instead.

and then it was done. nothing more needed.

nothing more could be said.

The incessant ringing of her phone at nine thirty in the morning has her groaning as she steps inside her apartment. Azzi fumbles with her keys in one hand while the other tries to hold her whole life, which includes her wallet, water bottle, her mail, and a bag of three oranges.  

Another groan is uttered from her mouth when she hears another set of ringing. She just wants thirty seconds to breathe, and maybe another thirty to peel off the hoodie sticking to her shoulders from her morning Pilates session. 

The phone buzzes again, like the caller has made it their life’s mission to personally assassinate her morning as she sets her stuff on her kitchen counter.  

“What?!” 

Azzi doesn’t usually shout. Normally, Azzi is calm and soft-spoken, but her hunger gnaws at her patience. Also, she still hasn’t forgotten her neighbor’s dog painting her doormat with his pee before she went to that Pilate class. 

“Oh my God! Azzi! You’re alive.” 

Azzi winces at the lively and loud voice of her agent. 

“I just went to Pilates, Will. You make it sound like I went to war.” Azzi sighs.

She can feel Willow’s overcharged excitement through the phone which is doing too much for her liking.

“I know, I know. I’m just thrilled! Thrilled for you, to be exact.” 

“Did I win the lottery?” 

“Even better!” 

Azzi stops arranging her oranges on her counter and raises her eyebrows. Consider her intrigue. “What's even better than winning the lottery?” 

“Paige Bueckers.” 

Oh? 

“Az, you still there?” 

“Yeah, I’m still here.” Azzi clears her throat, exaggeratedly. “What about Paige Bueckers?” 

“We just got the green light from her agent. She’s confirmed as your next guest. Isn’t that exciting?” 

If Azzi hasn’t had enough of being surprised before ten in the morning, the universe clearly has her signed up for the premium package. 

“I guess.”  

“You guess? Azzi, she’s the Paige Bueckers. She just won this year’s Rookie of the Year.” 

Azzi can practically visualize Willow’s hands flying around as she tries to keep her excitement and not fangirl. 

“I am well aware, Will. You and Mac had a full course discussion over her and her award when we had dinner at Redbird’s last Friday. You guys practically forgot I was even there.” 

“We’re sorry we ignored you, but we’ll never let you live if you turn down a Paige Bueckers guesting.” 

“All right, when is this?” 

"Yes! That’s my girl!” 

- 

Azzi sits in the dressing room, the air hazy with setting spray and the faint whine of a blow dryer from the next room. Candace leans in close, dabbing foundation on Azzi’s cheek with precarious care. Mac circles with her camera, snapping behind-the-scenes shots destined for the show’s social media. 

The show. 

Azzi still can’t believe Netflix renewed her show.  

Netflix. As in, the platform she used to binge when she was too broke in college to afford anything but ramen and free trials.  

Looking back, her journey started with random interviews with college students, awkwardly holding a microphone she can barely figure out. Then she worked her way into the LA scene, shining spotlights on tiny businesses. Then she came up with a podcast and interviewed real influencers, the ones who actually care about their craft and not just chasing fame. 

She remembers the themed nights she fought for. 

The pride nights that brought whole communities together, a Latin week that turned the studio into a festival, and even an episode paying tribute to small Palestinian shop owners who reminded her what resilience tastes like. 

Her real break didn't come in her pocket-sized eighteen square foot studio, though. It happened on a random sidewalk during New York Fashion Week, when some journalist asked what she loves to do on her day off. Without thinking, she blurted out the truth. 

Baking.  

Always baking. 

The rest of her Cinderella-like story unfolds in steps, each one fueled by the growing demand from people who actually want to watch her bake. 

Netflix heard them and four months later, Azzi’s baking while interviewing people who are making a difference in the world. 

Which leads to her current guest, Paige Bueckers. 

The name isn’t foreign to her. Paige has been the talk around town ever since she was drafted to the LA Sparks four months ago. There isn’t a week where she isn’t front page news or a highlight reel. From her stats, to questions if she’s really good enough, to even her considering adopting a dog, the young basketball star is everywhere.  

It makes Azzi wonder if Paige’s sneeze will also trend. 

“What’s got you all goofy?” Mac asks Azzi as she tries a different angle with better lighting for her shot. 

“Nothing, just getting all worked up. Can’t wait to bake a cake today.” Azzi shrugs, and Candace pauses her hands to give Azzi a look. A soft warning asking her not to move. 

“Are you sure it doesn’t have to do anything with your guest today?” 

Azzi can see the glint in Mac’s eyes as she teases her. So she plays along. 

“It does, actually.”  

Mac suddenly lowers her camera and looks at her. “Really?” 

“Yeah, didn’t research say she doesn’t know how to cook or bake?” 

“I think so.” 

Azzi smiles at Mac’s confused face. “Well, wouldn’t it be a disaster having her bake with me? I mean, think of all the cleaning the staff will do, which includes you because you and Willow had been adamant on having her in the show.” 

Mac huffs at her. “As if you don’t want her on your show too. Don’t think we didn’t notice you stalking her Instagram when she was announced Rookie of the Year. Will and I may had been busy gushing, but we definitely saw you pull up her account.” 

“Proof or it didn’t happen.” Azzi says it like a challenge, casual but impossible to argue with.  

Candace pokes Azzi’s cheek, another warning to zip it and let the makeup magic happen. Azzi murmurs a quick apology, glancing over just in time to catch Mac laughing her way toward the buffet table. 

- 

Paige steps into the studio, palms already slick with nerves. Baking has never been her territory, but one thought keeps her moving forward. She’s about to meet Azzi Fudd. That alone made saying yes to this show feel worth it. 

God knows how fat her crush to the talk show host is. 

Her stomach twists as the director approaches. Paige swallows past the lump in her throat and forces a smile. 

“Hi Paige. I’m Christen Press and I do the directing of the show. Thank you for joining us.” 

“Thanks for having me.” Paige says, trying to sound confident while secretly wondering how she will avoid creating a kitchen disaster. 

“We couldn’t pass up this chance to have the Rookie of the Year on Azzi’s show. We’re thrilled to see you bake.” 

Paige chuckles nervously. “I’ll probably make more mess than actually bake.” 

Christen’s laugh is warm. “Azzi has a way of turning chaos into magic. Come on, we’ll introduce you to the woman of the show.” 

Walking inside, Paige freezes for a second at the kitchen set. The counters gleam under the studio lights. 

And in the middle, she saw Azzi talking to someone with her cue cards. 

“Azzi.” Christen gently taps Azzi’s shoulder. “Hi dear! I’d like you to meet your wonderful guest today, Paige Bueckers.”  

“Hello, Paige. It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to the show.”  

Azzi sounds calm, collected, and perfectly in control which makes Paige hyper-aware of every wrong breath and the weird sweaty patch forming in her palms. She tries to play it cool and ends up doing the opposite. 

“You’re really pretty.” 

Azzi laughs and Christen held out her palm up front to Paige as if stopping traffic. 

“Slow down, Casanova. We got a show to film. I’ll leave you two to get settled. Az, we’ll start in thirty.” 

“Sorry about that. I’ll try not to ruin my lines and your kitchen.”  

Paige hears Azzi giggle as she follows her to the counter where most of the filming will be made. 

“Why do I have a feeling you only came prepared with pick-up lines? Did you even read about what we’re making?” 

Paige adjusts her vision from all the lighting as she tries not to squint too hard. 

“Nika said we’re making lemon olive oil cake for this episode. I want to lie and pretend I know what that is just to impress you, but I don’t think that works.” 

Azzi chuckles, setting her cue cards aside. “I think this will be my favorite episode to shoot.” 

“Just promise you won’t laugh that much.” 

Azzi leans closer, her black curls catching the studio light in a way Paige absolutely should not be staring at. “No promises, Rookie.” 

“Season’s over, I’m not a rookie anymore.” Paige fires back, even though her voice betrays how unconvincing she feels under Azzi’s attention. 

Azzi smirks. “You’re a rookie in my kitchen.”  

Then she winks, and Paige swears her knees start drafting their resignation letter on the spot. 

It’s unfair.  

Azzi stands there, curls framing her face elegantly and her brown eyes are full of trouble with a smile that knows it’s always going to get what she wants.  

And Paige, all six feet of her and muscles gained throughout the season, can’t hide that she is staring. She tries to focus on the different items on the counter, the overhead microphone, the people walking in and out of the studio, anything that isn’t Azzi. But the truth is, she also feels this will be her favorite interview to do.  

“Azzi, we’re starting at five!”  

They heard someone from the sea of production staff and Azzi gave a nod of acknowledgement. She guides Paige behind the kitchen counter. 

“You ready, Rookie?” 

- 

“Welcome to another episode of Fudd Around and Bake Out!” Azzi greets the camera. “Today we have a special guest, someone you guys would not stop spamming on our social media accounts.”

She playfully rolls her eyes before continuing. “She has just wrapped her first season and had a great first year in the W, making her the 2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year. I think you all know the rest of her basketball resume, so please help me welcome… Paige Bueckers.” 

The camera pans to Paige, who’s already grinning like a kid spotting sprinkles on ice cream. “Thanks for having me, Miss Fudd.” 

“Oh? We’re getting formal right off the bat?” Azzi teases. “Azzi is just fine.” 

“Azzi it is.”  

The camera catches Paige’s smile to Azzi.  

For a moment the set falls away, cameras and lights melting into background noise. It feels like they’re the only two people left in the room. Their smiles catch and hold, suspended in a rhythm neither of them is in a rush to break. It takes a pointed cough from someone off-screen to remind them the show hasn’t paused for their benefit.  

Paige laughs first, flushed and flustered, while Azzi’s returns her gaze to the camera and saves herself from fumbling onscreen by telling a joke. 

- 

“While we prepare the ingredients, my team handpicked some interesting questions from Instagram and Twitter for you.” Azzi says to Paige who is trying to read the labels from the box of flour. 

“What questions? Should I be worried?” Paige lifts her head with her brow furrowed.  

“We filtered the thirsty ones, for sure. Although, I have to say they’re really interesting.” 

“Did you contribute to the population of those tweets?”  

“Oh boy! Wouldn’t you love to find out!” Azzi smirks. 

Paige drops the box and turns her attention to Azzi who is taking out some eggs. “Bet I’ll find out one way or another.”  

“With that comment, you’re on whisk duty.” Azzi hands Paige a whisk and bowl. 

“Uh, what are we making again?” 

“Oh yeah, we forgot to tell the viewers what we’re making.” Azzi looks at the camera and smiles. “On this episode, we’re making a lemon olive oil cake.” 

“An olive oil cake?” The camera returns to Paige’s confused look. 

“Yes, I think it is common in Spain but it’s one of my faves. Most cakes typically have butter as some sort of a fat source, with flour, a rising agent, and sugar. Now, in olive oil cakes, we use olive oil as the fat instead of butter or a neutral oil like canola. This brings an interesting flavor and as olive oil is a bit denser than other oils, it makes a slightly denser cake. It pairs really well with something like jam.” 

“I like jam!” Is the only thing Paige can contribute. 

“What’s your favorite jam flavor?”  

Before Paige can answer, Azzi raises her hand. “And you better not be wrong at this one, Rookie.” 

“Is there a wrong answer on jams?”  

“Yes.” 

“Well, I hope it’s not strawberry cause that’s my go to jam.” 

“Lucky for you, it’s not.” Azzi forgets the camera and everyone else in the studio. She taps Paige’s nose like they’ve been friends for centuries, playful and gentle. 

Another fake cough is heard to get them back to filming. 

- 

Filming goes surprisingly smooth, except for the moment Paige almost lets the bowl of milk slip from her grip and the eggs Azzi asked her to crack flop onto the counter.  

“Twitter username xxBoogers5 wants to know your perfect first date.”  

Paige pauses mid-whisk and thinks about it. “Hmmm. I’ve never thought a lot on first dates. I just do what I think fits me and my date. But good food is a must, and I’ve been doing a lot of damages at Soy Cowboy, so first date should be there. No negotiations.” 

Azzi leans over, hand brushing hers as she steadies the bowl, laughing teasingly at Paige’s inability to handle basic baking preparations. But underneath all the teasing, she is patient with the basketball player, like she’s been doing this a thousand times and Paige is exactly the rookie worth teaching. 

Paige ont he other hand tries to focus. She tries really hard. But every time Azzi says something clever, or worse... something flirty, she forgets how to whisk and loses track of the recipe. 

By the time they finish the first step, Paige is coated in flour, grinning like an idiot. She hasn’t had much fun since basketball season ended, and she is secretly hoping Azzi notices that it’s not the baking that’s making her smile stupid and her heart race. 

- 

The shoot moves to the living room. Two chairs sit close together, almost nudging each other, and Paige can’t help thinking how small the space feels when Azzi is this close. 

They’re ready to try the lemon olive oil cake.

Paige picks up a fork, grinning. “I hope this doesn’t taste like olive oil.” 

“It doesn’t.” Azzi deadpans. 

“Bro, it’s fun teasing you.”  

“You’re getting banned from future guesting on my show.” Azzi shoots back, pretending to scold but unable to stop smiling. 

“You wouldn’t. If today says anything, it’s that we make a great team. I should introduce you to basketball. Next time I’m here we can play. We could even call it Fudd Around and Hoop Out.” 

“We’re never calling my show that.” Azzi kicks Paige’s foot off camera. “But I’ll take your challenge on the basketball thing. I swear I can beat you one-on-one.” 

“Now you’re getting ahead of yourself, Miss Fudd.” 

“I played some ball in high school in Italy where my dad was stationed there for three years.” 

“You went to Italy?” Paige’s eyes widens at this information.  

Azzi just shrugs, happy to know Paige is interested in that part of her life. 

“Can you speak Italian?” 

“To you? Parli Italiano?”  

“I have no idea what you asked but my answer is pasta.” Paige smiles,not leaving her eyes from Azzi’s. 

Azzi laughs at the camera. “I think in this episode we just uncovered Paige Bueckers is not meant to be in the kitchen and has limited Italian.” 

“Hey! Easy on me, I’m only a rookie in your kitchen, remember?” Paige exaggeratedly pouts when she feels the camera is panning to her. “Well, I enjoyed filming this episode even if Azzi beats me in baking and in Italian.“ 

“It’s not a race, my love, but grazie millie.” 

My Love. 

The words stick to Paige's chest like honey she can’t swipe off. Her stomach twists, her hands go a little too tight around the fork, and suddenly the studio feels like it shrank to just Azzi. Paige tries to act normal, really, but her grin has gone rogue and her brain is having a full-on meltdown.  

“Paige?” 

She hears Azzi’s concerned voice, making her drift back to reality.  

“Grazie millie?” A smirk slowly forms at the end of Paige’s mouth. 

“It just means thanks a million.” 

“I think I know what we’re baking next time I’m here and what to call that episode.” Paige is full on smirking, and Azzi feels she’s going to say something stupid like... “Grazie Millie Bobby Brownie.” 

- 

Christen meets them in the middle of the living room set, smiling like she knows something she shouldn’t. 

“Paige, thank you so much for coming.” She says, eyes flicking between them.  

“Thank you for having me, Christen. This was such a lovely experience. I’ve never baked to save my life.” 

“You’ve been an amazing guest. We really got some incredible shots. Although...” Christen gives a sly smile. “The editors are going to have a hell of a time cutting around all the flirting and eye contact.” 

Both Paige and Azzi blush instantly, avoiding each other’s gaze. 

Christen claps her hands lightly and waves them off.  

“Alright, you two. Have a good rest of your day.” 

- 

A shy knock at the door is heard. Mac has already vanished into editing and social media chaos, leaving Azzi alone in the dressing room. 

“Come in.” Her voice quivers, a little betrayed by the knowledge of who’s on the other side. 

She’s been expecting Paige to find her after filming. She has rehearsed the idea in her head a dozen times, and yet it still feels unprepared like a high school girl when she hears the blonde slip inside. 

“Hey!” Paige says carefully. She does a quick check if Azzi has company. 

Azzi catches it immediately, tilting her head with a smirk. “You found me alone.” 

“That I did.” Paige’s grin is shy, hiding her hands in the pocket of her hoodie. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you. For being such a good host and for being so patient with me. You were probably at your wits’ end with how bad my nonexistent baking skills are.” 

Azzi shakes her head, a small laugh rising. “You did a great job today, Rookie.” 

“Thanks.” Paige smiles, then hesitates. “So, you heading home after this?” 

“I should. But I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood to cook.” 

Paige takes a confident step closer to where Azzi is sitting. “Do you wanna go try Soy Cowboy with me?” 

“Soy Cowboy?” Azzi looks at Paige with a surprised look as she remembers what that means to her. “Are you—?” 

“Yes I am, Miss Fudd.” 

Azzi exhales, dizzy at the thought and the offer. “First date, huh?” 

Paige bites her lip, eyes bright and hopeful. “I mean… if you agree.” 

“All right, I’ll call you when I get there, mom.” Paige sighed as she hung up the call. 

She had been in the middle of packing for the off-season road trip she and her teammates planned when her mom called to check in with her. Apparently, a trip to Portland to experience the whole Twilight movie phenomenon had been picked by the team through lottery. 

Paige mentally cursed herself for letting Gabby write it as her dream destination. She vowed to ban her teammate the next time they would do this. 

Her house in Seattle felt restless in the late September. The walls glistened faintly, as if they had soaked up the day’s storm and were slowly leaking it back. 

Her suitcase sagged open on the bed, like the mouth of a beached fish gasping for air. She tossed clothes into it without thinking. Jeans, hoodies, and shirts falling in loose. They piled clumsily. Her arms worked faster than her mind, as if forward motion might keep her from being caught by something trailing close behind.    She heard her stomach grumble with hunger. She forgot the last time she ate a full meal. Theo's birthday party two days ago at Stewie’s, most probably. She could still remember how she demolished those barbecues and hotdogs. She also had to will herself into eating broccoli when the five-year-old birthday boy dropped some on her plate without much of an explanation other than "Eat Auntie Paigey, Mama said they're good for you."

She let out another sigh as her eyes fell on the chaotic mess of her suitcase. 

Shoes.  

She still needed to pack some shoes. 

When she crouched in front of the closet, her hand brushed a box. Cardboard, thin and soft, furred with dust. The writing on the lid stopped her. 

Black marker. 

Tiny letters written in a white tape. 

Its neatness struck like it could sting. 

