your dad’s voice is casual when he brings it up, like he’s not dropping a bomb on your week.

“we’re heading to minnesota for a few days,” he says, leaning on your bedroom doorframe. “the bueckers are having a barbecue. whole family’s gonna be there.”

you pause mid-scroll. “like… their whole family?”

he nods, like it’s obvious. “including paige.”

and just like that, your stomach flips.

you haven’t seen paige in two years. it’s not like she was dodging you—you’ve both just been busy. school, schedules, sports. still, it’s strange how time passes like that. the last time your families hung out, she wasn’t even there. and the time before that, you weren’t.

you think back to the only clear memory you have of her when you were kids.

a backyard fourth of july cookout, sweaty and loud, you two around nine years old. she had a red gatorade in her hand and a streak of popsicle juice on her shirt when she tripped over a sprinkler and spilled the whole thing all over you.

“shit—i mean, sorry!” she squeaked, panicking.

you had blinked down at your soaked sundress, then at her wide eyes. “it’s okay,” you said, even though your face was already burning.

your dads laughed. hers handed her another gatorade. yours handed you a towel.

now she’s… paige bueckers. uconn legend. all over your tiktok fyp, all over espn, all over your head for the last few days, even if you won’t admit it out loud. she’s still got you on instagram. liked your recent post. even dm’d you a short but sweet “happy birthday. hope it’s a good one.”

you had to pretend like that wasn’t a big deal. even when some of your college friends freaked out when they saw that she followed you.

“oh, we’re family friends,” you’d shrugged, like it wasn’t weird. like you didn’t save the message. like you didn’t check if she still followed you the next day.

you pack a bag for five days. you convince yourself it’s not a big deal. just a cookout. just a trip.

—

when you get to the bueckers house, the heat that rises under your skin says otherwise.

you barely get out of the car before you’re wrapped up in a hug—drew, paige’s little brother, crashing into your side like he’s been waiting years.

“you’re finally here!” he shouts.

“you’ve grown like a foot,” you laugh, hugging him back.

then bob—paige’s dad—is right there, grinning, and his wife katie is telling you how gorgeous you look.

“college suits you,” she says, touching your arm.

“look at you,” bob adds. “all grown up.”

you don’t see her right away. but you feel her.

your eyes drift to the porch and there she is—paige, leaning against the railing with a bottle of water, watching the scene unfold with a slow smile tugging at her lips.

she’s in a uconn long sleeve, grey sweats hanging low on her hips, messy bun perched effortlessly. she looks like summer. like home. like danger.

she walks up to you with that same half-smile, eyes scanning you like she’s checking for something.

“hey,” she says, low and warm.

“hey,” you reply, suddenly very aware of her hand on your waist when she hugs you briefly.

then she moves on to your family, greeting everyone else, but you can still feel the imprint of her fingers.

her dad starts pulling out grill tools, and your dad joins him. your mom and katie disappear into the kitchen, talking about salads or sides or something domestic.

which leaves you and paige.

“come up to my room?” she asks, casual.

you nod, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumps.

her room’s bigger than you remember. cleaner, too. some trophies on shelves, a wnba hoodie on the back of her desk chair. she kicks off her slides and sits on the bed while you hover near the doorway.

“you can sit, you know,” she says, smirking.

you raise a brow. “didn’t want to assume i’m still welcome in the bueckers castle.”

“always,” she says. “especially now that you’re not nine and covered in gatorade.”

you laugh, remembering the spill. “that was your fault.”

“that was gravity’s fault,” she grins. “i was just the vessel.”

conversation eases into small talk—college, classes, plans. she asks about your major. you ask about rehab, basketball, uconn.

“how was your birthday?” she asks eventually.

you glance at her. “you told me happy birthday, remember?”

“i know,” she shrugs. “but texts don’t count.”

you feel her looking at you again. not just looking—watching.

“you look different,” she says finally. “in a good way.”

“it’s been two years,” you say. “people change.”

“yeah,” she murmurs. “glow up kind of change.”

you snort, flopping back on her bed. “don’t act like you’re not all over my fyp. i can’t open tiktok without your face popping up in some slo-mo edit.”

“so you do keep up with me.”

you turn your head, grinning. “i never said that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

before she can say more, drew and your little brother jax burst in yelling that the food’s ready.

—

the barbecue is exactly what it should be—laughs, plates full of ribs and burgers, old hip hop playing over speakers, cousins and kids running around. you sit next to paige at the long picnic table. her thigh brushes yours more than once. she doesn’t move.

there’s a moment where you catch her staring—again—and she doesn’t look away when you meet her eyes.

“you always this obvious?” you tease under your breath.

she leans closer. “only when someone’s worth it.”

someone brings out a cooler of drinks and a few people grab beers. the sun starts to dip. the music shifts to more bass. paige’s cousin tries to get a dance circle going.

you find yourself back inside at some point, barefoot on the cool kitchen tiles, cup in hand, paige right next to you.

“you always been this cocky?” you ask her.

“not always,” she says. “just when i’m talking to someone who makes it easy.”

the air changes.

you’re leaning on the counter, and she steps between your legs like it’s nothing. like it’s natural.

her hand grazes your bare thigh and you swallow hard.

“can i kiss you?” she asks.

you don’t answer. you just pull her in.

she kisses like she plays—confident, smooth, dominant. her hands find your waist and grip tight. your own fingers wind into her shirt and pull her closer.

—

somehow you end up in the hallway. then her room. door closed. lips still on yours.

“tell me if you want me to stop,” she mutters against your skin.

you don’t. not even close.

her hand slips under your shirt, hot and slow. her fingers trail your waistband.

“so fucking pretty,” she breathes.

you arch into her, gasping when her fingers dip beneath your shorts.

she starts playing with your pussy like she's done this a hundred times—pressing, curling, teasing until your legs are shaking and her name is the only thing you can think to say.

"fuck, paige."

"you like that?" she whispers. "you're so wet for me."

you whimper, nodding, burying your face in her neck.

her fingers fuck into you deep, slow, then faster—like she’s trying to memorize every sound you make. her thumb circles your clit, and your whole body jolts. she shushes you gently, but her smirk betrays the way she loves pulling you apart.

"that's it," she murmurs. "let me feel you. let me take care of you."

you moan into her hoodie, clutching her tight, thighs trembling as you cum all over her fingers.

but she doesn’t stop.

she keeps her fingers moving, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from you until you're squirming, overstimulated and panting into her neck. her other hand cups your jaw, tilts your face up so she can kiss you through the aftershocks—slow and messy and deep.

"you don’t know how long i’ve wanted this," she whispers against your mouth. "wanted you."

she pulls back just long enough to tug your shirt off, eyes raking over your chest like she’s starving. her hoodie comes off next. then she’s on you again—skin on skin, warm and solid and hers.

her mouth finds your nipple, tongue flicking slow and wet as her fingers start circling your clit again. you gasp, hips jerking.

"one more," she says softly. "give me one more, baby."

and you do.

you cum again, harder this time, thighs clenched around her waist as you cry out her name. she holds you through it, kissing your collarbone, your cheek, your lips, until you’re limp in her arms.

and when you finally catch your breath, she kisses your forehead and says,

"this isn't just a one-time thing. not if i have anything to say about it."

you believe her.

It was quiet in a way Paige wasn’t used to.

Not the kind of silence that buzzed in the background of a UConn locker room after a tough loss. Not the kind that blanketed a gym when the lights shut off and sneakers stopped squeaking. This was a softer quiet. A private kind. The kind that came with early mornings and fresh starts, with unpacked boxes and unfamiliar streets. The kind that reminded you that you were alone, but not necessarily lonely.

Paige sipped her coffee—black, a little too bitter—and leaned her elbows on the black iron railing of her third-floor balcony. The mug was warm against her palms, grounding. Below her, Dallas slowly stretched itself awake. Cars hummed lazily down the street. A man walked his dog, leash slack. Somewhere down the block, someone opened a café, the smell of bread and espresso sneaking its way into the breeze. A city in motion.

You.

You didn’t make a sound when you entered her frame of view. You didn’t even look up. Paige hadn’t seen you coming until you were already halfway down the block, your ponytail swaying behind you, earbuds in, tank top clinging to skin that looked golden in the rising sun.

She blinked. The mug halted halfway to her lips.

Who the hell…?

You weren’t jogging. You were gliding. Effortless. Focused. There was something about you—something sharp and soft at once. Something about the way your hands curled into loose fists and your gaze stayed forward, like the world was too big to pause for.

Paige turned slightly, leaning over the railing, trying not to seem too obvious, tracking your path as you disappeared past the edge of the complex. You never looked up. You never noticed her.

But she noticed you.

She watched the street for five more minutes after you vanished, but it felt like the air had shifted. Like you’d taken something with you. The corner of her mouth lifted, just barely.

