I love women!!!!

wait this is so cute 😭

COMING SOON.

wings! (uconn) paige bueckers x rookie wings! (ucla) azzi fudd

trope : coworkers (crush) into lovers

main visualizer (edit) : this is literally so pazzi coded!

Azzi Fudd, the people’s princess and UCLA’s star player, is the Dallas Wings new number one pick. And now, everyone’s worried if she’ll clash with the team’s already established face, Paige Bueckers.

What they don’t know is? the famously known noncholant final boss is actually hopelessly, embarrassingly, ridiculously in love with the rookie. And now, it’s become Paige’s lifelong devoted mission to make Azzi fall for her too.

and thus begins, operation: win over the rookie!

this is fully inspired by the visualizer above. an alternative universe where paige and azzi are complete strangers (acquaintances) and azzi chose to go to ucla for college.

sincerely, C 💗

a little visual board :

ragebait annoying down bad P x ragebaited flirty oblivious A

big brown eyes

synopsis: paige figured she’d fall for a set of big brown eyes when she walked into the dallas spca. she just didn’t expect them to belong to the volunteer behind the counter. suddenly, she comes to the unsettling realization that adopting a puppy might not be the biggest commitment she’s about to make.

tags: wnba!paige x spca!azzi, fluff, down bad paige, sad attempts at flirting, happy ending, cute fluffy dogs

cw: very brief mentions of animal abuse

total wc: 8k+

The Dallas heat is stifling as Paige crosses the parking lot, phone to her ear, the sun bright enough to make her squint because she’s pretty sure she left her sunglasses at the training facility. Again. Her gray practice tee clings to her back, shorts hanging loosely above her knees, which are still red from having ice bags strapped to them during the drive. 

“I promise I thought this through, mom,” she whines, stepping off the curb and adjusting the assortment of bracelets dangling from her wrist. “I wouldn’t just… do this.”

She listens, jaw tightening slightly. 

“Yes. I know it’s a commitment.” A pause. “Yeah, I have all that lined up. I am an actual adult. Like… you know that right?”

SAFE AND SOUND (3/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 16.6K

☆ ━ warnings: violence, angst, death, really depressing ending

☆ ━ links: part one, part two, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: hi!!!! so actually turns out that deleting this made me much more productive and motivated and i wrote this in like a day and a half be proud. it’s a very action packed chapter, lots of things happen, and i hope you enjoy it. might make you a little depressed but we all need some angst in our lives!

THE MORNING creeps in gently, sunlight slipping through the canopy of trees above, dappling the forest floor in soft patches of gold. Azzi stirs faintly, her awareness coming back to her in pieces. Her body feels warm, cocooned in a strange, comfortable stillness. When she opens her eyes, everything comes into sharp, startling focus.

She’s still lying across Paige’s lap.

Her first instinct is panic—her mind racing to all the reasons why this shouldn’t be happening, why she should’ve moved the moment Paige fell asleep. But then her body shifts slightly, and she feels Paige’s arm, the uninjured one, slung loosely over her side, her fingertips brushing lightly against Azzi’s ribs. Paige’s breathing is soft and even, her chest rising and falling against Azzi’s back.

Azzi freezes, unwilling to move just yet. Her head tilts slightly, enough to let her eyes flicker upward. Paige is waking, her body stirring beneath Azzi, her fingers twitching against the brunette’s side.

Then, Paige lets out a small, sleepy sound—something between a sigh and a groan—and rubs at her eyes with her free hand. She looks bleary but not broken, not like last night. The color has returned to her cheeks, and her features seem softer, less drawn. When she finally looks down at Azzi, she smiles, slow and dopey, her voice raspy as she murmurs, “Hey.”

The word is so simple, so casual, but it sends a terrible rush of warmth through Azzi’s chest, lighting her nervous system on fire. Her stomach flips violently, and she suddenly feels much more awake.

“Hey,” she replies, her voice a little quieter than she meant it to be. She shifts her body, sitting up so she and Paige are face to face.

As soon as she does, Paige’s smile fades quickly, replaced by a waterfall of surprise. Without warning, her hand comes up, cupping Azzi’s face. The motion is so sudden that Azzi flinches, blinking in confusion. “Holy shit,” Paige breathes, her fingers skimming lightly over Azzi’s cheek. “It’s so much better! The cut—it’s, like, completely gone!”

Azzi’s heart stutters in her chest, her breath catching. Paige’s fingers are warm against her skin, and she feels their faint pressure as they ghost over where the gash had been. She doesn’t feel any pain, no sting, no soreness. Azzi’s own hand flies up to her cheekbone, her fingertips brushing the spot where she remembers the cut vividly.

Smooth skin.

There’s maybe the faintest hint of a scratch, but that’s it. Nothing like the deep wound she fell asleep with.

“Oh my God,” Azzi whispers, voice barely audible.

She pulls away slightly, her mind racing. She looks at Paige again, who’s now staring at her with a mixture of amazement and something else—something unreadable. Paige’s grin stretches wider, lighting up her face in a way Azzi doesn’t know if she’s ever seen.

But Azzi’s not done yet. Her gaze darts down to Paige’s injured arm, her heart thundering with a possibility that maybe—just maybe—

Without thinking, she grabs Paige’s wrist, startling the blonde. Paige lets out a surprised, “Azzi—” but doesn’t pull away, watching as the younger girl begins peeling back the makeshift bandage of leaves.

Azzi’s movements are hurried, frantic, her hands shaking as she works the wrapping free. She’s not careful, probably pulling harder than she should, but Paige doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even wince.

When the last of the leaves fall away, Azzi freezes.

The gash that had once been so deep and gruesome, red and angry, is now reduced to something barely noticeable. The skin has knitted itself back together, leaving behind a faint pink line, the kind of thing you might slap a Band-Aid on and forget about.

“No way,” Azzi breathes, her voice breaking on the words. Her eyes dart up to Paige, wide and disbelieving.

Paige stares at her arm for a moment before laughter bubbles out of her, light and bright, filling the quiet air between them. Azzi blinks at her, caught between confusion and awe, before the sound tugs at her lips, coaxing a grin from her that she doesn’t even realize is there until it’s too late.

Their eyes meet, and Paige’s laughter softens into something gentler, warmer. The grin she gives Azzi is the kind that burns its way into her chest, leaving her breathless and weightless all at once. Azzi watches as Paige’s hood hand brushes lightly over the faint line on her arm as if to check that it’s real. The brunette feels her muscles tighten with something she can’t even name—relief, maybe, or something warmer, something deeper.

Then, Paige surprises her.

Before Azzi can process it, Paige shifts, leaning forward and wrapping both arms—injured one included—around Azzi in a hug that’s all at once clumsy, tight, and utterly genuine. It catches Azzi off guard, her body stiff for half a second before she melts into it. She shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, but she lets herself sink into the embrace, her arms coming up to circle Paige’s waist.

Paige’s face presses into her shoulder, and Azzi feels the soft puff of Paige’s breath against her neck. “I kinda thought we were goners,” Paige whispers, and her voice is thick, the words carrying more weight than Azzi expects.

Azzi doesn’t respond—not verbally. Instead, she tightens her arms around Paige, letting the gesture say everything she can’t. She hates how much she’s missed this kind of closeness, how safe it feels, how terrifying it is to want it.

Eventually, they both pull back slightly, though Paige’s hands linger on Azzi’s shoulders, her touch warm and steady. Azzi freezes as she realizes how close they still are, their faces only inches apart. Paige’s breath brushes against her cheek, and her eyes are impossibly blue, locked onto Azzi’s like they’re the only two people in the world, like there’s not a million cameras probably latched onto this very moment.

Azzi’s gaze moves before she can stop it, flicking down to Paige’s lips. Her heart pounds, her breath hitching audibly, and it feels like the air between them is crackling, charged with something she knows better than to name.

She can’t help it, though. She sees Paige’s eyes drop too, following the same path, lingering on Azzi’s lips for just a beat too long.

Azzi swallows hard. She knows how wrong this is. She knows what lines she’s already dangerously close to crossing.

And yet, when Paige leans in just a fraction, Azzi finds herself leaning too—

Abruptly, she pulls away, standing so fast that it startled Paige, who blinks up at her in confusion. Azzi’s pulse races, and she runs a hand across her face, her voice tight and shaky as she says, “Um, we should probably move. Y’know, we’ve been in the same spot for way too long now.”

Paige tilts her head slightly, her brows furrowing, and for a moment, Azzi’s sure she’s going to press the issue. But then Paige nods slowly, her expressions smoothing into soma thing neutral, though her eyes still carry a hint of something unreadable.

“Yeah,” Paige says softly, shifting to stand. “You’re probably right.”

Azzi busies herself with their things, not trusting herself to look at Paige again just yet. Her hands tremble slightly as she gathers the remaining supplies, her thoughts a chaotic tangle of relief and regret and something dangerously close to longing.

THE MORNING feels hopeful, almost bright, despite the heavy clouds overhead. They’re stocked on fruit, and their water supply is steady. Paige, miraculously, looks fine. She’s walking with surprising ease, considering what her body endured just last night. Her arm—while not perfect—is functional, and the exhaustion that clung to both of them like a second skin yesterday seems less oppressive today.

Azzi’s head, too, feels remarkably clear. No throbbing pain, no sharp aches to send her reeling. It’s almost enough to make her believe that they might finally catch a break.

And then the rain comes.

At first, it’s refreshing. The jungle is humid, suffocating even, and the coolness of the droplets feels like relief against Azzi’s overheated skin. But it doesn’t take long for the drizzle to evolve into a torrential downpour.

The rain is relentless. It pounds against the canopy overhead, slips through gaps in the foliage, and soaks them both to the bone within minutes. Azzi can barely see through the water streaming into her eyes, blinking furiously and swiping at her face every few seconds. Beside her, Paige does the same, muttering something under her breath that Azzi can’t hear over the sound of the rain hammering the leaves around them.

The ground beneath them turns treacherous quickly, the dirt path dissolving into thick mud. Every step is a calculated risk, and Azzi finds herself walking slower, her shoes squelching loudly with each movement. She glances over at Paige to see if she’s managing any better, but Paige looks just as miserable, if not more so.

The storm intensifies, thunder rolling through the sky in low, ominous waves. Lightning flashes briefly, illuminating their surroundings in stark, silver light. It’s unsettling, almost unnatural, and Azzi can’t help but feel a prickle of unease crawl up her spine.

It’s when Paige’s foot catches on something—a root, a rock, Azzi doesn’t know—and she goes down hard, that the tension breaks.

Paige lands with a wet, squelching sound, arms flailing uselessly as she tumbles into a thick pile of mud. Azzi freezes for a moment, startled, before the sight of Paige sprawled out on her hands and knees, covered head-to-toe in muck, sends an unexpected laugh bubbling up in her chest.

She tries to suppress it, she really does. But the combination of Paige’s indignant expression and the sheer absurdity of the situation—it’s too much. The laugh escapes before she can stop it, loud and abrupt, cutting through the sound of the rain.

Paige looks up sharply, her face a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Are you serious right now?” she exclaims, her voice rising over the storm. She’s already clawing at her arms, trying desperately to scrape off the mud, but it only seems to smear further.

Azzi bites her lip, attempting to stifle another laugh, but it’s no use. Paige just looks so utterly disgusted, her mouth twisted into a grimace as she uses the rainwater to wash herself off. The more she tries, the less successful she seems, and Azzi can’t stop herself from snorting.

“It’s not funny!” Paige snaps, though there’s no real venom in her tone. She wipes furiously at the Capitol-provided suit she wears, which is now a patchwork of soaked fabric and dark brown stains. “This is disgusting. Disgusting!”

Azzi shakes her head, wiping at her eyes again as more rain streams down her face. “It’s a little funny,” she says, though her voice is tight with the effort of holding back her laughter.

Paige glares at her, but there’s no heat behind it. The corner of her mouth twitches slightly, and Azzi knows she’s close to cracking too.

The thunder growls again, closer this time, and Azzi feels her humor wane, replaced by a thread of worry. The storm isn’t letting up—it’s only getting worse. The rain is so heavy now that she can barely see a few feet in front of her, and the paths they’ve been relying on are rapidly turning into rivers of mud.

“We need to find some kind of shelter,” Azzi says, her voice louder than she intends. Paige nods, still wiping at her arms, though her movements have slowed. The disgusted look on her face has softened, replaced by something more serious.

They trudge onward, their progress painfully slow as the rain continues to batter them from all sides. The lightning flashes more frequently now, illuminating twisted trees and thick undergrowth that seem to press closer with every step. Azzi keeps her eyes on the ground, watching for roots and rocks, hyper-aware of how easy it would be to slip and fall just like Paige did.

She tries to focus on the practicalities—the weight of the fruit in her bag, the amount of water they have left—but it’s hard to ignore the growing unease settling in her chest. The jungle feels different today, more alive, more threatening.

Another flash of lightning lights up the sky, and Azzi catches a glimpse of Paige beside her, her hair plastered to her face, her lips pressed into a thin line. Despite everything, Paige keeps moving, her steps determined even as the mud sucks at her boots.

Azzi doesn’t know how she does it. Paige should be weak, drained, barely able to stand after everything that happened last night. But somehow, she’s still going, her stubbornness as unyielding as ever.

Azzi wipes at her face again, sighing heavily as she steps over another puddle. The rain continues to hammer down in torrents, so relentless that it’s hard to distinguish the sound of thunder from the pounding water. Every step Azzi takes sinks her deeper into the mud, her feet dragging like dead weights. Beside her, Paige is muttering under her breath, her words barely audible over the roar of the storm but unmistakably irritated.

“This is—fucking—” Paige grumbles, her arms flailing as she tries to scrape off more mud. “It’s like—ugh, it’s everywhere. On my arms, in my hair—I think it’s in my mouth now.” She spits exaggeratedly, her face twisted in dramatic disgust.

Azzi can’t help but laugh again. It’s short and quiet, but in a moment like this, where everything is miserable and soaked and uncertain, Paige’s melodramatic whining is almost comforting. The blonde glares at her without any real anger.

“Glad you’re enjoying this,” Paige says, shooting her a mock-offended look as she wipes at her arms again. It doesn’t help—her hands are just as muddy as the rest of her.

Azzi shakes her head, water dripping down her face and neck. “I’m not enjoying it,” she says, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Paige just rolls her eyes, continuing to groan dramatically. Azzi snorts at her again. Leave it to Paige to care about mud when we might die out here.

The thought sobers her quickly. It’s true—if they keep going like this, they might die out here. The storm is bad. So, Azzi begins to scan their surroundings, her eyes darting through the dense jungle, searching for something—anything—that might offer them shelter. The rain is too heavy, the lightning too frequent. They need to get out of the open, and they need to do it now.

“Over there,” she says, pointing toward what looks like a hollowed-out tree, it’s wide base dark and inviting. It’s hard to tell through the rain, but it seems big enough for the two of them to crouch under.

Paige turns to look, wiping at her eyes with a muddy hand, smearing her face in the process. Azzi can’t see her expression clearly, but she hears the faint note of relief in her voice when she says, “That’s good.”

They move toward the tree, their progress slow and awkward. The mud sucks at Azzi’s shoes with every single step, and she has to fight to keep her balance. Her muscles scream in protest, but she grins her teeth and keeps going, focusing on the tree ahead. It’s closer now, just a few more steps—

And then the lightning strikes.

The world erupts in a flash of blinding white light, so close that it feels like the air itself is splitting apart. The crack of thunder follows instantly, so loud and violent that it reverberates through Azzi’s chest. She freezes, her arms instinctively flying up to protect her head as the tree they were heaving for explodes in a shower of sparks and flame.

