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Something seriously wrong with her (I love it)

this that girl who dropped forty last night???

i’m dead

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anything with uconn paige. i’m such a sucker for a good old fashioned tik tok live fic. where like reader and paige get clocked by the fans or there’s tension that kind of thing

it’s so cliche but so entertaining

"Kamorea In Your Head Next Time” Paige Bueckers x Girlfriend!Reader

The TikTok Live had been going strong for over 40 minutes.

Paige, KK, and Ice were posted up on the living room couch like they ran the app, lounging in sweatpants and hoodies, hair tied back, unbothered and unfiltered. The fans were eating it up.

“Okay okay,” Paige grinned, reading off the screen. “Who’s the funniest on the team?’”

“Sarah,” KK answered immediately. “But only when she’s not trying to be.”

Ice snorted. “She's got a natural talent for being annoying.”

The chat was flying:

“KK 😭” “Paige tell us your pregame playlist!!” “Ice got that deadpan humor, I’m crying 😂” “Can y’all add Azzi to the live???” “Paige blink twice if you’re dating someone 👀”

Paige smirked at that last one but said nothing, just sipped from her water bottle.

The energy was high. They had fans asking about everything from basketball to favorite gas station snacks. Then came a dare.

“KK, they want you to do the dance. Again.”

KK groaned. “Nah bro. That dance almost ended my career.”

“You still gotta redeem yourself,” Ice laughed.

“Let me rest, please,” KK begged dramatically, collapsing backward. “I need peace in this house.”

That’s when the door opened.

You stepped in quietly, bag slung over your shoulder, eyes widening just slightly when you saw KK’s phone propped up on the coffee table. Paige and the girls sitting shoulder to shoulder in full “live mode.”

You paused for half a second. Paige looked up from her screen and locked eyes with you. It was brief, barely noticeable — to anyone but her. Her whole demeanor softened for a split second before she quickly turned back to the screen, careful not to give herself away.

Without a word, you tiptoed to the second couch — the one just out of frame — and curled up with your phone. Still, Paige's attention started drifting.

And of course, the fans noticed.

“yo who just walked in??” “PAIGE YOU LOOKIN OFF CAMERA AGAIN 👀👀👀” “she smiling all soft??? who there” “i saw a SHADOW?? YALL SEE THAT?” “the way she changed when the door opened………” “SOMEONE’S IN LOVE LMFAOOO”

KK didn’t notice at first, too busy explaining how to use girl boo correctly. Ice was trying to catch her breath from laughing too hard.

But Paige?

Paige was distracted. Her eyes flicked to you every 5 seconds like clockwork, barely even pretending anymore. You were scrolling, earbuds in, but you could feel her gaze. A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t even need to look up to know.

“WHO SHE LOOKIN ATTTTTT” “LITERALLY STARING 😭” “REVEAL THE SECRET PERSON RN” “KK READ MY COMMENT—SOMEONE OFF SCREEN??” “not paige falling in love LIVE on LIVE 😭😭😭”

And then…

KK leaned in toward the screen, squinting. “What’s Paige staring at off cam—’”

THUD.

Two elbows. One from Ice. One from Paige. Right into KK’s ribs before she could finish the sentence.

“OW!” KK yelped, looking between them like she’d just been ambushed. “Why y’all hit me?! What was that?!”

Paige was shaking her head, trying to act normal while Ice was suddenly very interested in her water bottle.

“Kamorea read it in your head next time ,” Ice mumbled.

“I was just zoning out. Chill.”Paige added, cheeks visibly pink now. 

 “EXCUSE ME WHAT IS GOING ON” “THEY JUMPED HER SO FAST LMFAOOO” “SOMEONE’S HIDING SOMETHING 🔍👀” “SUS AF” “ICE AVOIDING EYE CONTACT I CAN’T 😭” “YALL GOTTA TELL US THE TRUTH” “IF PAIGE GOT A GIRL JUST SAY THAT 😭💀”

KK was still rubbing her ribs, scowling like a cartoon villain. “That was assault, and I will be taking legal action.”

“You’ll be fine,” Paige mumbled, unable to hide her grin as her eyes flicked toward you again.

And the fans? The fans were eating it up.

The moment the TikTok Live ended, the apartment fell into an almost comical silence.

KK was still clutching her ribs, swearing she’d never trust Paige or Ice again, while Ice had pulled her hoodie over her head and was trying not to laugh too loud. Paige, however, acted like it was just another chill night.