“I should’ve said hi,” she muttered to herself, though she knew that would’ve been weird. Creepy, even. Still, the thought stuck.

The next morning, Paige was back on the balcony.

Same coffee. Same mug. Same city waking up.

She told herself she just liked the view. That it helped her start the day with a clear head. That it had nothing to do with you.

She didn’t expect to see you again.

But like clockwork—there you were.

This time she noticed the way your breathing was steady. The way your eyes flicked briefly to the trees overhead, like you were admiring the light that filtered through. The way your lashes caught the sunlight. Paige tried not to stare. Failed. You were mesmerizing.

You didn’t look up. You passed, just as fast as the first time, and were gone again.

Paige set her coffee down and leaned on the railing with both arms.

Who were you?

Some part of her wanted to yell down. To say something stupid like, “Hey! Want coffee?” Or maybe not stupid. Maybe bold. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know she was there.

By the fourth morning, Paige wasn’t pretending anymore.

She was out there ten minutes earlier than usual, hair damp from a rushed shower, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She didn’t even care that the coffee was too hot to drink yet. She was just waiting.

And when you came into view—sweat glistening along your temple, your brow furrowed in concentration—Paige felt something shift in her chest. You were so consistent. So focused. Like the rest of the world fell away every time your sneakers hit the pavement.

Paige wondered what music you listened to. What your name was. What your voice sounded like when you laughed.

She wondered if you’d ever notice her. She hoped you would.

It became a rhythm.

Wake up. Coffee. Balcony. You.

Sometimes Paige would pretend she wasn’t watching. She’d glance down at her phone or scroll through a playbook Coach sent her the night before. But her eyes always found you. Always.

One morning, she caught herself smiling before you even arrived.

Another day, she forgot to sip her coffee until it was cold.

Once, you slowed to stretch just past her complex, hands on your hips, one foot out in front. Paige sat frozen, heart in her throat, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers adjusted your waistband, the way your gaze swept lazily across the street.

Your eyes flicked up. Not at her balcony. Not quite. But close.

Paige’s heart nearly stopped.

She ducked her head, instantly self-conscious.

Get a grip, Bueckers. You didn’t even know she existed. But the possibility—however small—lingered in her chest like a spark waiting for air.

That night, Paige lay in bed, her ceiling fan spinning shadows across the ceiling. She thought about the WNBA, the press, the weight of everything ahead. But mostly she thought about you.

The girl with sunlit skin and a morning ritual.

The girl who didn’t even know her.

Yet.

A week passed.

Seven mornings. Seven runs. Seven quiet moments where Paige didn’t even know your name, but could tell you always tied your left shoe tighter than your right. That you sometimes ran with your hoodie up when the wind picked up. That you stopped at the same crosswalk two blocks down and lightly tapped your thigh while you waited for the light to change.

She noticed everything. The smallest patterns. The ones only someone watching too closely would catch.

It scared her a little.

Because she wasn’t used to watching. Paige Bueckers had always been the one people watched. On the court. In interviews. Walking down campus sidewalks. But now—she sat in silence on her narrow balcony, not even breathing sometimes, afraid the sound of her inhale would somehow spook the magic away.

And you—you were never late. Not once.

By the eighth morning, Paige was talking to you in her head.

“Hey, good morning.” “You always run this early?” “Do you stretch before or after?” “I’m Paige, by the way.”

The words curled inside her mouth, unspoken and restless. She imagined saying them every time you passed. Imagined what you'd say back. If you’d even hear her. If you'd smile.

But she never called out.

There was something sacred about it—the not-knowing. The distance. The tension suspended in the stillness between two strangers who orbit each other without touch. Something about the way Paige didn’t have to be Paige Bueckers out here. She was just a girl on a balcony, falling for someone she hadn’t even met.

She started dressing differently.

Less hoodie, more intention. A cropped UConn shirt here. A clean low ponytail there. Some mornings, she changed twice before you arrived—pretending she didn’t care what she looked like, even though she’d just spent fifteen minutes debating if her sweat shorts made her look like she hadn’t slept or like she had effortless charm.

She Googled morning running routes in Dallas, wondering where you started. Where you ended. If she could walk out her front door, take a left, and bump into you at the trailhead.

But that would ruin it, wouldn’t it?

There was something beautiful about this invisible string. Something gentle in the ache of almost.

One morning, you stopped.

Paige nearly dropped her coffee.

You were at the edge of the block, where the sidewalk narrowed under a crooked oak tree. Your foot twisted slightly, just enough to make you wince. You paused, leaning down, fingers tracing your ankle. Paige’s stomach twisted.

You looked up.

Not at her. But close.

And for the first time—Paige saw your face fully.

The high cheekbones. The slight furrow of your brow. The bare, natural curve of your mouth. The sunlight made a halo out of your hair. You blinked a few times, stood slowly, then shook it off. You started running again.

Paige sat there breathless, staring at the empty street long after you were gone.

She replayed that wince in her head all day.

The next morning, Paige was early again.

Too early. The street was empty. She waited anyway.

When you came into view—finally, like a reward—you were slower than usual. More careful with your stride. Paige leaned forward instinctively. Watching. Worried.

She wanted to yell, “Hey, are you okay?”

But still—she said nothing.

You ran by. Your pace light. Focused. Careful.

And just before you vanished down the block, you looked up.

Not fully. Not long.

But your eyes flicked upward. Just for a second. Toward the building.

Toward her balcony.

Paige froze.

Was that…? Had you…? Had you seen her?

She stood up so fast she nearly kicked her coffee off the table. She stepped back inside her apartment, heart pounding.

Was she imagining it? Had the heat gotten to her?

She paced.

Hands on her hips, she ran through the moment again. The angle of your gaze. The soft tension in your mouth. The flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?

You had to have seen her. You had to.

And yet—nothing changed.

No wave. No smile. No pause.

Just one look. A flick of your gaze and the sound of Paige’s pulse hammering in her ears.

She sat back down.

And the next morning—she waited all over again.

She wasn’t following you.

She swore to herself that she wasn’t. This wasn’t a “plan.” She didn’t scroll Maps at 2AM the night before, cross-referencing her own apartment with every cafe in a three-mile radius. She didn’t purposely lace up her sneakers and walk three blocks farther than she needed to because she’d seen you pause at the corner earlier that morning, staring into the window of a place called Oak & Ivy.

She didn’t.

Except… she did.

But only because she wanted a chai latte.

Okay, and maybe because something about this particular Tuesday afternoon felt heavy with possibility.

Oak & Ivy was small, warm. The kind of place with low music, local art on the walls, and a chalkboard menu that looked handwritten daily. Paige stepped inside and immediately felt underdressed. Not in clothes—she had on her usual Wings hoodie, joggers, hair in a bun—but in presence. This was a soft-space, a world of whispered conversation and clinking mugs. Her world had always been louder.

There you were.

Back left corner. One leg crossed over the other, a half-drunk iced drink sweating onto the wooden table beside your phone. You had a book open, thumb tucked into the spine. A pair of glasses perched on your nose that Paige had never seen during your runs.

She almost walked out.

It was instinct—like her body recoiled at the idea of this being too real. For weeks she’d seen you in motion. Clean, safe, faraway. But here you were now, real and still and close enough that she could see the softness in your eyelashes and the way you tugged the sleeve of your sweatshirt when you turned a page.

Paige stood frozen near the register. The barista gave her a once-over and asked, “Can I help you?”

Her brain stalled.

You can help me by rewinding the last 60 seconds so I can pretend I didn’t see her and save myself from cardiac arrest.

“Yeah, uh… chai latte. Iced. Please.”

She tried to speak in a lower voice, just in case you might recognize her name when it was called. But the barista had already written Paige on the side of the cup. Sharp black ink. No hiding now.

She stepped to the waiting area.

Didn’t look at you.

Tried not to.

Failed.

You flipped another page. Took a sip. Adjusted your hair behind one ear.

Paige’s stomach twisted. You were right there. Right there. Not running. Not passing by. Not a blur of sunlight and skin. Just… present.

She stared at the drink fridge for a full minute just to avoid staring at you.

What would she even say?

“Hi, I’ve been watching you run past my building every morning and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and I think I know the rhythm of your breathing better than my own now?”

Yeah. No. Immediate restraining order.

She tapped her foot. Adjusted the sleeves of her hoodie. Checked her phone even though no one had texted her. And when the barista finally called her name—clear, bright, “Paige!”—she winced.

You looked up.

Just briefly. Just a flicker.

Your gaze skimmed across the cafe. Passed over the counter. Lingered for half a second on her.

Paige tried to act normal. Which meant grabbing her drink too quickly and nearly knocking over the basket of paper straws.