The heat from the blast is searing, even through the rain. Azzi stumbles backward, her foot slipping in the mud. Her heart is racing, her ears ringing from the thunder. For a moment, she thinks she might fall, but then she feels a hand on her waist, steadying her.

“I got you.” Paige’s voice is close, low and reassuring. Azzi’s heart is still pounding, her breath coming in shallow gasps, but the solid weight of Paige’s hand against her side anchors her. She glances up, sees Paige’s face—mud-streaked, rain-soaked, but focused—and feels a flicker of calm.

The tree in front of them is burning, the flames licking hungrily at the wet bark. The rain hisses and steams as it clashes with the fire, but the flames don’t falter. Azzi stares at it, transfixed, her mind racing with the sudden, visceral realization of how close they came to being struck.

“Okay,” Paige says, breaking the silence. Her voice is shaky but steady enough. “Yeah, not here.”

She grabs Azzi’s hand without waiting for a response, her fingers sliding against Azzi’s in the rain. The contact is slippery and uncertain, but Paige’s grip tightens, refusing to let go. Azzi doesn’t resist. She lets Paige pull her forward, her legs moving on autopilot as her mind struggles to catch up.

They move quickly, the burning tree fading in the background as they put distance between themselves and the lightning strike. Azzi’s boots slide and stumble in the mud, but Paige’s hand remains firm, guiding her forward. She focuses on that—the feel of Paige’s hand in hers, the shared determination to keep moving, to find someplace remotely safe.

Eventually, they stumble upon a rocky overhang nestled between two massive boulders. It’s shallow but wide enough to sit under, the stone providing some relief from the relentless rain. Paige drags Azzi under it, both of them collapsing against the cold, damp rock with matching sighs of exhaustion.

Azzi leans back, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Her entire body feels heavy, weighed down by the rain and mud, but for the first time in hours, she feels a sliver of safety. The storm still raged around them, the rain pounding against the rocks, but here, under the overhang, it feels distant.

Paige is a mess. Her suit is soaked, clinging to her skin, and the mud—God, the mud—is smeared across her arms, her face, her hair. She looks beat, her shoulders slumped and her head tilted back against the rock.

Azzi glances down at herself and realizes she’s not much better. Her suit is plastered to her skin, and her legs are streaked with mud, but at least she’s not actively dripping in it like Paige.

For a moment, they sit in silence, the sound of the rain filling the space between them. Azzi closes her eyes, letting the tension drain from her body. Despite everything—the storm, the mud, the fact that she’s currently an active tribute in the Hunger Games—there’s a strange sense of peace in this small reprieve.

She feels Paige shift beside her, hears her let out a low, frustrated groan. “This sucks,” Paige mutters, her voice heavy with exasperation.

Azzi opens her eyes and glances at her, watching as Paige wipes at her face again, accomplishing nothing. A quiet laugh escapes Azzi.

Paige turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says, shaking her head. The corners of her mouth twitch upward. “You’re just… a little muddy.”

“Oh, really?” Paige huffs sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “I couldn’t tell.”

Azzi doesn’t answer. Instead, she just shakes her head again, softer this time, still smiling, and pushes herself up, crouching low under the rock. Her legs are stiff and protesting after hours of trudging through the jungle, but she forces them to cooperate.

“Wait—what’re you doing?” Paige’s hand shoots out, her fingers curling around Azzi’s wrist in an instinctive, almost panicked gesture. “Azzi—”

“Relax,” the younger girl says, waving her off. “Stay here.” She gently shakes off Paige’s grip and ducks out from under the rock before Paige can argue further.

The rain is like a wall, slamming into her with unyielding force the second she steps into it. She just grits her teeth and ignores the discomfort. There’s a cluster of broad-leafed plants just a few steps away, their thick, wavy leaves glistening with water, and Azzi makes her way toward them.

She rips two of the largest leaves from their stems, the action quick and forceful, and then hurried back to the overhang. The cold of the rain is seeping into her bones by the time she crouches back under the rock, but she doesn’t care.

Paige is staring at her with a mix of confusion and mild exasperation, her muddy face tilted slightly in question. “Seriously, what—”

“Let me help,” Azzi interrupts, cutting her off before she can spiral into another round of complaints. She sits down across from Paige, their knees almost brushing in the cramped space, and holds up one of the dripping leaves like it’s some kind of peace offering.

Paige opens her mouth as if to argue, but whatever she was about to say gets lost somewhere between her brain and her tongue. She closes her mouth again and more, her movements jerky and unsure.

Azzi leans in, taking one of Paige’s arms in her hand, and starts to work. The mud is caked into the fabric of her Capitol-issued shit, streaked and smeared from hours of trudging through the jungle. Azzi drags the leaf along Paige’s arm in slow, deliberate strokes, watching as the dirt gives way to the dark, water-resistant material.

Her movements are careful but firm, focused entirely on the task in front of her. Or at lea at, that’s what she tells herself. But she can feel Paige’s eyes on her, following every motion, and it’s impossible to ignore the weight of that gaze. It feels like a spotlight, unrelenting and all-consuming, and Azzi’s stomach twists in response.

When she moves to Paige’s abdomen, dragging the leaf over the curve of her stomach, she feels the contraction of muscle beneath her hand. The reaction is instinctual, a reflex, but it sends a jolt of awareness through Azzi all the same. Her fingers tremble slightly, and she exhaled through her nose, trying to steady herself.

Get it together, she thinks, but her heart can’t seem to listen.

The tension between them feels tangible now, a living, breathing thing that presses against Azzi from all sides. She doesn’t look at Paige—not directly. She can’t. Instead, she focuses on the mud, on the leaf, on the way her hands move as she works.

When the first leaf grows too dirty to be useful, she tosses it aside and grabs the second. This time, she starts with Paige’s neck, wiping away the dirt that’s settled there. The curve of Paige’s throat is warm under her touch, even through the rain, and Azzi’s chest tightens painfully.

Their eyes meet, just for a second, and it feels like the world stops spinning. Azzi’s breath catches, her heart stuttering in her chest, and the intensity of Paige’s gaze is almost unbearable. She looks away quickly, her face burning, and focuses on the mud again.

She moves to Paige’s face next, ghosting the leaf along her cheek and chin, brushing away the streaks of dirt that have clung to her skin. Her movements are slower now, as if she’s afraid to press too hard. The mud doesn’t come off entirely, but she gets most of it, and the sharpness of Paige’s features emerges from beneath the grime like something carved out of stone.

When she’s done, Azzi tosses the second leaf away and leans back slightly.

The silence between them is deafening.

They’re so close now, their knees touching, their breaths mingling in the damp air. Azzi’s heart is racing, pounding against her ribs like it’s trying to escape, and she’s sure Paige can hear it. This moment feels like the one from this morning, after Paige hugged her. Azzi doesn’t move, doesn’t dare look up.

That is, until Paige shifts.

The air between them tightens, and before Azzi can think, before she can process, Paige leans in.

The kiss is soft, a tentative press of lips that feels more like a question than an answer. Paige’s mouth is warm against hers, and Azzi’s mind is screaming at her that this is reckless, dangerous, stupid, but it doesn’t feel like any of that. It feels…relieving, like the first deep breath after holding herself underwater for too long.

Paige pulls back slightly, her lips still hovering close enough that their breaths mingle. Azzi’s eyes flutter open, and she blurts the first thing that comes to her mind. “This is dumb.”

Paige’s hand comes up to the back of her neck, her flinders sliding against damp skin. Her voice is low and steady when she replies, “Yeah.”

Azzi exhales sharply, her chest aching with the weight of her own reckless feelings. “We’re so stupid.”

Paige’s gaze flicker to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Completely.”

The words hang between them, fragile and dangerous, and Azzi feels like she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. She’s acutely aware of everything—the rain, the heat of Paige’s hand on her neck, the rapid thrum of her own heartbeat—and it’s overwhelming.

But then Paige says, “But we’re here,” and everything shifts.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, simple but profound. They’re here. Here. In the middle of the Hunger Games, in the middle of every kid’s nightmare, in the middle of something that shouldn’t exist but does. They’re competitors, but also allies, the only two people that have each other’s backs here even if that sentiment is precarious and might not last much longer. Azzi likes Paige, and Paige likes Azzi, and both of them are far closer to death than survival—that’s just the odds. And, yes, Azzi knows that this might all end up in flames and they may have to kill each other in the end—but Paige is right. They’re here.

And maybe that’s enough.

The kiss that follows is different. It’s deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that feels like diving headfirst into something you know will destroy you. Azzi’s hands find Paige’s shoulders, clutching at the fabric of her suit like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth, and Paige pulls her closer, her fingers tightening against Azzi’s neck.

For a moment, the rest of the world disappears. There’s no rain, no arena, no Capitol, no audience watching their every move. There’s just this—this moment, this connection, this fleeting, fragile thing that feels like both a beginning and an end.

THE GAMES wear on, and they don’t talk about it. Azzi tells herself it’s for the best. They’re still here, after all, still breathing, still surviving. A kiss isn’t supposed to matter when everything around them screams of death. It’s a distraction, a risk, a mistake. Even so, it’s hard to forget, and even harder not to do it again.

Paige doesn’t change. She’s still sharp-witted and too bold for her own good, cracking jokes in moments that should be far too tense for humor. She makes Azzi’s head spin sometimes, flipping from cocky grins to quiet, almost tender observations without warning. She pokes fun at Azzi’s serious nature, but it’s never mean-spirited. Somehow, it’s endearing. Azzi’s started noticing the way Paige’s lips twitch into a half-smile before she delivers one of her little quips. She notices a lot about Paige now, and that realization is almost as dangerous as the kiss itself.

Their relationship shifts, subtly. It’s in the way Paige seems to lean closer when they’re hidden away in the dark, their shoulders and sides pressing together. It’s in the way Azzi doesn’t pull away, even when her brain screams at her to keep her distance. They’re touchier, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not. When Paige’s fingers graze hers during the rare moments of silence, Azzi doesn’t flinch. And late at night, when Paigemd breathing evens out into the soft rhythm of sleep, Azzi sometimes catches herself wondering what it would be like to kiss her again.

But she doesn’t.

She won’t.

Because this isn’t a life where things like that make sense.

Sometimes, she lets herself imagine, though. Not often, but enough. In another world, they’re teammates, not tributes. Maybe they’re playing for some great basketball dynasty, Paige with her impossible confidence and Azzi with her perfect precision. Maybe they’d have a future, not this fragile thing that feels ready to shatter under the weight of the Capitol’s gaze and the threat of the other tributes. Maybe they’d have moments that aren’t stolen, conversations that don’t feel like whispers against the roar of inevitable death.

But they aren’t in that world. They’re here, in a nightmare where every breath is borrowed time, and any dream of a life beyond this arena feels laughable.

So, Azzi doesn’t let herself dwell. She focuses on survival—on the sharp edge of reality that keeps them moving, keeps them alive.

They’re good at it, too. A formidable pair. Azzi’s calm, calculated strategies balance Paige’s impulsive, quick-thinking instincts. Together, they’ve avoided the larger, deadlier alliances. They stay on the move, never lingering in one place for too long. Besides quick glimpses, they haven’t seen any of the other tributes since the boy from Eleven nearly ended them both. It’s odd, and the arena has begun to feel emptier, quieter, but not in a way that offers peace. It’s the calm before the storm, and Azzi knows it. Every night, the anthem plays, the sky lighting up with the faces of the dead. Every night, the number of tributes dwindles.

There are only a handful left now. Most of them are the ones everyone feared from the start—the stronger, deadlier tributes. The Careers from One and Two who have trained their entire lives for this. Other than them, Paige, and Azzi, there’s a couple other straggles, but not many.

The odds aren’t in their favor.

Paige doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe she’s just better at pretending.

One night, it was calm—not too hot, not too cold, no rain, no storms, no tributes. Just them, staring up through the foliage at the stars. Paige’s voice had cut through the silence, asking, “D’you think there’s any point in dreaming about it?”

Azzi’d glanced at her, frowning. “Dreaming about what?”

“You know.” Paige gestured vaguely, her fingers twitching like she’d wanted to grab something she couldn’t reach. “The after. If there even is one.”

Azzi hadn’t answered right away. She didn’t know how. The idea of an “after” felt—and still feels—laughable, like trying to picture sunlight while drowning in darkness. But Paige’s eyes were on her, waiting, and Azzi felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing.

“I don’t know,” she’d said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I try not to think about it.”

Paige had hummed softly, tilting her head. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Azzi’s frown deepened. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” Paige shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Just… you’re the smart one. Uh, like, practical. Always thinkin’ about what’s right in front of us. Makes sense you wouldn’t waste time on something as stupid as hope.”

The words had stung, even though Azzi knew Paige didn’t mean them that way.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” she’d responded almost hesitantly. “Hope, I mean. I just—” She paused, glancing away. “I don’t think it helps. Not here.”

Paige didn’t respond right away. And when Azzi looked back, Paige was watching her, something soft and unreadable in her expression.

“Maybe not,” Paige said eventually, her voice low. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

The words sat heavy between them then, and they sit heavy within Azzi now as the sun beats down on her relentlessly, a furnace of heat filtering through the thick canopy of trees. The air is humid, suffocating, and Azzi can feel sweat trickling down her back, soaking into the fabric of her suit.

Paige is ahead of her, as always, sword in hand, cutting through the undergrowth with steady, practiced swipes. Azzi doesn’t know how Paige does it—keeps going like she’s made of something indestructible, some alloy that doesn’t bend under pressure. But then Paige glances back over her shoulder, her lips quirking in that half-smile that’s almost a smirk, and Azzi remembers: she’s just as scared as she is. Paige is just better at hiding it.

“Still with me, princess?” Paige calls, her voice light and teasing as she says that nickname that Azzi pretends to hate but secretly doesn’t mind.

Azzi doesn’t answer, just raises an eyebrow and gives the blonde a look that says keep going. She’s already tired, so she’s saving her energy for walking, for survival, because the more she thinks about it, the more she’s realizing that every step could be her last.

That’s when it happens.

A scream, distant but piercing, rips through the jungle. It echoes through the trees, sharp and desperate, before cutting off abruptly. Azzi freezes, her heart slamming into her ribcage, and she sees Paige go still, her grip tightening on her sword.

And then, Azzi hears it.

A low rumble, like the growl of some monstrous creature. It grows louder, swelling into a deafening roar that shakes the ground beneath their feet.

“Azzi,” Paige says, her voice tight.

Azzi turns, and her stomach drops.

Water. A wall of it, surging through the jungle like a living thing, uprooting trees and swallowing everything in its path.

“Run,” Paige breathes, and then they’re moving.

Azzi’s legs scream in protest, but adrenaline pushes her forward. She can hear the flood gaining on them, a relentless, crashing tide. Her feet slip on the muddy ground, and she nearly falls, but Paige grabs her arm, yanking her upright.

“Faster!” Paige shouts, and Azzi doesn’t waste breath responding. She pumps her legs harder, her lungs burning, her vision narrowing to the path ahead.

The water is impossibly fast. Even so, for a moment, Azzi thinks they might actually have a chance to outrun it. But then she hears the sharp crack of a tree snapping right behind them and knows it’s too late.

The flood hits them like a battering ram.

Azzi is thrown forward, the force of the water slamming into her back and knocking the air from her lungs. She tumbles, weightless and disoriented, the world spinning in a blur of green and brown and white. Her mouth fills with water, and she chokes, coughing and sputtering as she’s dragged under.

She thrashes, clawing at the water, trying to find the surface, but the current is too strong. It pulls her deeper, twisting her around until she doesn’t know which way is up. Her lungs scream for air, her chest tightening, and panic claws at her throat.

Paige.