You took out your earbuds and looked at her with a sly grin. “So… zoning out, huh?”

Paige just smirked, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “Technically not a lie.”

KK groaned loudly. “Y’all owe me an apology and like, medical insurance.”

“You deserved it,” Ice said, eyes sparkling. “You almost outed them to thousands of people.”

“We were all reading the comments out loud!” KK shot back.

“Yeah but we read them in our head first!” Paige laughed.

KK huffed, pulling out her phone. “Guys... someone clipped that moment.”

Paige’s head snapped up. “What?”

KK turned the phone around to show a freshly posted TikTok. The video was a short loop of you entering the room, Paige’s soft smile when she caught sight of you, then the infamous double elbow to KK.

The caption read:

“Paige getting soft when someone walks in off-camera 👀 #WhoIsShe #ShadowGirl”

You snorted, covering your mouth to hide your grin. “No way.”

KK scrolled through the comments.

 “They caught Paige blushing!” “Who’s Shadow Girl??” “Bro ICE not making eye contact with the camera is killing me.” “Why’d they have to elbow my girl tho?” “We need another camera angle ASAP.”

Ice chuckled. “They’re not wrong about the elbow.”

Paige shook her head, but she was clearly amused. She pulled out her phone and quickly posted a new Instagram Story: a candid photo of the living room the phone propped up, and the couch empty except for a single shadow cast by the lamp.

No faces, no clues, just the shadow stretched across the carpet.

The caption was simple:

“Just a lamp and some shadows. Nothing else here. 🛋️✨ #ChillVibes”

KK snorted. “Gaslighting the entire internet with a lamp pic? That’s next level.”

You leaned into Paige. “You think you’re so funny.’”

Paige smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I am. And you love it.”

But the fans? They were relentless.

Later that night

Paige rested her head on your shoulder as you both scrolled through the flood of tweets, comments, and memes dedicated to “Shadow Girl.”

She nudged your side, smirking. “You’ve been named.”

You glanced at her phone and laughed.

 “Shadow Girl is the new MVP of this season.” “Paige’s mystery muse making TikTok melt.” “Can we get a Shadow Girl reveal before the playoffs?” “The way they’re hiding her only makes me want to know more.”

You grinned and whispered, “I’m more famous than you now.”

Paige kissed your temple. “Yeah yeah whatever pretty girl.”

“I love you.” you said softly.

She pulled you in closer. “I love you more.”

Outside, the internet buzzed with guesses and theories — but inside, under soft blankets and warm lights, the secret was safe.

For now.

END

Ok keep the requests coming!

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She’s Taking It Seriously?

part 2

Flirty Paige x Flustered Reader

Here bc goat dropped 44!

The second Paige leaned against your office doorframe with that same stupid smirk from media day—and a smoothie in hand, like this was casual—you knew you were in danger.

You didn’t look up from your screen. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“I’m preemptively declining whatever you’re about to say.”

She walked in anyway. Of course she did.

“That’s rude,” she said, flopping into the chair across from you like she paid rent for it. “I brought a peace offering.”

You glanced at the smoothie.

She pushed it toward you.

“It’s your usual. Strawberries, oat milk, no mango. Because I listen. And I care.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You eavesdrop. And you flirt.”

She gave a full grin. “Flirting is caring.”

You stared at her.

She stared right back, smug as ever. “So. Let’s go out.”

You blinked. “What?”

She leaned back, hands behind her head like this was just another shoot day. “Date. Me. You. Dinner. Maybe a walk. I tell a bunch of corny jokes. You pretend not to laugh but absolutely do.”

You blinked again. “No.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not how this is supposed to go.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not one of your highlight reels, Paige.”

She didn’t even flinch. “You are, though. Top 3, easy.”

You groaned into your palms. “You’re actually unbearable.”

“I’m adorable,” she said.

“Delusional.”

She grinned. “You’re still thinking about it, though.”

“I’m thinking about slamming my head into my desk.”

“Romantic,” she said dryly, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “C’mon. Just say yes. One date. If it sucks, I’ll never bring it up again. But it won’t suck. Because I’m charming. And hot. And an excellent conversationalist.”

You deadpanned. “You just referred to yourself as hot. Out loud.”

“Facts don’t care if they sound arrogant.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a dare?”