Peanut Butter and Jelly 

It looked almost new with the ink too dark to belong to memory, yet her stomach dipped as if the words had been waiting for her. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. 

The box was warm against her palms, as if it had been waiting. Her fingers prickled. She lowered it to the carpet and folded herself down in front of it, throat knotted. She felt herself trying to suppress the incoming pain, but it felt like dragging her nails against old wallpaper. She tried to breathe through it, but it hovered, stubborn as an unpaid bill.  

The memories were ready to break through the smallest crack. It wasn’t cinematic grief either. Nobody was queuing up a violin soundtrack. It was the kind of ache that barged in uninvited and then pretended it had a reservation. 

This was a call to disaster. Paige already went through this for fifteen long months. Yet, she willed herself to endure it all over again. 

Hadn’t she had enough pain? 

Her thumb traced the letters, slow circles until the words seemed to blur and melt. She had always envied how exact Azzi’s handwriting was. Each letter was like a perfect little prison. 

She looked at the box for a few good minutes. It made her feel like Azzi was unbearably close, like she might be behind her, teasing how Paige still couldn’t pack her suitcase in an organized way.  

The mood pressed in thickly. The bedroom light gathered on the floor like something was watching, holding her in its glow. As if the room itself were waiting for her next move. 

Paige pressed her hands to her shins and tried to steady her breathing. The ache inside her chest brought by her own dilemma of a simple shoebox was almost sweet but also almost unbearable.  

Love and fear came at once, flooding her, catching at the base of her throat. It slowly felt like it was choking her without putting pressure on her breathing. It was like a dream where the danger was invisible but everywhere at once. 

The box waited, mute and patient. Almost understanding the battle between her brain and heart. As if it had been listening to her dilemma and heartbreak all along. 

Paige made her decision by curling her fingers under the lid and lifted. 

The bracelet was the first thing she saw. Small, almost shy against the dark lining of the shoebox. Plastic beads strung on a thread that had gone a little limp with time. Some beads bright as candy, others dull as river pebbles.  

Paige lifted it carefully, as though it might crumble, and rolled it in her palm. The beads were smoother than she remembered, polished by years of brushing against her wrist. It was as if the years had taught them to remember her better than she remembered herself. 

Her head was feeling heavier as she took a deep breath.  

The memories came swirling fast, not letting her hold on to reality that Azzi was no longer there. 

Paige sat very still. She could feel the room slightly tilting, like a glass about to spill. The air had that sour taste to it. It was like an old carpet in a forgetton section in the library.  

Something brushed the side of her walls. It sounded like an off-beat knock. 

Tap.  

Tap.  

Tap. 

She shut her eyes, not in fear, but the way you do when a song comes on that you can’t stand and can’t turn off. 

It yanked her straight back to the locker room at Gampel. She was greeted by the bleached tile with air heavy with sweat and detergent. She was nineteen again, all elbows and knees and paper-thin skin with dreams so loud they rang in her ears.  

And there she was, standing in front of Paige, so beautiful it felt like gravity was removed from Earth and left Paige floating. 

Azzi Fudd. 

A year younger than Paige, but strikingly stunning with her soft curls and her smooth brown skin.  

And a smile that took Paige’s breath away every time she saw it.  

She had kissed Paige Bueckers for the first time the night before. It was soft and quick, like testing the water before jumping in. And now here she was, showing up in the locker room on game day, palm sweating around a cheap little bracelet she’d decided was a good luck charm for Paige.  

“For luck.” Azzi murmured, sliding the bracelet over Paige’s wrist. “You don’t need it. But I’ll feel better if you wear it.” 

Paige had wanted to laugh. To say something about how shooting percentages had nothing to do with luck. And how accessories were not supposed to be worn during the game. 

But the warmth of Azzi’s fingers stayed. Burned. 

“Ugh!”  

Paige had to groan to leave from the memory. It was all too much. She curled her fist untl the bracelet bit her palm. It hurt in a way that made her want to hold on harder. It wasn’t a precious gift anymore. It was a time capsule disguised in mismatched color.  

The pain came not from seeing it, but from remembering the girl who had insisted she needed it.  

Paige set it on the floor, away from the box, as if returning it would undo her. She dug for the next thing, testing how deep the knife could go in her heart. 

The tickets were soft now, edges frayed like chewed fingernails.  

She found it at the bottom of the box, folded small, hiding like a mouse. She smoothed it against her leg, fragile as something left out in the rain.    Two tickets to the Minnesota Lynx vs. Phoenix Mercury game dated August 19, 2021. Their first WNBA game date. 

She remembered the roar of the crowd, the smell of hot pretzels, and the overpriced beer spilling on the floor. She remembered Azzi’s hand brushing the inside of wrist. Accidental at first, then not. 

“You’ll be a legend like Diana Taurasi someday.” Azzi had said somewhere in the third quarter when Diana hit a three to tie the game. 

Her voice was swallowed by the screaming crowd, but Paige heard her anyway. She didn’t celebrate her favorite player’s shot, only the way her heart fluttered at how fiercely Azzi believed in her. She smiled at her girl then, letting her palm shift until it held Azzi’s hand fully.  

Paige stared until the print dissolved, until the ticket stubs were just a blur of ink and years. She thought about dropping them to the nearest trash can. It would probably lessen the violent feeling of tearing them into pieces. As much as she wanted to unstitch herself from the pain, throwing them away without damaging them somehow still served as a little respect of the memory it held. 

But her hands wouldn't move. 

Because it wasn’t her memory she was protecting.  

Not really. 

It was Azzi’s. 

And that felt dangerous somehow, like feeding a stray animal that may never come back. 

She folded the stubs again, smaller this time. She pressed the crease hard with her thumbnail until it nearly tore. Then, she tossed it back to the box. 

Paige thought she had enough of this torture. She needed a break and a tall glass of water. Maybe the whole jug. 

But as her fingers hovered over the lid, a polaroid stared back. Patient. Merciless. Daring. It was like calling her attention. A little square assassin, waiting for her touch. Waiting to split her chest open and scatter what was left of her heart across the floor for the millionth time. 

The polaroid was bent a little at one corner, soft from years of thumbing. Paige picked it up and held it between two fingers. Almost careful, almost cruel, as if pressure would change what was printed there. 

She was looking at portrait of Azzi sitting on the floor, grinning with her half braids. She was at the other end of the carpet with a slice of chicken raised toward the camera. There was a pizza box gaping beside them. They just moved into their new apartment with the help of Azzi’s younger brother who took the photo.  

Paige could still remember the taste of tomato sauce, the grease, and the little red moons of pepperoni curling the edges. She remembered how Azzi flicked her forehead for not ordering Hawaiian. 

“Because pineapple does not belong to pizza, babe.” Paige teased. 

She could remember the way Azzi rolled her eyes at her before leaning over to smear sauce on her cheek and on her newly issued Seattle Storm practice shirt.  

Paige remembered herself laughing and pulling Azzi for a kiss, whispering sweet nothings as they both agreed this was now their home. 

A tear was threatening to fall.  

Paige felt the echo of the heartbreak now. It rose sudden, lush, like vines bursting through a wall.  

She placed the photo on top of the lid. Their smiles were too bright, too innocent. They were too in love. As if they knew a secret future where everything stayed whole.  

She reached for the picture again, thumb grazing Azzi’s face. The film paper was cool, but the memory was fevered. She saw the moment so clearly, she could step into it. She bet she could hear Azzi’s beautiful laugh rising like a flock of birds that startled into air. 

For a moment she did not dare to breathe. 

Then the sound of her phone notification was unforgivable, yet it saved her from being broken again, even for a few minutes. Paige should’ve been grateful.  

- 

It had been an hour and a half since Paige opened that box, but it felt like it was just a second ago. 

She had already moved to the kitchen, leaving her open suitcase behind, packing forgotten. She might just bring her wallet and phone tomorrow when Gabby would come to pick her up. 

Paige could not keep her hands still. She opened cupboards, closed them again with such force that the jars clinked like startled bones. The countertop was crowded with half-thought decisions. Mugs had been pulled out, then pushed back. There was a spoon abandoned in a puddle of spilled tea. The kitchen seemed to inhale, holding its breath, every surface waiting for her to break first. 

By nine in the evening, she gave up and went outside. The night air was judgmental and unfriendly, soft with the smell of wet mulch and someone else’s cigarettes. She picked up the ball and began to shoot in her driveway. One arc, then another.  

The sound quivered through the pavement, as if the ground had its own pulse and resented being woken. She kept shooting anyway, each breath dragging slow as if the night itself wanted to keep her outside, because the alternative was going back inside and staring at the box she shouldn't have opened. 

Paige gripped the ball hard. Her frustration and anger on herself, strong and evident with how she was gasping for air and how her sweat was falling like it also wanted to escape the memories.  

She closed her eyes and tried to disconnect with everything related to Azzi Fudd. 

The box of Azzi’s favorite perfume waited untouched on the dresser, the one Paige had bought the day before everything shattered. She had meant it as a congratulations gift, a small celebration of Azzi’s new job.  

The job in London.  

The deciding factor and the one that split the floor beneath her feet and sent her spinning, breathless. 

If it was not for the cold, Paige would’ve stayed longer outside.  

She went back inside the house, leaving the ball rolling crookedly toward the garage door. Her head and chest both ached with the memories she thought she had forgotten. 

When she stepped into the foyer, she saw the versions of her and Azzi a little over a year ago. Screaming, crying, arguing over Azzi’s decision to leave, and Paige’s anger over not knowing the job offer was in another country. 

The box was a betrayal of the night, like a time machine sent to her to use as a reminder to herself of the happiness, the pain, and the love that was lost. 

“Why didn’t you tell me it was in London?”  

Paige could still remember her gasping for air as she tried to sound normal when asking Azzi the million-dollar question. 

“I applied for a position here in Seattle.” Azzi hiccupped, not minding her tears ruining her make up. They were supposed to go out for dinner. “But they read my resume and they think I best fit in their main office in London.” 

“And you’re thinking of going?” It wasn’t much of a question as Paige already knew Azzi had made her decision.  

“It’s Chanel, Paige. How in the world should I’ve known I’d get a better offer without much experience? I didn’t think of it much when I sent my resume for the Marketing Assistant position.” 

“I do! I know you’d get in. You’re amazing and talented in fashion, Az. I’d know you’d get in.” Paige cried her heart out. “I just didn’t know it’s halfway across the damn world.” 

“I’m sorry, Paige. Fuck! I didn’t even know they’re looking for someone in London.”” 

“No.”  

Paige closed her eyes as she could still mouth the words she said to Azzi that night, word for word. 

“No, Az. I’m sorry. I should be happy for you. This is your dream. I couldn’t stop you, even if I wanted to.” 

And just like that, Paige was crying a river again, or a whole fucking ocean. 

The memory pressed its claws into her chest, pulling the ache wide open. The room seemed to lean toward her, shadows stretching long across the living room floor as if they wanted to watch. Even the air seemed to close in, thick and unyielding, brushing her skin like a hand that wouldn’t let go. It held her there, suspended in the ache, until her heart ached with the effort of staying still as she remembered the words. 

“You should go to London.” 

- 

Paige stared at her phone like it might bite. Her reflection floated in the black screen, warped, unkind. She typed before she could think herself out of it. 

Hey! Found the box with your stuff. 

Send. 

The words went out into the void. The kitchen seemed to notice, humming louder, cabinets and floorboards holding their breath. Paige flipped the phone over, then back again, pulse jumping with every second of silence. 

Time dragged forever. She didn’t know what she was waiting for exactly. They cut off their communication a month after Azzi left. 

By the time Gabby honked, the air felt unbreathable. Paige shoved the phone into her back pocket and stepped out. Morning clung to her skin, pale and chill. The sky was still a little dark, the sun still low enough to make the neighborhood look unfinished, as if someone had forgotten to color it all the way in. 

Gabby's Jeep rattled down the road, tires skimming puddles that reflected whatt was left of the moon in broken pieces. Her phone buzzed, relentless with the group chat‘s memes, gossips, and somebody asking why their new admin assistant was working in their facilities until two in the morning.   

None of it mattered. Not without Azzi’s name lighting the screen. 

Trees lined the road like a jury. Pines bending slightly, conferring with each other as the Jeep passed. Paige rested her forehead against the glass and let the hum of the engine blur her thoughts into shapeless forms.

She ignored Sky and Gabby arguing over who was better, Christina or Britney. She closed her eyes and tried to tune their bickering out. Nneka was asleep beside her at the backseat. She passed out even before they left Paige’s driveway. 

When they reached their rented cabin, Paige could smell cedar and something smoky in the air, like the ghosts of last summer’s firepit. She dropped her bag by the door, phone already in her hand before she knew she'd reach for it. 

It had the one notification from the person she was waiting for. 

Azzi. 

Thanks for keeping them. They’re proof of us. 

Paige sat down hard on the couch. The words were too gentle for how deep they cut.  

Proof of them.  

Proof they had existed.  

Proof she hadn't dream any of it.  

Her body shook like it would break and open, like the message had reached in and wanted to rearrange her organs for fun. 

azzi fudd does not like girls. of course, it’s okay if other girls like girls; she doesn’t care. it’s just that she is definitely not one of those girls. she likes boys…she thinks? not that it matters, anyway. her dad always tells her, “at this age, all you need to be interested in is playing with dirt.” so maybe she just doesn’t like anyone yet. and maybe, when she’s bigger, she will like someone, and maybe that someone could be a girl. like, hypothetically. but, no. of course not. she just can’t see it. 

it’s why, when her friend josie asks her at recess if she’s gay, she firmly shakes her head and says, “no, definitely not.” 

the little girl across from her continues adding onto their stick castle, unfazed. “me neither,” she shrugs. “but my sister is. she has a girlfriend named ruby.”

azzi tries to hide her thoughts, which feel naughty, somehow, even though they’re objectively tame: two girls holding hands, going on dates, sharing milkshakes like couples do in the movies. azzi doesn’t think much about those kind of things; that’s probably the reason for the butterflies in her tummy at the thought. “is she…nice?” josie glances up and azzi says, “your sister. is she?”

“yeah,” josie says, shrugging again. “i love her. she’s my sister.” 

azzi furrows her eyebrows, mindlessly drawing her fingers through the dirt to create shapes as she considers this. “do you think being a girl who likes girls is…okay?”

“lesbian,” josie says. “that’s what it’s called, when a girl likes girls.” 

the word is pretty, coming up colorful in her imagination, and azzi thinks it’s fitting. “oh, okay. so is it?”

“of course. anyone can like whoever they like.” josie adds a final stick to the castle, holding her hands out to make sure it doesn’t fall over. “should we add a flag to our castle?” 

and, like any seven-year-old, azzi’s immediately distracted, too busy searching for a good enough leaf for their little universe to think any further on this whole gay thing. 

at least, not until dinner. 

she’s picking at her green beans, playing the word in her mouth, liking how it feels around her tongue; lesbian. 

“thinking out loud again, az,” katie says. azzi’s always talked to herself, as she finds it comforting; she enjoys hearing what her thoughts sound like outside of her head. when she was a toddler, her mom taught her how to whisper it. now that she’s seven, katie’s trying to break the habit for good. 

tim, on the other hand, has been working his hardest to dethrone katie’s efforts. “it’s okay, sweetie, it’s cute,” he says, patting azzi’s head affectionately. 

“she needs to learn,” katie sighs, though a small smile plays on her lips. 

“she’s a baby,” tim argues. 

“am not,” azzi says defiantly, because she is lots of things but a baby is not one of them. she is a big girl, dammit. (when she told this to her mom, katie told her not to use that word. now azzi only says it in her head.) “i’m seven.” 

“see?” katie says proudly. “she’s seven.”

“well, she’s my baby.”

as her silly parents pretend to argue, azzi’s mind, ever active, wanders again. to her friend’s big sister, who she met once at a birthday party. to the girlfriend, ruby. to the word: lesbian. 

“mom,” she pipes up, and she speaks much more quietly than her parents but they still hear her and turn to her right away. 

“what’s up, babe?” katie asks, smiling gently at azzi. 

“are lesbians…okay?”

she watches closely for her mother’s reaction, because her mom knows everything and all azzi really knows is her mom. so when her mother’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch, azzi turns to her dad, confused. he looks back at her, carefully blank-faced. 

“guys?” azzi says, a little lost. 

that’s what it takes to break them, clearly, because in the next second azzi’s parents are laughing behind their hands, trying their best not to let azzi see, but again, she’s not dumb. “don’t laugh,” azzi whines, doing her very best not to stomp her foot. 

“i’m sorry,” katie giggles, waving a hand through the air. “you’re right, i’m sorry.”

“we just think you’re cute,” tim adds, which definitely doesn’t help. azzi pouts, which only seems to make tim think she’s cuter. dammit. 

“are you trying to ask if it’s, like, okay to be a lesbian?” katie says, clearly trying her hardest to keep a smile off her face. 

well, now azzi doesn’t even want to follow through with the question. but when she crosses her arms, closing up, her mom reaches out to stop her and says, “it’s okay, honey,” patting her reassuringly on the arm. “i understand what you’re trying to say. you just worded it funny.”

tim nods in agreement, encouraging her on. “yeah, it’s all good. we know what you meant.”

“to answer the question you were trying to ask,” katie says, a small smile playing at her lips despite herself, “yes, it’s okay to be a lesbian. there’s nothing wrong with it.” she nudges azzi’s plate toward her, motioning at her broccoli as she continues, “do you wanna share why you’re asking?” 

azzi bites her lip as she studies her broccoli, which she usually quite likes (it is fairy trees, after all, according to her parents). but she ignores them, still feeling petty from being laughed at. “josie’s sister is a lesbian. and so she asked me if i was a lesbian, and i told her no, and she said she wasn’t, either. but then i was thinking about it a little more.” her eyebrows furrow as she concentrates, unaware that it makes her look really interested in the broccoli. “am i lesbian?” 

to her relief, her parents don’t laugh again. (if she were to look up, she’d see them hiding behind their hands and taking deep breaths to contain themselves among the hilarity of their daughter having a crisis about her sexuality at the ripe age of seven.

azzi keeps her head firmly down.) 

“well, have you ever had a crush on a girl?” katie ventures, reaching out to thumb azzi’s chin, getting her to lift her head. 

shyly, azzi does, shrugging. “i don’t know. i don’t think i’ve ever had a crush on anyone before.” 

“that’s good,” tim pipes in. “because all you need to be interested in is playing with dirt, young lady.” he points his fork accusingly at azzi, and she giggles, lightening up. 