Smooth.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she turned—heading for the door like it was the finish line of a nightmare and a dream at the same time. But just before she reached it, she looked back.

You were watching her.

Not hard. Not long. Just… watching. Curious. Calm.

You met her eyes. Gave the softest nod.

Paige’s heart flatlined.

She pushed open the door, stepped into the sun, and nearly screamed into the sky.

The moment haunted her.

Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that you replay, frame by frame, every time your thoughts go quiet. The way you tilted your head just slightly when you looked at her. The way your lips parted like maybe—maybe—you were going to say something.

And now you had a voice in her head. A nod was all it took.

That night, Paige lay on her couch in the dark. The city buzzed faintly outside. Her iced chai sat half-drunk on the coffee table. Her eyes never left the ceiling.

She didn’t talk to you.

But she’d been in the same room as you.

That was something.

That was everything.

The next morning, the city felt louder.

Not in actual volume, but in texture. Every movement felt like it meant more. Like the hum of traffic was heavier. The birdsong too sharp. The scrape of ceramic against the railing as Paige set down her coffee mug made her wince like a sound tech wearing headphones turned up too high.

She was wired. Buzzing.

All because you had looked at her.

All because you had seen her.

Not in passing. Not as a blur while running. Not a flicker in the corner of your eye as you paused under that oak tree.

Yesterday, you had looked at her across a quiet coffee shop, and your eyes had stopped. Just for a second. But they had stopped. On her.

And… you nodded.

A single motion. Barely more than a breath. But it had wrecked her sleep like a freight train through silence.

Paige hadn’t stopped replaying it. The angle of your jaw. The curl of your fingers around the straw. The curve of your lip like you might’ve said something if you were braver. But she wasn’t brave either. Not yet.

She sat on her balcony now, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, coffee untouched beside her. The sun hadn’t even broken through the cloud cover yet, but she was already waiting.

She told herself she didn’t know if you’d still run today. Maybe you’d gone out earlier. Maybe you were sore. Maybe you didn’t want to see her. Maybe that nod hadn’t meant anything. Maybe it was just… polite.

But Paige’s body didn’t believe any of those excuses. Her body leaned forward, heart ticking too loud, eyes scanning the sidewalk like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

Then she sees you.

Same rhythm. Same ponytail. But something was different.

You were in black leggings instead of your usual navy ones. Your headphones were in, but one was slightly popped loose. Your steps weren’t rushed—they were intentional. Confident. Controlled.

And—God help her—you were glowing.

She sucked in a breath.

Her hand twitched like she might wave.

She didn’t.

But as you passed her building, your eyes flicked upward.

Deliberately. Directly.

Paige’s heart stopped.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t slow. You didn’t speak.

But your eyes met hers for a second longer than any stranger’s should.

It was intentional.

It was acknowledgment.

It was everything.

And then, just like always, you were gone. Down the block. Around the corner.

Paige leaned back in her chair, exhaled, and realized she was trembling.

You’d looked up.

On purpose.

You knew she watched you now.

And you’d let her.

She didn’t go back inside right away. She sat there until her coffee went cold and the sun climbed higher and the world grew louder and more awake.

But inside, Paige felt something else blooming.

The tension wasn’t sharp anymore. It was alive. A heartbeat between them. A question that didn’t ache as much as it dared.

Saturday wasn’t supposed to matter.

Saturday was for errands. For sleep. For tossing her laundry in the washer and forgetting it for three hours. For clipping her hair up in a claw clip and pulling on whatever hoodie didn’t smell like gym socks. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t dramatic.

It certainly wasn’t romantic.

But here she was—standing in the middle of the produce section at Central Market, staring blankly at a wall of avocados and absolutely failing to remember what she came in for.

Because you were here.

You.

Three feet to her left, browsing the citrus section like you hadn’t just broken her brain for the fifteenth time this month.

You were real.

Not just morning-light real. Not balcony-real. Not coffee-shop-shadowed real. You were sweats and baseball cap and canvas tote bag real. Hair tied up. No makeup. Phone tucked into your pocket. And God, Paige thought you were beautiful when you ran, but this—this wrecked her.

There was something vulnerable about seeing someone in a grocery store. Something naked about it. No pretense. No performance. Just oranges and lists and decisions.

She couldn’t breathe.

She turned her cart sharply, pretending to examine a pile of organic kale she didn’t want. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it was trying to escape. Her fingers clutched the cart handle a little too tight. Her mind scrambled.

Leave. Just leave. You got your oat milk. That’s enough human interaction for one day.

But she couldn’t.

She peeked sideways.

You were holding a grapefruit now, inspecting it like it owed you answers. Paige could see the way your brows knitted in slight concentration, how your thumb gently brushed across the peel. You looked like you were somewhere else in your head.

“Hey.”

The word came soft. Unassuming.

Not directed at her.

You were talking to the guy beside you. A worker. Asking if they had more of something in the back. Your voice was softer than she imagined. Smoother. Familiar and brand new all at once.

Paige didn’t know why that made her feel like sitting down on the floor.

She ducked her head, wheeled around the opposite end of the display, and made a beeline for the granola aisle like it was a damn emergency.

She stared at the cereal boxes.

Didn’t read them. Just stared.

“You didn’t see me”, she told herself. “You didn’t. Please don’t.”

She turned her back to the entrance of the aisle. Counted to ten. Tried to slow her breathing. Tried to remember who she was. A basketball player. A grown adult. Not someone who panicked at the sight of a girl holding fruit.

She heard your voice again.

Closer.

A soft laugh this time.

She held her breath.

Your footsteps passed. Faded.

She turned.

You were walking toward the refrigerated section, casually tossing a baguette into your tote. Completely unaware.

Or… maybe not.

As you rounded the corner, you glanced over your shoulder. Just a bit. Just enough.

Paige caught your eyes.

And this time—you smiled.

Not huge. Not dramatic.

Just the corner of your mouth, pulling upward like a shared joke only one of you had the nerve to say out loud.

Paige felt her face flush instantly. She gave the most awkward nod in the history of nods. It was barely a movement. Her neck betrayed her.

You were gone again.

Like always.

She finished her shopping on autopilot. She didn’t see you again, but you were everywhere. In the smell of lemons. In the warmth left behind in the aisle where you’d stood. In her reflection on the sliding glass doors as she left the store, heart spinning.

She didn’t even remember to grab the oat milk.

The morning light had changed.

It wasn’t just the sun—it was something in the air. A shift so subtle it couldn’t be explained. Paige felt it in her skin before her feet hit the floor. She brushed her teeth with one hand on the counter, staring at her reflection like it might answer the question she hadn’t asked out loud.

What the hell are we doing?

Because it had gone on long enough now.

Not the watching. That was still hers—her little ritual of silence and caffeine and breathlessness. But now it was yours, too.

You looked up every time you passed. Sometimes a nod. Sometimes a smirk. Once, when she was mid-sip and caught off guard, you winked.

She choked. Actually choked. Spilled coffee on her shorts. You didn’t see the aftermath, but she spent the next fifteen minutes pacing inside her apartment, praying to the gods of charisma to get it together.

But neither of you spoke. Not yet.

She was back on the balcony.

She’d picked a different hoodie this time—cleaner, softer, a pale blue that looked better with her eyes (not that you were close enough to see her eyes… probably… but still). Her hair was braided this morning, one long rope over her shoulder. Her coffee steamed beside her, untouched.

There you were.

She could sense you before she saw you. There was a rhythm to your stride now that matched something in her. Paige swore the sidewalk quieted beneath your feet.

You turned the corner. She leaned forward—just slightly. Like her body was answering a question her mind hadn’t dared ask.

And you looked up. Of course you did.

But this time, you slowed.

Not a full stop. Not dramatic.

But noticeable.

A change.

A message.

Your gaze locked with hers—firm, deliberate. Like a string pulled tight across the distance between you. And Paige—God help her—she smiled. She didn’t plan it. It just broke across her face like light through glass.

You smiled back.

But you did something new.

You raised a hand. Just slightly. A wave. Not small. Not hesitant. A real one.

Paige’s heart burst in her chest. She lifted her hand. Waved back.

It was absurdly simple. But it felt like a tectonic shift.

You ran on.

She didn’t breathe for five full seconds. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

And when she finally exhaled, it was a laugh. A disbelieving, giddy, shoulder-shaking laugh that curled up from her gut and warmed every cold morning she’d ever spent on that balcony.

The text from her teammate came an hour later.

Nai: u high off caffeine or something? why u smiling at nothing during film?

Paige didn’t answer. She couldn’t explain it. Not yet.

That night, Paige sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through her camera roll. She stopped on a photo of the skyline she’d taken the day she moved in. She’d captioned it new city. fresh start.