“Nope. This is me liking a girl and asking her out like a normal person. Well,” she smirked, “a hot person.”

You stared at her like you were waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out and yell punk’d.

She leaned even closer. “Still not a yes?”

“Absolutely not.”

“…A maybe?”

“Paige.”

“I could make you laugh right now.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re trying not to,” she said, grin spreading wider. “I can see it. That tiny twitch in your cheek. You’re holding it in like it’s a national security secret.”

You clenched your jaw. “You are so—”

“—irresistible?” she finished.

You threw a pen in her direction. She caught it one-handed, smug.

Then—out of nowhere—her whole posture shifted. A little less performative. A little more real.

“Okay,” she said, still playful, but a notch softer. “I get it. You’re not into cocky. That’s fine.”

You squinted at her. “You? Not cocky? Sure.”

She gave you a lopsided smile. “I can tone it down. For you.”

That did not help your heart rate.

She leaned forward again, but this time… slower. Sincere. Less game, more genuine.

“Look,” she said, voice lower now, “I like you. For real. You’re smart, funny—even when you’re grumpy—and you care way more than you let on. I notice that. I see you. And I wanna see more of you. Off the clock. If you’d let me.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

She smiled, just a little. “Still not laughing. But you’re definitely blushing.”

You slapped a hand over your cheek. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. You could at least consider it.”

You stared at her. At her ridiculous messy bun. At the stupid smoothie. At the annoyingly earnest look in her eyes.

And then—like an idiot—you exhaled.

“…Fine.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, for real?”

You glared. “One. Date.”

“Hell yes,” she grinned. “I’m gonna plan the best date of your life.”

“You are not allowed to gloat.”

“I’m already gloating.”

You pointed at her. “Paige.”

“God, I love when you say my name like that.”

You groaned.

She winked. “This is gonna be so fun.”

(Posted the next day on Wings IG story. Caption: the smoothest criminal.)

[Video: Paige walking into the gym holding two smoothies. One is clearly for you. She hands it offscreen. Then looks directly into the camera.]

“She said yes.”

[End Video]

 “Wait, YOU got a date with her?” Arike yelled from the bench.

“She folded.” Paige shrugs, smug as hell.

“I DIDN'T FOLD.” 

Arike cracks up. Paige just sips her smoothie like she won a championship.

END

Please STFU SHE IS THAT BITCH 44points.

I need that game burned into the back of my eyelids (-last 5 seconds)

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🤩🤩🤩

BRINGING TEARS TO MY EYES

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wings y'all gotta fucking lock in, cause if i was paige and i dropped 40 POINTS and it still ended in a loss, you would have to check me into a mental hospital

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85% shooting on 31 points 😭😭 MY GOAT

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can you do a fic for paige based off of “pools” by samia?? (the stripped version)

Leaving Connecticut Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Girlfriend Reader 

Song: Pools (stripped) - Samia

Theme: Bittersweet love, misaligned timing, choosing yourself, letting go with love

Paige always thought love would be the one thing that made sense. Even when everything else was shifting—teams, coaches, injuries, pressure—she believed you would be the constant. The part of her life that stayed soft.

She was wrong.

Or maybe she was right, and this is just what love looks like when it’s forced to stretch further than it knows how.

“I want you to come with me,” Paige said.

It was late April. Her WNBA dream was finally real. Her name had been called, her life was about to change, and all she could think about was how to take you with her.

You looked at her for a long time—too long—and Paige knew what was coming before you opened your mouth.

“I can’t,” you said.

She didn’t ask why. She could’ve. She could’ve begged for a different answer, listed off every reason the two of you would survive anywhere, together. But deep down, Paige already knew.

You had roots here. In Connecticut. A job. Family. A version of stability Paige had never been able to promise.

Still, she wanted you to say she was worth it.

But you didn’t. And you weren’t cruel about it. Just quiet.

And that might’ve hurt worse.

She remembers sitting next to you on the steps outside your apartment. Your legs were touching, but you felt so far away. She was drinking something she couldn’t taste, listening to crickets fill the silence between you.

She wanted to speak. Say something. Don’t let this be the end.But Paige had never been good at asking people to stay.

So she leaned into the quiet. Let you rest your head on her shoulder, like you hadn’t just turned her world sideways.

She didn’t cry.

