loosely based on ‘dive’ by victoria monét.
✐˚ ༘ SYNOPSiS | you've known paige for a while now— gotten pretty close, actually. she wants to get you away from your grueling schedule as a nurse and out on the town. paige invites you out to the club with her teammates and as conversation escalates, you can't help but wonder what she's like in bed. the only catch? you've never gone that far before with anyone and the night alone leaves your mind wandering and legs aching.
✐˚ ༘ WARNiNGS | 18+, smut, allusions to sex, they kiss and tell, reader's a little anxious, implied virginity, trusted-friend-sex (which leads to more btw), paige courting you, cunnilingus (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), inexperienced reader, soft paige, soft! dom paige, pet names, and praise.
✐˚ ༘ MiMiS NOTES | believe it or not, the hardest part of this to write for me was choosing if i wanna change my layout or not you and paige are so cute though!!! i’m such a music head, if you really wanna experience this fic, listen to dive by victoria monét and the lady in my life by michael jackson 😛 the highlight of this (imo) isn't even the smut LMAOOOO. it's just the romance overall and how soft paige's love is ✨ i think if i were ovulating this would be dirtier, but hey 🧐 no sense in splitting hairs! enjoy (>ᴗ•)
you realize that somewhere between the third thump of bass and the second spilled drink that wasn’t even yours. the club is loud, the kind of loud that you can feel in your teeth, where conversation has to be yelled into ears or mouthed across small distances. bodies move in slow sync around you — some grinding, some just swaying in place, but all of them seemingly in on something you aren’t.
you sit at the edge of the booth, half-tucked in, half trying to disappear. there’s a vodka cran in your hand, barely touched. condensation runs down the side of the glass, beading onto your fingers. you swirl the straw to look busy.
you’re not a club girl. not the girl with winged eyeliner and a clutch bag and a dozen slick stories about the girls you’ve been with. you’re a nurse — sensible shoes, bun too tight, hands always washed and dry from sanitizer. you like tea more than tequila. and you came out tonight because paige asked you to.
she had texted you a few hours before with a casual “come out with us tonight? you work too much,” and something in the softness of it made you say yes before you could think better of it.
but now you’re here — surrounded by her teammates, glitter, sweat, flashing lights — and they’re talking about sex.
“i swear, you gotta do that thing with your tongue,” azaiah says, leaning forward, hair swinging as she gestures with a fry like it’s part of a demonstration. “not just circles — make it spell your name.”
someone shrieks with laughter across the booth. drinks clink. cheeks flush.
“nah, y’all doing too much,” another teammate jumps in. “you just gotta listen. the body tells you what to do. be patient with her.”
paige chuckles, deep and low, her arm slung lazily over the booth behind her. she’s got this white tank top on, loose in all the right ways, gold chain catching the strobe lights every time she shifts.
“mm,” she hums, swirling the straw in her drink. “listening’s key. but pressure matters. you apply it just right—”
you shift in your seat, tugging at the hem of your top, trying to keep your face neutral. but your ears are burning. not just from embarrassment — from longing, too. that quiet itch under your skin you’ve been ignoring for too long. that ache in your thighs you pretend is just stress.
because you’ve never had that. not even close.
you’ve never let anyone near like that. never stayed out late for a kiss or snuck someone into your sheets. never gave anyone the chance to know what your skin sounds like when it sighs under someone’s touch. and now, here you are — surrounded by women who’ve done it all, who speak desire like it’s a second language — feeling like a kid who showed up to the wrong classroom.
you stare down at your drink.
a voice leans in near your ear, gentle and low.
you turn, startled. it’s her. paige. so close you can smell her perfume — warm, musky, something unisex and intoxicating. her hand is on the back of your chair, her body angled toward you, shielding you from the chaos of the booth.
“yeah,” you say quickly, too quickly. “i’m fine. i’m just— listening.”
she studies you. eyes clear even under the haze of colored lights. her mouth curves into something understanding.
“you don’t have to say anything,” she says. “they’re loud, but they’re harmless.”
you nod, your throat tight. “they’re just… experienced.”
paige lets out a soft chuckle. “that they are.”
you glance at her from under your lashes. “and you?”
she doesn’t flinch. she holds your gaze. “i know what i’m doing.”
it shouldn’t make your stomach flip. it shouldn’t send that twinge of heat low in your belly — but it does. because even in this crowd, paige looks like she’s glowing.
her skin is flushed from the warmth of the room, collarbone damp, lip gloss kissed off the edges. every time someone walks by, they glance at her — some subtle, some not. girls flirt when they bring drinks, or linger just a little too long when they laugh.
and the whole time, paige is calm. unmoved. leaning back like she knows the power she holds and doesn’t need to prove it.
you sip your drink again, trying to steady yourself.
paige bumps her knee against yours gently. “don’t let them make you feel like you’re behind.”
“nah,” she says. “you’re just… waiting for the right moment. right person.”
you try to laugh it off. “and who would that even be?”
but something flickers in her expression. it’s soft. unreadable.
she shrugs. “you’d be surprised.”
you turn your head before she can see the way your heart jumps at that. you shouldn’t read into it — but god, she makes it hard not to.
someone calls her name across the booth, and she peels away with a little pat to your shoulder, sliding back into the rhythm of the group. she’s effortless again, telling some story about a vegas trip and a girl who wouldn’t leave her hotel room.
you watch her — the way she commands the space without trying, the way people lean in when she speaks, the way girls laugh a little too loudly at things she says.
but you also feel… alive.
like something’s waking up in you. something curious.
and the whole time, you think about her saying:
you’re just waiting for the right person.
maybe that person is sitting ten feet away, drinking mezcal with lime and never looking at you quite the same again.
the hospital smells like antiseptic and too much caffeine.
the overhead lights are sterile and flat, and your sneakers squeak faintly with every step down the hall. your badge taps against your chest, stethoscope slung loosely around your neck, fingers already dry and cracked from alcohol rubs and constant hand-washing.
you’ve been on your feet for hours. your body’s tired, but your mind won’t stop. not really. not since last night.
you knock lightly with your knuckle and push the door open with your hip, warm smile already in place.