“it’s okay to have or not have crushes,” katie says, rolling her eyes fondly at her husband. “you just probably won’t know who you like until you start having those feelings.” 

azzi looks from her dad to her mom, then back again, then down once again to her plate. her parents know everything in the world. surely they’re right. and what she’s hearing is she doesn’t have to worry about it yet, which is awesome. in her relatively short time being alive, she’s learned little about herself, but one thing has been as unchanging as her brown eyes and curly hair; she loves her some procrastination, and she hates making choices. 

thus, this is wonderful news. 

satisfied, azzi pops a broccoli in her mouth. “thanks, guys.” 

later that night, tim tells katie: “we’re telling that story at her wedding.”

okay, so, azzi fudd might actually like girls. 

she had been able to keep her peace for longer than most. at thirteen, she’s a little late to be having her first crush—at least, that’s what her friends say—but she’s not upset about it. she’d loved her life, her friends, her parents, all the love and affection she got and gave that was decidedly not romantic or complicated. 

she’s not scared of crushes, per se, or romance or relationships or all the other things she’s just beginning to really learn about. she’s just not exactly obsessed with the idea. she doesn’t particularly want to hold someone’s hand through the hallways, or exchange awkward hugs, or…and she shudders to think…kiss someone. 

it’s safe to say she’s therefore not exactly elated at the arrival of these new, definitely not platonic feelings taking root inside her chest. it’s almost even worse that they’re for a girl, because she’s used to being comfortable around girls; she wasn’t prepared to be made a blushing, stuttering mess in front of one. 

of course, she can’t keep this to herself. azzi’s a fairly private person, even at her young age, but she’s still able to recognize when she needs to get something off her chest and talk about it. the mixture of these traits causes her to only feel truly trusting of one singular person: her dog, stewie. 

“she’s really pretty,” azzi explains, lying on her stomach in front of stewie, so they’re now to nose. “and she’s nice to me. plus she’s good at basketball. i just…i feel so dumb around her, you know? like, i forget everything i know. and i usually know a lot of things.” 

stewie stares at her, and then gives a long-suffering sigh and lays her head down. azzi sighs, too, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “what should i do? do i tell her? but she’s probably not gay.” at that, azzi frowns, then rubs a hand over her aching eyes. “am i gay? i have to be, right?” 

glancing over her shoulder, azzi looks to stewie for guidance. “i might like boys too; i just don’t know.” feeling about as dramatic as the dog, azzi sighs loudly. “not knowing kinda sucks.” 

stewie places a paw on azzi’s arm. azzi smiles sadly. “thanks, stew. but i just can’t be comforted right now.” 

katie pokes her head around the corner, peeking into where azzi’s lying on the living room floor. “you okay, az?”

“yeah,” azzi calls back. “just talking to the dog.” 

there’s a long silence, then a resigned, “that’s nice, honey,” before katie returns back to the kitchen. 

she long ago gave up on trying to break azzi’s habit of talking to herself. 

when she finds that talking about it isn’t enough, and that she probably needs real advice from somebody who speaks the same language as her, she’s reluctant to go to her mom. 

it’s not because she doesn’t trust her mom, or that she’s nervous to come out to her, it’s just that, well. azzi thinks her mom’s pretty old at this point, and she’s been with the same person for the last twelve years. azzi somewhat doubts how accurate or valuable katie’s input would be on this subject. of course, it seems to make much more sense to ask a friend, someone who knows what it’s like to be in eighth grade, having your first crush. 

it’s how she ends up across from josie again, except this time they’re at a cafeteria table, playing tic tac toe on the napkin between them. while josie’s distracted thinking about a move, azzi spits out, “when did your sister know she’s a lesbian?” 

josie glances up with raised eyebrows. “um…why?”

“no reason,” azzi says. 

josie sets her pen down and crosses her arms on the table before fixing azzi with an unsettlingly piercing stare. she doesn’t say anything, just…watches, like she’s seeing straight into azzi’s brain. it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. 

“stop that,” azzi says. 

josie taps her fingers expectantly on the table. 

“okay,” azzi gives, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly. “i guess i might…be wondering…about myself.” 

“you’re wondering if you’re a lesbian?” josie asks. 

azzi flushes at it being put so bluntly like that. “maybe…? kinda. i dunno. i just thought i’d gather more information.”

“well, do you like girls?” josie asks. 

“i think i have a crush on scarlett,” azzi admits, pinning her focus on their half-played game on the napkin so she doesn’t have to watch josie’s reaction. 

there’s hardly even a pause, though, as josie continues her investigation. “do you like boys, too?”

and there it is—the dreaded question. honestly, she finds it a little easier coming to terms with the fact that she might be gay, than wondering whether she actually likes boys. because if she does, that’s okay; it’s all she’s known, after all. but it also comes with a whole new slew of questions: is it possible to like both? and if not, does she just have to…like, choose a side? and then there’s the question of whether she can change her mind after making her choice, or if she just has to stick with it.

azzi puts her head in her hands, stressed right the fuck out, because god this whole thing is sounding like a lot of choices and decisions. and she just. doesn’t do awesome with choices or decisions. 

“are you about to cry?” josie asks, slightly hesitant but mostly curious. 

azzi peeks out from between her fingers. “this feels overwhelming.” 

“it’s okay if you don’t know,” josie says, clearly doing her best to be reassuring. “my parents say sexuality is fluid and it can change all the time. like, even when you’re eighty.” 

azzi scrunches up her nose. she can’t, nor does she want to, imagine herself as an old, wrinkly raisin. “okay. but how do i know?”

sympathetically, josie leans across the table to pat her shoulder. “you might never.” 

“never?” azzi shouts, loud enough that a few other girls turn their heads to stare. she’s honestly too panicked to notice. “as in, i could die not knowing?” 

josie looks far too unbothered by all of this for azzi’s tastes. “i think so, yeah.” 

there’s this hollow, sinking, panicky feeling in her chest. it’s like she’s falling into an abyss with no way out. oh god. is this her first existential crisis? 

she needs something—more reassurance and more information. in fact, she needs to take notes on this shit. but before she can ask for a pen and paper, a warm pair of hands grasp her shoulders from behind, and she startles. 

“hey, guys,” scarlett says, because of course it’s scarlett. azzi wants to dig a hole and put herself there. “what’re you talking about?”

azzi makes a face at josie, and to josie’s credit, her face doesn’t change much. “nothin’. you wanna sit with us?”

scarlett happily accepts, sliding into the bench beside azzi. and for the rest of her lunch period, she has to endure josie making eyebrows at her and silently urging her to make a move. she’s never telling josie her secrets again.

okay, azzi fudd actually might just like one girl. 

when they first met, paige was annoying, cocky, even rude. she followed azzi around like a puppy, telling her stupid jokes and poking at her, constantly trying to get a rise out of her even as she refused to give their other teammates the time of day. azzi wasn’t sure why paige, this amazing basketball player who admittedly worked incredibly well with azzi on the court, chose azzi to become the object of her affections. but now, a year later, it appears all of paige’s antics and annoying tendencies have worked a little too well. 

when they first met, azzi would have never pictured herself tip-toeing into the guest bedroom in her house, only two doors down from her own room, and walking silently to the side of the bed, seeking comfort from that very same annoying, clingy girl from basketball tryouts. but here she is. and honestly, azzi can’t complain about it. 

as she approaches the bed, she’s conflicted on whether to wake paige; she loves her sleep and hates being woken up, but also, it might be weird for her to wake up next to azzi tomorrow morning with no warning. so, azzi sighs, reaching down to gently jostle her best friend. “paige,” she whispers, trying to wake her gently. “paige, can i sleep in here?”

paige groans, scrunching her face at the disturbance. “what?” she yawns. 

“can i sleep in here?” azzi asks. “with you?” the last part comes out more vulnerable than she intended. paige’s eyes crack open, but there’s already a small smile on her face; azzi guesses she just realized who was waking her. 

“‘course,” she says, sitting up and pushing the comforter down, scooting over to give azzi room. azzi crawls in, sitting with her legs folded underneath her, and for a moment it’s just the two of them, staring at each other through the darkness their eyes adjusted to, if only to see each other. azzi’s the first to look away bashfully, and paige scratches the back of her neck. “you alright?”

the simple question is enough to thrill the bones of her spine, the cavern of her stomach. paige is always checking up on her, like azzi’s happiness and wellbeing is her responsibility, like they’re together. it’s one of the many odd quirks of their relationship that they have yet to address. 

“i’m good,” azzi says, “just had a bad dream.” 

“what was it about?” paige asks, subconsciously shifting closer. 

“um,” azzi says, a little embarrassed. but, having known paige for a year now, she’s quickly become her best friend and they talk about everything. and paige, nonchalant and cool around everyone else, always knows exactly the right thing to say. azzi takes a deep breath; paige’s chest rises and falls, taking one with her. “well, when i was little, i was at mass with my parents and the priest gave this sermon about purgatory. it was…gory, like super detailed, and it scared the hell out of me. dunno why i still have nightmares about it, though.”

the thing is, the nightmare itself isn’t that bad; just a childlike sequence of what her six-year-old self pictured from the priest’s words that day. it’s the after, the waking—she wakes feeling deeply disturbed, often finding tear tracks on her cheeks or that she was clutching her chest in her sleep, always breathing heavily. scared for her life, and worse, feeling silly about it. 

paige frowns at her. “is it hard for you to fall back asleep afterward?”

a little sheepishly, azzi nods. “i’m usually up for awhile, if i’m even able to fall back asleep at all.” she realizes at once that paige, who loves her sleep, might not want azzi imposing on her rest. “i can go back to my room, if you want. it’s not a big deal.” 

“no, no.” paige reaches forward and clasps a hand over azzi’s own where they’re folded nervously in her lap. azzi looks down at the gesture, at the warm shape of paige’s hand over her own, and she flushes. paige does, too, but she doesn’t pull away, instead looking azzi in the eye. there’s something open there, something so transparent, so desperate, that it almost makes azzi anxious that paige is going to say something. to try to put a name to whatever may be between them, but may not? because there is the very real possibility this is all in azzi’s head. paige does have a tendency to be flirty with all of her friends, after all. 

“stay with me,” paige says after another moment. azzi’s knuckles burn, which isn’t an unusual sensation when it comes to paige’s skin on her’s—something that’s also been happening more often lately. “you should have some company.” 

azzi shifts, making to crawl under the covers before she’s aware she’s doing it, and paige watches her for a moment before twisting around to grab the remote. as soon as the tv’s on, azzi loosens up a little, the blue light making the room a lot less scary. 

“watchu wanna watch?” paige asks, snuggling into the pillows so they’re laying side-by-side. when she moves her arm, it brushes azzi’s, and she’s already getting warm from the amount of heat they’re conducting under the blankets. or maybe that’s just her skin reacting to paige being close. 

“grey’s?” azzi suggests. 

paige is already navigating to the show. “good answer.” 

once the show’s on, paige tosses the remote to the side and scoots slightly closer to azzi, so their hips and thighs are pressed together. as the intro starts playing, azzi leans a little more heavily into paige, so their arms are pressed together too, and when paige doesn’t move away she tentatively lays her head on her shoulder, trying her hardest to act casual. they’re physically affectionate in purely casual, platonic ways, but azzi’s always been too nervous to really cuddle her like she does her other friends. 

of course, paige doesn’t even react, blissfully unaware of azzi’s budding feelings for her. azzi’s jealous of how calm paige seems, with her own heartbeat trying to beat out of her chest at their proximity. the room’s dark, the nighttime providing a cover and making every small move and breath feel heavier. under the covers, paige’s fingers brush azzi’s thigh, and she can’t help but shiver. 

“you still scared?” paige asks gently, bringing her arm up to wrap around azzi’s lower back, holding her closer. azzi shivers again, and she’s glad for the excuse, even though it makes her look totally lame. 

“a little,” she lies, trying to let herself relax into paige’s hand on her waist, but she’s suddenly too aware of herself, uncomfortably self-conscious. 

“it’s all good,” paige mumbles, pressing her lips to azzi’s hair. “i got you, az.” 

god, why does her best friend have to be so perfect? it’s like she’s trying to make azzi fall in love with her, or something. 

not that she’s in love with paige. and hopefully, this crush will never get to that point. hopefully it’ll only last for another, like, fifteen to twenty business days, at most. she honestly can’t handle much more. 

“god, this show is so gross,” paige says before azzi can respond. she refocuses back on the tv and yeah, someone’s currently getting cut open on an operating table. 

“maybe i’ll become a doctor,” azzi says, mostly to mess with her. “that way, if you ever need a surgeon one day, i’ll be the one cutting into you.”

azzi angles her face up, looking for a reaction, and she gets one in the way paige side-eyes her before shuffling away, detaching their bodies. “i’m scared.”

azzi laughs, shoving paige’s arm before settling against the pillows. “what? i’d be a great doctor.”

“i think you should stick to basketball. for the general safety of the public.”

azzi rolls her eyes at her best friend’s dramatics. “yeah, whatever.” 

paige huffs and settles back into the pillows, chewing the string of her hoodie and crossing her arms over her chest as she focuses back on the show. azzi watches her for a moment, admiring the slope of her nose and the way her jaw works before catching herself and looking away. she’s really, really beautiful, azzi thinks. no girl has never look like that before; no girl has ever looked at her the way paige does before. azzi wants to be held again, sort of regrets that paige stopped cuddling her, even though it made her heart race unpleasantly. 

paige shifts, and azzi automatically does, too, laying on her side and propping her head up on her hand. but then she’s too close all of a sudden, and azzi does a 180, rolling onto her other side and tucking the blanket up under her chin. paige’s body is warm and steady behind hers, and she almost subconsciously shifts back towards her. she closes her eyes, not even bothering to look at the tv anymore—she’s clearly becoming delirious. she just needs to sleep. 

she shimmies further into the comforter, resettling once more in an attempt to get perfectly comfy, but then paige reaches out and place a hand on her hip. “z.”

azzi stops in her tracks, not daring to glance at the hand on her hip. instead, she focuses straight ahead at the wall in front of her. “yeah?”

“you’re wiggling.”

“sorry,” azzi says sheepishly. 

paige isn’t silent for a second, and azzi waits for her to move her hand, but it never happens; instead, it slides further up her waist as paige shifts to face her. “azzi?” 

“uh-huh?”

“it’s lowkey kinda cold in here.”

mind you, the room is definitely not cold. a solid 73. perfectly comfortable. in fact, azzi’s a little warm under the covers. 

but with paige’s hand sliding over her waist like that, she suddenly shivers a little. “yeah,” she says quietly. “i’m a little cold.”

“well, uh…” paige’s hand travels achingly slowly to the soft flesh of her tummy, holding her gently over her oversized sleep shirt, and azzi might throw up, “maybe we should, like, conserve our body heat, or something.” 

oh, god. this definitely isn’t in her head, right? it’s really happening? 

is paige this homoerotic with all her friends? azzi can’t recall ever witnessing paige doing this with anyone else. if she did, she’d probably want to claw her eyes out, anyway. so that’s probably for the best. 

“that’s probably a good idea,” azzi says, intentionally trying not to sound too eager. “we’ll sleep better that way.” 

“definitely.” paige hesitates another moment; azzi can feel her hovering right behind her. “so, can i…?”

“yes,” azzi says, intuitively grabbing paige’s hand and pulling it up to her chest so she’s hugging her arm. paige takes the hint, settling down behind her, pressing the length of her torso against azzi’s, getting closer to her than maybe they’ve ever gotten before. she tucks a leg between azzi’s, an arm under her head, and then presses her forehead to the back of azzi’s curls. 

“this is definitely better,” paige mumbles into her hair. azzi can’t help but smile a little, because despite the weight of the situation, her best friend is still an idiot. 

“be quiet now,” azzi mutters, easing into the feeling of being in paige’s arms like this. “lemme sleep.” 

“alright,” paige says. “night, az.”

“night, p,” azzi whispers. 

this crush is probably not going away any time soon. 

yeah, azzi fudd definitely has a big, fat, decidedly lesbian crush on her best friend. she’s known this for awhile now, but somehow, it still gets to her all the same. gets to them all the same. because as much as azzi tries to hide her feelings, there’s only so much tension she can avoid before they’re clashing. and considering she’s pretty sure paige has the same feelings back—yeah, they’ve been arguing a lot these days. 

“so what, paige?” she asks, throwing her hands up. “why do you care? it’s not like we’re dating or anything.” 

paige leans against the opposite wall, looking at her like she’s crazy. “this is my dorm, azzi! why the fuck would i want to watch some guy press you up against the wall of my kitchen? y’all damn near broke the fuckin’ spice rack, for god’s sake.” 

“you threw a house party and expected all the guests to leave room for jesus?” azzi scoffs. 

“i’on care what anyone else does, azzi!” paige yells, loud even over the music thumping outside the bedroom from the house party still currently taking place. “i just—it’s you. i don’t wanna see you like that, dude.” 

they’ve always been competitive; they already are as individuals and so it quickly became a significant portion of their dynamic. this is why azzi has decided that, out of the two of them, she’s the best at hiding her feelings. she’s careful with it, staring only when she knows paige won’t catch it, letting her hands linger for only a few moments longer than necessary. paige, on the other hand, rubs azzi’s back and pulls her into her lap and tries to kiss her when they’re drunk, only making an attempt at hiding it by calling her ‘dude’ on occasion. which almost makes it more gay. 

“you don’t wanna see me like that unless it’s with you,” azzi corrects, because she’s drunk and paige has been pissing her off all day. she flirted with at least ten fans at the game today, then rejected her facetime earlier with the excuse of being, ‘busy getting ready.’ they’ve always gotten ready together on the phone. 

azzi’s usually good at leaving things unsaid, letting paige be avoidant and pretending nothing’s going on right along with her, even though they both know that they both know better. she’s usually great at playing into paige’s sick little games. but not today. and especially not three drinks in. 

“knock that shit off, azzi,” paige says, and she’s tipsy too, definitely; in fact, she was licking salt off azzi’s collarbone and taking a shot from her belly button just an hour ago. but then paige decided to tell azzi she was going to the bathroom and disappeared for twenty minutes, only to be found surrounded by a group of girls practically lavishing her with praise. it was disgusting. 

of course, azzi had to retaliate by making out with one of the football guys, the exact one paige has always been weird about, telling azzi she thinks he’s creepy and that she should stop talking to him altogether. it definitely never had anything to do with her own jealousy and possessiveness when it came to azzi. and that definitely isn’t the real reason why they’re fighting now. 

if she’s being honest, these buried feelings have been at the root of all their fights for awhile now. 

but azzi’s sick of dropping hints. if paige wants to be dumb, let her be dumb. “stop telling me what to do like that. acting like my mom or something.”