Not that night.

~~~~

The last week in Connecticut was a strange, slow heartbreak.

You helped her pack. Folded her hoodies like you’d still see her wear them. Kissed her like it wasn’t ending. And Paige let you.

She let you tuck her hair behind her ear, let you slip your hand into hers while walking down the street, let you sleep in her arms like nothing was breaking.

But it was. It had been since the moment you said no.

~~~~

Driving away was the hardest part.

She didn’t even look in the rearview mirror.

Didn’t want the final image of you to be one where she was the one leaving.

She thought she’d be fine. Focused. She had waited for the WNBA her entire life.

But somewhere on the highway, Paige broke. It was silent—just her and the road and the echo of your voice in her head.

“I can’t.”

Three syllables. One undoing.

Sometimes now, on game days, Paige still looks for you in the crowd. Out of habit. Out of hope.

When she hits a shot and the arena roars, there’s a beat of silence in her chest. A moment where she forgets—just for a second—that you’re not here. That you stayed behind.

You’re probably walking past your favorite café, headphones in, hoodie pulled up, living your life the way you planned.

Paige wonders if you think about her too.

She doesn’t blame you. Not really.

Love isn’t always enough. Not when the timing's wrong. Not when the lives you’re building don’t point in the same direction.

You chose stillness. Paige chose movement.

Neither of you were wrong.

But god, it still hurts.

~~~~

“I still love her,” Paige admitted to her teammate one night, quiet in the locker room long after everyone else had gone home.

And it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a weakness. Just the truth.

A quiet kind of loyalty to something that once was.

Love doesn’t always ask you to hold on.

Sometimes, Paige realized, it asks you to let go—with grace. With grief. With open hands.

So she did.

And she still is.

~~~~

Hey,

I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. I don’t even know if I should. But tonight I played in front of twenty thousand people, hit a game-winner, and all I could think was:

You weren’t there.

Not in the crowd. Not in the texts after. Not in the hotel room where I dropped my bag and let the silence hit me like it always does.

And I just… miss you.

God, that feels so small to write. “I miss you.” Like those three words could ever carry the weight of everything I feel. Everything I left behind when I packed my things and didn’t look back.

Except I do. Look back, I mean. All the time.

I remember how you looked at me when I asked you to come with me. Like you were already grieving something. Like you loved me, but you were choosing yourself.

And I hated you for that—quietly, briefly. Not because you were wrong. But because I was selfish enough to want you to be.

I still think about that night on your steps. The way our legs touched, and how it felt like touching a ghost. You didn’t cry. I didn’t either. I think we were both too tired to fall apart.

I wish I could tell you I’m okay now.

I mean, in some ways I am. I'm living the dream. I get to play every night. I get to wear the jersey, lace up, hear the roar. I get to be the version of myself I’ve worked my whole life to become.

But there’s a part of me you still have.

Not in a dramatic way. Just… in that quiet, stubborn way that first loves tend to linger.

I think I’m writing this because I never really got to say goodbye. Not properly. Not the kind of goodbye that says: I understand. I still love you. But I’m letting you go now.

So here it is.

Goodbye.

I’ll always root for you. Even if I’m not the one you come home to.

-Paige

[she folded it, tucked it in a drawer, and never mailed it.]

END

Idk how I feel about this but I tried💛

[pbucketsblurbs]

can i request a super flirty!paige x easily flustered!reader, also i really love love LOVE your work

Take It Seriously, Bueckers. (...But Also, Please Stop Looking At Me Like That.)

I hope I did this justice!

You should’ve faked an illness.

The second Paige Bueckers strolled into the Wings media room with a Gatorade in one hand, that stupid smirk on her face, and her blonde hair tied in a messy bun—you knew this was a setup.

"Where do you want me, boss?" she asked, all lazy confidence as she spun a chair with her foot and flopped into it, legs spread way too casually.

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy mentally preparing yourself to survive this.

This was supposed to be simple. A quick “10 Questions with Paige Bueckers” segment. You’d already filmed one with Maddy and another with JJ. Easy. Done. Posted.

"Mic me up," she said, leaning forward, chin in hand. “Unless you’d rather just whisper the questions into my ear.”

Your hands paused mid-reach toward the mic pack.

“Paige.”

“Just trying to set the mood.”

“This is a Wings-sponsored Q&A, not a date night.”

She smirked. “Yet.”

You made a noise in the back of your throat that wasn’t human and stepped back like she was contagious.