“good morning, mr. talbot. how’re we feeling today?”
he’s an older gentleman — somewhere in his late sixties — eyes a little glazed from the pain meds but still sharp enough to give you that same sideways smirk he’s been using since his admission.
“depends,” he grumbles. “you bring me breakfast or just more pills?”
you chuckle, already pulling up his chart on the tablet. “the nurses give love, not omelets.”
you take his vitals with the practiced ease of routine — blood pressure cuff snug around his arm, pulse ox clipped to his finger, murmured reassurances falling from your mouth without thought. it’s muscle memory now, this care, this work. you know it like the back of your hand.
but when you brush his wrist to check the time on your watch, you suddenly remember the way paige leaned in at the club the night before, her arm brushing yours. the quiet intimacy of it. her voice, low in your ear.
“you don’t have to say anything.”
“you’re just waiting for the right person.”
“everything looks good,” you say, blinking yourself back to the present. “labs came back better than yesterday. looks like your kidney numbers are stabilizing.”
“because you keep nagging me about hydration,” he mutters.
“and because your body wants to get better,” you tease.
he waves a wrinkled hand. “nah, it’s probably the smile. that smile could revive a man.”
you laugh and roll your eyes, but your fingers pause slightly as you chart his data.
your smile — did paige like it?
you’d caught her looking a few times, hadn’t you? not just last night. before. the coffee drop-offs, the casual texts, the way she’d once brushed a curl off your forehead with the back of her knuckle, like it was nothing. but it wasn’t nothing to you. you felt that touch for hours.
you finish up with mr. talbot and move on to your next patient, mind flipping between medication dosages and the curve of paige’s throat as she laughed in the booth last night, the way her tank top stuck slightly to her shoulder. every time you pass a reflective window, your eyes catch your own reflection — flushed, distracted.
by the time you hit the med station, you’re cursing yourself softly under your breath.
you punch in your code and start prepping the IV meds. antibiotics, fluids, saline. one hand organizing, the other double-checking, but even now — you remember how gentle her voice was when she asked if you were okay. how carefully she looked at you. like you weren’t a punchline. like you mattered.
you take a deep breath, leaning forward, palms pressed to the cool steel of the counter.
she had said, “i’ll take care of you.”
you don’t know what part of that undoes you more — the offer, or the way you believed her.
“yo,” clara, another rn on your floor, sidles up beside you. “you good? you’ve zoned out like three times today.”
you blink. straighten. “just didn’t sleep much.”
she eyes you, skeptical. “was it because of whoever you were out with last night? saw your story. club looked lit.”
you shrug, trying for casual. “just some people paige knows.”
clara whistles. “she fine. if i was into girls, i’d risk it all.”
your mouth quirks. “she gets that a lot.”
you don’t say what you really want to say — that you can’t stop thinking about her mouth, about the way she looked when she leaned against the bar, gold chain resting just above her collarbone. that you woke up aching this morning, not just between your legs but in your chest. a need deeper than desire.
and it’s been growing. quiet and constant.
later, you’re changing the sheets on bed 419, looping the corners tight, when you think about what it would feel like to be beneath her hands. if her fingers would be firm or coaxing. if she’d look at you like you were fragile or something to be unraveled slowly. your own knuckles go white on the linen.
you have the day off tomorrow. you could swing by the gym.
your mind tumbles with what-ifs.
what if she touches you with that same gentleness?
what if you finally let someone see you— all of you— and it feels like relief, not shame?
the locker room buzzes with the post-practice energy: sneakers squeaking on the tile floor, water bottles clinking, laughter bouncing off the concrete walls. the scent of sweat, soap, and eucalyptus fills the air.
paige sits on the wooden bench, peeling off her sweat-soaked headband, her damp waves springing free. her teammates are clustered around, some still in their gear, others already halfway into their showers. the chatter is light, casual — but with an unmistakable undertone when someone brings up the night before.
“yo, paige,” azaiah nudges her from the bench across, flashing a sly grin. “that thing with your friend at the club? i’m telling you, the whole table was watching.”
paige rolls her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips, but her shoulders tighten just a bit. “y’all trippin’. i was just helping her feel included.”
“helping?” dijonai pipes up, a little laugh slipping through. “girl, please. you were practically glowing when you talked to her. like she’s your whole world or something.”
“yeah,” someone else chimes in, “and that look you gave her when she said she’s never really… you know.” she makes a vague gesture with her fingers.
paige shifts on the bench, pulling her towel tighter around her neck. “we’re close, that’s all.”
“close? come on, paige,” azaiah presses, eyes sparkling. “you’ve never looked at someone like that.”
paige gives a shrug that’s all grace and casual dismissal. “maybe i’m just a good friend.”
her teammates exchange knowing glances.
dijonai leans in, voice low but teasing. “friendship don’t look like that, paige. you were borderline protective. like you wanted to keep her safe from all of us.”
paige laughs, sharp but a little forced. “i’m protective of a lot of people.”