She forces her eyes open, the sting of the salt water blurring her vision. She can barely see? but she reaches out blinding, her fingers scrabbling for anything, anyone.

Nothing.

Azzi’s chest feels like it’s about to burst, and she kicks harder, fighting against the current. Her head breaks the surface for a split second, and she gasps, sucking in precious air before she’s pulled under again.

She doesn’t know how long she’s in the water. It could be an hour, it could be twenty seconds. Every bit of it is a battle to stay afloat, to keep breathing. Her arms ache, her lungs burn, and she’s starting to lose strength.

And then, suddenly, the current slows.

Azzi’s head breaks the surface again, and this time she manages to stay up. She coughs violently, spitting out water, and blinks the sting from her eyes. She’s in a wide expanse of still water now, the flood having pushed her into what looks like the shallow bay area near the Cornucopia.

For a moment, all she can do is float there, gasping for air, her body trembling with exhaustion.

Then she feels it: hands, grabbing at her.

She flinched, her instincts screaming to fight, but then she hears it—a breathless, desperate gasp.

“Az.”

Relief floods through Azzi, so overwhelming it’s almost painful. She turns, and there she is—Paige, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes wide and frantic.

Azzi doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Paige’s arm, and together they start swimming, their strokes uneven and shaky but determined. The water is shallow enough now that they can touch the bottom, and they half-swim, half-stumble their way to the edge.

They collapse onto the sand, their bodies tangling together as they sprawl out, too exhausted to care about anything but the fact that they’re alive.

Azzi’s face ends up pressed against Paige’s chest, her lips brushing against her collarbone. Paige’s arm is draped across Azzi’s back, her fingers digging into Azzi’s shoulder as if she’s afraid to let go.

For a moment, neither of them moves. They just lie there, gasping for breath, their bodies trembling from the adrenaline and the cold. Azzi can feel Paige’s breath against her forehead, her lips ghosting over her skin.

It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.

Eventually, Azzi pushes herself up, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. She sits back on her heels, dragging Paige up with her, and they both sit there for a minute, staring at each other, eyes tracking their faces, because they almost just died.

Then, Azzi’s eyes catch on something in the water.

A body.

It’s floating face-down, the lifeless form a girl with dark hair fanned out around her head like seaweed. Azzi recognizes her—the girl from District Five.

Her stomach churns, and she realizes she must have missed the cannon while she was underwater.

“Jesus,” Paige mutters hollowly.

They stare at the body for a second longer, the weight of it pressing down on them. It could have been them. It almost was.

Paige shakes Azzi’s shoulder suddenly, snapping her out of her daze. She gestures across the water, her eyes narrowing.

Azzi follows her gaze and sees them—four figures moving along the shore. The tributes from One and Two—the Careers.

Azzi’s heart sinks. They’re too good, too strong. Azzi and Paige might be fighters, but they can’t take four-on-two, not against tributes who’ve spent their whole lives training for this.

“They haven’t seen us yet,” Paige whispers urgently.

Azzi nods, her mind already racing. Her bag is floating a few feet away, and she grabs it, pulling it toward her. She slings it over her shoulder, her movements quick but careful.

Paige holds out her hand, and Azzi takes it without hesitation.

They run.

Azzi’s legs scream in protest, her lungs burn, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look back. The Careers might not have seen them yet, but they will soon, and Azzi knows they won’t get another chance to escape.

The jungle swallows them, the dense undergrowth closing in around them like a shield. They don’t stop running until they’re sure they’re far enough away.

When they finally collapse against a tree, Azzi’s legs give out beneath her. She slides to the ground, her chest heaving, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear.

Paige sinks down beside her, her head falling back against the tree trunk. She doesn’t let go of Azzi’s hand—in fact, her grip tightens.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

But Azzi can see it in Paige’s eyes—the same realization that’s clawing at her chest.

Their time is running out.

THE TWO DAYS since the flood have been maddeningly quiet, the kind of stillness that creeps under Azzi’s skin and refuses to leave. The arena is suffocating in its silence, the oppressive heat of the jungle seeping into her bones. She and Paige have walked the same endless stretches of sand, weaving between trees with the cautious precision of prey unwilling to draw a predator’s gaze. Seven of them are left now. The endgame is close enough to taste, and Azzi knows their strategy of running and hiding won’t be enough anymore. Not with the two pairs of Careers prowling.

The boy from Ten doesn’t concern her much. He’s a shadow, a rumor that exists only when the cannon fired for someone else. No, it’s the Careers that are the problem—their brute strength, their careful hoarded Capitol supplies stacked neatly at the Cornucopia, their unwavering confidence that they’ll outlast everyone else simply because they always do. Azzi and Paige have talked endlessly about it since they were nearly flooded right into them.

Azzi doesn’t want to kill. She knows she can, knows she’s capable. She’s done it before—once, the boy from Eleven. Every time she thinks of it, it makes her sick. The sound of the dagger slicing through the air, the way it dug right into his neck, the sharp taste of bile in her throat afterward. She doesn’t want to do it again.

Paige had argued the opposite, suggesting that if they just separated them, they could easily take them out and be done with them like that.

But Azzi had shaken her head, throat tightening at the thought. “They’ve got good. Water. Supplies,” she’d listed. “Take that away, and they’ll destroy themselves.”

It had taken hours to agree on the plan, both of them stubborn in their positions. It had only settled when the parachute came—a gift from the sponsors, with a sleek, silver explosive device tucked inside. The Capitol, it seemed, wanted a show. And, as much as Azzi hates being part of their entertainment, she can’t deny the relief she’d felt when she realized they wouldn’t have to improvise. Destroying the Careers’ supplies is the cleanest option, even if it means risking everything to pull it off.

The plan itself is simple in theory, far more dangerous in execution. Paige is the distraction, something Azzi hates the moment it was suggested. They’d fought tooth and nail about it, neither of them wanting the other to be the bait. But Paige was resolute, and she eventually won. She usually does.

Azzi knows Paige isn’t stupid—reckless, yes, but not stupid. But that doesn’t stop the knot of anxiety from tightening in her chest as they crouch in the jungle now, hidden by the thick underbrush that separates the sand from the Cornucopia. She can hear the Careers talking in the distance, their voices low and confident. It’s almost mocking, the way they laugh like this is nothing more than a game to them.

Azzi forces herself to focus on the task at hand. She’s got the explosive device in a pouch at her side, her daggers strapped to her thighs, and an ache in her chest she can’t shake. If this works, if they destroy their supplies and the Careers are weakened enough to fall… what then? Azzi knows exactly what then. It’ll be her and Paige, and the boy from Ten if he’s still hiding out there.

She promised her family she’d come home. Jon and Jose had cling to her when she left, their eyes wide with fear she couldn’t soothe. And her parents looked at her with so much hope. She had promised to try to win, to try to survive, to try to do everything she could to return to them. But that promise feels like a weight crushing her now because surviving means watching Paige die. Or worse—doing it herself.

She can’t think about that now. Not when Paige is standing in front of her, close enough that Azzi can feel the heat radiating from her skin. Paige grips her sword tightly, her jaw set with determination.

“Please be careful,” Azzi says, her voice quieter than she means it to be.

Paige nods once. “I will.”

That’s not good enough, though. So, Azzi grabs her arm, forcing her to meet her gaze. “No, Paige,” she says firmly. “I’m serious. Please, be careful. Promise me you won’t do some stupid reckless shit.”

Paige’s eyes soften just enough to make Azzi’s stomach twist. She takes a long moment before nodding again, slower this time. “Okay,” she says gently, sincerely. “I promise.”

Azzi nods, exhaling a shaky breath. She feels Paige’s fingers brush against hers briefly, a fleeting moment of contact that lingers like a ghost. “You be careful too,” Paige murmurs.

“I will,” Azzi replies, sounding steadier than she feels.

Paige takes a small step back, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then, Paige straightens, the sharpness returning to her expression as she says, “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

Azzi doesn’t respond, her throat too tight to form words. She watches as Paige turns and bolts away, her blonde ponytail the last of her that Azzi sees before her form disappears completely into the dense jungle. Azzi’s chest tightens as she stands there, still, her eyes fixed on the spot where Paige vanished.

She doesn’t let herself dwell on the what-ifs. She doesn’t think about what could go wrong or the countless ways this plan could end in disaster. She just hopes—prays, even—that this isn’t the last time she’ll see Paige.

She takes a deep breath, and then locks in, though there’s not much to lock in on yet. Because she has to wait. The Careers need to be far enough away, taking Paige’s bait. If they’re not, this entire plan is dead on arrival—and possibly Azzi along with it.

She tells herself to breathe, but each inhale feels razor-sharp. Her mind flickers to Paige, somewhere out there, leading the Careers away. Azzi can’t see her, and she doesn’t dare imagine what might happen if Paige doesn’t pull it off. She pushes the thought down, locks it away. Focus.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she decides it time. The clearing appears empty; the only sound of the faint rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. Azzi steps out onto the sand, her shoes sinking slightly into the grainy surface. She moves quickly, but each step feels painfully exposed, the weight of the jungle at her back like a thousand watching eyes.

The supplies are piled high against the Cornucopia’s base: food, water, medical kits, weapons. The lifeline of the Careers. Azzi’s heart races as she pulls the small explosive device out of its pouch. Her fingers tremble slightly as she sets the timer, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She gives herself a good thirty seconds—enough time to get back into the cover of the trees. Her heart is a drumbeat of panic as she activates the device, the red light blinking like a countdown to chaos—which, it is.

She throws the explosive right into the pile and doesn’t wait around to watch it roll. Instead, she bolts, sprinting back toward the foliage. The sand shifts beneath her feet, slowing her down, but she reaches the edge of the jungle just as the timer hits zero.

The explosion is deafening, a fiery burst of destruction that lights up the clearing like a second sun. Azzi clamps her hands over her ears, the shockwave rattling her skull even through her precautions. The Cornucopia groans as part of its structure collapses, supplies reduced to flaming shrapnel and smoke. The air reeks of burning plastic and charred food.

Azzi crouches low, her chest heaving as she stares at the destruction she’s caused. Relief floods her for half a second until—

“No!” the word rips from behind Azzi, the voice of a boy. She spins around, and, sure enough, the boy from One is there, eyes flashing with anger and disbelief as his gaze shifts between Azzi and the destroyed supplies. He’s holding a spear, and it glints in the light of the sun and the flames. “You fucking bitch—”

And then he’s striking, lunging forward with the spear aimed at Azzi’s midsection. She twists her torso just in time, the blade grazing her side but leaving her untouched. She counters immediately, grabbing one of the daggers strapped to her thigh and slashing toward his exposed forearm. Her blade catches skin, opening a thin gash.

He grunts, and Azzi doesn’t wait for him to recover. She lunged, aiming a dagger at his ribs, but he anticipates the move and sidesteps. His elbow catches her temple as he pivots, a glancing blow that sends her stumbling back.

“That all you got?” he asks, his tone mocking but full of clear and raw anger.

Azzi ignores the sting in her head, forcing her focus back to the fight. He’s strong, she knows that. But she’s strong too, muscle built up from years of basketball and working in Nine. So, she moves fast, feinting left before striking right, her blade carving a shallow cut across his bicep.

His face hardens. He doesn’t respond this time, just swings the spear in a brutal arc aimed at her legs. Azzi leaps back, but the tip catches her thigh, ripping through fabric and skin. She hisses at the sharp pain but doesn’t slow down, tossing a dagger aimed at his chest.

He moves out of the way just in time for it to not be deadly, but it still slices his shoulder, blood staining his suit. And then she’s driving forward with her other knife. He blocks this blade with the shaft of his spear, the clang of metal reverberating in her ears.

He swings the spear again, aiming lower this time, a precise jab at her legs. Azzi shifts to dodge, but her injured thigh slows her down just enough. His foot catches her left knee with brutal force, a perfect strike to the vulnerable joint.

The pain is instantaneous, sharp and sickening. She feels a pop and a snap, the joint or muscle or something twisting in a way that shouldn’t be possible. She crumples to the ground with a sharp scream, clutching at her knee as waves of agony shoot up her leg.

She sucks in shallow, panicked breaths, her hands shaking as she grips her knee. It’s wrong, all wrong. It feels loose and tight at the same time, everything out of place. Her vision blurs with tears, but she forces herself to look up.

He’s standing over her now, the tip of the spear pointed at her throat. “Weak little bitch,” he spits. Clearly, he’s taken the supplies thing personal.

Azzi’s mind races, desperation clawing at her. She fumbles for one of her daggers, but her fingers feel clumsy, the pain overwhelming her focus.

“Fucking pathetic,” he continues, pressing the spear closer to her neck. “I almost feel bad for you.”

The sound of her own heartbeat fills her ears, drowning him out. She tightens her grip on the dagger in her hand, her fingers slick with sweat and blood.

With a burst of adrenaline, she twists her body, throwing her weight to the side and slashing upward with the blade. The dagger slices into his side, deep enough to stagger him.

“Damnit!” he shouts, stumbling back.

Azzi forced herself up, her injured knee screaming in protest. It feels like it could give out at any moment, but she doesn’t care. She can’t care. She lunges again, aiming for his chest once more.

He recovers quickly, batting the blade away. His other hand slams into her shoulder, sending her sprawling onto her back.

He doesn’t hesitate, taking the opportunity. He’s on her in an instant, pinning her to the ground with the weight of his body. Azzi struggles, her daggers slipping from her grasp as his hand clamps around her throat. His face hovers inches above here, his breath hot and ragged.

She can feel the spear’s tip pressing against her ribs, and panic claws at her chest. This is it. This is how she dies.

But something ignites within her—a desperate, furious refusal to give up. Because she can’t give up. She made a promise she’s not about to break. Her fingers grope blindly, finding the hilt of one of her knives. With a surge of strength she didn’t know she had left, Azzi drives the blade upward, burying it in his neck.

The boy jerks, his eyes widening with shock and horror. Blood erupts from the wound, hot and sticky, sprawling across Azzi’s face, her neck, her suit. He gurgles, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as the life drains from him.

A cannon rumbles through the arena as his body goes slack above her. She shoves him off with a pained grunt, rolling onto her side as her chest heaves. Her knee pulses with pain, her skin slick with his blood, and her ears ring faintly, but she’s alive. Somehow, she’s alive.

She lies there for what feels like forever, her chest heaving as she stares up at the sky. She can feel his blood drying already, itching against her neck and face and collarbone. The boy’s body is a dark, crumpled heap a few feet away, his lifeless eyes still open.

She forced herself to look away.

She can’t stay here. She knows that. The others will have heard the cannon. They’ll come looking.

With a grown, she pushes herself onto her elbows, her knee screaming in protest. The pain shoots up her leg and settles in her hip, making her vision swim for a moment. She grits her teeth, swallowing the cry that threatens to spill out. She can’t afford to be weak now, no matter how much her body is begging her to lie back down and give in.

Her hands tremble as she grips the ground, dragging herself upright. Her left leg barely bolds her weight, and she nearly topples back down. But she steadies herself, forcing her injured leg to bear just enough to limp.

The jungle calls to her, offering safety in its shadows. She just has to get further in. She can think about her knee later.

She’s only managed a few steps when she hears it: rustling. The sound is faint at first, like the wind moving through the trees. But it grows louder—faster—until it’s unmistakable. Footsteps. Someone is running.

Azzi freezes, panic gripping her chest like a vice. She doesn’t have it in her to fight again—not now, not so soon. Her hand flies to the hilt of her knife, tightening around it as she turns toward the sound. Her breath catches.

Of course, with her luck, it has to be another one.

She steels herself, setting her stance as best she can despite the throbbing pain in her leg. Her teeth grind together, and her muscles coil tight, ready to spring. She’ll die here if she has to, but she’ll take someone with her.