She never expected that “fresh start” to come in the form of a stranger on a sidewalk.

A stranger with a smile that lingered like a song she hadn’t heard in years but somehow still knew all the words to.

She didn’t know your name. But she was sure of something now.

You knew hers.

Paige hadn’t meant to be out this long.

What was supposed to be a quick walk—just to get out of her apartment, clear her head, stop watching game tape for five minutes—had turned into a full-on wandering session. She didn’t have a destination. No headphones, no purpose. Just her hoodie, her keys, and the sun warm on her shoulders.

It had been one of those weeks. Rough practice. Minor ankle tweak. Restless sleep. Her head was cluttered with noise she couldn’t sort through.

Until she saw you.

Sitting alone.

On the edge of a public fountain three blocks from her place. A small plaza she’d passed a dozen times but never really looked at.

You were… just sitting there.

Not running. Not passing. Not in motion at all.

You had your legs folded up on the edge, chin in your palm, eyes squinting slightly at the sun. Your phone was beside you, but you weren’t on it. You looked peaceful. Focused. Your other hand held a half-full water bottle, which you slowly tilted in your palm like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Paige stopped walking before her brain caught up.

She felt it in her chest first—that quick burst of recognition, followed immediately by panic. Not panic like fear, but panic like a wave crashing inside her ribs. A sudden, chaotic awareness of how unprepared she was to see you outside the ritual.

No ponytail. No sports bra. No earbuds. Just… you. Sitting. Still.

She hesitated on the sidewalk, frozen halfway between turn around right now and say something.

You looked up.

The second your eyes found hers, Paige forgot how to breathe.

She watched your brows rise—subtle, surprised. But not unpleasant.

You smiled. Not the small, passing kind. This one was slower. Real. It unfolded like you meant it. Like seeing her here, outside the script, was good.

She gave a soft wave.

It felt different this time. More vulnerable somehow.

You tilted your head.

“You stalking me?” you asked.

Your voice.

She’d only heard it once before—in the grocery store, directed at someone else. But now, it was aimed at her. Direct. Dry. Teasing.

Paige blinked.

You smiled wider. “You don’t have to look so scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she said too quickly. Then cleared her throat. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You nodded toward the open fountain ledge beside you. “You can sit. If you want.”

Her brain paused. Screamed. Rebooted.

She sat.

Carefully. Casually, she hoped. Arms rested on her knees. Close enough to feel your presence. Far enough not to intrude.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just took another sip of your water. Looked up at the trees rustling overhead.

Paige felt like the whole city had gone quiet.

And then you glanced at her again. “You always sit on balconies and silently watch women run by, or is that just, like, a Dallas thing?”

She laughed. Out loud.

A bright, honest, caught kind of laugh that made her bury her face in her hands for a second.

“God,” she muttered. “I swear I’m not creepy.”

“Mm.” You raised a brow. “You did start waving at some random stranger from above like a Victorian ghost.”

“I’m—okay. That’s fair.”

You smiled again.

“So,” you said. “What’s your name, Balcony Girl?”

“Paige.”

You nodded. “Nice to meet you, Paige.”

The silence that followed was easier now.

Not loaded. Not shy.

Just a pause. A breath.

Paige looked at you sideways. “And your name?”

You smirked. “Guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Paige was up before her alarm.

No snooze button. No dragging her feet. No thirty-minute battle with her pillow before rolling out of bed. She was up and moving—messy bun, mismatched socks, hoodie half-zipped—like muscle memory had already decided that today matters.

The morning was still. The sky hadn’t shaken off its blue-grey yet. A light breeze danced through the street, cool against her legs as she stepped out onto the balcony, coffee warming both palms.

She leaned against the railing. Same spot. Same view. But nothing about it felt the same.

Because now, she knew your name.

Not literally—not yet.

But she knew your voice. She knew your laugh. She knew the way you raised an eyebrow when you teased her like it was second nature.

And most of all, she knew you’d noticed her. Not just as some figure on a balcony or a flash of recognition in a coffee shop. You’d spoken to her. You’d invited her to sit. You’d made her laugh, called her Balcony Girl, and then disappeared again—just enough mystery to make her stomach flip when she thought about it.

She waited now, but not nervously. Not obsessively.

She waited like someone who expected you.

When you appeared—just like always, at the edge of the block—it was like the entire street shifted into color.

You weren’t running hard this morning. Just a jog. Your pace was light, easy. Your hair was down today, in a low braid that bounced behind your back with every step. You had a new sweatshirt on—navy with faded white letters—and Paige squinted, trying to read it.

You looked up.

Eyes locked instantly.

And this time, when Paige waved, it wasn’t cautious.

It was hers.

Bright. Confident. Familiar.

You grinned mid-run—real and wide—and lifted your hand in return. The motion wasn’t slow or teasing or halfway. It was excited. Like waving at someone you were actually happy to see.

You didn’t stop. You kept running. But just before you turned the corner, you shouted up, “See you tomorrow, Balcony Girl.”

Paige blinked, stunned.

“Wait—hey! You still didn’t tell me your name!”

You were already disappearing around the building, your laugh echoing faintly down the street.

She stood there for a long moment after.

Grinning.

Speechless.

A little wrecked in the best possible way.

Later that morning, she texted Dijonai again.

Paige: okay so hypothetically if you were falling for someone you haven’t technically dated yet but they’ve called you ‘balcony girl’ twice… what does that mean

Nai: it means ur gone

Nai: rip to paige. we knew her well.

Paige sat on the couch, still smiling like an idiot. She pulled her knees up to her chest, coffee forgotten beside her. The street below buzzed like any other day.

But she wasn’t watching a stranger anymore.

She was watching you.

And tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

She didn’t make coffee that morning.

Didn’t even step onto the balcony.

She couldn’t.

Because today, Paige wasn’t watching.

She was waiting.

Her heart thudded in her chest like it hadn’t since her first college start, like something was about to begin—but she wasn’t holding a ball this time. She was just holding her breath.

And a water bottle.

Because if you’re going to wait outside your building for a girl you’ve only technically spoken to once, the least you can do is pretend you’re doing something athletic.

She shifted from foot to foot in the crisp morning air. No headphones. No distractions. Just her hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles and her eyes scanning the sidewalk like she was trying to find the exact place you’d appear.

There you were.

Right on cue.

You rounded the block, braid swinging, cheeks flushed with the kind of early sun that made everything look a little more golden than it really was.

You slowed the second you saw her.

Eyes narrowed. Smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Look who decided to join the ground dwellers,” you called out between breaths.

Paige smiled. “I thought I’d try this thing where I don’t watch people from above like I’m in You.”

You laughed softly, coming to a gradual stop right in front of her.

Close now.

She could see the freckles on your nose. The sweat gathering at your temple. The way your chest rose and fell with the tail end of your run. You looked even better up close. Real. Breathless. Effortless.

“You waiting for someone?” you asked, teasing but warm.

She shrugged, casual. “Kinda hoping you’d show up.”

You smirked. “Guess I’m predictable.”

“No,” Paige said, before she could help herself. “You’re… constant.”

The word settled between you. Heavier than she meant it to be. Truer, too.

Your smile softened. You looked down at your shoes for a second, then back up. “You always say things like that?”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

You raised a brow. “You’re nervous?”

“A little.” A pause. “Okay, a lot.”

You took a step forward. Close enough that Paige could smell the citrus tang of your body wash. “You don’t have to be,” you said, your voice softer now. “I don’t bite.”

“Good to know.”

“But I do like messing with you.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “I figured that out somewhere around ‘Victorian ghost.’”

A beat passed. And then—finally—you offered your hand.

You said your name. Simple. Like a secret finally shared.

Paige reached out without hesitation, taking your hand in hers.

Warm. Steady.

“I’m Paige,” she said again, even though you already knew. She wanted to hear it in this moment, between you. Not from interviews. Not from Google. Just here. Just her.

“I know. You told me last time,” you replied with a smile. “And you’re kind of hard to miss.”

You let your hands linger in that shake a little longer than necessary.

And neither of you pulled away first.

The run was over.

But Paige hadn’t gone back upstairs.

You hadn’t sprinted off.

Instead, you slowed to a walk beside her, gently bouncing on your heels to ease the tension in your calves, your shirt clinging slightly to your back. The early sun had started to climb, but the street was still quiet, shaded with lingering spring cool.

You didn’t say much at first.

Just that you always ran a five-mile loop. That you usually stopped for smoothies after, two blocks over at a tiny place Paige had never even noticed.

“Best in Dallas,” you’d said, casually. “And no one’s ever in there.”

And somehow—without needing to ask—Paige was walking there with you.

The smoothie shop was tucked into the corner of an old strip with weathered signage and murals of fruits that looked like they hadn’t been touched up since 2012. You pushed the door open with your shoulder like you’d done it a hundred times before. Paige followed close behind, the bell above the door jingling softly.