“i wouldn’t need to act like your mom if you didn’t do dumb shit all the time,” paige snaps. 

“fuck you, paige,” azzi nearly laughs, and not because anything’s funny. it’s just a little ironic that paige is calling her the dumb one. “do you know how fucking stupid you are?” 

“at least i’m not hoeing around campus!” paige shouts, gesturing towards azzi. 

“oh, shut up, i know you were even worse your freshman year.” azzi wants to tack on that she wouldn’t be hoeing around if paige would actually grow up and do something about them, but she doesn’t. there will always be a little generosity inside her for paige, even when they’re arguing. 

“that was different,” paige says, defensive. “you weren’t here yet. i didn’t make you watch it. actually, i did my fucking best to hide it from you.” 

“why, paige?” azzi presses, putting her hands on her hips. as soon as she says it, paige realizes what she’s implied and shrinks a little. she set herself up, and while azzi knows that means she’ll win this argument, it also means this conversation will once again be shut down and postponed. and she’s enjoyed the pining, the flirting, the arguing. she quite liked making paige jealous, messing with her, getting under her skin, all while paige does the same to her. but they’ve done plenty of that; hell, they’ve been doing it for four years. she’s ready for a real conversation about what they are. she’s ready to be paige’s. 

when paige doesn’t answer, azzi motions for her to talk. “no, seriously, tell me. why did it matter to you whether i knew about who you slept with? why’d you bother to keep it a secret from me, when i know all your other friends knew?” 

“let’s just forget it, azzi,” paige says, doing what she does best: brushing her off. “just get a room next time and we’re good.” 

azzi scoffs, then full-out laughs, something humorless and almost bordering on mean, but she’s too drunk to care. “we both know you wouldn’t care if it was another one of your friends,” she says. paige averts her gaze, avoiding eye contact. “you just don’t like seeing me with other people.”

“azzi,” paige says, pleading. 

azzi darkens, a storm cloud hovering over her whole mood, a consequence of the argument. “if you’d fucking admit it i’d never even look at anyone else,” she hisses, gesturing at the closed door. “i would be out there with you. but you won’t. so i am perfectly within my right to fuck other people if i want to.” 

paige’s eyes are wide, mouth falling slightly open like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how, or what she even wants to say. azzi rolls her eyes, frustration surging at her annoying best friend, and she doesn’t want to fight about this anymore. outside the door, music thumps, reminding her that there’s a party going on, and she has no obligation to stay here and entertain paige anymore. with that thought, and seeing that paige clearly isn’t going to say anything, azzi turns to leave. 

she’s halfway out the door when paige comes up behind her and takes her by the waist, effectively stopping her in her tracks. “baby, hold up.”

azzi gives paige her firiest glare over her shoulder. “don’t baby me.” 

“where you goin’?” paige asks, acting like she didn’t say anything. “c’mon, stay with me.”

azzi raises an eyebrow, mostly at the audacity. “are you ready to man up?”

paige’s hands falter on her waist. azzi scoffs, pulling out of her grip. “don’t even talk to me.” 

this time, paige lets her walk away, releasing her waist as her arms fall limply at her sides. azzi’s pleased to have the space, but still hot, upset with yet another frustrating end to that particular argument.  

“did y’all kiss and make up yet?” nika asks when azzi reenters the kitchen. azzi shakes her head, filling two shot glasses. “damn. that bad, huh?”

“she just pisses me off.” azzi brings one shot to her lip and downs it, wincing. “if she wants my vagina so bad,” she coughs, “she can be a big girl and ask for it.” 

nika watches with raised eyebrows as she takes the other shot. “you want me to talk to her?”

azzi scoffs. “please. it’s like talking to a wall. she can’t hear anyone else over the sound of her own thoughts.” 

nika wraps a reassuring arm around her. “she has been acting like a dumbass lately.” 

“i’m starting to think she’s genuinely slow.” azzi’s already pouring herself up another one, even though the alcohol is starting to hurt her tummy already. “all i can do is try not to think of her. i can’t let it ruin my night.” 

“i mean, period,” nika says, sounding doubtful. “but how’re you gonna not think of her while we’re actively partying at her place?”

jokes on her, azzi’s already eyeing a new prospect across the living room. it’s one of the hockey girls, blonde-haired and blue-eyed and oh, this is going to drive paige insane. 

it must show on her face that she’s plotting, because nika nervously look across the room to see what she’s thinking. “what? what’re you looking at?”

azzi simply points across the room. “who’s that?” 

nika searches, eyes scanning the packed living room for a few more seconds before she finally sees who azzi’s looking at. “olivia? no, girl. she’s a heartbreaker.” 

azzi shrugs; why should she care? she doesn’t want emotional involvement, anyway. in fact, if her plan goes accordingly, she shouldn’t get very far into an interaction with this olivia girl at all. 

“you know her?” is what azzi focuses on, because if nika knows her, paige might, too, and that would just be perfect. 

“not well,” nika says. “she’s just kinda an asshole. paige doesn’t fuck with her at all.” 

that perks azzi’s interest, and the corners of her lips quirk up involuntarily. “is that so.”

“uh-huh. she never really told us why, though.” 

this must be luck, or maybe her ancestors coming together to reward her for everything she’s put up with this year. either way, she sees her chance, and she’d be paige levels of stupid not to take it. 

taking her last shot, azzi pushes off the counter, ready to conquer the world. or, at least, ready to change the trajectory of she and paige’s entire friendship. the two feel one in the same. 

“you should be careful,” nika warns, but it’s of no use; azzi’s already set her plan in motion. 

“paige is gonna be mad,” nika calls after her as she walks away, a last-ditch effort. azzi throws an unbothered wave over her shoulder—she’s not worried. that’s the goal. 

olivia’s talking to a few friends, laughing as one of them cracks a joke, and she doesn’t see azzi coming until just before she reaches them. when she does, though, her reaction is priceless—wide eyes, a slightly open jaw, a moment of recognition before she forces her expression into something neutral—all within the two steps it takes for azzi to approach them. 

“hey,” she says, flashing her prettiest, most charming smile. the smile that’s always worked on paige. “olivia, right?” 

“uh, yeah,” she responds, attention immediately diverted entirely to azzi. “you’re azzi. thirty-five.”

azzi raises an eyebrow coyly. “you watch basketball?”

“can’t really go here and not watch basketball,” olivia says, which, true. their faces are sort of plastered everywhere all over campus. 

“i’ve watched you play, too” azzi says. she doesn’t mention that they’d gone to watch last-minute, just as something to do, and that she and paige spent the entire game cozied up, using the chilly rink as an excuse to stand way too close together. 

olivia flashes a surprised smile. “yeah? next time, lemme know you’re coming. ‘d be cool to see you.”

“mm.” azzi licks her lips, stepping a little closer into olivia’s personal space. she knows damn well there will definitely not be a next time, but olivia doesn’t have to know that. “do you wanna go grab a drink?” 

olivia nods readily, a little too eager to do whatever azzi asks. she places a hand on azzi’s lower back and gestures to her friends as they make their way through the crowd, back to the kitchen. azzi’s drunk enough that she can pretty easily trick herself into thinking it’s paige’s.

nika’s still in the kitchen when they get back, and her eyebrows shoot into her hairline when she sees them. “wow, az. that was quick.”

azzi makes a face at nika, then says, “olivia, this is my teammate.” 

“nice to meet you,” olivia says. nika smiles politely before shooting azzi a particularly judgmental look. 

“i’m gonna go dance,” she says, squeezing azzi’s wrist as she brushes past them, a clear be careful. 

they’re all aware of paige’s certain tendencies to be possessive. over azzi, specifically. but, as childish as it is, that’s exactly what azzi’s going for. turning to the counter, she grabs the tito’s—paige’s, technically, but it doesn’t matter. “you want a shot? or i can do, like, vodka crans or something.”

“i thought it was bring your own shit?” olivia asks. 

azzi looks back at her. “this is paige’s place, it’s cool.” 

as soon as she hears paige’s name, olivia’s whole expression sours. it’s only for a fraction of a second before she schools it into something much cooler, but azzi catches it. she metaphorically rubs her hands together like an evil villain. this is perfect. 

turning back to the counter, azzi gets to work making their drinks as she breezily asks, “i heard y’all had a history.”

olivia scoffs. “we don’t really get along, that’s all.” there’s a pause, and then, of course, the inevitable: “besides, i’ve heard the same about you.”

azzi focuses on perfecting the ratio of vodka-to-cran like a professional bartender. “we’re just friends.”

“really,” olivia deadpans. 

“yep.” azzi spins around, presenting olivia’s cup to her with a little flourish. “i’m done talking about paige, though.”

olivia pushes herself off the counter, stepping closer to her. “yeah? what do you wanna talk about, then?”

it’s then that the party gets marginally louder, the noise swelling as the crowd gets more hype, and if azzi’s right, then her timing is perfect. smiling, she trails a hand up olivia’s chest to curl around her neck and bring her closer. “i think i’m tired of talking for the night,” she mutters. olivia’s free hand comes to hold her waist, and then she gets that look on her face; she’s about to kiss her. azzi marginally panics. c’mon, c’mon. 

olivia leans in, and their noses just barely brush before someone interrupts them with a, “yo!”

it’s a little comical the way olivia jumps back. azzi can’t help but giggle, hiding the sound behind her cup as paige comes into her range of view. “azzi, what the hell, dawg.”

“hey, paige,” she says.

paige’s eyes are practically ablaze, her jaw working overtime as she eyes olivia. they’re around the same height, similar builds, and azzi knows they’re not going to fight—that’s not really paige. it comes to no surprise of her’s, actually, when paige doesn’t even acknowledge olivia, instead taking azzi by the wrist and dragging her away. 

“nice to meet you,” azzi calls happily over her shoulder. olivia looks a little disappointed, but not surprised, which might say a lot about them.

paige doesn’t say a word as she drags her, and it’s all a little blurry until they’re back in paige’s room again, that same tense energy between them as before, except this time something feels indescribably different. azzi chalks it up to the both of them being drunker than they were only twenty minutes ago. paige is standing close, almost menacingly so, and azzi leans back against the door, enjoying the feeling of being caged in by her. 

“what,” paige starts lowly, “the fuck is wrong with you.”

“you pissed me off earlier,” azzi says, tapping her nails against her cup. they’re long this off-season, pink, shimmery acrylics, and paige is constantly asking her to scratch her back or massage her scalp with them. she doesn’t miss the way paige’s eyes catch on the movement, momentarily distracting her before she focuses back up. 

“you’re being petty and you know it,” paige says.

“you’re being a little bitch,” azzi snaps back. paige gasps, offended, but azzi goes on. “you do this shit—getting all possessive over me, acting like we’re together or something, for what? like, this has been going on for years, paige. i’m sick of it.” she may be slurring now. just a little. “you can’t have me and not have me at the same time. you can’t keep treating me like i’m your girlfriend without ever making me your girlfriend. it drives me fucking insane! do you know what that’s like for me? do you know how hard it is to, like, not kiss you? because it’s really fucking hard, paige.” riled up now, azzi takes a large gulp of her vodka cran, which is admittedly more vodka than cran. 

paige’s eyes are a lot more focused than before, and is she closer now? she definitely seems a little closer. in fact, azzi would hardly have to reach out if she wanted to wrap an arm around her shoulders. 

she’s too intoxicated. she’s going to do something stupid. she wraps her hand more firmly around her solo cup, pressing the other one against the outside of her thigh. she is absolutely not going to do something stupid.

“azzi.” paige sounds, oddly, a little choked. “i know how hard it is.”

azzi’s free hand disobeys her first, moving from her thigh to paige’s broad shoulders in a swift movement, and it’s really not even her who leans in because paige’s body instinctually shifts forward as soon as azzi’s does, and they pull each other in until they’re kissing, paige’s lips impossibly soft and warm against her own, and, oh. paige has the decency to occupy her hands on azzi’s lower back for a moment, but azzi parts their lips with a soft sound before surging forward for more, and paige takes it as a go ahead to grip her ass almost harshly. 

azzi gasps against paige’s mouth, curling her hand around the back of paige’s neck, holding her close the way she’s wanted to do since she was fifteen. the warm, wet muscle of paige’s tongue laves across her bottom lip, and azzi opens up for her, making a soft sound as paige licks a little obscenely into her mouth. 

paige squeezes her ass before moving her hands up to her waist, then her face, gently separating them. 

azzi’s unwillingness to pull away must show on her face, because paige chuckles softly at her. “i’m sorry, just…” she dips her head shyly, “like, gimme a second.” 

azzi smiles, pouting her bottom lip a little mockingly. “aw, you’re all shy.” 

“leave me alone,” paige groans, dropping her forehead to azzi’s shoulder. her hands are steady on her back, holding their hips almost flush together, and azzi’s tummy flips just like it always has when paige holds her. 

“i think we’re both drunk,” azzi says into paige’s hair. 

“yeah,” paige mumbles. 

“i want you.”

“i want you, too.”

“paige.” 

finally, paige lifts her head, and her cheeks are flushed and her hair’s a little mussed, and she looks like everything azzi could ever want. “yeah?”

azzi kisses her again, more slowly than before, because they really do have all the time in the world. when she pulls away, paige’s eyes are heavy and lidded, even as a smile graces her lips. 

“let’s go to bed,” azzi whispers. 

the party continues outside, but they turn off the lights and start the fan and crawl into bed, a routine they’ve performed a thousand times before, but a little different this time; in the way they can’t keep their hands off each other, azzi kissing paige’s cheek, paige coming behind her for a hug. when they finally crawl into bed, azzi lets paige lay on her chest, scratching her scalp just how she likes. 

“i’m sorry i took so long,” paige mumbles after a silence long enough azzi thought she was asleep. “to be ready.”

“it’s okay, baby,” azzi says. “i would always wait for you.” 

azzi fudd never saw herself being the type to marry her best friend, but she also never could have predicted that her best friend would be paige bueckers, and, well. here they are. 

“mama. mamaaaa. mama, wake up.” 

azzi groans and throws an arm across her face. she never saw herself raising mini paige’s either, but once again, here she is. and as she little girl tries her best to climb up on the bed, azzi can’t help but smile, because this is her favorite way to wake up: reminded that she’s living the life she barely used to let herself fantasize about.

“mama, i wanna cuddle with you.” jasmine climbs on top of azzi’s chest, trying to pry her arm away from her face. 

azzi lets her arm come away to wrap around her daughter instead, grabbing her and snuggling her closer, nuzzling into her curly hair, breathing her in. “mama,” jasmine laughs, still trying to be quiet, “you’re silly.”

from the other side of the bed, paige grunts, reaching for them. “what’s goin’ on over there?” with a lazy hand, paige gently jabs at their daughters’ ribs, tickling her. she used to be a heavy sleeper; it’s one of the many things motherhood has changed about her. 

jasmine giggles and pushes paige’s hand away before hugging her little arms around azzi’s neck. azzi makes eye contact with paige and she quietly chuckles as paige shakes her head with a small smile. 

“we’re having mama and jasmine time,” their five-year-old says haughtily. and then, clarifying for absolutely no reason, she adds, “without mommy.” 

while azzi barks out a laugh, paige’s jaw drops open. “what?” she exclaims dramatically, the same way she does whenever azzi says something crazy. 

jasmine continues to cradle azzi’s head to her chest. “i haven’t had mama and jasmine time in a loooong time,” she sighs. “ever since…” as she trails off, the three of them all turn their heads to look at the object of jasmine’s despairs—the bassinet on azzi’s side of the bed, and the seven-week-old inside of it. still somehow sleeping peacefully through the noise, even though she wakes at every little sound whenever all they want is for her to sleep. 

after a moment of the three of them looking at the baby—azzi and paige with adoration, and jasmine with resentment—they turn their attention back to their eldest. “i know it’s been hectic with your sister here, baby,” azzi says, adjusting so she’s sitting a little higher. paige automatically reaches out to help her, putting a pillow behind her back and gravitating closer to them. “i bet it sometimes feel like we aren’t paying much attention to you, huh?” 

jasmine nods, pouting, almost identical to paige when she’s sulky. “it feels like no one gives me attention!” she replies, grasping azzi’s face sternly in her little hands. “even kk only wants to hold baby now.” she looks at paige with furrowed brows. “even grandma didn’t wanna watch me play basketball yesterday, because she wanted to snuggle with mara.”

“i promise we all still love you lots, sweetheart,” paige says, rubbing jasmine’s back reassuringly. “they just don’t know amara that well yet. they wanna get to know her. just like we do.” 

“well, she’s boring,” jasmine says. “she takes all of mama’s time, and she cries so loud, and she can’t even hold a basketball yet.”

yeah, this is definitely their kid. azzi leans a little further into her wife, paige’s free arm wrapping around her back as she does so, connecting the three of them at multiple points. “she’ll take some time to grow,” azzi says. “and it’s me and your mommy’s job to help her. but you’re growing, too.” azzi smiles warmly at their little girl who, next to this new baby, seems so big all of a sudden; their first baby growing up all too quickly. “and we also get to help you. it’s okay to want time alone, without baby.” 

jasmine looks at her skeptically. “are you sure?” 

azzi nods earnestly. “oh yeah, super sure.”

“we can always make it happen,” paige adds, leaning forward to nuzzle into jasmine’s cheek. 

it’s at that moment, when it seems they’ve finally reassured their child, that amara decides to wake up screaming her little lungs out. azzi and paige both jolt, leftover instincts that evidently never went away after their first. amara’s on azzi’s side of the bed, and it would be more convenient to grab her from where she sits, but that would constitute taking jasmine off her lap. paige gets up before she can even ask, crossing over to their baby as jasmine exaggeratedly covers her ears. 

“loud,” she emphasizes. 

“hey, yo,” paige says to the baby as she leans over the basinet, tickling her cheek to try and get her attention. “don’t panic, we’re chillin’.” 

it breaks jasmine’s grumpy expression, her pout turning into a small smile at the silliness. 

“calm down, bro,” paige continues, scooping amara into her arms and smiling down at her. she instantly settles down once she realizes she has not, in fact, been abandoned by her parents. “see? we’re right here, mama. silly goose.” 