Then she hears it: “Azzi!”

The voice cuts through the jungle, desperate and raw. Her grip on the dagger falters for just a moment as the sound registers. She knows that voice.

Before she can fully process what’s happening, Paige crashes into view.

She looks wild, disheveled—her little braids and ponytail half-undone, her face pale beneath streaks of dirt. Her chest heaves as if she’s run miles, and her eyes dart frantically before landing on Azzi.

Everything in Paige seems to shift. The terror in her expression melts into something else—relief, disbelief, and something deeper Azzi can’t name. Paige’s lips part as if to speak, but instead, she staggers forward, her voice breaking as she says, “Oh my God.”

And then she’s running.

Azzi barely has time to react before Paige is on her, arms wrapping around her so tightly that Azzi can’t breathe. She feels Paige’s hands clutching at her back, her shoulders, her hair—like she’s trying to hold all of Azzi at once.

Azzi’s dagger clatters to the ground as she sinks into the embrace, too stunned to do anything else. It hits her then—the sobs shaking Paige’s body, the wet warmth of her tears against Azzi’s neck. Azzi realizes, distantly, that she’s crying, too.

Paige pulls back just enough to cup Azzi’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing blood and tears away from Azzi’s cheeks. Her eyes burn blue with something so real, so raw, that it slices through Azzi like a knife.

“I—oh my God,” Paige stammers, her voice trembling, her words stumbling. “I—I saw the explosion, and I was so happy. And then—fuck—I heard you scream. And then the fucking cannon went off, and I thought—” She cuts herself off with a choked sob, shaking her hand as her hands tighten on Azzi’s cheeks. “I thought one of them killed you. I thought—I thought I lost you, Az.”

Azzi swallows hard, her throat thick with emotion. “I’m okay,” she says, her voice slow and soft, as if she’s not only trying to convince Paige, but also herself. “I’m okay.”

Paige stares at her like she doesn’t quite believe it. Then, suddenly, she pulls Azzi in again, her hands still framing Azzi’s face as she presses their lips together.

The kiss is nothing like their first. It’s desperate, messy, full of too many emotions for Azzi to untangle. She can taste the salt of their tears and the metallic tang of blood—hers, his, she doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.

For a moment, all of the danger, the pain, the fear—it all disappears. Here, in Paige’s arms, Azzi feels something she hasn’t felt since the Games began: safe.

It’s stupid—so stupid. They’re in the middle of a killing field, and only a few people stand between them and having to kill each other. But Azzi can’t bring herself to care. She kisses Paige back just as hard, pouring everything she has left into it.

When Paige finally pulls away, her hands move to wipe at the blood smeared across Azzi’s face. “God, Az,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Where’s all this blood from?”

Azzi sighs, nodding toward the boy’s body a few feet away. Paige’s eyes follow her gaze, and her expression hardens for a moment. Then, she looks back at Azzi, her tone firm, almost protective. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

The question snaps Azzi’s brain back to the sharp, searing pain in her knee. She grimaces, glancing down at it. “My knee,” she says. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s bad.”

Paige glances down before kneeling slowly. Her hands ghost over Azzi’s leg as she inspects it carefully. The fabric of her suit is a little torn, but there’s nothing visibly wrong with Azzi’s knee. Paige nods as she stands back up, her expression steady despite the worry in her eyes. “Okay,” she says. “We can handle that. It’s okay.”

Before Azzi can respond, a cannon fires in the distance.

The sound tears through the air, sharp and defeating, and both of them jump. Azzi stiffens instinctively, her hand twitching toward her dagger before remembering it’s on the ground. Her pulse races, the adrenaline kicking back in despite her exhaustion.

“Who—?” Azzi asks, her voice tight.

Paige exhales shakily, her shoulders slumping. She doesn’t look surprised. “It’s probably the girl from One,” she says quietly, glancing toward the trees as if expecting someone to burst through them. “We were fighting.”

Azzi blinks, confused. “You didn’t—”

“No,” Paige cuts in, the words thick. “I didn’t finish her. I couldn’t.” She hesitates, pushing a loose blonde hair that’s escaped one of her braids out of her face. “I heard you scream, and—I left her. She was bleeding out already, and I just… I had to find you.”

Azzi stares at Paige, her chest tightening painfully. There’s so much weight in those words, in the way Paige’s voice cracks ever so slightly at the end.

“You left her,” Azzi repeats, slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige more, her eyes meeting Azzi’s with a raw, unflinching honesty. “Yeah,” she says. “I left her.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The jungle around them seems to press closer, the silence thick and oppressive. Azzi’s mind races, trying to process what Paige has just admitted. It’s reckless—so reckless—but also…

God, Azzi doesn’t even want to finish the thought.

“Paige,” she starts, but the words catch in her throat.

Paige shakes her head quickly, cutting her off. “Don’t,” she says sharply but not unkind. “Don’t say it, Azzi. I know. I know it was stupid. I just—I couldn’t. Not when I thought you—” She falters before looking away, her jaw clenching.

Azzi swallows hard, her hands twitching at her sides. There’s so much she wants to say but doesn’t know how. Instead, she leans closer, her forehead resting tentatively against Paige’s.

“‘M here,” she says softly but steady. “I’m here, and I’m okay. And so are you. We can figure out the rest later.”

Paige closes her eyes, letting out a shaky breath before nodding.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Okay.”

But even as she says it, Azzi can see the weight Paige is carrying—the guilt, the fear, the overwhelming relief. And she knows that no matter what they tell themselves, things will only get much harder from here.

EVERY STEP feels like a dagger twisting into Azzi’s knee. Her weight shifts onto Paige more than she’d like, and though Paige doesn’t complain—not once—Azzi feels the guilt pooling in her chest with every labored step. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her body screaming at her to stop, to sit, to just give up. But Paige is steady beside her, one arm looped tightly around Azzi’s waist, murmuring, “You’re doin’ good. Just a little further, Az.”

Azzi wants to believe her, but each step feels like she’s dragging herself closer to fucking collapse. She’s not sure if Paige’s words are meant for her or Paige herself, and the thought makes her stomach twist.

When the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of purples and oranges, Paige stops them. “We can rest here,” she says, and Azzi doesn’t argue. She sinks to the ground with a quiet groan, letting her back rest against the rough bark of a massive tree.

They settle under a canopy of vines, a natural curtain that offers some semblance of cover. Paige drops down beside her, leaning back against the tree with a sigh. Azzi shifts, resting her head on Paige’s shoulder, too exhausted to fight the impulse. She half-expects Paige to pull away, but instead, Paige’s fingers find their way to her hair, gently tracing one of her braids. The motion is soft, almost absentminded, but it sends a strange comfort through Azzi.

They’ve stopped pretending. There’s no point anymore, no space left for lies or walks. Not when the whole world is pressing down on them, when every breath feels borrowed.

Azzi closes her eyes briefly, trying to will away the relentless throbbing in her knee. When she shifts closer to Paige, her knee protests, but Paige doesn’t move—doesn’t complain. She just wraps an arm around Azzi and holds her tighter. It’s selfish, Azzi thinks, to let herself take this comfort when she knows what’s waiting for them at the end of all this. But she’s too tired to pull away.

The moment is interrupted by a faint sound above them. Azzi’s eyes snap open, and she follows Paige’s gaze skyward. A parachute, small and shimmering in the fading light, drifts toward them.

“Thank God,” Paige breathes, sitting up straighter. She reaches for it as it lands gently in the dirt beside them, her hands fumbling with it’s the clasp before opening it.

Azzi leans closer as Paige pulls out a neatly wrapped piece of fabric, some sort of compression wrap meant for her knee. Relief washes over her, but it’s short-lived as Paige pulls out a slip of paper and hands it to her.

Azzi reads it silently, the words sinking in:

Not much longer now. Please take care of yourself. Hang in there, kid. —Cyrus

The word yourself is bolded for emphasis, and Azzi knows exactly what her mentor is trying to say. It’s a warning, a plea. He’s telling her to focus on her own survival, to stop letting caring about Paige’s.

Azzi swallows hard, crumpling the note in her hand. She knows Cyrus is right, knows that every second she spends leaning on Paige, letting Paige patch her up or fight her battles, is another second she’s getting closer to losing everything. But she just doesn’t know how to stop.

“Good guy, your mentor,” Paige says softly, breaking the silence. She gestures for Azzi to stretch her leg out. “Let’s get this on your knee, yeah?”

Azzi nods, not trusting herself to speak. She bites the inside of her cheek as Paige works, her hands careful but firm as she wraps the fabric around Azzi’s swollen knee. Every touch sends a jolt of pain through her, but she doesn’t flinch. Paige’s brow furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“This’ll help,” Paige tells her, her voice low and sure. She ties off the wrap with a small, satisfied nod. “It will. Just don’t push it too much, aight?”

Azzi exhales, leaning back against the tree again. “Yeah,” she murmurs.

Paige leans back, too, her movements slow and careful, as though every second spent near Azzi is precious. Azzi watches her through heavy-lidded eyes, the pain in her knee dulling slowly. Paige settles beside her, tucking Azzi close under her arm like she’s trying to shield her from the rest of the arena.

Boom.

Another cannon.

The sound splits through the silence like a gunshot, making Azzi’s whole body tense. She squeezes her eyes shut, her breath catching in her throat. Fuck.

Beside her, Paige lets out a sharp exhale. It’s not fear exactly, but something close to it. Something raw and pained. Before Azzi can even begin to process it, Paige pulls her tighter, her grip firm and almost desperate, as if she’s afraid Azzi might slip away from her—might decide to get up and leave (as if Azzi even could). Paige’s voice is low and taut when she murmurs, “Final four.”

Azzi’s head aches. She doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to consider what it means for them. For Paige. For her. But she knows Paige is right. They’re down to four.

They sit in silence, the weight of the cannon settling between them like a third presence. And then, as if the arena itself is mocking them, the anthem begins to play.

The two of them glance skyward, the shifting lights reflecting in their tired eyes. The faces of the fallen appear one by one, each accompanied by a grim silence. Today was a long day, clearly.

The boy from One flashes first, obviously. It makes Azzi’s chest burn a little, knowing she’s the reason he’s in the sky now.

Then, the girl from One—just as Paige suspected. Azzi spares a glance at Paige, who doesn’t flinch. Her expression is unreadable.

Finally, the last face: the boy from Ten. He’s the most recent, the cannon they just heard.

When the anthem ends, the night seems quieter than before. Oppressive. Azzi leans back against Paige’s chest, her weight sagging into her like she’s trying to press all of her fear into Paige’s body, hoping Paige can somehow bear it for her.

“That leaves us and the pair from Two,” Azzi says quietly. And then, after a beat, she adds, “They’re gonna work together.”

Paige nods, jaw set. “So are we.”

Azzi doesn’t reply, because what’s the point? She knows Paige means it, knows Paige will fight tooth and nail for her. But the sinking reality of their situation presses against Azzi’s chest like a vice.

They stay like that for a while, not speaking, just existing in the fragile quiet. Paige’s fingers brush over Azzi’s hair again, gentle and rhythmic, and Azzi lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s so soft, Azzi thinks, so careful with her. It feels cruel to indulge in this, but she can’t help it.

And then Paige starts talking, unable to keep the thoughts in her head, the words spilling from her like a dam breaking. “We’re gonna figure somethin’ out,” she says, her voice laced with a frantic kind of hope. “We’re gonna do it. ‘Cause you can’t die. And I can’t die. We gotta live. Together. So—y’know, maybe they can bend the rules or something. The Capitol and the sponsors love us. We’d give great publicity if we both won. Two victors. Some kinda Romeo and Juliet shit. It could work.”

Azzi’s chest burns at the desperation in Paige’s voice. She knows it won’t happen—knows it can’t happen. The Games don’t work like that. The Capitol doesn’t bend rules. But she doesn’t have the heart to tell Paige that. Not when she’s clinging so tightly to this fragile thread of hope.

So, Azzi stays quiet, letting Paige’s words hang in the air like a lifeline she can’t bring herself to grab. Instead, she tilts her head to, her eyes meeting Paige’s—brown on blue. The moonlight filters through the vines, illuminating Paige’s face in soft silver hues. She looks beautiful.

And then, without thinking—without over analyzing it the way she does everything else—Azzi leans in and kisses her.

It’s slow at first, tentative, as though Azzi’s afraid Paige might pull away. But Paige would never, and when she doesn’t, when her lips press back against Azzi’s with a tenderness that feels like it might shatter her, Azzi deepens the kiss.

She lets herself get lost in it, pouring everything she can’t say into the way her lips move against Paige’s. It’s not just a kiss—it’s an acknowledgment of all the things they’ve been too afraid to say aloud. It’s a promise, fragile and fleeting.

Paige’s hands come up to cradle Azzi’s face, her fingers brushing along her jawline and sending shivers down Azzi’s spine. She tastes like the berries they’d shared earlier, like desperation and warmth and something that—if they were absolutely anywhere else—Azzi might call home.

Azzi’s hands find their way to Paige’s shoulders, then her hair, tangling in the soft blonde strands as she pulls her closer, like she’s trying to memorize the feeling of her.

Because she knows this can’t last. She knows this moment is borrowed, that the Games will rip it away from them sooner rather than later.

But for now—for just this one perfect, terrible moment—Azzi lets herself believe in the impossible.

THE MORNING dawns heavy and gray, the air thick with an electric tension that seems to press against Azzi’s chest. She sits propped against the base of the tree she and Paige slept on, absently adjusting the wrap on her knee as Paige moves around under the vines, collecting their things. Even without any announcement from the Capitol, Azzi knows—this is it.

Today will be the last day.

She doesn’t know how she knows. It’s not like the Gamemakers have explicitly said so. But the weight of it is undeniable, a silent agreement between the arena and the remaining tributes. If they don’t find the pair from Two soon—or if the pair from Two doesn’t find them—the Capitol will force the confrontation. They always do.

Azzi knows Paige’s mind is still churning, trying to devise some kind of impossible scenario where the two of them make it out together. Where Paige’s relentless optimism wins out against the Capitol’s cruelty. Azzi wants to believe in it, hope for it. She really does.

But she can’t.

Her knee is a liability now, and she knows it. The wrap helps her walk without wincing, but she can’t run—not like she needs to if they’re ambushed. The odds were already slim before, but now? Now they feel closer to nonexistent.

Azzi adjusts the wrap one last time, fingers lingering on the fabric as a wave of guilt washes over her. She promised her family she’d try her best, that she’d fight as hard as she could to get back to them.

She wants to. God, she wants to see them again so badly. Her parents. Her brothers. But Paige wants to see her family, too—her little siblings, Drew, Ryan, and Lauren, whose stories have become so vivid in Azzi’s mind she feels like she almost knows them. Paige has talked about them so much during the long, quiet nights in the arena, her voice soft and full of longing.

And Azzi knows the pair from Two probably has families waiting for them, too. People who are praying just as hard as hers are. It’s a horrible truth she can’t escape: none of them deserve this. But the Capitol doesn’t care about who deserves what.

The sky grows darker as the morning drags on, the clouds thickening and swirling in ominous patterns. Paige notices it first, pausing mid-motion as she stuffs the last of their things into a bag.

“You see that?” she asks.

Azzi tilts her head back, squinting up at the sky. A storm brews in the distance, jagged lightning flickering at the edges. The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Azzi’s stomach churns.

“They want it to end,” she says quietly. Her voice falls flat with resignation. “This is how they force us to face them.”

Paige glances at her, and Azzi sees something fragile in her expression. Fear, maybe. Or something close to it. She tries to mask it with a sharp nod, her jaw clenching as she grabs their bags.

“Then we’ll give ‘em what they want,” Paige mutters determinedly.