“Alright,” you muttered, trying to sound normal, “today’s content is just a quick round of fan questions. Keep it light, short answers, and—please—don’t flirt with the camera.”

She smirked. “So it’s only okay if I flirt with you?”

You stared at her.

She stared back.

“…Cut,” you said, even though you hadn’t even started filming yet.

Paige just laughed again, like this was a game and she was winning.

And maybe she was.

You tapped record.

"Okay. ‘10 Questions with Paige Bueckers.’ Let’s go."

She gave the camera a smolder like she was filming a perfume ad. “Hit me.”

Question 1: Favorite teammate?

"Hard one. I’d say Arike, but she never passes me the aux,” Paige said, then turned to look directly at you. “So… probably our media girl. She makes me look good. And she blushes real easily.”

You choked on your spit.

“Excuse me—”

She held her hands up. “Just facts.”

“No, that is not—”

"You’re literally blushing right now."

You smacked your hand over your cheek. “That’s—because the lights are hot.”

“It’s LED lighting, babe.”

You moved to the next question, your voice higher than usual.

Question 2: Go-to hype song?

Paige tapped her chin, then pointed at you. “You remember that playlist you made for the team? You’ve got good taste, so any of those.”

You blinked. “How do you know I made it?”

“Because the title was ‘Wings But Make It Hot.’”

You physically turned away from her and muttered, “...I'm gonna quit.”

She grinned. “No you won't.”

Question 3: Pre-game ritual?

“I get taped, I pray, and I listen to music,” she said. Then added, “Sometimes I scroll through our social media. Gotta admire the work of my favorite content creator.”

“Paige.”

“What? I’m supporting the brand.”

You refused to look up. She was definitely smirking.

Question 4: Funniest teammate?

“Zaza,” she said. “But the funniest moments? When you trip over wires trying to avoid making eye contact with me.”

You clenched your clipboard.

“Next question.”

Question 5: Dream brand collab?

“Chipotle,” Paige said, finally giving you one clean answer—until she added: “Or Allure, so I can do one of those ‘Get Ready With Me’ featuring you sitting in my lap.”

You made an audible wheeze.

“Paige, what is wrong with you?!”

She just shrugged.

Question 6: Favorite W moment so far?

She actually went still for a second. “First home win. Packed crowd. Everyone standing.”

You eased a little.

Then she glanced at you.

“And you were on the baseline, smiling like it was your win. I remember that more than the final score.”

You immediately dropped your pen.

“Oh my God—”

“I’m just being honest!”

“You’re being insufferable!”

Question 7: Most embarrassing moment?

Paige laughed instantly. “I tripped going up the tunnel once and tried to play it off like I meant to. You caught it on camera, didn’t you?”

“I may have… saved the footage.”

She raised a brow. “For blackmail?”

“…For bloopers.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, not believing you for a second.

Question 8: Hidden talent?

She leaned forward again, voice low. “I’m really, really good at flustering pretty girls.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Paige—”

“What? You literally just backed up like I was going to kiss you.”

“I—You—Stop TALKING.”

Question 9: Three words to describe yourself?

She thought for a second.

Then said, slowly, “Talented. Clutch. Yours.”

You didn’t move.

The room went silent.

“…Nope.” You stood. “Nope nope nope. Go send Arike in. I need someone who can give me an actual video before I throw this mic into a wall.”

Paige blinked. “What I'm doing good!”

“I’m trying to do my job,” you snapped, flustered and furious. “And I get it, you think this is fun—but I’ve got sponsors on my back and deadlines and league guidelines to follow, and I can’t spend the rest of the day editing around your flirting just because you think it’s cute!”

She didn’t move.

You sighed, running your hands down your face. “Just—please. Go get Arike.”

A pause.

Then Paige stood.

But instead of leaving, she quietly sat back down, posture perfect.

“Run it again,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll answer them straight. No games.”

You hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, hit record.

And just like that—she was perfect.

Question 1 (redo): “Arike. Her energy’s wild but she’s always got your back.”

Question 2: “Marvin Sapp, or some Drake.”

Question 3: “Pray. Visualize. Lock in.”

Question 4: “Zaza. No contest.”

Question 5: “Chipotle.”

Question 6: “First home game win. That crowd…”

Question 7: “Tripped in the tunnel. Very humbling.”

Question 8: “I can rap, do impressions, and cook a mean breakfast sandwich.”