“she doesn’t need to cry that loud,” jasmine points out. 

“she doesn’t know that yet, sweetheart,” paige chuckles, bouncing their newborn softly. 

azzi’s loved all stages of jasmine’s life so far, but she hadn’t realized how much she missed having a baby. she missed the scents, the sounds, the feeling of growing this infant inside her own body and finally getting to hold her. and of course, she also missed things like the way paige’s back muscles flex when she’s rocking their baby, how she looks when she’s rumpled and sleep-deprived in boxers and a t-shirt, getting up with her for feedings just because she knows azzi gets lonely if she doesn’t have anybody to talk to. 

azzi looks back at jasmine, the way her little frown is just like paige’s. she kisses her forehead, pulling her close. 

“how about mara and i go make some breakfast,” paige proposes, eyeing the way jasmine seems to be trying to crawl into azzi’s skin. “so you guys can have some mama and jasmine time?” 

“good idea, mommy,” jasmine says, nodding approvingly. azzi nods, though she’s hesitant as she watches paige head for the door, and amara makes this little cooing noise, and she can’t really help the way her arms stretch out towards them. 

“wait,” she says, “let me say good morning first.” 

jasmine groans, but doesn’t protest too much as paige hands amara over to azzi. 

azzi adjusts her into the crook of her arm and holds jasmine with the other, watching as she looks down at her little sister with a somber expression. 

“good morning, pretty girl,” azzi coos down her daughter, leaning down to press her nose against amara’s head. the soft, sweet scent of her sets azzi at ease immediately. “how’d you sleep, hm? didn’t cry too much last night, were you having good dreams?” 

amara stares up at azzi with giant, brown eyes, grunting softly as she hits at azzi’s chest with her tiny little fist. 

“she’s really out here using you for food,” paige laughs, watching their newborn clearly only focus on one thing. 

“she just knows what she wants,” azzi defends. 

“guys,” jasmine says tentatively, never taking her eyes off the baby. “can i, um…say good morning to her?”

“of course, babe,” azzi says, trying to play it cool even paige makes an excited face at her. 

taking a deep breath, jasmine seems to steady herself before leaning forward, getting closer to her little sister. she tickles amara’s cheek, catching her attention, and when their eyes meet, azzi realizes she’s holding her breath. “hi, mara,” she says, pitching her already-small voice into a higher tone like he’s heard her parents do. “did you have good dreams last night? hm?”

amara watches, tiny mouth slightly agape as her sister talks to her. 

“did you know i had a dream last night? i had a dream about a chicken, and mommy.” at this, jasmine giggles to herself, smiling widely. “it was so silly.”

jasmine laughs again, clearly amused by whatever her subconscious stirred up last night, and when azzi looks at paige, she finds they’re both smiling along with their daughter. 

when azzi looks back down, it’s like it happens in slow motion: amara blinks at her sister, watches her intently, and then smiles the most toothless, beautiful smile azzi has ever seen. 

paige’s breath catches, and azzi knows she sees it too. 

but when jasmine notices, she nearly screams. “oh, god, guys—look! she’s smiling at me!“ 

amara hasn’t smiled yet, aside from those face twitches when she’s sleeping, but those don’t count. no, this is what counts, her eyes scrunching and gums showing as she smiles up at her big sister. she looks perfect, azzi thinks. she looks like paige. 

“hi, baby,” jasmine coos, tickling amara’s cheek. amara’s smile drops, then her face lights up again, and jasmine giggles. “she’s so cute, mama!”

“i know,” azzi laughs. “we’ve been trying to tell you.” 

jasmine looks at azzi, eyes sparkling, golden-brown in the early morning light. then she looks at paige, and reaches for her, allowing her mom to pull her off azzi’s lap and into her own. she settles there and says, “maybe amara can stay with us this morning. so she doesn’t get left out.” 

paige hugs jasmine close to her chest, kissing the top of her curls. “alright, sweetheart.” she smiles at azzi over the top of their daughter’s head, a secret thing, just for them. it’s the same smile she’s always had reserved for azzi. 

carefully, making sure not to strain, azzi moves forward, gravitating closer to her family, the beating heart between them. again, paige reaches out to help her, supporting her back as azzi shifts closer. amara makes a sound, probably a little distressed at not having been fed yet, and paige perks up. “i’ll make breakfast while you feed her?”

“i think,” azzi says, looking down at their daughters, “maybe we should stay here for awhile.”

she hadn’t dared speak of it, at least to no one other than her small leather-bound diary she kept soft between her stomach and mattress in the dead of night. she’d scribble madly, freezing at every creak of the floorboards, diamond ‘5’ pendant spinning fraily along its dainty silver chain.

it had been a gift for azzi’s thirteenth, the jersey number of the one person she usually told everything to.

paige bueckers.

paige, with her skin like snow stretched over a pool of hot blood. paige with her golden hair and golden throat and legs with no end. paige, who had chosen azzi when they were younger, who chose her always, even now with her erratic behavior and trembling in the dark. paige, whom azzi was terrified of telling about this persistence of feeling. paige, whom she loved in a way that went without articulation because there was no language—dead or alive—that could ever articulate azzi’s adoration.

paige, who went pink and soft and flaky under the sun, like a cherry danish. paige, who knew azzi like the back of her hand. paige with her odd, suffocating family. paige, with her vast talent and her future wide and undefined, like saltwater spread blue against the horizon.

azzi’s best friend.

so, she said nothing of how she felt, let it maroon her further and further from those she loved until she reached sixteen, and therefore, the end.

the day had begun with a spread of dark, heavy clouds that threatened rain but never released it. it was windy, cooler than any end of august had a right to be, but azzi had blamed it on the turbulent spirit of minnesota. the midwest was always unsure of itself, always confused with its twist of seasons and flat, blank body that could swallow you if you didn’t know your own.

this land knew a predator’s urge, and its earth would always signal the hunt.

that morning, as azzi left her house, she could feel the spirit of the soil. it hungered without restriction, its pulse beating in the way the undergrowth seemed to lean inward as she slipped free of her childhood home, creating corridors where there should’ve been a straight, even path. the tracks only led deeper when she needed to find her way out.

the shortcut to practice had never felt this long; the trees had never seemed this malignant. here, the bark wept dark sap like infected wounds, and the branches grew at abnormal angles, reaching out to grasp one another across the path, forming a canopy so dense that late afternoon felt already like twilight.

the forest’s floor was carpeted with leaves that seemed never to decay. they just accumulated in thick, wet layers that muffled sound and released a putrid, treacly breath with every step.

no insects hummed. no birds called. the flora seemed to curve desperately away from certain spots, firm in their avoidance and forming clearings where the earth was too dark, too rich, as if it had been fed.

the toe of azzi’s sneakers caught on roots that she wasn’t sure had been there yesterday. but maybe—maybe they had always been here, in the way her death had always been there. shadowy, slippery, suddenly so present. maybe she just never walked this way alone, in the dark, with fury still rooted warm and immovable behind her ribs, seeded from a rough argument the evening before with paige.

it had been over the phone and over something stupid, but important enough to derail her in the way most things did when you were only sixteen. it had held enough weight to discourage azzi from riding with paige to practice, to choose this laborious walk through these woods over that hot press of limb to limb in the back of the car with her favorite person since grade school.

absentmindedly, azzi touched her pendant as it spun fraily in the breeze, stilling its spin on its noose of thin, silver chain.

yes, something was wrong.

she touched it again, and in between the space of her fingers’ upward reach and her foot’s snapping of a stick, azzi fudd was forever severed from her humanity. slaughtered and gone in less than a second.

she never felt the full impact, only the soft brush of something behind her, and then a scarlet explosion of pain behind her eyelids. it was oddly near a migraine, an utterly destabilizing burst of agony that rendered her blind and without an axis of balance.

somewhere in the haze, a laugh—low, close, and lazy—split the silence.

“shh,” it said. “it’s only beginning.”

she began to fall, and in the white-hot hush that followed, azzi floated. her mind was clearer than it had ever been. she felt young, uncoupled from her body, as if her bones had been stripped bare to show the pale of them. a beginning again. 

she could begin again. 

and somewhere in that strange space between going and gone, she thought of the last time she had felt this warm:

she and paige, young and close, eleven and twelve, pressed together on court, gazing out across the ballroom, eyes sharp with judgment, watching players glide across lacquered floors. she and paige, twelve and thirteen, flushed with the noise of adolescence, always grazing, always watching, with no name for the wanting. she and paige, fourteen and fifteen, azzi’s ankle shattering and her team flying on without her, teeth shining in the frost as they headed to nationals. the roses paige made her mother buy, pink like brain matter, that weaved a web of comfort in the cocoon of her room.

paige’s mouth had hovered over the thin bones, eyes pressed tightly as if she was praying for the pain to be hers and only hers, suffering never to touch azzi.

she remembered now. and to think azzi had been cross with her before all this.

time folded inward. maybe her mother was reaching for her. she thought she could hear her name, spoken oddly—stiltedly—by someone else. maybe—

maybe the only real thing was the way her heart opened like a tulip smashed and stayed that way.

azzi landed hard, back in her body, air sharp and damp, her limbs splayed like a chalk outline. her curls pooled dark and dense underneath her head, a nimbus of blood stuck between matting and clotting. she lay in the middle of that forest floor, paralyzed in a hug of earth made rougher by the littering of wood and stone.

for a moment, she thought she was still falling. her breath came thin and reedy, snagging with every exhale on the peak of her throat. she coughed up chunks of soil and blood, body folding incorrectly, poured back into herself too quickly, chest cracking open for air like a coffin lid forced apart.  she could feel the split of every vein, this new line drawn along her neck by a stranger’s intentional violence.

pain fluttered through her in fragments, butterflies of brutality: a violin string snapped, a shoulder struck stone, ribs pulled wide to make room for something that wasn’t quite her. the world blurred, waterlogged, sound and color smeared against glass. beneath her spine and skull, the earth still hummed, low and endless, a horrible droning hymn that asked her to forget the shape of her body. her old body.

time stilled; silence expanded and seemed to collect along her thighs and stomach. it was then she realized she was not alone. someone? something? leaned close, patient, waiting.

azzi glanced up, eyes jerking from side to side with panic as she realized someone was standing over her. she couldn’t focus on them. all her mind could conjure was recognition that it was a silhouette. from there, it fractured into a fantasy, told her that this was a face she may have once known.

her father. no. her grandmother. no. both at once. now, a stranger.

there was warmth dripping past her collarbones, and she understood its origin point was a product of the shadow above her. teeth, white and pointed. a prayer whispered: you’re beautiful, you know that?

azzi tried to scream. the void above her laughed, then settled into an answering smile that was sharp enough to sting. again, that smell. so sick and soft and confectionery.

she wanted to breathe it in forever.

they kept grinning, the line widening and blurring madly through her skewed vision. she could focus on nothing except the ache in her jaw. red beat against her brow.

red teeth, red mouth, red rebirth.

the creature bent, cool mouth meeting her skin, kissing their infection into her, and azzi’s life split open for a second time, a paper cut widening into forever. she screamed audibly this time, a high, haunting howl that amplified itself over and over until it covered her from bone to blood.

“help me,” she shrieked. “paige!”

paige, who’d driven this route a hundred times to pick her up from practice. paige, who would be driving past right now, windows down, probably still upset with her, but always the first to start feeling guilt when they fought.

the wrong answer: no one's coming, little bird. you’re just like me.

another bite down. azzi wailed.

“paige!”

hunger folded into blessing, then back again. she could no longer speak. it was nothing but an endless slur of suffering, her hips twitching and bucking beneath her as she was twisted into something new.

the transformation began in earnest then, as if it had been waiting for refusal.

her spine arched impossibly, vertebrae popping like knuckles as her bones began to eat and regurgitate themselves. the sound was wet and wrong: cartilage tearing, marrow remolding itself to accommodate this parasitic spill. azzi’s ribcage cracked outward, white fingers jutting out from her chest to welcome better lungs. lungs that would no longer need the same rhythm as before.

but it was her mouth that ravaged the most. her teeth—that white stretch that had spread beatifically for school photos, that had smiled at paige a thousand times, that had bitten her lip into slits when she was wracked by nerves—began to loosen in her gums. she could taste metal as they shifted, roots pulling free with tender, bilious pops.

her incisors fell first, dropping onto her tongue like lozenges, and she almost choked on them before her body lurched to the side and forced their deposit into the bloodied silt by her side, where they looked small and useless. two new rows pushed up and out through her gums, sharp and predatory and relentless, tearing her gums into a pink pulp that began to mend itself moments after—top and bottom.

the pain was exquisite, like her jaw was being reconstructed by a sculptor’s hands, forcefully perfected from the inside out. her senses expanded, extended, exploded. suddenly, she could hear heartbeats thundering from miles off, could smell every bit of animal flesh that had passed through these woods in the last week, could see every detail of her sire's face with perfect, terrible clarity even in the darkness.

urine trickled down her inner thigh, but azzi could not find the space to feel humiliated.

a leg kicked out as her neck snapped back, all of her veins straining for escape. she was unsure if she was still sobbing, but she knew that it mattered not. it was like this for days, maybe years.

in truth, it only took under twelve hours for her body to mangle itself under the mutation of the bite. and then finally, it was done. by the full bloom of the early morning, azzi had grown back. 

she lay there, body aching inside and out, her mouth full of new teeth that felt foreign against her tongue. then there was movement. she could smell it before she saw the source, copper-sweet, trembling. her head snapped sharply to the side, the angle unnatural.

there, drinking languidly, was a herd of deer.

she tracked them, vision warped and spun upside down. the hunger swelled hot and impossible in her chest as she watched. it was a voice of flame, a ceaseless plea. azzi crawled, turning her body until it felt right again, until she could walk.

it took one glide to cross the forest, and eight bites until she was finished. her jaw stretched long and wide, fitting easily over the first neck and cutting through the last without protest. in the distance, she could hear a car engine—paige's car?—growing fainter as it drove away from her.

azzi knew on a level that she was whole but wrong. she was so hungry. and still—she touched her neck.

her necklace was gone.

oh no.

oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.

the forest settled around her, satisfied with the outcome of this chase. it had needed this offering to its diseased heart; it had needed something new to bury beneath roots that had grown fat on similar violence.

azzi stumbled backward, spinning in a loose circle, trying to retrace, to find at least the pendant, to salvage something. as she shakily twisted away from the carcasses of her meal, she felt her foot sink into the wet grasp of a puddle. she looked down and found her eyes dark, lit from within with a crimson light like a feline’s.

a vibration began to travel the length of her throat. her mouth fell open before she could stop it, and from its depth came a long and arduous scream. she could not look away from herself, could not stop her shriek of terror at the sight of her own face.

oh, god, she thought, looking down at the crimson of her palms, the bit of neck beneath her nails. oh, god. oh, god. oh, god. 

paige is going to kill me.

ACT I. LAMENTATION.

in the aftermath of the disappearance, paige could not go a single hour without intervention. they had to sedate her.

at first, she was fine. she could handle “missing.” missing meant that there was a chance azzi could be found, could be located, and returned to her. she dreamed vividly of it from the moment the diagnosis was delivered to the case, illustrations of a rescue that soured quickly into a nightmare.

azzi with her skin colored cinnamon, the way it wept pear and iris after she drizzled her pulse points with perfumed oil. azzi, with her stomach hot against paige’s back. azzi, with her mouth like a rose, darkened and drained into a lush, dried pink. azzi, with her forehead against the nape of paige’s neck in the locker room shower, body shaking so that everyone else would see her grief instead, because she knew that paige hated crying in front of other people. azzi, whose early-bought christmas gifts were shoved underneath the chest of paige’s queen-sized bed, because who else would paige give them to?

but dead? presumed dead?

the words hit first like a slow poison, seeping through her consciousness until they reached something vital and began to corrode it. when they settled, it hit like a gunshot. paige jerked in place, bile rising in her throat, coming hot and fast against her back molars, then landing acidic on her tongue. the police station was suddenly nothing more than a place of altered physics.

the lights hummed, fluorescent, their frequency making her teeth ache in place, a tilt coming to her brain and seizing it. the air was thicker than before, and paige could feel the drag and drop of her lungs as her body worked overtime to keep her from imploding with grief.

she felt the passage of time in a way she hadn’t before, minutes moving over her arms and legs with stuttering rhythm like a film reel catching on its sprockets. detective desmond’s mouth was moving, yes, forming sounds, but her mind refused to interpret them as language.

paige could not learn these words, know these words.

blood spatter, evidence, remains.

azzi did not remain anywhere. she was whole and scared and waiting for her. she was waiting for paige. why didn’t they all understand that? it all floated past her, debris from a strike she couldn't quite comprehend.

“i’m sorry?” she asked, and everyone turned to her as if she were forgettable despite being so bright and blonde in this beige clinical space.

her hands began to tremble, and she watched them idly as if they belonged to someone else. such delicate things, these fingers that had braided azzi's hair into two neat plaits on game days and mapped the spread of her veins across her shoulder on the bus home. these fingers that had smeared their oils across the hummingbird flutter of azzi’s pulse, forcing her to calm down when she was possessed by an anxiety attack that would’ve taken out someone weaker. these fingers on this hand that had once clutched azzi’s now missing hand within it, bringing it up and spreading it wide so that paige’s chapped lips could scrape across the sweaty palm.

the detective watched her for a moment, then spoke again. "we're updating the case’s status to presumed homicide."

a tremor began to spread from paige’s hands to her arms, then deeper, until her entire skeleton felt unstable. she was aware, with the peculiar clarity that comes with shock, that something fundamental in her architecture was collapsing. not her body—her body continued to sway and sit in the plastic chair, continued to breathe and blink and maintain the pretense of being a living person—but the thing inside her that had been paige bueckers was folding inward like a dying star.

“no.”

her mother turned to her then, but paige ignored her.

“no?” an officer echoed.

"no,” paige agreed. she shifted in place, blue eyes unblinking and suddenly so hard to close. “you're not looking hard enough." her voice cracked here, veered high and desperate before she regrouped. "not one of you is looking hard enough. she's sixteen. sixteen-year-old girls don’t just disappear in a town like this."

“ms. bueckers, we understand this is difficult, but—”

“no,” she said again, but this time it fell from her mouth as a sob rather than a statement. “no, you don't understand," she told them, and her voice sounded far away, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. "she's not gone. i would know if she were gone."

but even as she spoke, she could feel the knowledge creeping in through the cracks in her denial. azzi, who had been the other half of every conversation paige had ever had with herself. azzi, whose absence left a silence so profound it had its own gravity, its own terrible presence.