Azzi doesn’t say anything as Paige steps closer, looping an arm around her waist. She doesn’t really need the help today—not like she did before—but she doesn’t protest. Instead, she leans into Paige’s steady presence, letting herself take comfort in the closeness.

The first drops of rain fall as they set off, light at first but steady, and Azzi can feel the storm building. The wind howls through the jungle, pulling at their suits and hair. It’s not hard to guess where they’re heading, even without any explicit direction.

The Cornucopia.

It’s always the Cornucopia.

Azzi doesn’t bother asking if Paige is thinking the same thing—she knows she is. Anyone that’s watched the Games before knows that’s almost always where they end.

The pair trudge forward together, moving slowly to avoid putting too much strain on Azzi’s knee. Paige’s hand stays firm on her waist, her grip protective but not overbearing. The terrain grows harsher as they go, the jungle thinning out and giving way to open stretches of land that make Azzi’s heart race. She hates being this exposed, hates the idea of someone—them—watching from the trees, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Paige’s voice pulls her out of her spiraling thoughts. “We’ll make it,” she says, sounding more confident than Azzi knows she really feels. “We’ll find a way.”

Azzi doesn’t respond. She just presses her lips together, letting Paige’s words hang between them.

They walk for what feels like hours, the storm growing angrier with each passing minute. The rain comes down harder now, soaking through their suits and making the ground slick beneath their feet. Azzi’s knee protests more and more with every step, but she doesn’t stop.

When they reach the edge of the jungle, they’re immediately crouching low behind the underbrush, trying to stay as hidden as possible. The clearing ahead is a trap—they both know it—but there’s no other choice.

Paige drops their bags just inside the jungle’s cover, her movements hurried and sharp. She pulls out two of Azzi’s daggers, handing them over with trembling hands. Azzi takes them silently, the blades cold and reassuring against her wet palms. Her thigh straps and waist sheath are already full, but these feel different—more immediate. She grips one tightly and tucks the other against her belt.

“You ready?” Paige whispers, though her voice barely carries over the pounding of the rain.

Azzi nods, the gesture more instinct than thought. Her knee throbs beneath its tight wrap, but she does her best at ignoring it.

Ahead, the sand of the clearing is slick and reflective under the rain, the shallow saltwater lake churning with the storm’s fury. The Cornucopia, half-collapsed from yesterday’s explosion, looms like a broken monument of death. The air smells metallic, a mix of wet earth, blood, and the storm’s electricity.

“We don’t move til we see ‘em,” Paige murmurs firmly, despite the tremor in her hands.

Azzi watches the clearing, her heart hammering in her chest. The silence feels oppressive, broken only by the occasional boom of thunder. She doesn’t hear the arrow until it’s too late.

Suddenly, Paige cries out beside her, a sharp, startled sound that cuts through the storm. Azzi’s head whips around just as Paige stumbles backward, clutching her shoulder. An arrow juts out of her flesh, its shaft trembling as if mocking their failure to notice.

“Paige!” Azzi gasps, lunging to grab her before she collapses. But another arrow zips past, this one so close that Azzi feels the air shift by her ear. She ducks instinctively, dragging Paige down with her into the mud.

“Shit,” Paige mutters, her tone tight with pain. Her free hand digs into the wet earth, her face pale as she tries to steady herself.

“Let me take it out,” Azzi says. The words tremble as they slip past her lips.

Paige gives her a tight nod, biting down hard on her lip. Azzi grabs the shaft of the arrow, her hands slick with rain and mud. “This is gonna hurt,” she warns.

“Just—do it,” Paige grits out.

Azzi pulls, hard and fast. Paige cries out, her back arching against the pain as blood wells from the wound, staining the torn fabric of her suit. “Fuck,” she breathes raggedly.

Azzi barely has time to assess the damage before she hears heavy footsteps crashing through the jungle. Her head snaps up, and her stomach drops.

The boy from Two is barreling toward them.

It’s not just his size—it’s the way he moves, like a predator. He’s massive, easily half a foot taller than Azzi and built like a mountain, his shoulder broad and his arms corded with muscle. He’s carrying a long-handled axe with a wicked, gleaming blade.

Azzi doesn’t even have time to think. She and Paige are shoved out of the jungle and onto the sand, the boy’s sheer momentum forcing them into the open.

Immediately, Paige is scrambling to her feet, pulling Azzi up with her, her sword already drawn. Azzi grips her dagger and lifts it, about to let it fly towards the boy. But, before she gets the chance, another arrow is sailing toward her and she has to duck. Just as she does, the boy charges at Paige, his axe swinging in deadly arcs that carve through the rain. Azzi watches as Paige ducks and sidesteps, her movements sharp but hindered by the sand and her injured shoulder. The sound of their weapons clashing echoes through the storm, a violent rhythm that makes Azzi anxious.

She’s about to get up and help Paige before her eyes land on the girl. She’s smaller, wiry, but no less dangerous. She’s holding a bow, another arrow already notched and aimed directly at Azzi.

The girl releases her arrow once more, and Azzi dives to the side, her knee screaming in protest as she hits the ground hard. The pain is sharp, a lightning bolt up her leg, but she can’t stop. She rolls onto her feet, barely catching her balance before the girl is on her.

She’s fast, faster than Azzi expected, and her short blade flashes in the dim light as she slashes at Azzi’s midsection. Azzi parries with her dagger, the clash of metal sending vibrations up her arm.

Rain pours down in sheets, making it hard to see, hard to think. Azzi’s grip on her knife is slippery, her breaths coming in short gasps as she blocks another strike.

The girl is relentless, each attack more precise than the last. Azzi’s knee buckles as she tries to sidestep, and she stumbles, barely managing to keep her balance. The girl sees the weakness and presses harder, driving Azzi back toward the edge of the sand, near the water.

Azzi’s mind races, searching for an opening, a way to turn the fight in her favor. She ducks under a wide slash, her free hand grabbing a handful of wet sand and flinging it into the girl’s face.

Just as the girl recoils, momentarily blinded, a sharp cry from Paige draws Azzi’s attention. She turns just in time to see the boy pinning Paige’s sword against the sand, his axe raised for a killing blow. Without thinking, Azzi hurls one of her daggers.

It flies true, embedding itself in the boy’s shoulder. He roars in pain, stumbling back and giving Paige just enough time to regain her footing.

Azzi’s momentary distraction costs her. The girl from Two has recovered, wiping mud from her eyes as she lunges with a renewed ferocity. Azzi blocks the first strike but can’t avoid the second. The blade slices across her arm, hot pain flaring as blood mingles with the rain.

Azzi bites back a scream, her vision swimming as she staggers. Her knee is flaring, too, the wrap doing little to support her under the strain of combat. But she ignores them both, countering the girl with a sharp jab of her dagger, the blade now slicing across the girl’s own arm.

The girl hisses but doesn’t falter. She circles Azzi, her eyes cold and calculating, waiting for an opening. Azzi’s watching carefully as she hears a cry echo behind her—a sharp, desperate sound that cuts through the storm like one of her knives. It’s Paige.

Her stomach twists, panic surging through her veins, but she forced herself to focus. The girl is front in front of her, blade raised for a killing blow. If Azzi falters now, it’s over.

She takes a shaky step forward, raising her dagger. The girl hesitates, just for a second, and that’s all Azzi needs.

With a burst of adrenaline, she drives the blade upward, straight into the girl’s chest.

The girl gasps, her eyes wide with shock as Azzi’s dagger pierces her heart. For a moment, time seems to stop, the rain washing away the blood as the girl’s body goes limp, falling from Azzi’s grasp.

Boom.

Her cannon fires.

Azzi takes a long inhale, her chest heaving as she stares at the girl from Two’s lifeless body. The dagger is still in her hand, slick with rain and blood, but it feels like an extension of her arm now, part of her in a way that terrifies her. She forces herself to let go, the blade slipping from her grasp and landing in the wet sand with a dull thud.

The rain pelts her skin, cold and unforgiving, but she can’t move. She stands there, rooted to the spot, her breathing ragged and uneven as her eyes linger on the girl. The world feels muffled, like she’s underwater, and everything—the storm, the blood, the suffocating ache in her knee—fades into the background. It’s over. At least, this part is.

Her heart is still pounding in her chest, faster than it should be. She doesn’t feel victorious. She doesn’t feel anything at all, just numb. Her gaze flickers to the girl’s face—eyes open, staring blankly at the stormy sky. Azzi swallows hard and finally looks away.

She turns, her body protesting every movement, and just as she does, her eyes catch a shape through the rain. The boy from Two stumbles, falters, and then crashes to the ground at Paige’s feet like a felled tree. His own axe is lodged in his chest, buried deep.

His cannon booms, its hollow echo vibrating through the air, and Azzi flinches at the sound. Her eyes stay fixed on him, her mind struggling to process what she’s seeing. He’s dead. Paige killed him.

Leaving just the two of them.

It takes Azzi a moment to shift her focus, her eyes drifting to Paige. When she does, the sight hits her like a punch to the gut.

Paige is standing a few feet away, drenched from head to toe, her blonde hair plastered to her face. Azzi can tell she’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with each gasp of air, but there’s a dazed sort of smile on her face. She looks over at Azzi, and when she says her name, her voice is soft, almost tender.

“Azzi,” she murmurs, and for reasons Azzi can’t understand—because they’re supposed to be killing each other right now—she feels herself smile back, just a little.

But then Paige takes a step forward—or tries to. It’s more like a stumble, her foot catching awkwardly on the slick ground. Azzi’s brows knit together in confusion, alarm prickling at the edges of her mind.

“Paige?” she says, her name coming out sharper than she means.

Paige sways, her balance faltering, and Azzi forgets about the pain screaming through her knee. She moves toward the older girl, crossing the distance between them in a few long strides. her hands find Paige’s shoulders, holding her up before she can fall.

“Hey, you okay? What’s wrong?” Azzi voice is urgent now, her grip tightening as she peers at Paige’s face.

Up close, even through the pouring rain, she can see how pale Paige is—too pale. The sight sends a bolt of fear straight through Azzi. Paige’s breath is coming in short, shallow gasps, and she shakes her head, like she’s trying to form words but can’t quite manage it.

“Um, fuck,” Paige stammers. The words sound shaky and thin coming from her lips. “He, uh—”

“Paige, what?” Azzi interrupts, her hands moving to steady her further, to ground her, but the panic is creeping into her voice now.

Paige doesn’t answer right away, just sways a little more, trembling. And then Azzi’s eyes drop—she can’t help it—and that’s when she sees it.

One of Paige’s hands is clamped against her stomach, pressed tightly to her body like she’s trying to hold something in. Something red.

“Paige,” Azzi says again, quieter now, almost a whisper.

Slowly, carefully, she reaches down and pulls Paige’s hand away. What she sees makes her stomach twist violently.

Blood. So much blood. It’s everywhere, seeping through Paige’s suit and mixing with the rain until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Azzi feels her knees weaken, the world tilting dangerously, but she forces herself to stay upright.

Her hands are shaking as she presses them against Paige’s wound, trying to stem the flow, but it’s no use. The blood keeps coming, warm and slick and terrifyingly real.

“I—” Azzi starts, stammering, as tears begin to well in her eyes. “What—how’d this happen?”

Paige leans against her heavily, her weight almost too much got Azzi’s weakened body to bear. But she doesn’t let go.

Paige’s breath is coming even quicker now, hitching painfully with every exhale. “He… he got me,” she says finally, her words halting and uneven. “With my own sword. Before I—” Her voice cuts off, her head drooping as another shudder racks her body.

And then Paige’s knees buckle. Azzi feels her heart seize as Paige slips through her grasp, the weight of her limp body pulling them both downward. Azzi swears under her breath, her bad knee flaring in protest as she sinks to the ground. She’s careful—so fucking careful—not to let Paige fall too hard, easing her down until she’s lying on the wet sand. The storm thrashes around them, the rain relentless, cold water dripping off Azzi’s face as she hovers over Paige.

Paige’s face is twisted in pain, her brows furrowed and lips trembling as shallow, ragged breaths continue to leave her chest. Her pale complexion looks almost translucent in the dim light, and it’s terrifying—like she’s already slipping away. Azzi’s hands shake as they press down on Paige’s stomach, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. But it just keeps coming, hot and thick and endless.

“Fuck,” Azzi mutters, the word slipping out as her panic mounts. Her hands are slick, her fingers stained red, and she can’t seem to get a good grip. She presses harder, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood with a dam made of sand.

Paige’s breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound, and then she starts coughing—deep, wet coughs that shake her entire body. Azzi freezes, her heart plummeting, and watched helplessly as Paige lifts a trembling hand to her mouth. When the coughing subsided, Paige lowers her hand slowly, almost as if she doesn’t want to see what she already knows is there.

Blood.

It streaks across her fingers, dark and unmistakable. For a moment, Azzi watches as Paige just stares at it, her chest heaving. And then her blue eyes widen, filling with big tears, her voice cracking as she stammers, “Shit. I’m dying. Shit, Az—I—I’m dying.”

“No.” Azzi shakes her head hard, too hard, the motion jerky and frantic. “No, you’re not. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

But even as the words leave her mouth, they sound hollow, fake. She can feel the tears burning at the edges of her own eyes, hot and blurring her vision, because she knows. God, she knows coughing up blood isn’t just bad—it’s the worst. It’s internal, it’s critical, and it’s so far beyond anything Azzi can fix.

The rain pounds against them, soaking them both to the bone, but Azzi leans closer, her body hovering over Paige’s, shielding her as much as she can from the downpour. She can’t stop the storm, can’t stop the bleeding, can’t stop any of it, but she has to do something. She has to try.

“Paige, you’re okay,” she says as firmly as she can. “Just—just keep breathing, alright? Don’t stop breathing.”

Paige’s eyes find hers, wide and glassy and so heartbreakingly blue, and Azzi feels like she’s looking into a mirror of her own fear. Paige tries to speak, but her voice comes out thin and reedy, barely audible over the cracking storm. “Azzi…” She swallows hard, wincing as the motion seems to cause her more pain. “Tell them.”

Azzi friend, her hands still pressing against the wound, through her fingers are starting to cramp from the effort. “Tell who what?”

“My family,” Paige whispers. Tears spill over her cheeks, mixing with the rain as she stares up at Azzi with a kind of desperate determination. “Drew, uh, Ryan, Lauren—my parents. Tell them I love them. And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Paige, stop,” Azzi pleads, her own voice breaking now. A sob lodges itself in her throat, thick and suffocating, but she shoves it down, shaking her head fiercely. “You don’t need to say that. You’re not—don’t talk like that.”

Paige shakes her head weakly as another tear slips down her cheek. “I need you to,” she insists, her words rushed and uneven, like she’s running out of time. “Please. Promise me.”

Azzi can’t take it. She can’t take the way Paige’s voice wavers, the way her body shakes under her hands, the way she’s looking at her like she knows this is it. Like she knows she’s not making it out of this. Azzi wants to scream, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, to tell her to stop giving up.

But she doesn’t.

“Paige, stop,” Azzi says again, softer now, choked with tears. “You’re gonna make it. You hear me? You’re gonna win this, and you’re gonna go home and tell them yourself.”

Paige doesn’t respond, just stares at her with those tear-filled eyes, like she wants to believe her but can’t. Azzi swallows hard, her throat aching with the effort of keeping herself somewhat together for Paige.

“Can you kiss me?” Paige whispers softly. Her lips are near blue at this point, still lightly streaked with her own blood, her words weak and shaky, but her gaze is steady, locked onto Azzi’s face. “Please?”