“sure, sure,” azaiah says, raising her eyebrows. “but you only got that soft look for her.”
paige’s mouth tightens. she looks down at the scuffed floor, then back up, her eyes steady but guarded. “you’re reading too much into it.”
“nah,” nalyssa says, standing and grabbing her water bottle. “we see it.”
as the teammates begin to disperse toward showers and changing stalls, azaiah lingers for a moment. “look, paige, no pressure. just saying, if there’s something there, don’t hide it.”
paige’s smile is small, private. “i don’t hide anything. not really.”
once the locker room quiets down, paige remains seated a moment longer, her gaze distant.
deep down, she knows they’re right.
something she can’t quite name, but can’t ignore.
it’s just past six when paige exits the gym, the air warm and thick with humidity, the sun dipping low enough to paint everything in soft gold. her duffel is slung over her shoulder, headphones tangled around her neck, the fresh post-practice ache still settling in her muscles. her mind is still half in the locker room — half in the teasing echoes of her teammates’ voices.
she rounds the corner toward the parking lot—
you look so out of place, so beautifully misplaced in this lot surrounded by chain-link fences and cracked concrete. you’re holding a takeout bag in one hand and a small bouquet in the other — lilies, soft ivory roses, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.
your hair is a little messy like you’ve been pushing your fingers through it all day, your scrubs traded for a hoodie and leggings. and your smile — god, it’s there, but it’s nervous. full of tension, the kind that comes from building something up all day in your head and hoping it doesn’t crash down in front of you.
paige slows her pace. “hey. what are you—?”
“hi,” you say, almost too fast, and then immediately pause to catch your breath. “sorry. i didn’t mean to, like, ambush you.”
she smiles gently. “you didn’t. just surprised me.”
you lift the food bag a little, the paper crinkling in your grip. “i got you tex-mex. and these.” you hold out the flowers. “it’s not— i mean, it’s not a bribe. i just wanted to show up with… something. something that feels good. right.”
paige’s brow furrows, soft and curious. “what’s going on?”
you take a step closer and look at her, really look at her — flushed from practice, loose tank hanging off her shoulder, hair damp at the roots. she looks so good. and you feel so small.
“i’ve been thinking about last night,” you start, and your voice wobbles, but you push through it. “and about what they were talking about. your teammates.”
paige’s face shifts slightly — not away, not cold, just… careful.
you keep going. “they were talking about sex, yeah, but… it was more than that. the way they talk about being wanted. being seen. held. and i didn’t know how to add anything, because i’ve never really—” you stop, teeth catching your bottom lip. “i’ve never let anyone close like that. not seriously.”
she doesn’t interrupt. she’s just watching, giving you her full attention like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel it,” you say. “doesn’t mean i don’t want it.”
your fingers tighten around the paper bag. you look down for a second before saying it, because the words feel like they’re scraping against your throat.
“and i trust you, paige.”
her eyes widen just a bit — not dramatically, not in disbelief, but in that quiet, startled way someone reacts when something inside them clicks.
“so i came here because… i want to ask for something. i want it to be from someone i care about. someone who knows me.”
you’re trembling now, just a little. she notices. she doesn’t move closer, but you can feel the way her body angles more toward you, like a magnet catching tension.
“i want to be treated how you treat your girls.”
it comes out in a breath — part confession, part plea. your voice is thin but firm.
paige’s lips part slightly. there’s something unreadable behind her eyes. you rush to fill the silence, afraid she’s misunderstood.
“not just— not just for the sex, even though, yeah, i think about that too—more than i should—but i mean everything. the way you look at them. the way you touch them, talk to them, pull them close like they matter.”
your voice breaks just a bit.
“i want to matter like that. i want you to show me.”
paige is still quiet. but her eyes are burning now — not with judgment, not with shock, but something heavier. something like restraint.
finally, she sets her bag down on the hood of her car and steps toward you.
she reaches for the flowers, and when your fingers brush as she takes them, her touch is warm. grounding.
“okay,” she says, voice low and steady. “let’s do this right.”
“not because you brought food,” she adds with a small smile, “but because you’re here. asking like that. trusting me like this.”
she places the flowers gently on her back seat, then walks around to open the passenger door.
she nods at you you merely glance at her before hopping in. when you do, paige rounds the car and gets in herself.
the tex-mex is warm between you, resting on the center console, the car humming quietly around you. the scent of grilled steak and melted cheese fills the air, and you’re both unwrapping your foil-wrapped tacos with a quiet that borders on awkward.
paige glances at you as you struggle with a plastic fork, then smirks. “you okay over there? looks like you’re losing a fight with the rice.”
you huff a laugh and give her a look. “i’m nervous, not useless.”
you toss a tortilla chip at her chest and she catches it with a dramatic, slow-motion flinch like it was a grenade. “wow. violence.”
your smile twitches, despite yourself. “you’ve had worse on the court.”
“yeah, but not while holding a taco. that’s sacred.”
you both settle into quiet again, chewing between shared glances. the silence isn’t heavy anymore, just full. full of possibilities. full of the awkwardness that only comes when something might actually matter.
you glance down at your hands. “i didn’t really think past showing up, if i’m being honest.”
paige wipes her fingers with a napkin, then leans back in the seat. “it’s okay. you kind of dropped a bomb back there.”
“i know,” you groan softly, covering your face. “god, i feel like i made it weird.”
you peek at her through your fingers.
she grins. “but you were shaking like a leaf. like… hospital-grade nerves. chart it. page the doctor.”
you drop your hands to your lap and laugh, exhaling. “i was freaking out.”