"i need to go look for her," she said, standing with the careful precision of someone walking on ice. "i will. there are places you haven't searched."

she went dizzy, and there was her mother's hand on her arm, a shackle that sent a wave of relief through the other adults in the room. but paige was bueckers’ blood, and her bloodline and its determination would never die. she twisted out from under her mother’s grasp and lurched forward.

“paige—” her mother began, but paige heeded nothing. she clutched at her head, suddenly swollen with pain, swollen with misery.

“they’re giving up on her! you’re all just giving up on her!”

with the accusation loosened and tossed into the fray, something inside of paige snapped. the sound that came out of her throat was neither a scream nor a sob, simply noise. a terrible, malevolent, animalic call made when one is caught in a trap. raw and primal and endless.

a chair scraped against the floor as she lunged forward, hands slamming against the detective's chest hard enough to send her backward with a shocked cry. her mother was fully on her then, pinning her daughter’s arms to her sides and kicking her feet out from underneath her so that she was felled like a skyscraper under the nose of a plane.

paige fought against the grip, nails raking against a desk's surface as she teetered, leaving white scratches in the fake wood grain. the room spun, her vision tunneling down to pinpricks of light. she couldn't breathe. her lungs felt crushed, compressed, like an anvil had caved her chest in with one fell swoop.

it took three men to get her into the back of her mother’s car.

the drive home was a coffin of silence broken only by the click of her mother’s rosary beads and punctuated by a series of static images. traffic lights bled their green-red-yellow switch into the rain on the windshield. her father’s knuckles were bone-white on the wheel. paige pressed her forehead to the glass until her breath fogged it over, whispering to herself—half-prayer, half-denial—she’s not dead. she’s not dead.

the familiar streets of their neighborhood transformed into hostile terrain: each darkened yard, each closed garage, a possible tomb.

was azzi a body hidden in a neighbor’s trash can? buried beneath a flowerbed, flesh rotting and maggotted under a family of white hyacinths? a squirrel shoving seed after seed into the hollows of her skull? would the soil give her away, the change in ph altering the petals, produce an oddity in color? reveal the truth years from now?

when they pulled into the driveway, the house lights were glowing, too warm and domestic with no sensitivity to the apocalypse hemorrhaging paige inside her chest. she stepped out of the car, moving toward the backyard with the single-minded purpose of the sleepwalking.

she would find azzi. she would bring her home.

these had become not just intentions but physical laws, as immutable as gravity.

"paige, you need to rest."

"no," she said, and it was as if she knew no other answer. "you’re all giving up on her. i am not giving up on her."

she tried to push forward, past her mother—who had moved far more quickly than paige thought her capable of—but her body betrayed her. her legs were suddenly unsteady, her hands shaking so violently she couldn't properly grip the delicate bone of her mother’s elbow to force her to the side. when her mother again blocked her path, paige found herself violently external, beating against the obstacle with the methodical persistence of waves against rocks.

"get out of my fucking way. she's waiting for me," she said, each word accompanied by a blow that set bruise after bruise into the woman who had heaved her into this world. "she's scared and she's waiting and everyone's giving up, but i won't. i won't give up on her."

it was useless, and they both knew it, and so they stood there for minutes more as paige struck every soft part of this body in front of her, every single wound-worthy sliver she found. it was only when she went to strike her mother’s face that her mother struck her first, sending her reeling backward and into the open arms of her father, who refused to let her go.

they guided her upstairs, her limbs writhing as she screamed, and eventually paige allowed it because walking had become difficult. after all, the floor seemed to tilt and sway beneath her feet. it wasn't until she heard the lock click that she understood what had happened.

she scrambled to her knees, crawled, pressed her palms against the door, and spoke to the wood in a voice that sounded reasonable, almost conversational.

"please open the door. i need to find her." silence. "she's alone out there. she's alone, and she needs me."

more silence, broken only by the sound of her mother weeping on the other side.

paige threw reason aside.

“open the door, mom. open the fucking door.” she was shrieking now, beating her fists purple and bloody. “open the fucking door! you can’t keep me in here. open it! open it!”

her throat tore with the effort. paige slid down until she was sitting on the floor, back against the door, throwing her shoulders into the wood in the hopes that it would give. it didn’t.

she pressed her cheek against the wood, listening to the silence on the other side until her own breath became unbearable. then she turned, slow as a feral thing, and crawled across the room. the window latch gave under her hands.

paige dropped into the yard barefoot, knees splattering with mud. she didn’t remember taking her shoes off, but she didn’t mind. she’d move quicker this way, and what she needed most was time. the night was dismal and cruel, overtaken by a sudden drop in temperature. somewhere in the dark, she expected azzi’s laugh, azzi’s voice, azzi’s arms. there was nothing.

paige moved on hands and knees at first, then stood, stumbling, letting her mind and body guide her. there was only one direction: into the woods.

she had told them about the shortcut. the hidden path azzi had shared with paige, with a sly smile, pulling her by the wrist and laughing when the branches snapped across her arms. even riddled by grief, paige’s muscles remembered where to duck, where to push aside a burst of firs, where the path would curve abnormally in the dark, lead her toward a clearing.

the trees closed in, dense and unforgiving. branches scraped her face, dirt wedging underneath her nails as paige worked her way in with unhinged determination. the deeper she went, the quieter it became, until even her breathing felt like trespass. she was nearing prayer when she broke through a hanging of dry, thin branches and into the clearing.

the silence roared, and she carefully gazed around, shoving traces of blonde hair away from her face. she could not allow anything to distract her from clues.

and then she saw it.

at first, it was only a glint, a shard of light that paige thought she was hallucinating, so unnaturally beautiful against the dull, wet earth. but when she crouched, knees pressing into the soil, fingers trembling in the dark, she knew at once it was not an illusion. it was nauseatingly real. the chain was halved, clasp broken. the small diamante “5” that had swung from it lay crooked on the forest floor, spattered scarlet-brown across the face where blood had dried into its grooves.

azzi’s pendant. azzi’s promise. paige’s jersey number, pressed into silver, worn against azzi’s chest every day since paige had gifted it to her.

she had never taken it off.

not for sleep. not for showers. not for anything.

paige sank to her knees, the caps hitting the rot-soft dirt, her fists carving furrows into the leaves. the clearing swam before her, and she gagged dryly on nothing, oxygen suddenly cloying and scented with gardenia. once she noticed the odor, it reared in its full repugnance, until it felt ground into the marrow of her teeth.

the pendant bit into her palm, sharp and merciless, and she understood in one obliterating rush: azzi was gone.

gone in a way that left no answer behind. gone in a way that meant paige could not follow.

paige felt her mouth unanchor, but what left was not speech. she could only scream until her throat seemed to rupture with the strength, her pain so encapsulating that she could see nothing before or after it.

she was nothing more than a confession of anguish; a low, animal keen.

paige drew her knees to her chest and began to rock, a motion that seemed to originate somewhere deeper than conscious thought. her hands found her throat, fingers tracing the hollow where azzi used to rest her chin when they watched films late into the night together. she fell into sobbing, into soft hiccups in the flat of the woods with the fat of her cheeks pressed hard into the errant sticks, leaving imprints across the blotch of her skin.

by the time her father found her, flashlight beam jittering across the trees, she was catatonic on her side in the dirt, breath thin and reedy, body trembling as though a possession had taken hold of her.

he said nothing, only lifted her, her arms flailing about before giving way to dead weight. it was like this that he carried her back through the black mouth of the trees. the house loomed into view, windows staring, her siblings black silhouettes pressed anxiously to the curtained glass.

paige did not remember the walk upstairs. only the familiar shut of her bedroom door, the lock catching, the sound of her mother’s prayer beads clattering against the banister as she whispered on the other side. that was the last sound of the world before misery rose to meet her cheek.

there was no halting of salt, no way to stop the leagues of tears that threatened to permanently sour her cheeks. paige could only fold herself into one of a million oversized hoodies owned by her, meant to be stolen by azzi, and vanish into bed. she tightened her arms around herself and curled into a blistering, wet ball of agony, holding her body closer, stiller, fighting against memory and the realization that this would be the rest of her life.

the realization came not as a sudden blow but as a slow, inexorable understanding: she would never hear the catch of azzi’s breath again. never know the shiver of her body against hers after a dip into the massive, black lake behind her house. there would be nothing.

no more companionship, but this: half of her always gone and worm-eaten. half of her would always be suspended in heartbreak.

the nightmares came, brutish and barbaric, and paige never realized she was screaming until her mother woke her, clutching a hand hard and hot around her mouth and jaw, voice low and urgent as she tried to get her daughter to look at her.

hours passed. perhaps months. time had become elastic, meaningless. when the doctor came with his needle and his promises of an empty, easy sleep, paige watched the sedative enter her bloodstream with the detached interest of someone observing a scientific experiment.

as consciousness dissolved around the edges, she wondered if they had enough to finance this kind of life forever. if her parents would be able to keep paige comatose for the entire span of her life, if it would then fall to her siblings to keep her lucid enough to shit and eat and sob until she injured her throat and was tortured into silence.

when the doctor’s visits slowed and eventually stopped, paige took it upon herself to continue her treatments. pill after pill, sleep after dreamless sleep. a perfect, vast grief that required nothing from her except for her to stay underneath it. her body shrank with its mutilations from hunger, her legs too thin, and her collarbones protruding. her face was nothing but angles, sharp lines drawn together to form the rough etching of a human face.

there was nothing before azzi, and there would be nothing after.

if we don't do something, her father told her mother, this town will suffer another girl.

if we give her something to hunt, she will never stop hunting, her mother answered. she will never stop killing. everyone will have wronged her. everyone will have been the one who killed that girl.

if we don't give her something to kill, her father said, his shadow blanketing the strain of his daughter’s bones through her back, she's going to kill herself.

they were both right.

SEPTEMBER.

OCTOBER.

NOVEMBER.

DECEMBER.

JANUARY.

ACT II. HOLY WORK.

it began with her father sitting on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as paige lay curled on her side, staring—for yet another day—at nothing.

she hadn't moved in months, pale hands clutched tightly into bloodless fists, azzi’s pendant as close to her chest as she could get without swallowing it whole. her blue eyes were too light and too blank, pupils dilated by the gentle tend of self-administered morphine. there was a slight rim of blood dried at the corner of her mouth, a remnant of a particularly bad nightmare this week that she’d only woken from when she’d bitten a hole through her cheek.

she hadn’t spoken since the clearing. the room smelled stale and of an unwashed body, but paige could not find it in her to care. everything in this space was collecting dust, including her own life. grease caked over what was left of her dye, her roots coming in with a dark, steady blue under the platinum’s full surrender.

“hey, sweetheart,” her dad murmured. “how are we doing?”

nothing. paige’s lashes twitched, flickering up then down before falling back into stillness. her father sighed, then shifted in place.

“i know it’s hard, baby, to do anything other than sit here and sink into what you’re feeling. there’s nothing—you can’t—this is unimaginable for anyone, let alone a seventeen-year-old. but you can’t just sit here and waste your life, sweetheart. your potential. you know she would’ve hated that.”

as expected, that procured a stronger reaction. this time, paige’s entire body jerked in place, her fingers twitching free from their curl angrily. it was good to see her briefly free from that horrible, constant rigor of sorrow.

“i know i didn’t know azzi like you did, but i know that. she loved you,” he said quietly, voice careful as a body’s weight on ice. "and she was a good girl, paige, so good to you. what happened to her was so deeply undeserved."

paige's eyes didn't move from their position on the wall, but something in her breathing changed. shallower. more fragile.

“i want to—i want to tell you what happened to her. what really happened to her."

“i know what happened to her.”

the creak of his daughter’s voice almost sent robert to his knees, and he pressed his palms to his thighs with great strength, his eyes welling with tears of relief. he turned away, gathering himself. in the silence, paige continued.

“we fought the night before about something i don’t even remember. it was so fucking stupid, but i kept pushing. so, she told me she wasn’t going to ride with me to practice the next day, and i told her she could do whatever the fuck she wanted.”

“baby—”

“i hurt her feelings, dad, ‘cause we never curse at each other, but i did that day. ‘nd she walked herself to practice and got fucking murdered. my best friend was murdered, taken from me, and it’s all my fault.”

the words seemed to stick to her throat at first, but then they slithered free, and with them came a terrible dry heave of anguish that shook paige from head to toe. her father came closer, sliding a hand down her back and quieting her as she sobbed into the stiff material of her pillowcase for the thousandth time since azzi’s slaughter.

"even if that were true, even if it had been a coincidence, that is not your fault, paige. god, this is not and never will be your fault. no one blames you, sweetheart, and you cannot blame yourself. the guilt will do nothing but eat you alive.” paige shook beneath his hand, small and childlike and heedless. “there was nothing you could’ve done to change the outcome, paige. this was always what was going to happen, the devil’s weavings.”

nothing. he continued.

“when i found you that night, you kept mumbling about a smell in the clearing. i didn’t—i couldn’t focus on anything but you, so i didn’t heed it in the moment. but you were so adamant that you could smell something rotting. ‘something’s wrong, ’ you said, over and over.” he paused, hands folded between his knees. “so, i went back, and it was still there. this sickening sweet rot; it almost made me sick. you couldn't place it, but i could. i knew what it was."

maybe there was something in the way his voice shuddered or the crack that came on the last phrase, but whatever it was was enough for paige to roll half-heartedly, eyes less dead than before. her father watched her for a long moment, then started to speak again.

“that smell? it's what they leave behind when they feed. when they drain someone completely.”

her father’s face twisted, his disgust full-bodied, his mouth captured in a snarl. a sound escaped paige then, more curious than pained. her fingers tightened around the pendant until her knuckles went white as snow.

“there are things in these woods, paige. there always has been. since the sins of adam and eve in that garden. they must hunt; their nature demands it. it’s why azzi is gone, why the police couldn't find her.” his voice hardened. "they wouldn’t begin to know where to start, or how, and that's why our family exists. our lineage. we are the world’s last home, god-given to stop them from taking anyone else.”

silence stretched between them, thick and expectant. finally, paige's voice came, barely above a whisper.

“what are they?”

her father studied her face, searching for something. readiness, or perhaps the beginning strings of the calling he knew she would soon heed. whatever he found must have satisfied him, because he stood slowly and moved to her desk, pulling a leather-bound journal from beneath a stack of her untouched schoolwork, its spine cracking under the sheer volume of pages and artifacts within.

paige wondered how long ago he had placed it there.

“everything we know,” he answered, placing the tome in her lap. the leather was worn smooth by generations of hands, the pages yellowed and dense with careful blue script. “four hundred years of family knowledge. names, weaknesses, hunting grounds. how to track them, how to kill them, how to make sure they stay dead.”

paige's fingers traced the cover, feeling the weight of it. “how long have we been doing this?”

“since the first of our blood set foot on this land. we keep it clean.” his hand found her cheek, thumb circling firmly but gently against its hollowness. “it's what we are, paige. what we were made for. the work chose us long before we chose it.”

“do i have to do this?”

his thumb slowed, then stopped. he cupped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze, eyes as dark as a burial.

she knew whatever came next in the conversation would shift something fundamental in the architecture of her grief. where there was only shapeless anguish, there would be purpose. terrible and sickly and sharp-edged, but purpose nonetheless.

“you will.”

she took to the work like an infection to a wound.

three days after her father had reasoned through her depressive spiral, paige pulled herself from bed with a great effort for the first time in months and found her father in the basement with her mother, idly cleaning the length of a silver-tipped crossbolt.

after a lengthy, weighted silence, she finally spoke.

“show me.”

next to her father, her brothers grinned.

her training began not a week later, and her father had expected resistance, even disgust. this was how most initiates reacted, recoiling when shown their first leech corpse, black blood pooling thick as motor oil around the bolts’s body.

but no, not paige.

instead, she studied the entry wound with the objectivity of a coroner, fingers tracing the char marks where blessed silver had met undead flesh. she gazed down at the leech, wondering if the pain it had felt measured anywhere close to the amount azzi must’ve endured before it all finally stopped.

"clean shot," she said, voice flat as winter water. "through the third rib?"

“fourth," her father corrected, and he felt slightly ill at how readily she absorbed the lesson, how easily she nodded.

he was unsure if she had what it took, if she would be able to execute past the clear grief he saw still stained over her. but the concern was quickly reconciled.

her first hunt was in february. paige could feel her father’s eyes on her like concrete held to a belly in order to drown. she focused on nothing but the placement of her hands on her rifle, handled the stock like it was bone, loaded shells one after the other—a robotic, calcified angel.

she wasn’t meant to kill so soon, so quickly, but a fledgling had torn through a chicken yard seven miles out and left the snow in ribbons. the family had been called to slaughter.

paige followed her father and brothers into the trees, crossbow slung across her back, pistol heavy on her thigh. her lungs heaved with effort as they waded through snowbanks almost as tall as she was, the black and grey speckled fur along her coat collar feeling far too ornamental for their cause.

the fledgling was waiting for their arrival, skin stretched too thinly, veins like black rivulets under the flesh, ears twitching with every crunch of human feet. its teeth still red with feed.

they’re hardest to put down, her father had warned, all hunger and no discipline. sometimes the bite doesn’t take for them, making them nothing more than animal instinct. we try to make it quick for them, being so new and ruined.

paige wasn’t interested in the business of making it quick for any of them.

the fledgling stank of marrow and wet soil. it stumbled out of the treeline, the sun nothing but a thin crimson line across the horizon, body jerking like a marionette. it was clearly mutated by a bite untaken, its veins highly swollen and distended under the eyes and ribs. as soon as it registered them, it shrieked, mouth gaping and leaking long strings of yellowed spit that steamed in the cold.

her father began to raise his gun, her mother too, but paige stilled them with the smallest tilt of her hand.

she did not raise her weapon. closer and closer it came.

she let it come.

snow broke under its feet as it closed the space, thundering across the distance, a smear of hunger and speed. its breath hit her cheek, rank and animal, and still she stood—shoulders low, knife hidden against her thigh. her brothers swore, one tried to shove forward, but their father’s hand gripped his collar like an iron yoke.

she let it come. she let it come. she—

she waited until its fingers brushed the fabric of her coat, moved only when it lunged, when its fingers curled for her throat. then, with no more emotion than if she were folding laundry, the blade came up smooth, inevitable, parting the chest in one deep, single pull. the fledgling screamed, but paige did not flinch.

she stepped inside its collapse, carving upward through the sternum, twisting once to split the bone. its heart was blackened meat. she cut until it stopped. there was nothing, not even when its unnatural blood sprayed hot across her face. she did not blink.

her face was clean of expression. clean of rage, clean of relief, clean of rapture. when the body went still at her boots, she only wiped the blade once on its thigh and looked past her brother, past her father, at nothing at all.

and there, in the quiet afterward, as her family’s shock polluted the air, paige heard it for the first time. low and tender, pressed against her ear like a secret.