Azzi stills, her breath catching. The world feels suspended, like time itself has stopped to old this moment between them. Paige’s worde echo, and Azzi’s chest tightens with the sharp ache of knowing why she’s asking. Paige thinks this is the end. Paige knows it’s the end.

Azzi stares at her for a long second, the rain pounding against her back, soaking her to the bone. Her hands are still pressing down on Paige’s wound, futilely trying to stop the blood that keeps slipping through her fingers, but her eyes are locked on Paige’s face.

And then she leans down carefully, her heart breaking with every inch that closes the distance between them. When her lips finally meet Paige’s, the rain, the pain, the fear—it all falls away.

Paige kisses her like it’s the only thing keeping her alive, like she’s pouring every last shred of strength into this one act. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against Azzi’s with a desperation that makes the younger girl’s heart shatter. Azzi tastes the rain, salty tears, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Paige’s hand slides up the back of Azzi’s neck, her fingers trembling a little as they tangle in Azzi’s wet hair, holding her close like she doesn’t ever want to let go.

Azzi kisses her back just as desperately, her own tears streaming down her face and mixing with the rain. She presses closer, her hands forgetting the blood and the wound for a moment as they cradle Paige’s face instead, her thumbs brushing over her cold, rain-slicked cheeks. She doesn’t care about the Hunger Games, the Capitol, the fact that the whole country is probably watching this—there’s only Paige, only this kiss, only the cruel reality that this will be their last.

When Azzi finally pulls away, it’s because Paige’s body starts shuddering harder, her breath hitching with sharper, uneven gasps. Azzi’s eyes snap open, and she sees Paige struggling to breathe, her chest rising and falling in shorter, more frantic bursts.

“Paige?” Azzi whispers anxiously. She cups Paige’s face, tilting it up toward her, her thumb brushing lightly over one of Paige’s closed eyelids. “P, keep your eyes open. Please, look at me.”

Paige does as she asks. Her eyes flutter open, just barely, her lashes damp with rain and tears. She gives Azzi the faintest smile, her hand still resting weakly on the back of her neck. “‘M still here,” she murmurs.

Azzi exhales shakily, her vision still swimming. She leans back down, pressing her forehead against Paige’s, listening to her short, shallow breaths that make her stomach twist. Then, between gasps, Paige whispers, “If we both could’ve won… I woulda made them let us play ball together.”

Azzi’s throat tightens at the words, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. They both had that stupid, unrealistic dream of playing basketball in the Capitol, with the pros, of being known for something other than violence and survival.

“Yeah?” Azzi chokes out, brushing a strand of wet hair from Paige’s face.

Paige nods weakly, her lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Yeah,” she whispers. “We’d be, like, stars. Everyone would know us as basketball players instead of… kids in the Hunger Games.”

Azzi bites her lip, hoping that pain might ease some of this pain. “I’d like that,” she says softly, the words breaking.

Paige’s face scrunches up in pain for a moment, and Azzi watched helplessly as she forces herself to speak again. “Me too,” Paige breathes, voice much quieter now.

Paige’s hand trembles as it clutches Azzi’s neck tighter, like she’s trying to hold on to whatever strength she has left. “I would’ve taken you on a real date,” she says in between quicker gasps. “We’d… we’d have a great life together, Az. You’d meet my siblings. I’d meet Jon and Jose. We’d—” Her words cut off as her breath hitches violently, and her eyes fall shut against the pain.

“Hey, shhh,” Azzi says as soothingly as possible, though at this point, her tears streaming are unchecked and uncontrollable.

But Paige’s eyes are still closed, her head lolling slightly to the side now. Azzi tightens her grip on her a little, cradling her face more, her thumb brushing against Paige’s cheek. “P,” Azzi pleads. “Hey, come on. Don’t do this. Don’t—don’t go.”

It takes a second but then Paige’s eyes flutter open once more. Azzi lets out a choked sound that’s half relief, half anguish. Those blue eyes, usually so bright and full of life, are dull now, unfocused, like Paige is looking at something far beyond Azzi.

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first—just the faintest sound, like a sigh carried off by the rain. Then, in the weakest voice Azzi has ever heard, Paige murmurs, “‘M tired, Az.”

Azzi starts to shake her head frantically, her grip tightening even more as though sheer willpower might keep Paige here. “No. No, you don’t get to be tired, okay? I can’t—I’m not ready.” And she knows how selfish she sounds, because she’s not dying, Paige is—but it’s still true. Even though she had this whole time to prepare for it, she’s not ready to let Paige go.

Paige blinks slowly, her expression softening as her gaze drifts toward Azzi. “You’re the winner,” she breathes. “You… you get to home.”

“I don’t care about winning!” Azzi snaps, her voice breaking as a sob rips through her chest. “What’s the point if you’re not there. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Paige’s lips twitch into a faint smile, one so small and fleeting that it only makes Azzi cry harder. Paige’s hand falls from Azzi’s neck, half-limp as it brushes against Azzi’s wrist. It doesn’t hardly even feel like a touch—it’s too light for that, too fleeting—but it’s enough to make Azzi stop breathing for a second, her entire body frozen as she clutches Paige’s hand in hers.

Paige’s fingers twitch weakly against Azzi’s. “You’ll be okay,” she whispers, her words slurring now, her voice slipping further and further away.

“I won’t,” Azzi whispers back, sounding raw and desperate. She shakes her head. “I won’t be okay without you.”

Paige doesn’t respond. Her hand goes limp in Azzi’s grip, and her head tilts further to the side, her eyes falling closed again, lids covering Azzi’s favorite shade of blue.

“No. No, no, no, no,” Azzi stammers, her voice rising in pitch as she shakes Paige gently, then harder, her heart pounding in her chest. “Paige. Paige, open your eyes. Please. Just—just look at me—”

She’s crying so hard now she can barely see, her tears mingling with the never-ending rain as she grips Paige’s body, her voice breaking over and over again. “Don’t do this to me, Paige,” Azzi sobs, her forehead pressing against the older girl’s. “You don’t get to do this. C’mon, please…”

The rain continues to fall, relentless and uncaring, as Paige grows colder in Azzi’s arms. For a moment, Azzi refuses to believe it—refuses to accept it—but then she hears it.

Boom.

The cannon.

The sound is defeaning, sharp and final, cutting through Azzi like she’s being stabbed. It’s over. It’s all over.

Azzi’s body collapses over Paige’s, her sobs muffled against the stillness of her chest as someone on an overhead speaker starts talking, congratulating her for being the victor of the Sixtieth Annual Hunger Games.

But she doesn’t care that she’s won. She doesn’t care about the Capitol or the crowd cheering somewhere far away. In this moment, all she cares about is the girl in her arms—the girl she couldn’t save.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN ━━ Back Where We Started

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ word count: 8.2K

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ warnings: nothing just have fun

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ links: my masterlist, where’s my love masterlist, ao3 link

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ author’s note: hi, this is it! thank you guys for reading, i hope you enjoyed their story as much as i did. please please tell me your thoughts and yap to me as much as you want i'd love to hear everyone's opinions

AZZI WAKES WITH A SMACK.

It's sharp and immediate, the sound of skin hitting something solid followed closely by the hot bloom of pain at her temple. On instant, a low groan rips out of her chest, her hand flying up to her head, palm pressing hard, trying to physically hold the ache in place. For a split second, everything behind her closed eyelids fractures into light. A flicker of something bright and jagged, like a camera flash going off inside her skull. It's gone just as quickly as it appears, leaving only the dull throb behind, and Azzi frowns into the darkness, breathing through it, a million little stars now taking up her vision.

Slowly, she exhales, letting her body relax, taking stock of what she can register. Cool air against her skin. Something scratchy beneath her back. The faint hum of something electrical in the room. Linen that definitely isn't under her like it should be.

Her eyes peel open slow, cautious. The ceiling comes into view first, plain and hotel white. She blinks, then tilts her head just slightly, and that's when it clicks.

She's on the floor. Not in bed, not even half-on, half-off. No, fully on the floor. Naked, too. Bare ass against carpet.

"Oh my God," Azzi mutters under her breath, the words coming out more tired than embarrassed, because honestly, she doesn't even have the energy to be mortified yet. Almost moving in slow motion, she sits up, knees drawing up to her chest, on arm wrapping around herself as it that does anything at all. The movement makes her temple protest slightly again, and she winces, squeezing her eyes shut for a second.

She fell out of the fucking bed.

Before she can process that thought any further, there's a sound from above her—a groan that mirrors her own so perfectly it almost makes her laugh. The mattress creaks, sheets rustle, and then Paige's head appears over the edge of the bed, blonde hair sticking up in every direction like she got in a fight with sleep and lost badly. Her face is soft with exhaustion, eyes still a little unfocused, and for a second, Azzi just stares up at her, her stomach flipping familiarly.

Paige rubs at her eyes and squints down at her. "Why're you down there?"

The question is so genuinely confused, so unfiltered, that it nearly sends Azzi into hysterics at the sheer ridiculousness of her actually having tumbled out of bed in her sleep at the ripe age of nearly twenty-one. Instead, she just tightens her knees closer to her chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that she is very much naked and Paige is very much wrapped and covered in white sheets. She still feels a little exposed, not quite used to it all, despite the fact that they quite literally fucked last night.

"I fell outta the bed," Azzi says, voice a little rough, one hand still rubbing slow circles into her temple.

Paige stares at her for a beat, like her brain is buffering. And then she laughs, a sleepy thing that breaks across her face and bubbles outward and makes something warm bloom in Azzi's chest despite herself.

"Stop," Azzi whines immediately, pouting as she moves again, pain flaring just enough to be annoying. "It hurt."

"I'm sorry, baby," Paige says, the words slipping out easily even as she's still smiling, still trying (and failing) to hold back another laugh.

Baby. The recent usage of that word—along with a couple other pet names Paige seems particularly fond of—always seems to undo Azzi a little. Makes her stomach flip like she's on a roller coaster, makes her face warm no matter the situation. Makes the current ache in her head suddenly feel less important than the sound of Paige's voice.

Paige sobers quickly, though, concern replacing humor as she leans further over the side of the bed and reaches down. "C'mere. You okay?"

Azzi nods, letting the blonde grab her hand. Paige's grip is warm and steady, fingers curling around Azzi's wrist. With a small huff of effort and a very undignified scramble, Azzi lets herself be pulled back up into the bed, sheets immediately being tugged around her like Paige is trying to shield her from the world.

Paige presses a soft kiss to Azzi's temple, right near where it hurts, and smooths her curls back gently. Azzi leans into the touch easily, body curling instinctively toward Paige's warmth. They settle like that, skin on skin, Azzi tucked against Paige's side, Paige's arm draped loosely but protectively around her waist. It's almost unnerving how perfectly their bodies fit together, how right it feels despite how little Azzi remembers about being wrapped in it.

Nevertheless, the world feels smaller here in a way Azzi likes. The dull ache in her head has begun to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rise and fall of Paige's breathing. Azzi lets her eyes fall shut, lets herself exist without thinking too hard. Without pulling the moment apart to see why it feels so good or whether she deserves it.

She feels Paige shift slightly beside her, arm moving away just for a second, and she assumes she's reaching for her phone. Sure enough, a soft glow fills the space behind Azzi's eyelids, followed by Paige's voice.

"Bro," Paige starts, sounding mildly shocked. "It's almost eleven thirty."

Azzi's eyes fly open. "What?"

Paige tilts the phone so she can see the screen, and Azzi groans at the sight. 11:22 AM. "I can't even remember the last time I slept that late."

Paige scrolls, thumb moving lazily as messages roll by. "I guess everyone already dipped," she adds, tone somewhere between amused and annoyed. "They're all out sightseeing. They sayin' we're on our own."

Azzi exhales slowly. She should probably feel guilty for not getting up on time, or annoyed that the group left without them. But instead, there's a strange sense of relief that washes through her, easing something inside. She loves her teammates. Obviously, she also loves her family. But being around that many people all the time, all at once, can be a lot, her senses constantly pulled in too many directions.

Truthfully, just being here with Paige, in their own small pocket, feels almost like a gift.

"We don't have to be at the gym 'til like three, right?" Azzi asks quietly.

Paige hums, noncommittal, already half distracted by something on her phone. They have an exhibition game of shorts today, against some Croatian team. Azzi's playing; Paige isn't. She was cleared a couple weeks ago, her knee all set right back into place, her rehab completed nicely. But she opted out of this one, still wanting to get her body completely back to a hundred percent, not willing to risk anything to play against Nika's cousins, of all people.

"We could walk around," Azzi suggests. "Just us. For a little."

Paige looks back at her, eyes soft, expression open in that way that still catches Azzi off guard sometimes. "Yeah," she says easily. "I'd like that."

Azzi smiles to herself, and they lay there like that for a few more minutes, the idea of actually getting out of bed feeling like quite a production. Eventually, though, they do, and the second her feet hit the floor, her legs protest sharply, muscles unmistakably sore. She pauses for half a second, weight shifting as she tests it, and then she exhales through her nose, lips pressing together.

Right.

Heat creeps up her neck as flashes—not images so much as sensations—flicker through her mind from last night. Paige's head squeezes between her thighs. Paige's fingers pressed deep inside. The narrowing down of Azzi's world to just that one overwhelming feeling. It's vivid enough that she has to physically shake her head like that might dislodge her thoughts.

She grabs her clothes almost aggressively, purely as a distraction. Her cheeks feel warm as she pulls on a black cropped tank and a pair of jean shorts, something simple. She focuses on the mundane mechanics of it—fabric sliding over skin, the snap of the button, the familiar tug of denim, that sort of thing—until her face goes back to normal.

When she turns back around, Paige is standing there, redressed in what she wore last night, hair a little less chaotic now but still a bit tangled. For a moment, Azzi just watches her, something in her chest squeezing in that way it's been doing more and more lately (it essentially happens every time the blonde is near now).

Paige looks up and catches her staring, eyebrows lifting just slight in amusement, and then she's crossing the space between them without any hesitation. She presses a quick kiss to Azzi's lips, meant to be casual and brief, and Azzi smiles into it, her body leaning in just a little. Paige smiles back, their teeth clashing, and suddenly the kiss isn't quite so quick anymore. It deepens just enough to make Azzi's stomach flip, to make her want to tug Paige closer and forget entirely about time and plans and everything else.

Paige pulls back with a breathy laugh, shaking her head. "You're gonna kill me," she says, half-joking but definitely not entirely.

Azzi grins, unrepentant. "Not my fault," she murmurs.

Paige glances toward the door like she needs the reminder of where they are, then back at Azzi. "I'm gon' go get changed and brush my teeth and shit," she says. "Then we can go, yeah?"

"Yeah," Azzi agrees easily, nodding.

Paige kisses her again anyway, and then presses another soft peck to Azzi's temple, right where she hit her head earlier. Then, she's gone, slipping out into the hallway.

Azzi exhales slowly, standing there for a second with her hands at her sides, letting the silence settle. There's a strange fullness in her chest, something warm and almost overwhelming, like she's standing too close to a fire. It's good. It's really good.

She forces herself to move, heading into the bathroom and turning on the sink. Cold water splashes against her face, washing away the last fog of sleep. She brushes her teeth, watches herself in the mirror while she does. She looks happy, softer than she has in a long time. There are shadows under her eyes, sure, and her curls are a mess, but there's something else there, too. Something light, something airy.

She rinses, spits, and leans forward with her hands on the counter for a moment, just breathing. Her head still aches faintly, but it's really nothing, just a little bump.

She thinks about asking Jana if she'll have time to do her braids before the game, makes a mental note to text her later. For now, she just pulls her curls back into a loose bun, accepting the chaos of them. It feels fitting, somehow.