The inside smelled like mango and bleach. Neon chalkboard menus lined the wall. You didn’t look—you already knew your order.

Paige glanced at the options, overwhelmed.

“What’s good?” she asked.

You leaned close, eyes flicking over the board. “Mango pineapple with extra ginger. Trust me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Ginger?”

“It bites back. You’ll like it.”

You turned to the employee—who barely looked up—and ordered yours like it was routine. Then you waited beside her while she stumbled through hers, still skeptical about the ginger.

When you both sat down by the fogged-up front window with your plastic cups sweating between your palms, the silence stretched for just a beat too long.

And then you sipped and nodded, pleased.

Paige did the same. Her face twisted.

You grinned. “Too much?”

“No,” she coughed. “It’s good. Just… assertive.”

“Like me,” you said, grinning wider.

Paige rolled her eyes, laughing. “Unbelievable.”

But she was smiling now. Less guarded. Her shoulders looser. The tension from the balcony days melting into something brighter. Warmer.

You rested your cheek on your hand. “So… how long were you gonna keep watching me from your balcony before saying something?”

She blushed. “Forever, probably.”

“I figured. You had that socially capable but emotionally repressed look about you.”

“That’s… incredibly accurate.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, “I liked it.”

Paige swallowed around a smile and a sip of smoothie. “So, you noticed me?”

You gave her a look like duh. “You’re tall. You have a balcony. You waved. Kind of hard to miss.”

“Still. I wasn’t sure.”

“You were consistent,” you said simply. “And cute.”

That shut her up.

For about five seconds.

“I thought you didn’t bite?”

“I don’t,” you smirked. “But I do flirt.”

You both laughed, heads tipping toward each other naturally. The smoothie cups sat mostly untouched now, condensation dripping down the sides like your fingers had forgotten about them entirely.

When you both stepped back out into the sunlight, Paige felt something settle in her chest.

Not nerves.

Not longing.

Just… peace.

You walked beside her again. No destination. No expectation.

And before you split off at the corner—before you jogged backward for a few feet with a casual, “See you tomorrow?”—you nudged her shoulder lightly with yours.

Not too much. Just enough to let her know the world had shifted again.

Paige nodded, lips tugging upward.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed, voice warm.

And for once, it didn’t feel like watching anymore.

It felt like beginning.

The invitation hadn’t come casually.

It took Paige three days to work up the courage.

Not because she didn’t want you there. She did—more than anything. But because it wasn’t just asking you to watch her play. It was letting you see her under the lights, in her element, where her name echoed over loudspeakers and strangers wore her jersey. It was one thing to wave from a balcony. Another to stand on a court in front of ten thousand people, knowing you were somewhere in the front row.

Somehow, it felt more vulnerable than all the mornings combined.

She hadn’t asked for your number. That still felt too soon, too sharp. But she knew you always ran the same route. Always stopped. Always passed her building right around 7:12 every morning.

So that’s where she waited.

This time, not with coffee.

Not from above.

But outside. Hoodie on. Bag slung over her shoulder. Nervous energy curling around her fingers.

She heard you before she saw you—your sneakers scuffing lightly against the pavement, your low hum to whatever song played in your earbuds.

And then there you were.

You slowed the moment your eyes met hers. A little surprised. A little delighted.

“You’re not usually here this time of day,” you said, breath caught mid-stride.

“I was waiting.”

Your brow lifted. “For me?”

Paige grinned, a little bashful. “Well, yeah. I, uh… I have a game tonight.”

You crossed your arms playfully. “Let me guess—you’re kind of a big deal?”

She laughed. “Only on Tuesdays.”

You tilted your head, studying her. “So… why tell me?”

Paige pulled a sleek, laminated ticket from her hoodie pocket and held it out. Court side. One seat. Your name written in block letters on a sticky note pressed to the top.

“I thought maybe you’d want to come,” she said, softer now. “If you’re free.”

You blinked.

“Wait—how did you even get my name?”

“You said it last week. At the fountain,” Paige said, smiling. “I wrote it down on a napkin as soon as I got home. Just in case.”

That made you laugh. A little startled. A lot charmed.

“You’ve been carrying that around?”

“Like a complete loser, yeah.”

You took the ticket gently, reading the seat info, lips parting slightly. “Court side?”

Paige rubbed the back of her neck. “Like I said… kind of a big deal.”

You looked at her for a long moment. And then, quietly, “You want me to see you.”

It wasn’t a question. It was truth.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Something passed between you then—gentle, slow, sure. Like gravity. Like all those mornings on the balcony had only ever been the prelude to this.

You smiled.

“I’ll be there.”

Hours later, when the lights rose and the anthem faded, Paige stood on the sideline, heart hammering harder than it should have for a regular-season game.

Her eyes scanned the court side seats.

And there you were—smiling, hoodie zipped, knees tucked under your seat, hands wrapped around a drink you probably didn’t even like.

When you waved, Paige forgot the noise. When you mouthed, good luck, she swore it echoed louder than the crowd.

She played with fire in her chest that night.

Sharp. Clear. Blazing.

Because you were watching now.

And Paige had never wanted to impress anyone more in her life.

The lights were brighter tonight.

Maybe it was just the adrenaline. Maybe it was the packed house. But for Paige, it was you.

You, sitting court side in her world.

In a hoodie she didn’t recognize. Legs crossed, head tilted, your eyes tracking her every move. Your body language was calm, casual — like you belonged there.

And maybe you didn’t realize it yet, but to Paige? You absolutely did.

Warmups were different.

Her layups were smoother, sharper. Her handle was a little more flashy than usual — just enough sauce on a behind-the-back to make her teammates raise their brows like, Okay, Bueckers.

She didn’t care.

She glanced over her shoulder after every made shot.

And each time she saw you still watching, still there, still smiling — it lit her up like a floodlight inside.

By tip-off, Paige was already humming.

She didn’t start the game with a pass. She started it with a pull-up three.

Net. No hesitation.

The crowd roared, but her eyes flicked down to you.

You mouthed something. She thought it was damn.

She grinned.

A fast break. She weaved through defenders, long strides and perfect timing. A no-look pass to Arike for the finish.

Arike smacked her shoulder as they jogged back down the court. “You good, Bueckers?”

“Great,” Paige said, breathless.

Her eyes found you again. You were laughing at something someone next to you said, but you looked back just in time to catch her staring.

You didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Timeout.

Coach was drawing something on the clipboard. Paige was half-listening. Her towel was draped around her neck, her chest rising and falling fast. Sweat clung to her temple.

And still… she looked for you.

You were leaning forward now, elbows on your knees, eyes sharp.

Dialed in.

Seeing you watch her like this — not like a curiosity or a habit, but like someone invested — it rewired something in Paige’s body.

She stood, shook out her legs, and checked back in without a word.

The next possession, she went full showtime.

Spin move. Hesitation. Crossover.

Stepback jumper from the elbow.

The defender reached — missed — and Paige let it fly.

Net. Again.

But she didn’t celebrate.

She didn’t throw her arms up. She didn’t beat her chest.

She just… turned. Jogged backward.

And looked straight at you.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth — one only you saw. One for you.

You shook your head like what the hell is she doing to me, and she felt her entire bloodstream flood with heat.

Fourth quarter. Wings up by six.

Paige was loose now. Every cut precise, every pass threaded like needlework. She wasn’t showboating — but she was playing with intention.

Like every move had your name on it.

She wanted you to see her. Not just the girl on the balcony. Not just the girl on the sidewalk. But this version — sharp, focused, in command of everything around her.

You saw her.

And when she hit her final bucket — a dagger three with a minute and a half left — she didn’t even watch the ball go in.

She turned before it landed, eyes locked on you.

You were on your feet. Clapping. Laughing. Glowing.

And Paige felt like she could’ve floated all the way home.

The second the buzzer rang, Paige didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t follow the team toward the bench. She didn’t stop for the high-five line. She didn’t glance at the scoreboard or the cameras closing in on the Wings’ star player with their lenses hungry and waiting.

Instead, she walked directly to you.

You were still standing in the front row, tucked just behind the barrier, a little stunned by the intensity of her performance. You looked flushed from the noise, from the weight of the crowd around you. But your smile—God, your smile was steady.

She stepped around the bench. Past security. Past the media. Her sneakers squeaked slightly as she moved across the hardwood, ponytail damp against the back of her neck, heart beating louder than the arena.

Your eyes caught hers.

And then you laughed—soft and startled—because she didn’t stop walking.

“Hi,” she said, breathless.

“Hi yourself,” you said, grinning. “What the hell was that performance?”

Paige leaned one elbow on the scorer’s table and shrugged. “Felt like showing off a little.”