“and i still said yes,” she says, nudging you with her knee. “so maybe there’s something kind of cute about watching you malfunction.”
you nudge her back. “sadist.”
“mm. maybe just for you.”
that quiet, teasing energy spreads between you again, warmer now. lighter.
you pick at a piece of grilled chicken and glance at her sideways. “so… how does this work? if we do it your way. the right way.”
paige leans her head back against the seat and hums. “okay. step one, i pick you up. like actually pull up to your spot, knock on the door, hold it open for you. none of that ‘meet me here’ stuff.”
“step two?” you ask, voice softer now.
“nice dinner,” she says. “not fast food. something you get dressed up for. something where i get to see you smile for no reason.”
you feel your face heat at that.
she grins at your reaction but keeps going, gentler now. “step three, we leave room for dessert. because you’re gonna pretend you don’t want it and then eat half of mine anyway.”
“i only do that when it’s good.”
“everything i give you will be good,” she says without missing a beat — and it’s flirtatious, but also not. it’s a promise under the joke.
“and step four?” you murmur.
paige turns her head toward you, slow. “we go back to my place. not rushed. not expecting anything. we sit on my couch. i play you something terrible on the piano. we laugh. and then… if the moment’s right, and you still want that—”
“i will,” you cut in, quietly.
“then,” she says, “i take you to my room. and i don’t treat you like my girls.”
“i treat you like you. better.”
this one is still. reverent.
then paige lets out a little huff. “also. step five. if you cry during sex, you owe me two tacos.”
“what—” you start laughing, almost choking. “why two?”
“one for the mess, and one for emotional damage. i’ve got a delicate spirit.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re ridiculous.”
“unfortunately,” you say, biting into your taco to avoid the smile creeping across your face.
she watches you for a second, then looks out the windshield, a small, private smile pulling at her lips.
you’ve still got rice between your teeth and grease on your fingers.
but for the first time in a long time, the end of a day feels like the start of something good.
you’d gone over your closet three times already.
once with too much confidence.
once with too much self-doubt.
and now… somewhere in between, your bedroom light golden and low, music humming faintly through your bluetooth speaker.
you stood in front of the mirror in a half-buttoned blouse, lipstick cap between your teeth, bare legs cold against the hardwood.
this wasn’t just a dinner.
paige had sent you a text earlier — just before she left practice — something short but easy, in that way only she could manage.
“hope you’re not freaking out yet. save a little mystery for the car ride.”
you had smiled so hard your teeth hurt.
and then you had, of course, immediately started freaking out again.
the next text came thirty minutes later:
“wear whatever makes you feel good. don’t overthink it. i already like how you look when you’re annoyed.”
you’d sent her a middle finger emoji.
she replied with a heart.
you reach for your perfume — just a small spritz to the side of your neck — and then pause to look at yourself. not just glance. look.
maybe a little too soft, you thought at first. not polished enough.
but then you remembered what she said.
“everything i give you will be good.”
“on my way. 10 mins. no rice on the shirt this time, right?”
you laugh out loud. this time, you don’t reply. you just smile, turning to grab your bag.
you check the mirror once more. smooth your hair down.
you weren’t sure what would happen tonight. you weren’t even sure what you wanted to happen yet. but something about the way paige looked at you — the way she listened without rushing, joked without pressuring — made you feel like you had space to figure it out. like she’d wait. like she’d still be here.
and when the headlights pull into your driveway a few minutes later, you don’t hesitate.
you just open the door, step into the warm evening air, and walk toward something that feels like a beginning.
you make it halfway down the front steps before you hear her voice.
paige is already out of the car, one hand on the top of the door like she wasn’t planning to sit for long. her posture is easy — casual in a linen button-down rolled at the sleeves, linen pants hugging her frame, her hair loose tonight, framing her face in gentle waves. but there’s something in her expression — a quiet focus — that makes you stop.
“what?” you ask, half-smiling.
she closes the door with a soft thud and starts walking toward you, head tilted. “you’re breaking protocol.”
“step one,” she reminds you, hands slipping into her pockets as she approaches. “i pick you up. i knock on the door. remember?”
you laugh, a little breathless. “i thought we were past formality.”
“we’re not,” she says, firm but teasing. “not tonight.”
you pause on the second step, unsure whether to go back up or wait for her there.
“seriously,” she says, climbing the last step to stand in front of you. “you’ve been looking forward to this. you got dressed for it. you’re giving me that look. and i know your heart’s racing, ‘cause you’re doing that thing with your hand.”
you glance down — your fingers were fidgeting with your rings again.
“this is a real night,” she continues softly. “and i’m not about to let you walk into it halfway.”
you let out a shaky breath, heart softening as she reaches for the side of your arm — not pulling, just anchoring.
“go back inside,” she says gently. “let me start this right.”
you stare at her, stunned by how serious her voice is beneath the smile.
“you mean that?” you ask.
you hesitate, cheeks warm — and then, for some reason you don’t quite understand, you nod and step back. “okay.”
paige’s face breaks into a grin. “good. now gimme thirty seconds. don’t peek out the window.”
you turn around, cheeks burning, and go back inside, shutting the door behind you.
thirty seconds later — a soft knock.
you open it to find paige standing there with a bouquet in hand, and a look that says yeah, this is ridiculous, but I’m doing it anyway.
she hands you the bouquet. “for the prettiest girl on the block.”