Question 9: “Focused. Grateful. Competitive.”

You stared at her, stunned.

She just looked at you like nothing happened.

Until the last one.

Question 10: Message for the fans?

She looked into the lens.

“Thank you for showing up for us. Every game. Every post. Every jersey sale. You make this matter. We see you. We feel it. And we play for you.”

A beat.

“And I know this might get edited out,” she added suddenly, gaze flicking off-camera—to you, “but if you think I’m gonna stop flirting with the cutest girl on this team just because she asked me to be serious for five minutes… she clearly doesn’t know me that well yet.”

You slammed the stop button on the camera. “Paige.”

She stood, grinning like she just hit a game-winner.

“Love when you say my name like that.”

You pressed your hands to your face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

And the worst part?

You didn’t.

Not even a little.

The End💛

[pbucketsblurbs]

The Great Baby Name Debate

Paige x Reader

Or: Why Paige Bueckers Should Not Be in Charge of Naming Children

You knew naming a baby would be hard. What you didn’t know is that it would feel like a hostage negotiation with a very tall, very dramatic basketball player who thinks “vibes” are more important than logic.

It all started with Apollo.

Paige was standing at the kitchen island, eating peanut butter straight from the jar like the civilized adult she is, when she said it.

“What if we name her Apollo?”

You paused mid-scroll on your baby names app. “What?”

“Apollo. It’s cool. Powerful. Unisex. Iconic.”

“She’s a baby, not a Greek god or a space shuttle.”

“But imagine her introducing herself. ‘Hi, I’m Apollo Bueckers.’ That’s instant college scholarship energy.”

“Paige. She hasn’t even been born yet. Let’s aim for ‘can hold her head up’ before we go for ‘icon status.’”

Paige grinned like you’d just proven her point. “Exactly! She’s destined for greatness. We can’t give her a basic name. It needs a punch. It needs sparkle. It needs—”

“Stability,” you deadpanned. “Maybe a few vowels. Ideally not the name of a firework.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, buzzkill. Fine. What about… Juniper?”

You blinked. “Really Paige?”

“The vibe. It’s fresh. Earthy. Kinda magical.”

“Kinda edible.”

“Kinda amazing,” she countered.

“Kinda sounds like she runs a boutique that sells handmade soaps and gluten-free dog treats.”

Paige gasped. “So you admit it’s entrepreneurial!”

You buried your face in your hands. “God help this child.”

She flopped onto the couch beside you, legs kicking up dramatically. “Okay, new one......Golden.”

You didn’t even look up. “Golden?”

“Golden.”

“As a first name?”

“Yes.”

“…Are we naming a baby or launching a skincare line?”

“It’s elegant. Radiant. Aspirational.”

“It’s a color, Paige.”

“It’s a lifestyle.”

You gave her a long, exhausted stare. “She’s going to be born bald, drooling, and screaming. Let’s not set her up to feel like a failure next to her own name.”

Paige pouted. “Ugh. You hate all my ideas.”

“I don’t hate them. I just don’t want our daughter to sound like she’s opening for an Elton John Concert.”

Silence. Then, as if she were casually suggesting pizza toppings, Paige said: “Okay then. Paige.”

You turned your whole body toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Paige. Junior.” She smiled, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world.

“Like… naming her after you?”

“Why not? Legends deserve legacies.”

You stared. “You want to clone yourself?”

“I mean, she’d be lucky,” Paige said, tossing her hair like she was already accepting an award on behalf of Paige Jr. “Tall. Athletic. Incredible taste.”

“You eat Pop-Tarts dipped in pickle juice.”

“It was experimental cuisine,” she said, totally unbothered.

You stood up, walked to the fridge, and pressed your forehead against it like it might offer divine intervention. “I swear to God, if you suggest naming her ‘Bucket’ next, I’m going into labor just to end this.”

“Okay, fine,” Paige laughed. “You name her, then.”

You turned around, arms crossed. “I want something normal. Sweet. Something that won’t get her bullied in preschool or mistaken for an energy drink.”

Paige smirked. “So... no to Golden Apollo Bueckers?”

“PAIGE.”

She collapsed in a fit of laughter, pulling you back onto the couch. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave.”

You let her pull you in, resting your head on her shoulder as your eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, everything was quiet. Peaceful.

“…What about Glitter?”