Paige comes back a few minutes later, hair slicked back into a bun, wearing a white tank top and pink sweat shorts. They leave the hotel shortly after, walking for a while before, eventually, the tourist area sneaks up on them, the streets slowly widening and the foot traffic thickening until Azzi realizes they've wandered somewhere clearly meant to be wandered. Cobblestone gives way to polished stone, shop windows gleaming with careful displays, the air buzzing with different languages, different cadences, all blending into one.

Paige is immediately in her element.

Azzi notices it the second Paige's pace changes, the way she starts drifting toward storefronts with barely contained interest, craning her neck to look at shoes in windows like they've personally offended her by existing without her permission. Azzi follows along, amused and a little fondly exasperated, entering a store that looks a bit too expensive.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Paige approaches where Azzi's browsing with a bag that is very obviously holding a shape of a shoebox.

Azzi stares at it, then at Paige. "You have a problem," she says flatly.

She's learned that Paige has a complete obsession with shoes; she's become a serious witness to Paige's lifelong descent into sneaker-based hoarding. Sometimes, Azzi genuinely worries about Paige's future storage space. She imagines a house filled wall to wall with shoes, pathways carved through boxes like some kind of athletic Foot Locker labyrinth.

Paige grins, entirely unapologetic. "It's a gift."

"To who?" Azzi asks.

"Myself."

"That's not how gifts work."

"It is when you deserve it."

Azzi snorts, shaking her head, and then making her way to the exit, moving on to the next storefront. They browse that one, then the next, and, eventually, they duck into a small boutique tucked between two larger stores. It's not so much Paige's style, but Azzi wanted a little peek. She finds herself lingering near a display of perfumes. She tries a couple, then Paige ends up beside her, holding her wrist up to her nose to smell.

"You should get this one," Paige says, smoothing her thumb over Azzi's wrist. "Smells nice."

Azzi glances at the bottle, then back up at Paige. "I don't know, it's kinda expensive," she replies.

Paige gives her a long look before rolling her eyes, a grin pulling up her lips. She takes the bottle from Azzi's hand without asking, repeating, "It smells nice."

She buys it for Azzi despite Azzi's protests, and adds the bag to the growing collection she's carrying. Paige doesn't complain. She never does. She just shifts the weight in her hands more comfortably and then laces their fingers together as they step back out onto the street.

Azzi would be lying if she said she didn't adore it.

They don't get very far before Paige abruptly stops, eyes lighting up as she spots something over Azzi's shoulder.

"Oh my God," the blonde says, already tugging on Azzi's hand. "Come on. Please."

Azzi barely has time to register the dessert shop before she's being dragged toward it, Paige's excitement for foreign sweets bordering on childish. "You're unbelievable," Azzi mutters, but she lets herself be pulled anyway, lips twitching despite herself.

Inside, the air smells sweet and buttery, glass cases filled with pastries Azzi doesn't have names for, labels written in Croatian that might as well just be decorative. They stand there for a few moments, reading the same signs over and over like the meaning might suddenly make sense if they stare hard enough.

"What d'you think this one is? Paige asks, pointing.

"I don't know," Azzi says, completely confused. "Bread?"

"That's not helpful."

Azzi doesn't respond, just rolls her eyes.

They eventually manage to order through a combination of pointing, smiling apologetically, and saying "this one" a lot. Paige insists on paying, again, swatting Azzi's hand away when she even thinks about reaching for her wallet. Azzi lets her, because it's easier, and also because she kind of likes when Paige does things like that.

Paige gets a cherry strudel, the filling a deep red that looks almost jewel-toned under the lights. Azzi gets the mini cottage cheese strudels, warm and flaky and perfect. They sit at a small table outside, the warm August air and street buzzing around them.

Azzi picks one of her own strudels up and holds it out to Paige. "Here, try it," she says.

Paige takes it, turning it over slowly like she's inspecting evidence. Azzi has learned that Paige can be quite a picky eater when she wants to.

"Okay, but what is it?" Paige asks, lifting a brow.

"It's good," Azzi says, deadpan, though technically not answering the question.

Paige squints at her, then at the pastry. "But what is it, though?"

Azzi sighs, "It's a cottage cheese strudel. Just try it."

Paige pauses, then, predictably, she wrinkles her nose and slowly lowers it back down onto the plate. She shakes her head, looking genuinely disgusted and acting entirely too dramatic. "Oh, hell nah. Cottage cheese tastes like feet, Azzi."

"It does not," Azzi fires back immediately.

"Cottage cheese is objectively disgusting," Paige argues.

"When did you even learn the word 'objectively'?"

"Bro!"

They go back and forth like that for longer than necessary, voices overlapping, Paige dramatically gagging at the idea of it, Azzi defending cottage cheese like it's a personal friend. And somewhere in the middle of it, Azzi feels it—that strange feeling curling low in her chest.

There's something so oddly familiar about this. This moment. The way Paige talks with her hands, the way she exaggerates her reactions, the way Azzi feels both deeply amused and also incredibly annoyed at the same time. Even the topic of conversation, the location, too. It all just feels lived-in.

For a split second, something flickers—another European street, another pastry, another laugh—but it slips away as quickly as it came.

Azzi ignores it; it doesn't matter. She just has a headache.

HOURS LATER, Jana is finishing up Azzi's braids in the locker room they've been provided, tugging sections of hair tight and clean the way she always does. Azzi sits still on the bench, hands resting loosely in her lap, spine slightly hunched without really realizing it, like her body is subconsciously trying to protect her head. When Jana pulls particularly hard, the sensation snaps bright and sudden across Azzi's scalp, sharp enough that she flinches before she can stop herself, a quick jerk that betrays her even as she tries to keep her face neutral.

"Oh, sorry—does that hurt?" Jana asks, already easing up, sounding a little guilty.

Azzi shakes her head automatically. "No, it's fine," she replies, because it mostly is, because it's easier to say that than try to explain the strange, unnamable thing happening inside her skull.

Mostly fine is still fine.

The truth is much harder to articulate. It doesn't hurt in a clean, sharp way, not like pain she recognizes. Not even like an ache. It's odder than that, different, an anomaly. Her head feels full, pressurized, like something is gently knocking from the inside. A pulse that isn't synced to her heartbeat, a buzzing under her thoughts trying to break free. It's been like this since this morning, since she smacked her head on the floor and saw that brief, blinding flicker behind her eyelids—something bright and fast and gone before she could grab it.

She tells herself, again, that it’s nothing. She didn’t hit her head that hard. She’s fine. She’s played entire games with worse headaches than this. She’s had migraines that felt like her skull was splitting open. This is just... weird. Disorienting. Almost as if her brain is stretching, or rearranging itself when she isn’t looking.

Azzi mulls it over while Jana finishes the last of the braid and ties it off with practiced efficiency. When Jana steps back, Azzi reaches up, fingers brushing lightly over her hair, steadying herself in something physical, something she can feel clearly and without distortion. She thanks Jana, means it, and the exchange feels normal enough that it settles her just a little.

Normal is good. Normal is safe.

The locker room hums with low conversation, the sound of sneakers squeaking faintly somewhere outside, the smell of sweat and cleaning solution. Azzi stands when it's time, rolling her shoulders, adjusting her warm up tee, moving carefully but not cautiously. She refuses to treat herself like she's fragile. She's not fragile.

The team begins to leave, filtering out onto the court. The gym is small. Smaller than Azzi's high school gym, even, which makes her blink a little when she realizes it. She supposes it makes sense. Women's basketball doesn't get funded the same way everywhere. Or anywhere, really.

Azzi bounces lightly on her toes as they start warming up, the sound of the ball hitting the wood echoing louder here than it would in a bigger arena. It sounds like that of the dribbling in their practice facility, or in any other little gym she finds to work out in. It comforts her a little, actually. It's not like she's nervous about the game itself. That knowledge sits solidly in her chest. They're the obvious better team, a fact she knows. Everyone knows it. Of course, thinking it feels a little arrogant, and she knows that mindset isn't ideal, but it's honest.

What she is nervous about—though nervous might not even be the right word—is herself.

She wants to play well. Not just in the vague, team-first way that she's been instilled to think of under Geno, but also in a way that feels personal, almost private. She wants this to be good for her. She wants to walk away from it knowing she was present for it, that she actually experienced it as it happened instead of piecing it together afterward from scraps and impressions and other people's stories and old box scores she's found online.

She doesn't remember much about games like this, at this level, with these people, under this coach, for this school. She's got parts of high school, all of middle school, elementary, AAU—those, she has, in fragments that make sense when she focuses on them. Sweaty gyms, loud parents, long drives, the simple, uncomplicated certainty of loving basketball because it was always there and she's always been good at it. But this level, this stage? It's blank, mostly. Just flashes that don't connect, her memory shuffled and queued up all wrong in the way she's unfortunately become accustomed to.

And standing here now, sneakers squeaking, heart slowly ramping up as warm-ups continue, she's acutely aware of that absence.

She watches the ball leave her hands and arc cleanly toward the hoop, the net snapping crisply as it goes through, and for a brief moment everything quiets inside her. No pulsing or weirdness or dizziness. Just the satisfaction of a good shot, the comfort of muscle memory doing what it's always done best. Her body remembers even if her mind doesn't. There's something reassuring about that, something steady.

This is her first game that she's truly experiencing on this level. Not borrowing from the past, not reconstructing it later. Right now, in real time. And more than anything—more than winning, more than stats, more than proving anything to anyone else—she wants it to matter to her.

She wants to be here for it.

They go back into the locker room before the game tips off. Azzi sits on the bench, elbows on her knees, fingers working at her shoelaces with more focus than the task probably requires, looping and pulling and re-looping even though it's already tight enough.

Geno stands in front of them, hands on his hips, posture rigid that reads both bored and locked in at the same time. His pep talk is something Azzi's used to—gruff, clipped, unimpressed by the novelty of the situation or the fact that they're halfway across the world. He talks about defense, about effort, about not getting lazy just because they should win. He says something sharp about ball movement, something else about rebounding, his voice cutting clean through the room. Azzi listens, nodding when she's supposed to, absorbing it because she should, but also, part of her is inward, checking herself, cataloging how her body feels, how her head feels, whether the strange pulsing has settled or if it's still humming under the surface.

(It's still there.)

They break the huddle, the energy shifting, everyone standing, adjusting jerseys, grabbing water bottles. Azzi bends back down to finish fixing her shoe, tugging the lace one last time, when a familiar presence settles next to her. She doesn't even have to look to know it's Paige.

Paige is in her sweatsuit, not playing, hair still slicked back in its bun. She doesn't say much, doesn't really need to. Instead, she reaches out and swipes a single, gentle finger across the inside of Azzi's wrist, the touch brief and inconspicuous, like it could be written off as accidental if anyone that didn't know them saw it.

"You're gonna kill it," Paige murmurs, low enough that it's just for Azzi, her voice intentionally soft, like she knows—somehow, she always knows—that Azzi needs this exact thing in this exact moment.

Azzi looks up, meeting Paige's eyes, and gives her a small smile, one that feels honest more than confident. She nods once, because she trusts her voice less than her face right now. Paige smiles back, quick and fond, then steps away as the rest of the team starts jogging toward the tunnel.

Azzi stands, breathes, follows.

The game starts fast. Almost immediately, the difference between teams is obvious. The pace alone is overwhelming. Azzi feels it in the way defenders are a half-step late, in the way passing lanes open just a little too easily. The first shot comes to her without ceremony. She's set beyond the arc, hands ready, body calm, and when Nika sends the pass her way, she doesn't think. She rises, releases, follows through.

Swish.

It doesn't even make a sound as it goes through, but it sends a jolt through Azzi anyway. First points of the game, a three. Her chest warms with something—not surprise, not even pride exactly, just a quiet little yes. Like an internal fist bump, her body reminding her that she can do this and she can do it well.

From there, it's actually almost unfair.

The ball feels magnetized to her hands, like it wants to find her. Shots fall from everywhere—catch-and-shoot threes, pull-ups, tough finishes at the rim. She hardly misses, and when she does, she barely has time to be annoyed or overthink it before the next possession resets everything. The weird feeling in her head fades far to the background, drowned out by adrenaline and rhythm and the forward motion of the game.

"C'mon! That's soft!" Genos barks after a defensive lapse that's partly Azzi's, partly Ash's fault. It doesn't matter at all that they're already up big. Later, it's, "Move it! Move the damn ball!" to Nika. His chirping and insistent and by now, quite familiar to Azzi considering she's heard it throughout all of the summer, and she almost finds comfort in it at this point. If Geno's yelling, things must be normal. If he's demanding more, it means she's still expected to give it.

She does.

Midway through the game, she drives hard to the basket, splitting defenders, body angled forward, eyes on the rim. A Croatian player steps up late, jumping to contest, and it happens quick. There's contact—sharp and wrong—right at Azzi's temple as the defender's hand clips her head instead of the ball.

The shot still goes in.

She hits the floor hard but reflexively, already rolling, already pushing herself back up before anyone can really react. The whistle blows somewhere behind her, and her teammates yell for the and-one. Geno's own voice rises, sharp and angry about the foul. But Azzi is on her feet almost immediately, waving it off without thinking, heart pounding more from the disruption than the fall itself.

Her head doesn't really hurt, like before. What it does instead is shift.

The pulsing from earlier swells, spreading like wildifre, that strange, weightless disorientation flooding back in stronger now. It feels like her thoughts are half a second behind her body now, like she's moving through water while the rest of the world stays crisp and fast. Sounds stretch and warp slightly at the edges. The lights feel too bright. Everything is still functional—she can see, she can breathe, she can stand—but the internal alignment she'd found earlier slips just enough to make her swallow thickly.

She blinks a few times, steadying herself, forcing her focus back to the free throw line, to the ball in her hands, to the simple mechanics she knows better than her own name. Bounce, breathe, shoot.

The shot goes in, which helps. A little.

The game keeps moving and Azzi keeps playing, though she's taken out not long after due to the large scoring margin. By the time it's over, they win 113—37. Azzi hears someone yell out the leading scorers as they do their final huddle, and the number lands heavy.

Thirty-eight.

She exhales slowly, chest rising and falling, head still humming, body buzzing with the aftermath of a game's adrenaline. She played well. She was good. Even now, even like this.

As she walks into the locker room afterward, sweat cooling on her skin, a strong arm slides around Azzi's shoulders, the weight familiar, pulling her in easily. Paige is warm and solid beside her and Azzi lets herself lean into the touch, into the girl.

"Droppin' thirty-eight on Nika's cousin's heads?" Paige says, grinning into her hair, her voice coated in warmth, pride, and something unmistakably smug. "That's nasty."

Azzi lets a little laugh bubble out of her mouth. She nudges Paige with her elbow, a little bashful despite herself, despite the numbers she put up, despite the way she knows she did play the hell out of that game. "Relax," she tells her, shaking her head, face heating up slightly.

Before Paige can do anything other than grin, there are hands everywhere—teammates bumping Azzi's shoulders, quick congratulatory shoves, someone calling her name from behind. Azzi's remembers what it felt like to do this, for old games she actually has the memories of playing in. It's different teammates now, but it's all the same, and she wants to enjoy it fully, wants to soak it in without distraction.

Then, there's a hand at her temple.

It's not hard. Objectively, it's barely anything—just another congratulatory touch, someone leaning in too close in pride of her. But it's the third time today, and it's like a true switch flips somewhere deep inside her. The world tilts violently sideways.

"Yeah, Az!" Nika shouts right in her ear, voice bright and victorious.

Azzi barely hears it.

Sound drops out all at once, replaced by a high, sharp ringing that seems to come from inside her skull. Her vision tunnels. The locker room stretches and distorts before her, colors smearing at the edges. For a terrifying half-second, she can't tell if she's about to pass out of if she already has.