“ready?” she asks, offering her arm.
you slip your hand around her bicep, heart slowing, grounding into her warmth. “yeah,” you whisper. “ready.”
the windows are cracked just enough to let the breeze curl in, warm against your legs. the city around you hums with a friday night rhythm: headlights gliding past, people spilling onto sidewalks, laughter echoing from patios.
you buckle your seatbelt with shaky fingers, glancing sideways.
paige’s hand is loose on the steering wheel, her other arm resting along the console. the flowers you’re still holding rest in your lap, petals a little bruised from your grip. you don’t let go of them.
the bluetooth connects with a soft chime, and music filters in — something old-school and smooth. a little r&b. something you don’t recognize, but fits. background music for a feeling you haven’t named yet.
“you okay?” she asks as she pulls away from the curb, turning onto a wide boulevard lit by neon signs and traffic signals.
you nod quickly. “yeah. just… nervous.”
she hums, eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to the road. “me too.”
that surprises you. “you are?”
“mhm. you’ve got high expectations now.” she grins. “i promised a five-star night. gotta deliver.”
you let out a small laugh, glancing out the window. “you’re off to a good start.”
she turns at the light. “you look really pretty, by the way.”
your chest tightens, warmth blooming behind your ears. “thank you.”
“i mean it,” she adds, quieter now. “you always look good, but tonight…” she exhales like she’s trying to keep it cool. “you’re glowing. like, rom-com final scene level.”
you glance at her quickly, and she’s already looking at you.
the moment lingers. stretches. and then the music swells just a little louder — as if the universe wants to give you a break.
you bite your lip and look back out at the city. “you know, this is kind of surreal.”
“i’ve known you through so many little moments — practices, takeout, hospital check-ins, movie night catastrophes… but this feels like something else.”
paige nods slowly. “it is.”
“and you’re okay with that?”
she turns the volume down slightly and eases into the next lane. “i’ve wanted that,” she says. “i just… didn’t want to rush you.”
you sit with that. the car moving smooth beneath you, her voice still in your ears.
“you ever think about how we got here?” you murmur.
“yeah,” she says, grinning softly. “every time i look at you.”
you don’t know what to say to that, so you just breathe — steady and slow — and let your hand inch closer to hers on the console.
you don’t touch. not yet. but the space between you feels different now. not empty. ready.
as she turns toward the restaurant, paige breaks the silence one more time, voice light but sure:
“okay, dinner first. then dessert. then, if the night still feels this good—”
“—i cry during sex and owe you two tacos?”
you laugh, and this time it doesn’t tremble.
you’re still nervous. still uncertain about how the rest of the night will go.
but with paige next to you — steady, warm, teasing — it feels like maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.
the restaurant isn’t overly fancy — not white-tablecloth serious — but it’s intimate. cozy. the kind of place where the lighting is low and golden, where the wine glasses never match and the waitstaff wear denim aprons and call you “sweetheart” without being weird about it.
you sit across from paige in a half-moon booth, tucked away near the back, the noise of the room distant and warm, like a song you don’t know but somehow remember.
your menus have been pushed aside — your order already taken — and now there’s a soft basket of bread between you, mostly ignored. the candlelight flickers, catching in the gold of paige’s chain, the lashes shadowing her cheekbones when she glances down at her drink.
not because she’s doing anything remarkable. she’s just here. real and comfortable in her skin. fingers drumming the edge of her glass. smiling faintly at something the server says behind you. legs stretched out casually under the table, brushing yours now and then.
“you keep looking at me like that,” she says without looking up, “i’m gonna start charging you.”
you blink out of it. “i’m not—”
“oh, you were,” she teases, finally lifting her gaze to meet yours. “but it’s okay. i’m flattered. i mean, i did shower tonight.”
“generous of you,” you murmur, smirking into your glass.
she shrugs playfully. “bare minimum.”
you roll your eyes and tear off a piece of bread, mostly just for something to do with your hands. “you’re kind of charming when you’re not being a menace.”
you glance up at her. “a little bit.”
she leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “i can live with that.”
your heart taps faster again — that familiar nervous flutter — but there’s something about her ease that makes it feel okay. like you don’t have to hide it.
“you’re really good at this,” you admit quietly.
paige raises an eyebrow. “bread-tearing?”
you laugh. “no — this. being on a date. making it feel… like something. like i’m not crazy for wanting to try.”
she softens immediately. “you’re not crazy. you’re brave.”
you look down, overwhelmed by how easily she says it.
“and,” she adds, reaching for her water, “i’ve had some practice. you think this charm is natural? it’s been honed over years of first-date awkwardness, random ‘i think we have chemistry’ moments, and the occasional situationship spiral.”
you grin. “so you’re saying i’m not special?”
“no,” she says seriously now. “i’m saying… you’re the only one i’ve wanted to slow down for.”
not uncomfortable. just charged.
you can feel the weight of her words settle into your chest. not heavy. Anchoring.
you glance down at your lap, then back up. “can i be honest?”
“i’m scared,” you admit. “not of you. just… what this might unlock.”
“yeah,” she says softly, like she’s been there too. “it’s easier to keep some doors closed. even the ones you really want to open.”
she watches you for a moment, then reaches across the table — not to hold your hand, but to rest hers palm-up in the middle, like a quiet invitation. you stare at it.
“we don’t have to rush,” she says. “we’re already here.”
you place your hand in hers.
and it’s nothing explosive. no fireworks or heatwaves. just warmth.
the server comes with your plates and breaks the moment, but you’re both smiling now — tucked into something safe and slow, like the first steps of a long walk.
“don’t let me order dessert until you’re really sure,” you joke as the server leaves.