“Goodnight, Paige.”

~~~~

For 3 blessed months, there were no mentions of Apollo, Juniper, Golden, or the unholy ego-trip that was Paige Junior.

You were starting to think the storm had passed. Maybe—maybe—you’d survived.

Then you went into labor.

Twelve hours of contractions, two near-fights with a vending machine, and one surprisingly tender moment where Paige cried watching the baby monitor… and she was finally here.

A tiny, squirmy, pink-faced miracle.

Your daughter.

And suddenly, the name didn’t feel so hard.

You were exhausted, floating somewhere between bliss and sleep deprivation, cradling her in your arms when Paige walked over, eyes glassy with awe.

“She’s perfect,” she whispered.

“She really is.”

Paige sat beside you, gently brushing a tiny wisp of hair from the baby’s forehead. “Okay,” she said softly, “you were right.”

You blinked. “About what?”

“The name thing. It’s not about sparkle or ‘vibes.’ It’s about her. She deserves a name that’s hers. Something real.”

You smiled, warmed by the sincerity in her voice.

Then she leaned closer and whispered:

“…But just hear me out—Paige Jr. would absolutely dunk on kindergarteners.”

You turned your head slowly. “Paige.”

“She’d be unstoppable!”

“She’d be bullied!”

“She’d be feared!”

You stared at her. She stared back.

Your newborn daughter made a tiny grunting noise that, if you squinted, sounded vaguely like “stop her.”

You held up a hand. “One more joke name and I’m putting ‘Mildred’ on the birth certificate out of spite.”

Paige grinned and raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No more joke names. I promise.”

A pause.

Then quietly, as you both looked down at your daughter’s sleepy face, Paige asked: “What about Lana?”

You turned to her. “Wait... you like Lana?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s simple. Strong. A little old-school, a little modern. I don’t know—it just feels like her.”

You looked down at your daughter. And somehow, it clicked.

You didn’t need a name that broke the mold. You just needed one that felt like home.

“…Lana,” you repeated. “Yeah. I love it.”

Paige smiled wide, that rare, soft one she only saves for you. “Lana Bueckers.”

“Lana not-Junior Bueckers.”

Paige groaned. “Let it die, babe.”

Two Days Later At the hospital desk, the nurse handed you the birth certificate form. Paige, holding Lana in her arms, nodded for you to fill it out.

You wrote “Lana” carefully, smiling to yourself.

But when you handed the form back, something caught your eye.

Middle Name: Paige.

You turned slowly. “Really?”

“What?” she shrugged. “It flows!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You sneak your name in the middle and think I won’t notice?”

Paige grinned like the absolute menace she is. “Better than Glitter, right?”

You rolled your eyes—but didn’t cross it out.

Because damn it... maybe Paige was right.

Legends deserve legacies.

And Lana Paige Bueckers? Yeah. She sounded unstoppable.

~~~~

Lana was 15, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the attic, flipping through an old box of baby stuff. Her moms had asked her to find a photo album, but instead, buried beneath a stack of baby onesies and one of Paige’s long-retired UConn jerseys, she found it.

A folded-up, coffee-stained piece of paper labeled: "Baby Name Brainstorm 💫✨"

Curious—and deeply bored—she unfolded it.

And immediately regretted it.

THE LIST:

Apollo

Juniper

Zephyr

Golden

Rainy

Sparkle (???)

AuriEMMA  (crossed out angrily with a note: "Paige, stop testing me.")

Paige Jr. (underlined. Twice.)

Glitter

THUNDER (?? Paige wrote this one in all caps)

Crayon (with a sad face next to it?)

Moonbeam

Bucket

Lana stared at it like it might catch fire in her hands. Slowly, in horror, she stood up, climbed down the attic ladder, marched into the kitchen, and dropped the paper on the counter like it was classified evidence.

Paige, sitting on a stool munching cereal straight from the box, looked up.

Lana crossed her arms. “What. Is. This.”

Paige squinted at the list. “Oh, hey! The original name brainstorm. Vintage.”

“You wanted to name me Bucket?!”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me. First of all, I didn’t write all of those.”

“You underlined Paige Jr. twice.”

“And I stand by that,” Paige said, completely serious.

Lana pointed at the paper, nearly breathless. “Sparkle? Moonbeam? Thunder?!”

“Okay, Thunder was a joke. I think.” Paige paused. “...Maybe.”

Lana looked personally betrayed. “You wanted to name me like I was a weather event!”