“For who?” you teased, clearly knowing the answer.

She tilted her head, like the answer was obvious. “You.”

You blinked. That smile tugged at your mouth again, the one that unraveled her from twenty feet away. And then—just slightly—you held up the sticky note she’d left on the court side ticket. Her handwriting, still there.

Thought maybe you’d want to come.

“I did,” you said. “I really did.”

Paige reached out. Not dramatically. Not like a grand romantic gesture. Just… easy. Familiar. Her fingers wrapped gently around your wrist.

“Walk with me?” she asked.

You didn’t answer with words. You just stepped over the small barrier and followed her, like you were always meant to.

The tunnel was cooler than the court, lit in long, clinical strips of white light. But Paige didn’t feel the chill. Not with your hand brushing hers, not with your footsteps echoing beside her in rhythm like they always had—just on pavement instead of hardwood this time.

“You were ridiculous out there,” you murmured. “Seriously. Spin moves? Step backs?”

“Too much?” she asked.

“Kind of unfair, actually.”

She smiled, glancing sideways. “You make me want to be unfair.”

You bumped her shoulder. “Is that your game-day flirting voice?”

“This is my every day flirting voice,” Paige replied, without missing a beat.

Your laughter filled the tunnel.

It sounded better than the cheers had.

Near the locker room entrance, she paused. The media would be let in soon. Her team would be peeling tape off their ankles. She’d get pulled for postgame interviews, stat sheets, questions about her minutes and her shooting percentage.

But right now—there was just this.

She looked at you fully. Like she had on the balcony. Like she had at the fountain. At the smoothie shop. Every single time she’d wished she’d said something sooner.

“You know I don’t just do this,” she said quietly. “Invite people. Let them in like this.”

You nodded, suddenly serious. “I know.”

“But I wanted you here.”

You looked down at her hand, still lightly holding your wrist. You flipped it so your fingers could wrap around hers properly this time.

“I’m glad I came,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“So, you gonna give me your number now, or are we sticking with sticky notes forever?”

Paige laughed. Bright. Relieved. She pulled out her phone and held it out.

“Here,” she said. “Make it official.”

You typed it in. Smiling. Then handed the phone back.

When Paige looked at your contact name, you’d put it in as Y/N <3

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m memorable.”

She leaned in slightly, just close enough to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” she said. “You really are.”

The apartment felt different.

Maybe it was always this quiet after games, but Paige had never noticed it. Usually, she was buzzing from the adrenaline, running through plays in her head, FaceTiming family, tossing her jersey into the laundry basket, and collapsing into bed.

But tonight, the only thing she was thinking about… Was you.

You, sitting court side like you’d been there forever. You, waiting for her after the game, smiling like her chaos made sense to you. You, entering your number in her phone with a little smirk like of course I belong here.

Paige sat on her couch, legs tucked under her, hoodie draped around her shoulders. Her hair was still damp. Her knees ached in the way they always did after a big night.

But her chest felt light.

She stared at your name on her screen.

Y/N <3 [Send Message]

Her thumb hovered.

And then… she typed.

Paige: hey. it’s paige, the one from the balcony. thanks for being there tonight.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. Then locked the screen and tossed her phone on the couch beside her like it burned.

But it buzzed. Almost immediately.

She scrambled to pick it up.

You: you were electric. i’ve never seen anyone look so in control and still that unhinged in the same 40 minutes. it was kinda hot ngl.

Paige laughed—head back, eyes wide, completely undone by how fast you could wreck her with a single sentence.

She typed again.

Paige: okay, ngl i was showing off. not even sorry.

You: you shouldn’t be. you made it very hard to look cool sitting court side while actively swooning.

She bit her lip. Heart hammering. Fingers flying.

Paige: you looked cooler than me. i kept looking for you between plays. couldn’t help it.

There was a pause.

And then your typing bubbles popped back up.

You: you always looked. even before you knew me.

That hit her like a heartbeat.

True. Simple. Real.

She didn’t reply right away.

Instead, she just sat there, thumb tracing your name at the top of the screen.

Y/N <3 — who wasn’t a stranger anymore.

You were here now. In her phone. In her world.

With her.

Her alarm went off at 6:45, and for the first time in weeks… Paige didn’t rush to the balcony.

She didn’t even reach for her hoodie.

Instead, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart full and uncertain. Last night felt like something sacred. Like something she wanted to protect with silence and slowness. You’d texted her until nearly 1AM. Dumb jokes. Little moments. A sentence she read over five times, “You don’t look like anyone else when you’re on the court.”

She didn’t know what that meant entirely.

But she wanted to find out.

By 7:10, she finally got up.

No coffee. No performance. Just sweats and a plain white tee, hair tied back, sneakers loose.

She cracked her knuckles and opened the front door to her building, walking slowly down the steps into the stillness of early morning.

And stopped short.

Because there you were.

Leaning against the black railing in front of her building. Hoodie on. One foot crossed over the other. Arms folded. A water bottle dangling from your fingers. Sunlight slicing across your cheekbone.

Waiting.

For her.

You spotted her the second she stepped outside.

“No balcony today?” you teased.

“No need,” Paige said, stunned and grinning. “You came down to earth.”

“I figured it was your turn to be the one surprised.”

“Mission accomplished.”

You started walking without prompting, slow, unhurried steps down the sidewalk in the direction of nowhere.

Paige fell into rhythm beside you.

“I didn’t know you knew where I lived,” she said after a moment.

You looked over. “I’ve been running past it every day for three weeks.”

“I know. I just mean…” She shrugged. “It’s different seeing you standing there.”

“How so?”

“You weren’t moving. For once.” A pause. “You were waiting.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Felt like the right morning for it.”

She smiled at the ground. “I thought that was my job.”

You bumped her shoulder with yours. “We can take turns.”

You walked in easy silence for a while. Past the corner store. Past the mural she’d never noticed until you pointed it out. Past a pair of pigeons fighting over a bagel chunk.

Everything looked lighter. Like the city had exhaled.

“You hungry?” you asked, glancing at her.

“Starving,” she said, hands in her pockets.

You jerked your chin down the block. “There’s a place I know. They make the best breakfast tacos. I’ll buy if you admit you were trying to flirt with that step-back three last night.”

Paige laughed. “Oh, 100%.”

“You’re shameless.”

“You’re the one who showed up.”

You stopped walking for a second.

She turned to face you, just half a step behind.

And you said—quietly, sincerely, “Yeah. And I’m really glad I did.”

Paige didn’t say anything at first.

She just smiled.

And reached out.

Not for your wrist. Not like before.

But your hand.

You took it. No hesitation.

Just warmth.

And every single morning before this one suddenly made perfect sense.

Paige woke up before her alarm again.

But this time, there was no rush.

No need to throw on a hoodie or check the time or stand watch like a sentinel in sneakers. Her body was loose. Her heart, calm. Because she knew you were already here.

In the next room.

In her apartment.

In her life.

You’d stayed late the night before. Tacos, movies, the kind of quiet talking that only happens when the city’s asleep and the lights are dim. You hadn’t spent the night — not yet — but you had fallen asleep briefly curled up beside her on the couch, your head resting against her shoulder, your fingers still lightly intertwined.

She hadn't wanted to move. Ever.

And now, as soft morning light crept across her bedroom floor, Paige slid out of bed, tiptoed through the apartment, and opened the balcony door.

The air smelled clean. Crisp. New.

She stepped outside and sat in the chair that had been hers alone for weeks. The same one where she'd watched you run by and wondered what your voice sounded like. What your name was. What it would feel like to be seen by you.

Now, she didn’t have to wonder.

Because thirty seconds later, her front door clicked softly.

And she heard it—bare feet on wood. The low rustle of a yawn. And your voice, groggy but teasing, “No coffee today?”

Paige turned.

There you were.

Hair messy. Hoodie stolen from her closet. Sleep still clinging to your eyelashes.

Beautiful.

She held up a mug. “I made you one.”

You smiled and stepped outside, folding into the chair beside her — the one that had been empty every morning before now.

You pulled your legs up under yourself, took a sip, and sighed. “Okay. This makes up for you not letting me win in Uno last night.”

“I don’t go easy on people I like.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrow arched. “You like me?”

Paige looked over at you — eyes soft, cheek pressed against her hand.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “I really do.”

You didn’t look away.

Didn’t tease this time.

You just whispered, “Good.”

The street below was waking up slowly.

Someone walked a dog. A runner passed — not you, for once. You both watched in silence, sipping coffee, the city stretching itself awake beneath your feet.

But for once, Paige wasn’t watching the street.

She was watching you.

And this time, she wasn’t waiting.