“because i’ll ask for two spoons and pretend it’s for sharing.”
paige smirks. “i know you too well already.”
you raise your glass. “to good bread, better lies, and figuring it out as we go.”
paige clinks yours gently. “and to you. for showing up.”
you smile, quiet and full.
the restaurant door closes behind you with a gentle thud, and the air outside greets you like a whisper — warm, breezy, soft with the scent of pavement and honeysuckle. the night is deep now, dark enough for the streetlights to matter, but not so late that the world feels empty.
paige falls into step beside you without a word.
you’re both full — the kind of full that makes you a little sleepy, a little slow — but neither of you is ready for the night to end. so instead of heading toward the car, you drift down the block, past closed storefronts and flickering neon signs, your shoulders close enough to brush.
it’s quiet. not in a pressured way. just peaceful. the kind of quiet that means we don’t have to perform for each other right now.
“that was a really good dinner,” you say softly.
“yeah,” paige nods. “food was great. company was even better.”
you smile down at the sidewalk, watching your shoes keep pace with hers.
a beat passes before she glances at you and asks, “you feeling okay?”
you nod. “better than i thought i would.”
she hums. “but you’re walking next to me instead of hiding behind a potted plant. that’s growth.”
you laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “baby steps.”
you pass a bookstore with lights still glowing inside — “late night reads,” a sign in the window says. there’s a cat curled in the display, asleep on a stack of poetry collections.
you both stop for a second to look at it.
“damn,” paige whispers. “that cat’s living my dream life.”
“curled up and unbothered?” you ask.
“mmhmm. and surrounded by stories that don’t ask too much of you.”
you glance at her. “you’re not as chill as you pretend to be.”
she looks over, surprised. “what makes you say that?”
“just a feeling. like… you carry a lot in silence.”
her smile fades slightly, not in a bad way — more like she’s been seen, and doesn’t quite know where to put that.
“maybe,” she says finally. “but tonight feels light.”
you round the corner, the sidewalk cracked and uneven, and your hand grazes hers again. this time, she doesn’t let it fall away. her fingers curl into yours, gentle and sure.
you both look straight ahead like it’s not a big deal, even though your pulse jumps.
“i’ve never done this like this,” you admit.
“taken something slow. been willing to take it slow.”
paige’s thumb rubs a small, absentminded circle against your hand.
“you think i’m doing this for you,” she says. “but the truth is, i’ve never wanted to rush this either. i’ve done the fast, messy, no-strings thing. this—” she pauses, glancing over at you “—this is new for me too.”
you walk a few more steps, the moment stretching out like soft taffy. sweet and quiet.
“so what now?” you ask, half-laughing. “we walk off our pasta and then what?”
paige smirks. “then we drive back to mine. maybe put on a movie we won’t finish.”
“something we can talk over,” she says. “or ignore completely if you decide to kiss me.”
you bite your lip, trying not to grin. “what if i need more time?”
“then i’ll keep the movie playing,” she says easily. “and let you fall asleep on my couch if that’s what feels right.”
your heart feels full — almost painfully so.
you squeeze her hand. “you’re really not rushing me.”
she turns to look at you. “i’m walking at your pace.”
and something in you unclenches — the part that’s always braced, always ready to run.
because tonight, for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re allowed to stay.
paige’s apartment sits on the third floor of a walk-up — wide stairwells, flickering hall light, a soft thud of someone’s TV behind one of the doors. the building smells like warm wood, laundry detergent, and the faintest trace of weed from someone down the hall. familiar. lived-in.
you trail just a step behind her up the stairs, eyes skimming the curve of her shoulder, the sway of her head, the quiet confidence in her body even now. she’s relaxed — but you know her well enough to see the alertness beneath it. she’s reading the air. feeling this moment for what it is.
at the top, she unlocks her door and pushes it open with a low creak. the soft light from the hallway spills inside.
“welcome to casa bueckers,” she says lightly, stepping aside.
you walk in slow. the place is warm, minimalist but cozy — wood floors, a navy-blue couch, a record player near the window, a stack of worn books on the coffee table, sneakers by the door. it smells like her. clean, a little citrusy, something earthy and unpretentious.
you kick off your shoes without being asked. “you keep it cleaner than i expected.”
she shrugs, smirking as she locks the door. “i know how to play the long game.”
you turn toward her, hands suddenly uncertain. “so…”
paige leans against the wall, arms crossed. “you’re in charge. i meant it.”
your breath catches. “that’s a lot of power.”
you nod slowly, heart climbing into your throat. the silence stretches — not awkward, just thick with everything unsaid.
“can i sit?” you ask quietly.
“wherever you want,” she says, stepping forward. “but if it’s on my lap, maybe give me a little warning.”
you let out a breathy laugh and settle onto the edge of the couch, arms braced on your knees. your nerves are back, like a low simmer in your chest. you pick at a thread on your pants, trying to remember how to start something you’ve never done before.
paige watches you for a moment. then she moves — slow, unthreatening — and sits on the coffee table directly across from you, knees nearly touching yours.
her voice softens. “you don’t have to say it again. not if it’s too much.”
you meet her eyes, all humor gone now. “i want to. i need to be clear.”
you swallow. “i want to be treated how you treat your girls. the ones you… see.”
her eyes flicker — something flicks deeper in her chest, and you see it.
“i see you,” she says quietly. “more than i probably should.”
you blink. “why ‘should’?”
“because once i start,” she murmurs, “i don’t know how to stop.”
you stare at each other. breath caught. hearts loud.
then, finally, she reaches out — not to kiss you, not yet. she slides her fingers into yours and pulls you gently to your feet.