“good girl.”

her voice. azzi.

azziazziazzi.

paige swayed in place, begging for it to sound again. she needed it to come again. her fingers spasmed on the hilt of her blade. she nearly sobbed, but the sound caught sharp in her throat, forcing itself down until her chest ached with it.

there were no new words.

the silence after was worse than the killing.

“she waited,” ryan whispered hoarsely, as if naming a sin. “we don’t—she waited until—”

“she knows what she’s doing, son,” their father cut in, though his eyes never left her. watching her as if she were a stranger in his daughter’s skin. “we all have our technique.”

paige only stood, knife steady in her grip, blood drying down her jaw. she said nothing. but her ears rang with azzi’s phantom voice, soft and close, speaking to her alone. she met her father’s gaze head-on, then her mother's.

bueckers’ blood was one thing, but paige was entirely another. this was a new split of the genetics, a heralding of a new chapter of the dynasty.

she held her hand out, and in her palm was placed a small crystal catheter. paige inserted it into the corpse, then slowly fed a shallow stream of holy water into the tube. as the water met the body, it began to smoke.

the others turned their faces away, coughing against the stench. paige did not.

she closed her eyes and breathed in it.

this was baptism.

[1] gardenia. — purity, refinement, innocence, harmony, and gentleness.

an omen of the holy undone. if its scent gathers thick in the air without source, beware: the leech has nested here. the blossom is the devil’s perfume, cloying, deceptive, covering rot.

use as a signal between brethren to mark where the unclean have passed. a warning and a promise: to cleanse, to cut, to return the ground to god.

paige was inducted after that.

the tattoo came after her second kill.

she’d tracked the leech for three days through the bitter forests outside duluth, following the trail of exsanguinated deer it left like breadcrumbs. when she finally cornered it in an abandoned grain elevator, the thing had looked both old and young, still clinging to the ripped remains of a flapper dress, its skin perfect save for the mark of its bite.

paige put two bolts through its neck before it could speak.

that night, in a minneapolis tattoo parlor that smelled strongly of antiseptic and hand-rolled cigarettes, she had the numbers etched behind her left ear: 11.11.02. neat and tight, black ink that would never fade. the needle’s buzz reminded her of flies on carrion, but she sat still as stone until it was finished.

my girl, the voice crooned. paige smiled in the seat.

so brave for me.

for azzi. always for azzi.

the arsenal became her scripture. crossbows disassembled and reassembled until her fingers moved like prayer beads. springs, triggers, bowstring—all mapped into the body’s litany, a ritual she could perform blind. her hands, once soft with tragedy, grew callused and scarred, bearing stigmata in the shape of grip tape and holy metal.

blessed silver burned her palms the first dozen times she loaded stock. after that, her skin adapted, thickened to its kiss. just another small death in service of the larger work.

her father taught her to mix the compounds: garlic distilled into a caustic liquor, holy water boiled down to acid, sanctified by three priests until it hissed like the devil’s serpentry itself. the first time, the fumes made her retch, a confection of chemical burn that left her eyes streaming, her sinuses weeping. by winter, she could bottle it bare-handed, face pale and serene, breath steady, as if tending medicine instead of the seeds of assassination.

“you’re getting good at this,” ryan said once, watching her strip a rifle down to its bones.

paige did not look up. she could taste his envy coming hard, peaky and crowded at the back of her throat.

“have to be.”

yes, the voice whispered. for me.

the years folded into ritual. morning prayers at breakfast. weapons oiled at noon. patrol routes memorized like a catechism. paige learned to read the signs:

an absence of birdsong would follow wherever a leeche nested.

wildflowers would wither in perfect spheres around their feasting grounds.

they usually went after deer, rabbits, and foxes. anything larger signified the existence of a coven.

she studied their undoings with scholarly devotion: the angle of a clean beheading, the burn of silver, the verses that kept them bound just long enough for a killing strike.

by twenty-seven, she had become something her younger self would not have recognized. lean muscle strung tight over a body that had forgotten the definition of affection. hair freshly flaxen, pulled back severely in a plait that ran to the middle of her back, never to come undone. hands steady and aim true.

her brethren christened her blessed, said she moved through nests like an archangel, leaving only ash and silence.

paige heard a different call in the quiet after slaughter, when blood steamed on her skin.

mine, azzi murmured. my girl. my avenging light.

she was the sword in her family’s hand, the answer to their calling. reborn and baptized in black blood and righteous fire.

she was exactly what they had made her to be.

my angel, azzi said.

seraphim.

ACT III. REVELATOR.

spring was coming in, and with it, more leeching.

the field bled itself empty as twilight settled fat and purple over the grass. paige watched herds of wildlife flock back to their shelters, knowing a few would be picked off by the morning.

she scraped a thick patch of intestine from her dagger, the organs caked into unholy abnormality, patiently scouring the treeline while ryan first checked the number of bolts left in his quiver, then his phone. their most recent hunt had been clean. efficient. another nest purged from the earth like a rotten tooth pulled whole.

"fuck me, bro," ryan swore, voice low and irate. " dad’s saying we didn't get all of them. that another clan confirmed there may still be one or two left from the nest."

paige closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to the center of her brow, the beginning threads of headache webbing along her temples. “you have got to be fucking kidding me. are you serious?”

ryan nodded, eyes dim. “dead.”

“fuck!”

her brother laughed in disbelief, his body slacking with exhaustion. “i was really hoping we’d call it a night and head home.”

“me and you both,” paige muttered. she wiped her hands on the hem of her hoodie, a bulletproof vest tucked beneath to lend her full protection. her eyes tracked the shadows that began to pool thickly between the bushes. "i just don’t fucking get it. after almost a month of tracking? what could be left?"

“do they breed or some shit?” ryan asked, and paige shrugged.

“maybe they’re evolving.”

they both laughed, and the sound sent a fresh surge of pain pulsing through her skull. paige turned to the side as it crested, mind throbbing. her ambition for finding stragglers was less than substantial, and she was just about to suggest they head home regardless, when she promptly froze.

there, thirty feet away at the treeline's edge, stood a figure that unmade her entirely.

the body was familiar in ways that bypassed conscious thought: the slope of shoulders she had traced placidly in sleep, the curve of hips she had memorized in locker room glimpses, had wanted to press her lips to—thin and pink. the particular tilt of the head that signaled listening, always listening. but the flesh had been remade, stretched taut over an improved blueprint.

the silhouette wasn’t quite right. it was taller now, limbs elongated, skin uncomfortably luminous and golden-brown in the dying light as if some internal fire burned just beneath the surface.

naked. completely, devastatingly naked, and paige's mind stuttered over the sight. desire was latent, though that flickered treacherously and familiarly, but what emerged most urgently was the terrible intimacy of it. she could not dehumanize this any longer, could not remove herself from its monstrousness because it was well, it looked nothing but every inch of human.

there was no longer any doubt: this was a body she knew, had always known, now exposed and vulnerable in ways that made her chest fracture with fury.

blood painted abstract patterns across the familiar canvas, curving over the full soft meat of the breasts, suckling tenderly at the cold-hardened nipples. claw marks were scored deep into the left shoulder, still weeping crimson. a crossbow bolt jutted from the meat of her thigh, copper-tipped for prolonged torture, the flesh around it already beginning to spoil.

the work of other hunters, of another family; other righteous hands had marked this skin with their holy work.

but the eyes—christ, the eyes, her eyes, were what truly destroyed paige. burgundy and gleaming like coals, pupils slit for better vision in descending night and filled with such desperate, overwhelming relief that paige felt her knees threaten to buckle. those eyes held over a decade of anguish, of searching, of hoping against hope, and they were looking at her like salvation itself had finally arrived.

and paige could do nothing but disappoint.

the creature's—no. her mouth opened, and paige caught on the separation of those lips. god, those lips she had dreamed of kissing for years, now parting to reveal the white, malevolent glisten of lengthy canines. a sound escaped from over the tongue, barely audible. it might have been a call of paige's name, a pulse of memory.

behind her, her brother was speaking, his voice crescendoing with alarm, but it sounded distant. it was irrelevant. the world had narrowed to this: the impossible sight before her, this resurrection gripped in the jaws of an orange moon.

then the creature's—no. no.

her gaze dropped to paige's hands, to her crossbow, and the peek of silver. the holy water looped into her belt, the slight bulge of the vest underneath her sweatshirt. understanding dawned like a new morning, and that beautiful, terrible face crumpled with betrayal so pure it was almost sacred.

the next cry that tore from her throat was animal grief, raw and endless. she stumbled backward, movements suddenly graceless, no longer seeking, only prey-afraid.

"paige, get the fuck back!" ryan roared, desperate now in the face of death. but paige felt deathless. "that’s a fucking leech!"

she saw the word hit like a physical blow. the creature—no, azzi—flinched, features contorting with agony and rage and the death of faith in coming home, and for the smallest heartbeat paige could see what her family saw: predator, unholy thing, abomination requiring cleansing.

but then it fell away, and there was only what she could see: the way those perfect shoulders shook with sobs she’d recognize in the dark. the particular way that head turned when shame threatened to drown everything else. that cervine gaze creased with terror.

paige let her weapon fall. it clattered against the earth like teeth rocked by force in a jaw.

azzi’s wet eyes widened, confusion bleeding through the fright. hope, dangerous and desperate, began to rekindle in that strange gaze. for a moment, the two were suspended and connected, and then the second severed.

azzi sharply pivoted and, in a blur of motion, she was running, melting into the trees with a speed that defied every law of physics, leaving only the echo of decade-old sorrow and the mutated scent of gardenias in her wake. it was then that paige remembered language, how to speak. her mouth fell open, and she screamed after her,

“azzi!”

her body was moving before her mind could catch up, muscles coiling for pursuit, but ryan's hand clamped around her arm like a manacle.

“what the fuck—that thing could have killed you!”

something in his voice, the casual dismissal, the way he reduced her early life of mourning to a thing—it flipped a switch in paige's chest. the same cold precision that had made her legendary among their brethren, the calculated butcher her family had crafted, crystallized into perfect, self-protective wrath.

the knife was against his throat before he could blink. the vein is so full here, she thought.

“let it go."

ryan went very still, eyes wide, phone halfway to his ear. the blade pressed just deep enough to dimple skin, blessed silver singing against his pulse.

“paige—”

“i said. let. it. go.”

still, foolishly, he balked at the order. she pressed the blade in harder, blue eyes like flint.

“drop it.” her voice was winter water, flat and merciless. he seemed to get it then, and the phone clattered to the ground. "good. you're not calling anyone."

“what—why the fuck not?” ryan sputtered, and paige stepped back, running a hand raggedly through her hair. she clenched her eyes shut, desperate to center herself. eventually, she answered him.

“because i know her. knew her. i—” she breathed out carefully, an archaic squeeze settling around her throat. she suddenly felt ill, near retching, and her voice cracked on her next words. “that was azzi.”

silence. then,

“paige, she’s been dead for years,” her brother whispered, and there was something almost pleading in it. paige could understand. she felt unmoored enough as it was.

she covered her mouth with a hand, swallowing down the chunky slide of rising bile.

“they never confirmed that,” she said, and her brother sighed.

“look, whatever that thing might’ve appeared to be, it's not azzi anymore.”

at that, paige was up, madness surging with vigor, and her dagger renewed its position against his throat. it pressed deeper, and a thin line of blood welled against the steel. ryan's breath hitched.

“twenty-four hours,” paige said, and her tone held that same terrible certainty she'd used on dying leeches. “you and every member of our family are going to give me twenty-four hours.”

“for what exactly?”

she looked toward the treeline where azzi had vanished, where the sounds of crashing brush were growing fainter and fainter still. when she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of damnation, of a choice made and consequences accepted.

“call it closure.”

she’d said what she needed to, and with it, gained all that she had ever wanted: time.

azzi sprinted until her lungs burned, until the trees blurred into a lunatic smear of green and shadow, until the sound of paige's voice and its taunting echo—azzi!azzi!azzi!—faded into nothing but wind through heavy leaves.

only then did she allow herself to collapse against the rough bark of an aspen, chest heaving, the bolt in her thigh screaming with every movement. she pressed her palms against her eyes, attempting to repress the tears, the memory, the way anticipation had built itself to a height in her chest only to be felled by the sight of those golden crosses intersected at the apex of paige’s neck.

paige. her paige. her golden girl, armed and vengeful and—

stop.

she couldn't think about it, couldn't let herself shatter in this moment, not when she was bleeding and exposed and miles from proper shelter. survival first. always survival first. that's what the years had taught her.

eleven years, to be exact, of learning what she was by enduring a thousand small deaths.

the first months had been the worst of it, spent hiding in abandoned buildings and storm drains, the deep places where humans didn't venture. she'd been so sick those first weeks, her body rejecting everything—food, water, even air—as the bite pushed it to its peak. she had been rushed from sixteen to twenty-five in the span of hours, accelerated and then frozen at an age she still struggled to feel set in, even as the years passed.

she'd tried to eat, tried to be normal, tried to pretend that nothing had changed.

bread had turned to ash in her mouth. milk had made her vomit violently, white foam, and then eventually nothing at all, only the act of it. even the grace of water was robbed of her, its taste mangled into nothing but pennies and rot.

the hunger had been a living thing inside her and still was, clawing incessantly at her ribs, provoking urges she always misunderstood. azzi fought against it until she was nothing but bone and fevered skin, broken into collapse in an alley behind a diner and woken to find a stray dog bleeding out beneath her teeth.

that first taste of blood had been a revelation first, damnation second. the cravings quieted, her body had sung with strength—no longer diseased—and she'd had the vitality to sob over the small corpse until dawn broke peach and dire over the horizon.

vampyre. that's what she was now.

monster.

this was what her sire had made her that day in the woods, without ever asking azzi if she wanted to be.

she’d learned to hunt the way children learn to walk: clumsily, with many falls. rats at first, then pigeons, then larger prey when the hunger overpowered. she'd taught herself to be quick, to be quiet, to take only what she needed. never humans. that was the line she would not cross, no matter how the hunger screamed.

but animals weren't enough. not ever.

she grew thin and weak on rabbit blood and bird hearts, her body begging for richer, more decadent. something that pulsed with human warmth and feeling. the famine was never fully satisfied, only temporarily soothed, like putting paste and a bandage over a severed artery.

she'd tried to go home once, early on. had stood outside her parents' house in the dark, watching the tepid light of the kitchen windows radiate delicately at her, listening to the familiar sounds of dinner being prepared to the dull hum of television static. it requested her return; it knew this lost daughter.

her courage had swelled, and she’d stepped forward when she heard the door creak open, but when her mother slipped out to dispose of the trash, she'd taken one look at azzi and screamed.

the mirrors had shown her why. the crimson eyes, the too-sharp teeth, the way her skin seemed to glisten with eerie brilliance. she looked nightmarish, as if she had crawled from a grave, straight out of hell’s hands.

her mother's scream echoed in her head for months afterward, shrill and unforgiving. so unwanting.

so, azzi learned to infiltrate the spaces between, the corners where society didn't nor wanted to search. she began to understand this body, born of violation; she learned that certain smells made her teeth ache and her vision blur.

she'd learned to steal clothes from laundromats, to avoid any sort of reflection and the flash of cameras, to move through the world like a wraith. she'd learned that hunters existed—men and women and person alike—with their silver weaponry and homemade holy water. she’d learned not to underestimate their militarization, the precision of their movements through the woods, or the level of that same deadly purpose she'd seen in paige's stance tonight.

some had found her over the years.

most hadn't lived to regret it.

the first time she'd killed a hunter, she'd vomited for hours afterward. she’d seen the human first, the danger second. the time after that, she'd only cried. by the seventh, she felt nothing at all. just the mechanical efficiency of survival, the same cold calculation that kept her alive another day, another year.

she'd never let herself linger over her history during those years, especially her family. especially paige. it was unfathomably unbearable. better to bury that part of herself, to forget the young girl who used to spin basketballs on her fingertips and steal azzi's books from her hands when she wanted more attention.

but sometimes, in the deep quiet of winter nights, she'd touch her throat where her beloved pendant used to rest and try her best to remember what it felt like to be loved completely by another person.

and now—now paige was here. had been here, with ordnance and righteous purpose, looking at azzi like she was something to be studied, catalogued, and destroyed. the recognition in those arctic eyes had been worse than any wound.

recognition, and then belated horror.

then disgust, maybe pity. then an emotion too unreadable.

she could still hear the boy’s cry.

that’s a fucking leech!

the recollection of the slur made azzi tremble in place, and she pulled her hands away from her face to look down at herself, naked and bloody and monstrous.

this was what paige had seen. not the sixteen-year-old girl who used to hug her tightly after the loss of a game, but this thing. this predator.

leech.

her thigh pulsed with poison, and she knew she had to move, had to remove the copper. had to find shelter and treat the lesion before infection set. then it was an execution of another vanishing because her only solution was to disappear again, before the rest of the clan came looking.

azzi could not handle pursuit at the hands of the bueckers. she’d rather die. in some ways, to be killed at the hands of those who’d once loved her as is, was all that she wanted. a return home.

for just a moment longer, she let herself remember the sound of her name in paige's voice. let herself remember what it felt like to be seen, to be known, even if it was only as something to be destroyed.

then she pushed herself up from the tree’s base where she’d sunk and began to sprint again, deeper into the darkness where she belonged.

“i hear you, sometimes. your voice.”

paige cast out her voice as she followed azzi’s scent. maybe she was only out of her mind, but she felt that the odor was different, influenced by azzi’s preferred notes. the gardenia was there, yes, and the copper, too. but there was a hint of hedione through the dense undergrowth, pear and plum threaded within.

no answer, as expected. to survive this long in land like this requires never giving oneself up.

her boots were silent against the loam. she’d stripped herself of armor: vest discarded, weapons abandoned, reduced to nothing but a black sports bra underneath her thermal longsleeve and matching shorts that clung to her muddied thighs like a second skin.

the air nipped mercilessly at her exposed flesh, as if the very earth was protective over the woman she was attempting to find, but she needed to shed every marker of what she had become. it was a necessity.

she needed to be just paige.

the trail was not difficult in the slightest; it was easy enough to follow. branches shatttered and bloodied marked azzi's passage, moonlight rolling over a scatter of dark carmine droplets along the forest floor. far too much blood. the bolt was doing its work, spreading its poison through her system with methodical cruelty.

paige picked up her pace.