“He hit my phone with a horse

So I know that mean come over and ride it”

Wednesday nights were hit or miss at UConn - either you loaded all of your courses on Monday and Wednesday and had the night to chill, or you were prepping for a horrendous end to your week. You were in the former category, deciding to attend a party hosted by a friend of a friend you hardly knew - labelled a “wine Wednesday” party to anyone who asked why the fuck anyone would throw on a weeknight that wasn’t Thursday. 

You maybe made it through one glass of cheap rose before your night evolved how most nights ended up in the not-so-bustling town of Storrs, Connecticut: sitting out by the fire pit of the beaten down rental house with your friends in a circle, passing a joint around and talking shit (about professors, exes, parents… no one was off limits in the rotation) under the glow of some poorly strung lights.

Though you hadn’t touched another glass since your first inhale, knowing that you were not risking getting crossfaded tonight, it didn’t help much. You always seemed to forget that weed and parties did not mix well for you. Every sound felt heightened yet muffled at the same time, from the bass of the music to the conversation your friends were having around you. Your skin burned, heat flooding down your back in a way that almost made you squirm.

You needed an out, and soon.

Your savior came in the form of two buzzes in quick succession from your phone on your lap. Though you typically aimed at staying present when surrounded by others, you ruled this as a worthy exception. You lifted it, immediately shifting it away from your friends’ view as you read the texts from the all too familiar contact.

Paige: wyd rn?

Paige: wanna see you tonight pretty girl

“Nobody know, I fuck with him on the low”

If you told the version of yourself two months ago that you would end up fucking Paige Bueckers, she would have laughed in your face. It was no secret to anyone in your friend group, many of whom had come in close contact with UConn athletes, that she had an extensive history, none of them sticking around for longer than a couple of nights. You refused to be yet another victim to community dick (in this case, community strap). Maybe you would be a little less put off by the idea of getting with someone with a reputation like Paige if she wasn’t so cocky about it, like she got off on the idea that girls were obsessed with her. 

And then the two of you met on a night out at Ted’s, where she insisted on buying your drink (you told your friends afterwards that you let her for economical reasons). You attempted to stick with your friends that night, tired of your past filled with messy hookups that never led anywhere, but of course they all decided to mingle with the basketball team. Meaning Paige had the rest of the night to throw looks your way, practically eye fucking you. You hated to admit it, but you understood why girls were into Paige beyond aesthetic reasons: she was incredibly witty, quick to poke gentle fun at her friends while also making jokes about herself. Though it was clear in the few times she brought it up she loved what she did, it didn’t feel like the entire conversation revolved around her being a basketball star. And you couldn’t deny the way her gaze made you feel, like you were the only person there. And you hated it.

When you allowed Paige to put her number in your phone, you would also insist that it was due to bragging rights and had no intention of contacting her again. And when you texted her that night with just your name, you almost convinced yourself it was just the polite thing to do.

The two of you texted frequently throughout the week, with some time between messages due to her busy practice schedule and your insistence on not seeming like an overly obsessed groupie. You didn’t need to fuel her ego, no matter how much her attempts at flirting caused an ache between your thighs and how many times you’ve resorted to nights alone in your room, a chorus of moans filling the space as images of blue eyes and toned arms overwhelm you. Sure, you wanted to fuck her. But one thing you knew: if it was happening, it was happening under your terms.

It finally did around a week later, after a great afternoon showing for the Huskies in Gampel Pavilion. You stood in the student section, watching her light up the court in ways very few people could. The crowd was electric with every assist she made to Azzi, every time she made a clean three point shot, and with every effort she made to hype up the crowd. She truly was in her element. you would be lying if you said it didn’t tempt you.

Still buzzed from your tailgate beforehand, you texted her to say congratulations, to which she responded with a trademark Paige Bueckers flirty comment. It was certainly not the first time she had attempted this with you, so you weren’t sure why this time was any different. Maybe it was the liquid courage, but before you could think twice, you replied. 

“want me to show you how winners get treated?”

That’s how you ended the night tangled in Paige’s sheets and long, strong limbs. Basking in your post orgasm glow knowing that throughout the entire exchange you were in control, even when you were receiving. For the first time in a long, long time, a hookup felt good. 

You and Paige continued texting, this time more frequently. You were fully expecting Paige to be the type to hit it and quit it, as she had done many times before, but having a taste of you just seemed to make her want you more. And yet you never told your friends about any of it. Not because you were ashamed or anything, but because you knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. It almost never did with athletes, even ones that kiss your forehead and text you good morning every day. Though you were fully expecting it to end at some point, you really didn’t want to deal with your friends making it a huge deal. Even if there was a little part of you, a voice in your head you did everything to silence, that told you maybe you didn’t want her to go.

“We never show up together but I text him when I'm ready to go”

A half assed excuse left your lips as you walked away from the couch circle and closer to the trees, far enough away so nobody would hear when you pressed an all too familiar contact and made the call. The phone hardly needed to ring one time before her end of the line was overwhelmed by a cacophony of loud voices. Unless your ears were deceiving you, you swore you could hear KK scream “liar!” at someone

“Hey pretty gir- aye! Be quiet one moment!” Her attempt at being quiet quickly escalated to a yell, presumably at one of her teammates, before returning to your conversation with an apologetic tone, “Sorry, I’m at Aubrey’s.”

Why the UConn girls were seemingly partying on a Wednesday night was beyond your comprehension, but it was honestly the last thing on your mind in that moment. “‘Wanna see you tonight’, huh? Tryin to ditch your teammates?”

“They’re all too invested in Mario Party to care. Besides,” She paused, her voice getting quieter (and unless you were hearing things wrong, more vulnerable), “It’s worth it for you.”

You knew what you wanted, and boy you were going to get it. With a sickly sweet grin you asked, “Pick me up in ten?”

“I had a couple of shots at the bar

I'm finna play with that dick in the car"

You knew the second you shut the door to Paige’s car and kissed her that she had been drinking that night, the presence of liquor on her lips. You would be so ready to scold her for driving under the influence, tell her she should not play with her life like that, if you weren’t also just appreciative for any out you could get. Besides, as long as she was telling the truth, she was only a couple shots deep. The weed in your system had dulled down at this point, and instead of feeling overwhelmed from the noise around you, you were overwhelmed by the urge to have Paige the way you wanted to. especially with how she looked now, glasses on and hair thrown into a messy ponytail, silver chain accessorizing her sweat set. God, you didn’t even know if you could make it to her bed.

“This new?” She asks about two minutes into the twelve minute drive, gesturing to your top. It was an old one, found in the bottom of one of your bins of clothes while you were searching for a going out top that would allow you to put off doing laundry for another day. It worked well enough - a simple crop top with a flattering neckline. “Looks really good.”

“Nah, kept it from freshman year,” You replied, head braced by your arm against the side of the car staring at the girl next to you. Paige had a grip on her steering wheel, eyes focused on the practically empty roads leading to her apartment. A part of you was very thankful she was being cautious given the circumstances. But another part of you, a more sinister voice, wanted to try something.

Your manicured hands traced up your torso, your own touch nearly making you gasp. Damn, you really were that desperate. Your nails played with the hem of your shirt, gently pulling it up towards your breasts as the air conditioning hit more and more of your skin. “This is new though.”

Paige hit a red light, making a confused sound before her eyes met yours. They didn’t stay there long before trailing down, past your neck and to the bra that currently had your tits pushed to the sky, one hand reaching around to cup one as you licked your lips. Your top could hardly be considered one anymore, pooled at your collarbone as you continued touching yourself. You maintained your gaze, looking at the blonde like she was prey as her tongue met her cheek inside her mouth, a loud swallow going down her throat.

When she finally spoke, it was a breathless chuckle that revealed just what kind of effect you had on her as she shook her head. “You’re something else.”

The green light flashed into the car, prompting her to return her gaze back to the road and press on the gas. Google Maps said you were eight minutes away, but judging by the way your finger was tracing around your bra covered nipple, you weren’t sure if you could wait that long. And if the way Paige’s eyes were bugging out of her head at the road attempting to not look at you were any indication, you knew she felt the same. “Paige?”

“Mhmm?” She asked through gritted teeth, hanging on to her last thread of self control.

“Pull over.”

————

“That’s it, just like that… fuck.”

You nodded in Paige’s pussy, nails grazing her thighs. The set up could be more ideal: All six feet of her were crammed in the backseat, sweats pooled at her ankles as you sat almost diagonal in order to have a more comfortable position. Neither of you really seemed to care all that much, too intoxicated off of each other and your respective substances. Besides, judging by the way Paige massaged your neck and whined, you wouldn’t be here long.