“come here,” she whispers, standing too.
you let her lead you toward her bedroom — your pulse thrumming in your throat, nerves dancing across your skin. it’s not lust pushing you forward. it’s not curiosity.
the kind that says: i want you to touch me, but i need you to hold me first. paige is the kind of girl who knows how to do both.
the room smells like clean linen and citrus. paige’s walls are soft beige, a few framed polaroids tacked near the mirror — teammates, family, the kind of moments you don’t post but never forget. her bed’s neatly made, low to the ground, sheets a warm oatmeal color, comforter soft and rumpled at the edges like she flopped down on it this morning and never fixed it all the way.
your hands are shaking a little as she closes the door behind you.
the light is dim — not dark, just muted. a soft lamp glows from her nightstand. she taps something on her phone and sets it down, and that’s when you hear it:
“there’ll be no darkness tonight…”
michael’s voice fills the room like silk, low and full, and something in your chest settles. “the lady in my life” plays gently through her speaker, the kind of song that knows how to keep quiet and still sound like love.
“okay,” paige murmurs, turning toward you. “still good?”
you nod, a little breathless.
“okay,” she repeats, stepping forward. “then let me take care of you.”
she’s so gentle with it. no rush. just fingers to the hem of your jacket, lifting it from your shoulders. your skin tingles as cool air hits your arms. she folds it and sets it aside. her hands graze your hips next — not to pull you closer, just to anchor you.
your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. she notices.
“what?” she teases softly. “cat got your tongue?”
“you’re…” your eyes flick over her — shirt rolled to the elbows, soft waves brushing her jaw, chain catching the light. “you’re just really pretty up close.”
she grins. “so are you. even prettier nervous.”
you hide your face and she laughs, soft and warm, before reaching for the hem of your top. her knuckles graze your ribs as she lifts it, slow, watching you for any sign of hesitation. when she sees none, she slides it off and drops it behind you.
and the way she undresses you — it isn’t hungry. it isn’t greedy. it’s intentional. like she’s done this before but never quite like this. every inch of skin revealed gets the kind of attention that makes your cheeks flush.
her lips press to your shoulder. then your collarbone. then just beneath your ear.
you giggle — breath catching — and her mouth curls into a smile against your skin.
she kneels slightly, hands sliding down the waistband of your pants, kissing the spot just below your belly button before tugging them down. your legs shake a bit when you step out. you’re standing there in your underwear now, the room suddenly too quiet.
she leans back on her heels, gaze skimming up the length of you. her mouth parts slightly, reverent. “goddamn.”
you shift, nervous. “stop staring.”
you move forward, half-shy, half-daring, and let your hands find the hem of her shirt. she lets you pull it up — one arm, then the other.
come to think of it, you don’t know why you pull it up. it has buttons…
underneath, she’s in a black sports bra and matching briefs. her body is toned, lean. strong.
you run your hands up her sides. “so this is what dallas pays for.”
you laugh, but the moment turns quiet again — the music soft behind you now, michael crooning.
she pulls you close, hands sliding along your waist. her mouth finds yours, gentle at first. slow. then again, firmer, breath hotter this time.
you gasp into her kiss and she hums, loving the sound.
her hand finds the side of your face, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone. she leans in slowly — not teasing, just deliberate — eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes, like she wants you to feel it before it even happens.
when her mouth finally meets yours, it’s soft at first, warm and coaxing. but then she deepens it — tongue brushing yours, breath catching between you, a quiet, hungry sound slipping from her throat as your lips part for her.
the kiss turns messier, wetter, more needy — her fingers sliding into your hair, tilting your head just right so she can taste more of you. her other hand anchors at your waist, pulling you flush against her like she needs you as close as possible.
you moan into her mouth, and she swallows it greedily, kissing you like she knows every sigh, every tremble, every part of you that aches to be touched.
when she finally pulls back, barely an inch, her breath is ragged — lips slick, pupils blown wide.
“fuck,” she whispers, thumb dragging across your swollen bottom lip.
you stumble back toward the bed, kissing again, smiling into it. her hands find the backs of your thighs and she lifts you like it’s nothing, setting you down on the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing more than a breath.
the sheets are warm beneath you, soft against your back. you sink into them as paige settles between your knees, her hands spreading over your thighs like she’s mapping new territory. her fingers are steady, but her eyes… her eyes make you feel like the most delicate thing she’s ever held.
“lay back for me,” she says.
she hovers over you, kisses trailing from your neck to your chest.
your bra is long gone and your nipples pebble when making contact with the cool air of her bedroom. she takes one bud into her mouth, sucking on it and pulling through teeth.
a kiss down the center of your stomach. each press of her mouth feels like worship. like a promise.
her hands slide beneath your thighs again, thumbs stroking. she looks up once, waiting.
she kisses your inner knee.
and by the time she reaches where you really want her, you’re already trembling — not from nerves anymore, but from the sweetness of it. the patience. the way she’s not just touching your body, she’s listening to it.
and the song keeps playing, soft and slow behind you —
“stay with me… keep warm tonight…”
“you okay, baby?” she murmurs, voice low.
you nod, breath catching. “just… you’re really close.”
her mouth curves. “that’s kind of the point, sweetheart.”
your cheeks flush. she sees it and smiles like it’s her favorite shade on you.
her hands glide up your thighs again — thumbs stroking slow, coaxing — until she’s kneeling just between your legs, kissing along the crease where thigh meets hip. her lips press to your skin over and over, as if she’s got nowhere else to be, no reason to rush. “i just wanna touch you,” her voice whispers through the silence, “not too fast, not too far.”
“paige,” you breathe, the name shaky in your mouth.
“yeah, baby?” she doesn’t stop kissing. just listens as her mouth ghosts across your skin.