The strangest part is that it still isn't painful. Her brain doesn't hurt, it's not a headache or a migraine type of feeling. Instead, it feels like something has finally snapped into place—like a dam that's been holding water in place has been flooded through all at once. Her thoughts come too fast, not in a straight line but in fragments, flashes, overlapping scenes that slam into her without any warning.

She looks up, instinctively, searching for something solid, and her eyes land on Paige.

That's when it really hits.

Because Paige's face—no, Paige's eyes, cerulean and adoring—do something to her. The concern there isn't anything new. The way Paige looks at her, soft and attentive and slightly too intense sometimes, isn't new either. But Azzi suddenly knows why she does. She knows every single ounce of history behind that look, knows everything that's built it up to where it is now.

Paige's eyebrows knit together, her smile faltering. "Az?" she asks, low, careful. "You good?"

Azzi opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Her chest tightens, breath catching sharply, because it's all coming back now—everything. Not in a neat order, not gently. It's violent and overwhelming and impossible to stop, or even slow.

Meeting her, team USA. Becoming friends with her, the flight to Minnesota. Growing closer to her, that summer at her grandparent's cabin. Being best friends, those first couple of years. Gaining a crush and realizing she likes girls, when she's fifteen. Kissing Paige for the first time, in a street in Belarus, their mouths still coated with sweets. Paige telling her she was in love with her for the first time, scared words hidden under sheets, amidst quarantining together. Finally committing and becoming girlfriends, once Azzi got to UConn. And then what nearly destroyed them, the accident back in May.

Everything before, everything in between, everything after.

Her knees feel weak. Her heart is pounding so hard inside it chest it almost hurts.

Before Paige can say anything else, before Azzi can reach out or explain or beg her not to go anywhere, Nika suddenly hooks an arm around Paige's and tugs. "C'mon, P," she says brightly. "My family wants to say hi!"

Paige looks torn, glancing back at Azzi one more time, concern deepening, but she lets herself get pulled away, probably trusting that Azzi will be okay.

Azzi watches her go.

Her vision swims, tears blurring everything, and she presses a hand to her chest like she can physically keep her heart from bursting inside its cavity. The noise of the locker room rushes back in all at once, overwhelming and too loud and too much, but she barely notices it now.

She remembers.

Everything.

CONVERSATION WITH NIKA'S FAMILY is easy. She hasn't met them in person too many times, but she has spoken with them on FaceTime several times, and they also know her well by stories filtered through their daughter. They ask her about her knee first, of course—how she's feeling, how mature of her it was to not play in the summer games despite having been just cleared, how frustrating it must be at the same time—and Paige nods along, answers honestly but lightly, keeping it easy the way people prefer. She jokes about listening to her body like she's some kind of enlightened monk instead of someone who cried in the shower the first time she was told to sit out. They laugh. She laughs.

They talk about the game, too, Nika's mom playfully scolding her for a couple sloppy turnovers, and Nika groans loud and dramatic, throwing her head back like she's been mortally wounded. Paige piles on, grinning, "You tryna set some kinda record or what?" Nika just whines again, shoving Paige's shoulder and saying, "Shut up, you're not even playing." Paige just bumps her back, laughing.

But even as she's smiling, nodding, chiming in at all the right moments, a part of Paige's attention is pulled taut somewhere else, a thread stretched too far. Her mind drifts back to the locker room, to Azzi's face just before Nika dragged her away. That look. Paige replays it in her brain, trying to pin it down, trying to understand it.

Azzi had been fine. More than fine—almost glowing, actually. Laughing, a little shy, shoulders tucked in that way she does when she's getting praised and doesn't know what to do with it. Paige had been equally as endeared as she was prideful, holding her close. And then something just changed.

Paige can still see it so clearly: Azzi's eyes going distant, unfocused, like she was looking at something Paige couldn't see. Her smile fading. The way her breath seemed to hitch, like her body had forgotten how to something as basic as breathing for a second. Paige has lived enough life, has spent enough time around Azzi, to know when something is off, even when no one's saying it out loud.

She was scared, maybe. Or overwhelmed. Or something else. Paige doesn't really know, which is enough to make her even more anxious, because, usually, with Azzi, she's got this sort of sixth sense, and she always seems to know what's going on with her.

She keeps nodding along to Nika's aunt praising the team, how Azzi was unstoppable out there, how they're really lucky to have her as a teammate. Paige agrees, of course. Sometimes it still hits her sideways, how much Azzi amazes her even now, even after all this time.

Eventually, though, the conversation winds down. There's a natural lull, people starting to check phones, shift their weight, glance around the gym like they're deciding what's next. Paige takes that opening.

"Hey," she says, smiling apologetically, already stepping back. "I'm gonna go check on somethin' real quick. I'll catch you guys later, yeah?"

They wave her off easily, smiling and saying their goodbyes. Paige returns it, though, as soon as she turns away, her expression softens, focus narrowing. Her feet carry her back toward the locker room without much conscious thought.

Halfway there, her name is called.

"Paige!"

She stops and turns, already knowing who it is before she sees them. Azzi's family approaches, Katie at the front, face open but searching in that way parents get when they're looking for their kid in a crowd.

"Hey," Paige greets. "What's up?"

"Have you seen Azzi?" Katie asks, glancing past Paige like she might magically appear behind her, which, truthfully, isn't even that far off, considering they've been basically attached at the hip the entire trip.

Paige shakes her head, brows lifting slightly. "Uh, she was in the locker room earlier. I was just about to go look for her."

Katie nods. "Okay. When you find her, can you bring her out here, please?"

"Yeah," Paige answers immediately. "Of course."

She nods, giving a quick smile, and then turns back toward the locker room, pace quickening just slightly. Her thoughts start crowding in, one on top of the other. Azzi doesn't usually daze off like that, doesn't usually leave her family hanging. Paige tries not to jump to any conclusions, but she does run through possibilities, scenarios that she doesn't necessarily like. Maybe she just needed a minute. Maybe she's overwhelmed. Paige isn't sure.

When Paige gets back to the locker room, there aren't many in there. It's mostly quiet, the hollow kind, the kind that makes her stomach dip just a little bit. Her eyes scan the room automatically—benches, lockers, half-open bags, Caroline, Aaliyah, and Ice—but Azzi isn't there. She knows that immediately, the absence loud to her in a way that probably wouldn't be for most people.

She turns in a slow circle anyway, like Azzi might materialize if she just looks hard enough, tucked into a corner she somehow missed. The locker room is small, cramped even, barely big enough for the team to change comfortably, let alone hide in. Azzi is definitely not here.

CD is right beside her, rummaging through her own bag, and Paige latches onto the first reasonable thing she can do with the unease starting to creep up her spine.

"Have you seen Azzi?" she asks, keeping her tone casual, as if this is just a normal question and not something that suddenly feels very important.

CD glances up briefly. "No," she says, then shrugs. "She might be with her family."

Paige nods, accepting it on the surface. She doesn't correct her, doesn't say that Azzi's mom was just asking for her, that she definitely isn't with them, that something feels off. Paige knows better than to invite scrutiny where it isn't necessary. CD has always been strict about wandering, about structure, about doing things the right way, and the last thing Paige wants is Azzi catching heat for disappearing when she clearly needed space.

"Okay," Paige says simply, already walking away.

She checks the bathroom next, pushing open each door with a quick knock. They're all empty, just fluorescent lights and the faint echo of running water somewhere in the building. She checks the hallway, craning her neck in both directions, heart picking up speed when she comes up empty again.

Paige exhales through her nose, frustration starting to gnaw. She runs a hand over her slicked hair, wishing it was down so she could run her fingers through it, maybe tug lightly at the ends to help her think. If she were Azzi—no, scratch that. If Azzi were Azzi, which she is, where would she go?

The answer gives her an idea almost immediately, settling in her chest with a certainty that makes her move before she can bother second-guessing it.

Paige pivots and heads for the door, her steps a brisk walk. The evening air hits her the second she pushes outside, cooler than inside but still soft, wrapping around her skin. It's dark now, and, for just a split second, Paige almost stops.

Because it's beautiful.

The gym sits tucked against the edge of the city, and from here she can see the sea stretched out in front of her, dark and endless, reflecting scattered lights from buildings and streetlamps like a spill of stars across the water. It's ridiculous, honestly, that something this breathtaking exists right outside a random gym they're playing in. Europe keeps doing this to her, surprising her when she least expects it.

But the beauty has hardly even registered before her eyes snag on a familiar shape in the distance. There—on the grass, a little ways away from the building.

Azzi.

She's sitting with her knees drawn up, elbows resting loosely on them, posture relaxed. It's enough to tell Paige she's not hurt or panicking. Relief floods her first, quick and sharp, loosening something tight in her rib cage. She starts walking toward her, calling out instinctively, "Azzi!"

Slowly, Azzi turns at the sound of her name.

And Paige stills.

She doesn't even realize she's stopped walking until her feet are already planted in the grass, the rest of the world seeming to fade into the background, blurring at the edges. The sea, the lights, the distant sound of the city—all of it becomes secondary to the girl right in front of her.

Because something is different.

Paige feels it before she fully understands it, if that's even possible, a visceral recognition that settles deep in her bone marrow, infecting her bloodstream, crowding her veins. Azzi's face is the same—same features, same curls braided back, same mouth she knows better than almost anything—but her eyes...

Her eyes aren't.

They aren't unfocused. They aren't searching.

They're steady.

They're full.

Those deep brown eyes meet Paige's without hesitation, without confusion, without that faint layer of distance that's been there for months now, ever since the accident. There's not a single speck of uncertainty, no delay, no subtle recalibration like Azzi is orienting herself to the moment. She just looks at Paige.

Paige's breath catches so suddenly it nearly makes her choke on air.

She knows those eyes.

She knows the weight in them, the depth, how they seem to hold too much at once. She knows the softness that doesn't come from innocence but from understanding and history. From memory that doesn't have gaps you can fall through.

Paige feels it before the tears actually spill—this blooming pressure behind her eyes, sharp and ready. Her chest feels too tight, too full, like there isn't enough room in her ribcage for everything that's happening all at once. Her voice barely works when she speaks, the word coming out softer than she intends, breaking in the middle.

"Azzi?" It comes out like a question now, rather than a calling like before.

Azzi doesn't answer right away. She just keeps looking at Paige, really looking at her, like she's taking inventory of every inch of her face, every tiny freckle, every little scar or line. The pause feels endless, but Paige doesn't move during it. She doesn't even breathe properly. She's terrified that if she does anything—if she blinks, if she shifts her weight, if she even exhales too hard—this moment will just vanish, will snap back into the fragile, blooming reality they've been living in. A reality not bad, a reality she's learned to adore, but—ultimately—one that doesn't compare.

Then, Azzi stands.

Her legs wobble just a little, like she's still finding her balance, and Paige's hands twitch at her sides, instinct screaming at her to step forward, to catch her, to steady her. But she doesn't. She lets Azzi come to her, lets her choose this, lets this be it.

Every step Azzi takes feels loud in Paige's ears, each one echoing with a memory rather than just a mere crunch of grass. Paige's eyes track her like she's afraid Azzi might disappear mid-stride. And when Azzi gets closer—close enough that Paige can see the tears gathering in her eyes, glassy and bright under the city lights—something in Paige finally gives.

She knows. She really, truly knows.

It isn't in a logical way; it's not like Azzi's even said anything yet. But she knows because this is what it feels like to be seen completely, because this is the look Azzi used to give her when the world narrowed down to just the two of them, when nothing else mattered. It's recognition, but more. It's coming home.

Azzi lifts her hand slowly, so careful, and cups Paige's face. Her palm is so warm, so smooth, despite constantly handling basketballs. Her thumb brushes along Paige's cheekbone, gentle, reverent, as if she's reminding herself Paige is real. She reaches up and smooths a baby hair that's slipped loose from Paige's bun, tucking it back with a tenderness that makes Paige's throat close instantly. Paige leans in, her cheek pressing into Azzi's hand, her eyes burning now, tears finally springing free and sliding down her face. She doesn't bother wiping them away; she wants Azzi to see all of it.

Azzi's expression is impossible to describe. She looks like she's seeing Paige for the first time—and also like she's seeing her after a very long absence. Like something lost has just been found and it hurts and heals at the same time. Paige watches as Azzi's lips tremble while they curve upward, a small, disbelieving smile breaking through her tears.

"Paige," Azzi whispers.

Hearing her name like that—said with so much certainty, so much knowing—nearly kills her. She nods helplessly, a sound tearing out of her chest that's halfway between a laugh and a sob.

And then: "I remember," Azzi murmurs.

Paige doesn't even register herself moving. One second, she's standing there, and the next, she's collapsing forward, the weight of months—of grief and restraint and endurance and patience and fear and sadness and longing and love—stabbing into her all at once. She sobs, full-body, ugly sobs, and Azzi catches her immediately, strong arms wrapping around her like they never left, like this is the most natural thing in the world because it is.

Paige buries her face into the familiar groove of Azzi's neck, breathing her in like oxygen. She's crying so hard her chest and shoulders ache with it, shaking, fingers clutching the back of Azzi's warm-up shirt. Azzi's crying, too—Paige can feel it, her breath stuttering, her arms tightening—but Paige is barely aware of anything beyond the overwhelming truth of it.

She has her back.

Not just the girl Azzi has been these past months, not just the new love that grew carefully and tentatively from the wreckage that was left behind—but all of her. The Azzi who remembers inside jokes and shared glances, late nights and long flights, the slow burn of friendship turned into something much, much more. The Azzi who loved her before, and the Azzi who loves her now.

Losing her had nearly destroyed Paige in ways she never fully admitted, even to herself. Learning how to love her again—watching Azzi learn to love her again—had been its own act of devotion in and of itself. But this, right here, is what she's needed, the universe finally snapping back into place.

"I love you," Paige cries into her neck, the words ripped from somewhere deep and entirely unguarded. "I love you so much."

Azzi pulls back just enough to look at her, hands sliding to cradle Paige’s face again, thumbs brushing away tears with aching care. Her own cheeks are wet, eyes shining, smile soft and sure and so painfully familiar. “I love you, too,” she murmurs, nodding, brows furrowing like she's trying to fight off more sobs. “So much, Paige.”

Paige kisses her then, every unsaid thing poured into the space between their mouths. Her lips tremble against Azzi’s, salty with tears, and Azzi kisses her like she’s anchoring both of them to the here and to the now, rather than to anywhere else because nothing else matters anymore. Paige lets out a shaky sound she didn’t know she was holding, her hands coming up to hold Azzi’s face, thumbs pressing gently into her jaw.

For a fleeting second, Paige’s mind flashes somewhere else—another night, another European country, another version of them. Minsk, Belarus. Teenagers sneaking away into the grass, the air cool and clear, water stretching out in front of them under the moonlight. That first kiss had been clumsy and breathless and terrifying, all nerves and wonder and the thrill of crossing a line you can’t uncross.

This kiss feels like that.

And also like everything that came after. Like years of growing up together, like heartbreak and patience and choosing each other again and again, like loss and return, like proof that some things are so real they survive anything.

This has. They did.

The shit is not just happening from fever fans like people like to claim either. It’s happening across the entire WNBA. Every time a player misses a game winner, turns the ball over, or costs somebody a parlay, the comments turn into a fucking cesspool dawg. Racist comments. Sexist comments. People calling players monkeys. Death threats. Slurs. It’s become so normalized that people just scroll past it like it’s part of the game.

C*thy Engelbert talks a lot about growing the league, but growth isn’t just about TV ratings and expansion 💀

And honestly if I wanna keep it a buck there also needs to be stronger moderation across official team and league pages. How is the league gonna promote building the players up and them getting recognition they deserve when they allow shit like this to happen