You only needed two more minutes eating Paige out like she was your last meal before her grip tightened at the back of your neck, cumming with a cry of your name. You ate her through it, slurping her up like ice cream before slowly rising, placing a kiss to her lips so she could taste herself. She hummed with contentment into the kiss, cupping your jaw tenderly. You separated, your smirk cocky as her hand traced back down your neck, feeling the soft material of your bra for herself. “So fucking pretty,” she whispered to herself, eyes trained on how the color of the garment made your skin look radiant. Her hands switched directions, gently tracing up before reaching your neck and applying pressure with hungry eyes.

“We’re going home. Need to see you cum on my dick now.”

“I'ma make him wait for the pussy

Hit it 'til he big ole skeet”

The rest of the car ride was uneventful, Paige keeping a grip on your thigh as music propelled you guys into her parking lot. When you reached her apartment, you were ready for the inevitable fight for dominance between the two of you. Instead, Paige merely hung her keys on her hook and moved to the kitchen. “Want any water?”

You almost laugh as you follow her in, as if she was pranking you. “What are you, all talk and no game?” You joke, still taking the offer. Despite drinking Paige up just moments prior, you were very aware of just how dry your mouth was.

Paige smirked, taking a sip of her own water before grazing your torso with her hands. “Just tryna be chivalrous, ma.” 

You took a big gulp of water, allowing yourself to sink into the feeling of Paige’s touch before setting the glass down. “Don’t need all that,” You murmur, the pads of your fingers playing with the hem of Paige’s hoodie. You look up, maneuvering yourself so your lips were as close to her ear as possible before murmuring. “Just need you.” 

“Oh yeah?” She teases, already beginning to back you towards her bedroom, her tall frame overwhelming yours. Now this is what you came here for: the feeling of her tongue slipping in your mouth as your lips collided, the feeling of her properly undressing you as soon as her door shut behind you, and the gravel in her voice as she commands you to “get on the bed”.

“You have no fucking idea how bad i’ve wanted this,” Paige growled, crawling above you and connecting your lips once more before peppering them down to your neck. You couldn’t help but sigh, deciding that you would put up with a million lackluster parties if they all ended like this.“These perfect tits.” She moved to toss your bra on her floor before licking around your nipple, sucking on your breast and surely leaving a mark - she always found a way to, much to your chagrin. You allowed yourself to take pleasure in the feeling for a moment, resting up before your next move. Because while you moments like these with Paige, there was no way in hell you were letting her think the dynamic switched.

With a swift move that even left yourself dumbfounded at your abilities , you hooked a leg around her and flipped the basketball player over, catching yourself with both hands on the mattress. Paige’s jaw dropped, equally shocked and impressed. “Woah.”

“I thought you’d figure out by now that I’m in charge here,” You quipped, gaining enough composure quickly to maintain the persona you wanted. You were going to fuck Paige just as much as she was fucking you. You quickly made the executive decision that Paige was wearing far too many clothes, gesturing her to raise her arms before moving to help her remove her hoodie leaving her in her sweats and a sports bra - very typical Paige attire. You nipped, kissed, and sucked above her chest in the areas not covered by the sports bra, careful to avoid her neck or any other areas that would be visible in a jersey. At one point, you took the chain she wore in your mouth, feeling the cold metal against your lips. Paige groaned, attempting to tug your mouth back on to hers by lifting you from your waist. You tsk, “Be patient.”

“You’re making patience really hard, sweetheart.” She states through gritted teeth, one hand moving to your hair and tugging to make a point. She was desperate tonight, just the way you liked her. 

Deciding to give her a little taste of you, you sat up so only your ass made contact with her, sitting plush against her pelvis. Need to see you cum on my dick now, her voice repeated in your head. with a mischievous glint. Slowly, you began grinding your hips, your ass hitting against her. “This what you want?”

She threw her head back, realizing what you were mimicking. “Please.”

“Beg.”

You would think you said something far more outrageous the way she looked up at you, eyebrows raised. “You crazy? nah!”

Typical Paige, not one to give up without a fight. You knew all too well how this would end though.“Suit yourself.” You shrugged, continuing your actions from before, this time trailing a hand down your short skirt and lightly touching yourself through your panties.

“Fuck baby,” She swore she could feel how wet you were as you continued rolling your hips, giving her a preview of everything she could have if she just put her ego aside. “You’re killing me right now.”

“I think I know what would fix that,” you purred.

“Oh fuck,” her voice was almost strangled, any ounce of dignity she had quickly leaving her body and being replaced by the urge to make you feel good. Her eyes appeared as though they were welling up as she pleaded with you. “Please let me fuck you. Would do anything to make you feel good.”

A smile spread across your face, knowing you finally had her exactly where you wanted her. You paused your teasing, swinging your leg back aroundand reaching a standing position. Her eyes followed you, her gaze equally confused and frustrated, before she recognized the box you were reaching for in her drawer. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” You asked, harness and dildo in hand as you sauntered back over to the bed.

“Ain't nobody freak like me

Give ya what you need like me

Ain't nobody got on they tip, tip toes and rode to the tip like me”

You were putting on a whole ass show for her. Your feet were positioned on each side of of her, providing stability as you bounced on her silicon dick like your life depended on it. Your tits bounced with each impact your bodies made. The room was quiet (save for the sound of both of your moans and the dull buzz of the vibrator against Paige within the strap), but it was like you were moving to a melody, alternating between fast moments of riding her and slower moments where you simply moved your hips, allowing yourself to bask in the pleasure.

Paige laid back against the pillows, practically mesmerized at the sight of you as you ran a hand through your hair, throwing your head back in the process. “Holy shit.”

“Any other girls fucking you like this, baby?” You don’t know why you felt the need to ask. For one, you were very confident in your abilities, and you also knew that Paige was likely still going home with other girls. It’s not a topic you ever cared enough to approach. 

“No other girls anymore. None could make me cum like you,” Paige shook her head, moving to grab your waist and help facilitate your movements as if she was seeking any form of control she could get. “Riding my dick like a slut, baby, fuck.”

Your eyes wandered a bit, over to the collection of photographs on Paige’s wall, the number of awards given, all the way to one particular object. Your hips began to slow progressively until they came to a complete stop, prompting a disappointed groan from the blonde beneath you.

“Stand up. I wanna try something new.”

“I want to fuck in the mirror, I like to look at your face when you in it

Come in the room and I'm giving commands

I am the captain and he the lieutenant”

The sides of the chair you were gripping were cold, in contrast to the heat rushing through the rest of your body. Paige stood behind you, pounding into you from behind as the both of you took full advantage of the full length mirror beside you giving you a full view of everything - and by everything, you meant everything, from the way Paige’s hair looked entirely fucked out to the wetness dripping down her thighs.

Paige’s eyes squeezed shut, unable to handle the way your ass looked rippling against her, how your waist fit in her hands as she slammed you back, and she especially could not handle the way you were looking at her in the mirror. “Baby imma bust,” she moaned, her words slurred together. She was too drunk off of you.

“Hold it. I’m almost there,” you instructed, reaching down to rub circles around your clit. You were dripping, cream forming a ring around Paige’s strap. You moved your hips, twerking on her dick as you looked back at it. Paige was convinced in that moment that if it were not anatomically impossible, she would have absolutely accidentally knocked you up in that moment.

“Need to cum so bad, baby. You feel so good, so fucking fine.” 

The warmth that once rushed through you from the joint was now accumulating to your core. It was all becoming too much, even more so when she slapped your hand away to help rub hard circles on you, her desperation a mix of wanting to be the reason you finished as well as the realization that she was going to blow any moment. 

“Gonna cum.” You finally moan, feeling as though your legs may snap as you let go. Paige was not far behind, gripping your waist and burying her head in your neck as she pressed herself to the base inside of you. 

“Usually I like to fuck

But tonight we gon' make love 'cause you bae”

You attempted to catch your breath as you laid down next to Paige. She had both hands on the sides of your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re so perfect,” She murmured, eyelids drooping as she fought the urge to pass out then and there. Her touch was less possessive this time and more tender, cupping your skin as if it were made of glass.

You let out a breathy laugh at her words, almost like you couldn’t believe them, yet you couldn’t stop the way your body nuzzled into hers further. “You’re just happy you got laid tonight,” You quipped.

“I don’t mean it like that. you know I don’t.”

Perhaps one of the most important rules of hooking up with an athlete, especially one as high profile as Paige, is to never believe a word they say. So you felt a little silly when you took note of how her blue eyes gazed at you, waking up enough to make eye contact to show you that this was the truth. It felt worse when you felt your heart skip a beat at the realization. In fact, it scared the hell out of you. 

“Stay the night tonight,” She whispered. You had never heard her sound like that, so out of control and at your whim. She was scared too. “I don’t want you to leave.”

You nodded, pushing past the voice in your head screaming at you to run just as you had after every other night you and Paige shared. You were tired, and Paige was right there, and it was just not the time to listen to your head over your heart. “Okay.”