“it’s usually when i—when i kill,” she continued, stepping neatly over a fallen log. "in the quiet after. when the work is done and i'm cleaning my blade, you tell me i'm a good girl. that i'm your angel."

her throat tightened and she swallowed once, twice. it was a punishing act every time. "thought i was losing my mind. maybe i was. maybe i am."

the trail curved left, following the natural contours of the hillside. paige adjusted her direction, feeling the familiar weight of her butterfly knife against her thigh, its blade engraved. the only weapon she hadn't abandoned. old habits.

hunter’s instinct.

“my family thinks you're dead. we have this whole ceremony, you know? lighting candles every year on the anniversary. mom still cries." she ducked under a low branch, feeling bark scrape against her shoulder blade. the pain was welcome. "but i never believed it. couldn't. ‘cause you kept talking to me."

a sound ahead. paige's pulse quickened, her head snapping to the side. labored breathing, maybe. or just the wind’s breath through the foliage. regardless, she followed, her internal clock ticking. every second, she was losing time.

"the first time i heard you was after my first hunt. this fledgling had been killing chickens and livestock. got practically on top of me. i gutted it, and i was so angry, you know? all i could see was you and i just—i was brutal. when it went still, i heard you whisper ‘good girl’ so clearly i almost lost it, expected to see you standing there right next to me."

she was climbing now, following the slope of the hill where the trees grew sparse and moonlight filtered through in yellow streaks. the trail was more frequent here, fresher. azzi was slowing.

“but i knew i was full of shit ‘cause you hate blood, hate gore. you never could make it through a horror movie without hiding inside of me.”

paige heaved herself over an unexpected ledge with a grunt.

"dad thinks it's some kind of calling. divine inspiration or some shit. says the work chooses us, that it’s god speaking through us." paige laughed, a bitter sound, seared along the edge. "i believe in him and everything, always have, but that ain’t my calling. i know it's just you. it's always been you."

the stench of gardenias suddenly swelled, almost overwhelming in its cloying sweetness, strong enough to revive paige’s headache from earlier. her steps slowed, instincts warring with something deeper, more primitive. love, maybe. or recognition of something that had been carved out of her and was now impossibly close to being whole again.

but wasn’t it all the same?

“i've killed plenty of them, az. more than the years i’ve lived. all those lee—vampires, and every single time i hear your voice telling me i'm good, i'm brave, i'm yours." her voice cracked. "but i never felt good. i never felt brave. never felt like anything except made for you. i just felt empty.

movement ahead. a flash of bare brown skin against shaded earth.

"and now you're here, and you're real, and i—" paige came to a standstill, words running dry.

there, curled on her side in a small, lush clearing, was azzi. the copper bolt protruded from her thigh, a grotesque flower, a stark oddity against the flesh blackening and weeping around it. her breathing was a mere suggestion, shallow, labored; each exhale a small sound of pain.

in the moonlight, stripped of the otherworldly luminescence that had made her seem so mythic before, she looked achingly mortal. young. vulnerable. stripped to nothing but the girl who used to press against her on the bus ride home from away games, lashes fanned delicately as she drifted off in the crook of paige's neck.

"oh god," paige breathed, and the last eleven years collapsed into nothing. "oh, az. fuck."

she approached slowly, hands visible, the way she'd been trained to approach wounded animals. but this wasn't an animal. this wasn't even a monster. this was azzi, and she was hurt, and paige felt something fundamental fall away, something calcified and toxic and self-preserving. a tumor that had been inside her, eating away.

"hey," she said softly, kneeling just outside arm's reach. azzi tensed, and the stiff nature of her muscles exacerbated her pain. paige fought back the sob bubbling in her chest. "i can help. i have an antidote. standard issue because the new kids always manage to nick themselves during training."

she tried to smile, failed.

"classic drew move, actually. he’s just started his path. kid’s gone through three vials this month alone."

azzi's eyes opened—those impossible beseeching eyes—and fixed on her with an expression of pure fright.

"no," she whispered, trying to push herself upright and failing. "no, please."

the plea hit paige with the inertia of a car crash, condensed and unforeseen. no, please. as if paige were the beast here, as if mercy were a luxury azzi couldn't afford to hope for.

she had never once stopped to think if any of them had been afraid of her, if they felt anything at all. it had been easier, so much easier to believe the opposite.

"i'm not going to hurt you," paige finally said, and her voice came out strangled. "i swear. az, i would never hurt you."

but azzi was shaking her head, twitching in an awkward scramble to get away, tears streaming down her cheeks. "you don't understand. i'm not—i can't—"

"it's just me," paige said desperately, and her hands moved to the tight ash-blonde plait at the base of her skull. she tugged harshly, pulling at the elastic until it snapped and let her hair fall loose around her shoulders the way azzi had always liked it: soft, waved, and unguarded. "look at me, baby. look, it’s just me."

the pet name should’ve surprised them both, but it didn’t, because paige had always known what the basis of her self-condemnation had been.

azzi tried to crawl away, and the movement sent fresh blood seeping from the wound. the poison was spreading, turning her skin grey at the edges. then azzi’s strength gave out entirely, and she collapsed against the earth with a sound of defeat so complete it made paige's chest cave in.

"paige," azzi whispered, and there was surrender in it.

paige felt sick. she’d seen it all by now, but this was the most brutal yet. the realization that azzi was more terrified of her than she was of dying.

slowly, carefully, paige moved closer. when azzi didn't flinch away—couldn't, anymore—she reached out and cupped her face with trembling hands. the skin beneath her hands was fever-hot, slick with sweat and tears.

"shh, i've got you," paige whispered, and she maneuvered azzi's body with gentle precision, turning her so she could cradle her head in her lap. she shrugged out of her thermal top, leaving herself in just the sports bra, and draped the fabric over azzi's naked form. it wasn't much, but it was something. “c’mon. you’re okay.”

comfort. coverage. the illusion of safety.

they had probably confiscated her clothing to maximize her humiliation.

"please," azzi murmured, pleading again, but this time it sounded different. less like begging and more like prayer. "it hurts."

“i know, baby. i—.”

paige cut herself off. she had no idea if the antidote would work when administered directly. azzi was something different now.

her hands shook as she uncapped the vial, the liquid viscous and violet. she knew she didn’t have the time to argue, to explain, to soothe. not without further risking this moment between them. azzi’s life was already collapsing into fragments, her eyes dull and deader by the second.

so, she did what instinct demanded. she tipped the vial back and drank.

it burned. a metallic, acrid bite clawed down her throat and set her stomach alight. paige gagged once, twice, then forced herself to swallow it all. by the time her head cleared, she was already biting down on the pad of her palm, slicing herself open with the practiced snap of her knife. blood welled, hot and dark, pooling fast.

“azzi,” paige urged, voice steeled by determination. she slapped twice at azzi’s cheek, demanding her return. “you have to drink.”

azzi recoiled, as though the very offer was abhorrent. her lips pulled back, canines bared, but paige could see no hunger, only fear. “no, no. i can’t—”

“please.” paige forced her bleeding hand against azzi’s mouth, pressed it straight to the fang. “it’s me. it’s safe. you’ll live if you—just please.”

and something gave.

maybe it was azzi, maybe it was paige; perhaps it was the thread of time that finally eroded, disintegrating all at once. azzi’s lips parted further, hesitant, and then her mouth closed over the wound.

the world shifted.

agony lanced through paige as her blood was drawn, almost sending her reeling, but underneath the pain bloomed a terrible, incandescent sweetness. she felt herself unraveling into azzi, threads of memory pulled loose, rewoven.

the smell of wet reeds in childhood summers. the weight of palm atop palm, hand upon hand. the harsh chemical phantom of hairspray the night before team photos. azzi’s laugh was warm and dizzying across her knees as they lay for hours by the lake. loss, blinding and irredeemable, half of paige amputated without permission.

SEPTEMBER.

OCTOBER.

NOVEMBER.

DECEMBER.

JANUARY.

and in return, she saw it. azzi’s turning: the sharp invasion, the press of an unknown body against hers, the violation of teeth inserted into muscle, slashed across her soft brown neck. the horror of waking to a hunger she never asked for. the loneliness. her limbs, diseased. the way she held on to paige’s name by the vein while she starved, shivered, hid.

paige sobbed, half-choked and borderline delirious. she could feel azzi’s tears against her palm, warm as she fed.

the wound in azzi’s leg began to knit, the decay fading. her breathing steadied, ragged but stronger. and still she drank, her throat bobbing as she coaxed and sucked life from paige’s veins, her voice spilling silent and endless through the river of shared thought. for the first time in years, paige heard it again.

good girl. my girl.

she tilted her head back and sobbed aloud this time.

she heard it again! so grateful. so grateful.

angel, angel, angel.

eventually, paige’s grip on azzi’s jaw slackened, and in turn, azzi’s became iron.

she rolled from paige’s lap and what began as tentative sips blossomed into hunger, her mouth sealing tighter against paige’s palm as her nature was called to action, throat working in frantic swallows. paige’s vision blurred at the edges, her shoulders buckling.

“az—” her voice broke, dazed. “‘m a little dizzy. think that’s enough.”

it took both hands to pry azzi from her self-inflicted injury, wrenching her free with a wet gasp. azzi’s fangs slide free with a disturbing schleck. blood slicked down paige’s wrist, dripping into the dirt, but it wasn’t the bite that unsettled her. it was azzi’s face, flushed now, eyes wide with sudden clarity.

and horror.

“no.” azzi’s voice was raw, almost childlike in its shriek of regret. she recoiled as if paige’s very skin might burn her. “what have you done? you’re—you’re bleeding out, you’ll—”

paige laughed, unsteady and wild, shaking her head as if the sound could expel the fear from azzi’s voice alone. “don’t care. i don’t fucking care. you’re here. you’re alive. you didn’t leave me.”

“paige, i’ve hurt you!”

paige grinned, swaying in place, practically incoherent.

“you want me. that’s all that matters.”

azzi crawled back, trembling, clutching her neck as though to stop the taste from lingering. “you don’t understand. i said no humans, only—only hunters. those who were trying to kill me. what you’ve given me—i could’ve killed you! you should be terrified of me.”

“mmm, i’ve always been a lil’ terrified of you,” paige admitted, dragging herself closer despite the weakness flooding the length of her arms and legs. “‘s how i knew it was real when i saw you again.”

azzi froze, mouth agape with disbelief, staring at her.

paige reached out, brushing her bloody fingers against azzi’s cheek, smearing the crimson there like a tribal mark of belonging. her voice softened to something intimate, undeniable.

“worth it. always been worth it. should’ve told you.”

for a long moment, silence swallowed them. only the woods sang, thrumming with their olden language, cicadas humming their dirge.

then azzi shifted, slow, agonized. she pulled on paige’s shirt, which was large enough to cover her to the tops of her thighs, and then bent until she was helping paige upright, looping one arm carefully around her waist. paige let her, sagging against the emerging coolness of her body.

the trees seemed to lean inward, oaks and aspens closing them off, funneling them along a narrow trail neither had to name.

they moved together, half-merged and stumbling, until the forest yawned open into stone. a cavern mouth, jagged and low, waiting with quiet expectance. the air that exhaled from it was damp, mineral, protective.

the air of a womb.

paige pressed closer into azzi’s side, her eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion.

“home?” she murmured, and azzi paused as if considering the question.

“no,” she answered.

then, azzi guided her inside.

ACT V. MISERERE.

the cave held them in its belly.

stone wet with the relic of water, the humidity solid and close as skin. paige could taste the salt of her own blood in azzi’s mouth, feel the shiver of life returning beneath her hands. for a moment, she thought the earth itself might close over them, burying them in its dark heart, mother and tomb alike.

she pressed her forehead anxiously to azzi’s, saying nothing, engaging urgently in the rhythm of breath, of please, of stay. outside, the world strained at the seams.

azzi held her, cooing softly as she fed bits of blood back to her, forcing her to swallow. it was like this for what seemed like an eternity, paige limp as she allowed her best friend to nurse her, return her to a more lucid reality.

maybe after twenty-four hours, this could still sustain. maybe she would be allowed this, could be given this version of life after every bit of cleaning she’d done.

she knew better. therefore, she was unsurprised at what followed.

paige felt it first in the shift of her body, the sudden alertness. azzi stiffened beside her, then turned, pushing paige up. paige watched as azzi’s lashes fluttered, the vampire’s head tilting like a deer catching the wind.

her head lifted higher, eyes gone distant, the fine-boned listening of something beyond human imagination.

“someone’s coming,” azzi said, the words pulling tight with dread.

paige felt her stomach bottom out, her heart dropping into the cavern. she wanted to deny it, press back into azzi, press them both harder into the stone, make this earthly cavity their entire world. but then she heard it too: the low churn, the weight of boots breaking ground, the steady chorus of movement that didn’t belong to either of them.

her throat spasmed, fingers quivering with slow fury. she knew that cadence. she had marched to it her entire life.

her father’s cadence. her mother’s. her brothers’.

“fuck,” she hissed.

the air in her chest curdled cold.

ryan had made the call. she had never been given the hours she’d almost bled him for, not once. he had only been waiting for her to falter, to lead them to the thing she could not kill.

ryan and his weak constitution.

drew adored her, idolized her. he would’ve held. but not ryan. never him. he was always the first to spring into action, no matter how damning.

“FUCK!” she roared.

azzi belatedly tried to silence her, but it was too late. the noise echoed. paige no longer cared. she staggered upright, yanking avidly at azzi until she, too, rose.

“c’mon. we gotta move, az. gotta go, baby. gotta—”

“paige.”

azzi’s call of her name was quiet, final.

the woods seethed with voices. paige could hear them breaking through the treeline, the bible-bound language of family, the hymn she had always known by heart:

hold your ground. keep the land clean. finish the work, finish the work.

they didn’t have time for this. again, her name.

“paige.”

she knew azzi. through death and after.

“no,” paige answered. “i’m not going to let them kill you. and they will kill you, and i just got you back.”

closer, and closer. the mouth of the cave was thrumming with voices, now. a terrible choir of them: her father’s barked orders, her mother’s sharp breath, ryan’s panicked cries.

paige turned to azzi, desperate. “you don’t matter to anyone the way that you matter to me.”

all the years of discipline and blood-work, every vigil and purging, had culminated in this single refrain—finish the work. and yes, maybe that had been paige’s refrain, too.

but then the forest had opened its throat and offered her azzi.

she’d come out of the dark like the final stanza of a song half-forgotten: a blood-streaked half-moon, body stripped and bled, remade by intimate violence into something ruinous and divine. from the moment paige had found her, the ground had tilted beneath her feet, the world sluicing toward a single point of gravity.

paige shuddered in place, finally terrified. “azzi, we don’t have any other choice. we have to get you out.”

azzi’s voice was raw when it found her. “paige, there is another choice.”

the words cracked open a thousand doors inside her. paige’s hand twitched toward her weapon, then fell useless to her side. she turned to the mouth of the cave.

azzi stood trembling, mouth wet with craving, eyes wide with something far greater. terror and love braided together, indistinguishable. her hands lifted like supplication.

“look back,” she whispered, hoarse and breaking. “please, paige. just once. look back at me.”

the truth was: paige had never been devout in the way they wanted. her devotion was azzi’s mouth against the straw of their shared water bottle, azzi’s soft, sweet laugh echoing among the bleachers, azzi’s hand brushing her hip as if by accident, and then winking when paige went pink.

her faith was a girl in a wetland, blood-wet and deer-eyed, who had haunted every shadow of paige’s waking. had kept her living past the expectations of her immense grief.

and now, that faith was calling.

behind her, azzi’s voice rose above the approaching commands, above the slur that was hurled at their feet. neither plea nor demand. just the pulse of her name, stretched long into a rosary.

paige.

my angel.

my girl.

her family rose before her, her immediate lineage coming into crystal focus before her. she could see the whites of her mother’s eyes.

paige’s whole body was ice and fire. the years of training, of “holy work”, of killing and burning nests to cinders? none of it had ever filled the wound azzi left. and now here she was, brought back, begging her not to look away.

and if paige looked away, she would not survive a second mourning.

she met her father’s gaze.

she thought of the nights she had buried herself in sleep because love had nowhere else to go. she thought of azzi at sixteen, alive and unargued with. she thought of azzi now, eyes like snakes, body marked by other hands of righteous cruelty, how she’d still looked at paige like she was salvation when she stumbled from the trees into the field.

this town will suffer another girl, her father had said so long ago. he’d always known.

there had never been another choice.

she knew what waited if she turned. the glisten of those garnet eyes. the crush of a throat. a vow written in hunger and eternity. she knew she would be devoured, remade. she knew she would fall.

drew understood first, his face so little as it crumpled. ryan was next. he bellowed:

“don’t you dare do it, paige. don’t you listen to her! don’t you let her take you—”

she drowned him out. she was already lost. always had been.

her family kept screaming. don’t. don’t. don’t.

but her mother—her mother kept still. lowered her rifle. she unfurled her hand, long and limber and pale, and clutched it around drew’s eyes. turned him into her. she watched him burrow into her side, arms encircling her waist.

paige softened.

thank you, she mouthed.

her mother nodded, smiled faintly.

the voice again returned.

good girl.

paige inhaled like it was her first breath. she had always known it would end this way. hunting had never been about cleanliness, about sacred duty.

it had always been about her. the loss of her, the ache of her.

she was not called to destroy azzi.

she was called to answer her.

good girl.

one last call from her father, sharpened into horror, always too slow:

“she will end you! paige. PAIGE!”

paige turned.

the world slowed, shutter-flash clear. she saw azzi hurtling toward her, faster than air, faster than benediction. leaping, flying, her body stretched and terrible, jaw unhinged in the revelation of teeth.

and beneath the monstrousness, that same face paige had always known: the face of her beloved.

in her eyes, pride.

and then—

his mouth is most sweet, yes, he is altogether lovely.  this is my beloved, and this is my friend. — song of solomon 5:16

♱.