“i… i don’t know what to do.”
she looks up, gentle. “you don’t have to do anything. just feel.”
and then her hands slide up, catching the band of your underwear.
you stiffen — just slightly — and she immediately pauses.
“we don’t have to,” she says quickly, lips brushing your hip.
you shake your head. “no… i want to. i do.”
she searches your face — those clear blue eyes like still water, reading you with precision.
“then breathe, baby. just breathe. i’ve got you.”
her voice feels like a balm, like silk smoothed over your ribs. and when she finally eases your underwear down, she does it slow. careful. like she’s unwrapping something precious.
your breath hitches. you instinctively try to close your legs, but she’s already there — hands warm, grounding you.
“don’t hide from me,” she whispers. “let me see you.”
you let out a soft exhale and force yourself to relax. the air feels cooler now against your skin, and the way she looks at you — like you’re art, like you’re holy — makes your chest ache.
she leans down again, kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other.
each kiss feels wetter than the other, like she’s salivating at the thought of tasting you.
her mouth trails closer, but she doesn’t go where you want her just yet. instead, she watches you squirm.
“so sensitive already,” she murmurs. “you’re so cute like this.”
your hands grab for the sheets. “stop teasing…”
“i’m not teasing,” she lies. “i’m savoring.”
her thumb brushes you — just a light touch over your clit — and your whole body jerks.
she smiles. “there she is.”
you bite your lip, breath stuttering.
“relax, baby. you’re doing so good,” she whispers, and then she dips her head and finally kisses you there — soft, slow, just the warm pressure of her lips at first.
you gasp. her hands slide up your waist, holding you steady as her tongue gently parts you, gliding slow and purposeful.
her name cracks out of you, half gasp, half whimper, and she moans softly in return, the sound vibrating through you.
she keeps going like that — slow, steady strokes of her tongue, mouth working you open with devastating care. every flick, every kiss is deliberate. she’s learning your body with every second, listening to your breath, the way your thighs tense, the way your hips twitch up into her mouth.
“you taste so fucking sweet,” she mutters between kisses. “been thinking about this since you showed up with that nervous little smile…”
you arch into her, back bowing, moaning her name again.
and she laughs — soft and warm — because you’re unraveling just how she wanted you to.
“look at you, baby,” she whispers. “so responsive… so wet already.”
“yes, you can,” she coos, kissing higher. “you’re doing so perfect for me.”
her tongue flicks over you again, firmer now, and her fingers reach up — one hand sliding between your own to lace your fingers together, grounding you. the other dips lower, teasing your entrance.
your free hand moves to her hair, threading through the strands at the crown of her head. she lets you tug a little, lets you guide her just a bit closer, and when you whimper, she moans against your clit, the vibration dragging another cry from your throat.
“you okay, sweetheart?” she pauses to ask, her thumb gently stroking the inside of your thigh.
you nod frantically, too breathless to speak.
“yes,” you gasp. “yes, i’m—i’m good.”
“good,” she says, and kisses you again — deep and slow now, the flat of her tongue pressing in a way that makes your legs shake around her shoulders. “let me make you cum.”
each stroke she delivers your clit feels so sinful, but so right. they’re sharp and each time you need more.
you whimper, hips rising.
“shhh,” she whispers against you. “i’ve got you.”
and when she finally slips a finger in, slow and gentle, your whole body clenches around her. she moans softly like it’s her who’s being touched, and she starts moving it in rhythm with her mouth.
she pumps it slowly, curling just slightly with each thrust, letting your body adjust before slipping in another. the stretch makes you cry out, but she doesn’t stop her tongue — just slows it a little, gives you something to focus on while her fingers sink deeper.
“you’re doing so good for me,” she whispers. “so fucking tight… fuck.”
the sound is sticky, and wet, and lewd, yet so perfect.
you’re gasping now, hands clinging to her, head tossed back into the pillow as wave after wave starts building in your belly.
“i—i’m close—” you stammer.
“that’s it, pretty girl,” she breathes. “let go for me.”
and you do — body trembling, thighs shaking, her name breaking from your lips in a stuttering moan as everything comes undone beneath her touch.
she doesn’t stop until your breathing slows, until your hand goes limp in hers.
then she kisses the inside of your thigh one last time — soft, reverent — and rests her forehead against your skin, catching her own breath.
“you’re incredible,” she murmurs. “you know that?”
you shake your head, barely able to form words.
“come here,” you whisper.
and she does — crawling up your body, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. you taste yourself on her lips. and for the first time in forever, you don’t feel embarrassed.
“stay with me, i want you to stay with me…”
the night slows to a gentle close. paige’s hands are soft and steady as she brushes stray strands of hair away from your damp forehead, her touch tender like she’s memorizing every inch of you. she reaches for a warm, damp cloth and carefully wipes the faint traces of sweat and kisses from your skin, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
“there we go, baby,” she whispers, voice thick with affection.
once you’re cleaned up, she disappears briefly and returns with one of her oversized t-shirts, the soft cotton smelling faintly like her shampoo. she helps you slip into it, the fabric swallowing you in the best way — cozy and safe.
“here,” paige says, handing you a bottle of water. “sex makes you hungry. so i brought you some snacks too.”
she sets a small plate beside you with some fresh fruit and chips, watching you with a lazy smile that melts your nerves.
you lean into her side, feeling completely cared for, your heart warm in the quiet comfort of her presence.
“thank you, paige,” you say softly.
she presses a kiss to your temple, her arm wrapping around you like a shield.
© juumecca, all rights reserved.