“I was just spitballing,” Paige said, completely unfazed. “Creative process and all that.”

“No offense,” Lana said, dragging a hand down her face, “but Mom would never come up with something this stupid.”

Paige’s jaw dropped. “EXCUSE ME?”

“You wrote Crayon.”

“It was symbolic!”

“OF WHAT?!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Paige said, dramatically snatching the list off the counter. “You know what? I was brainstorming. Innovating. Pushing boundaries. You should be grateful.”

“For what? Not being named Auriemma?”

“AuriEMMA slaps, okay?” She says emphasizing Emma.

Lana blinked. “You are not okay.”

At that moment, your voice called from down the hall. “Is she yelling because she found the list?”

Lana spun around. “YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?!”

You walked in, trying not to laugh. “Honey, I threatened to name you Mildred just to keep her from writing ‘Bucket’ on your birth certificate.”

“You had no problem calling me Bucket in college,” Paige muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “She also thought naming a baby ‘Golden Apollo Paige Jr.’ sounded normal.”

Lana clutched her head. “I can’t believe you two were allowed to procreate.”

Paige stood tall, arms crossed, as if she was being disrespected on a national stage. “For the record? If we had gone with Sparkle, you'd probably have, like, 10 million Instagram followers by now.”

“And zero dignity,” Lana snapped.

You looked at her with a smirk. “You’re welcome.”

Lana shook her head. “I'm changing my name. First thing when I turn 18.”

Paige gasped. “What, and lose the legacy?! Lana Paige Bueckers is iconic!”

Lana turned to you. “Can I take your maiden name instead?”

You sipped your coffee smiling.

Paige crossed her arms. “Betrayal. In my own house.”

“You betrayed me first,” Lana snapped. “With Moonbeam.”

You smiled as they kept bickering, watching your daughter roast Paige like she’d been training for it. Which, honestly, she probably had.

And somewhere deep down, you knew this was exactly what would’ve happened if you’d let Paige name her “Paige Jr.”

END

This one won the poll! Hope you liked it.

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[pbucketsblurbs]

mmm i’m a sucker for sick!azzi x gentle!paige 🥹🥹

 Sick Days | Pazzi “Even on her worst days, Paige made her feel like home.”

A cozy, tender sick-day oneshot full of soup, forehead kisses, and the kind of love that heals everything. 400+ words

Azzi Fudd didn’t like being sick.

For someone as fierce and focused as her, the scratchy throat and constant fatigue were the worst kind of enemy. Today, she lay bundled under a soft blanket on the couch, her usually bright eyes dulled by exhaustion, cheeks flushed pink with fever.

Paige sat beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She’d been in full caregiver mode since Azzi’s voice had started to fade into a soft whisper. Her long fingers gently brushed damp hair back from Azzi’s forehead—the touch feather-light, but full of affection.

“Hey, baby,” Paige said softly, her voice a soothing melody in the quiet living room. “I made your favorite soup. Chicken noodle, warm—just how you like it.”

Azzi cracked a small smile, the corners of her lips twitching upward despite the misery. “You’re the best,” she murmured, voice hoarse.

Paige carefully helped her sit up a little, propping pillows behind her back so she wasn’t lying flat. She placed the steaming bowl in Azzi’s hands, watching her take a slow, tentative sip.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel like eating much,” Paige said gently. “Just try to keep something in you.”

Azzi nodded, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the warmth of the soup spread through her. Paige reached for the humidifier nearby and adjusted it, making sure the air stayed easy to breathe.

“I’ve got you, love,” Paige whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi’s hand found Paige’s, their fingers intertwining. It was a small connection—but it meant everything. The world felt softer. Safer. Wrapped in Paige’s care.

When Azzi’s cough returned, Paige was quick with the glass of water, cough drops, and a soft cloth to gently wipe her face.

“You’re doing great, babe. Just rest.”

Hours slipped by quietly.

Paige stayed close, occasionally reading aloud from the book Azzi was working through. Her presence was steady, comforting. When Azzi drifted off into a fevered sleep, Paige stayed awake—brushing stray hairs from her face and whispering little promises of strength, of healing, of love.

Later, when Azzi stirred awake, her eyes met Paige’s.

A surge of gratitude bloomed in her chest so deeply it almost hurt.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Azzi said softly.

Paige smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’ll never have to find out.”

Wrapped in the quiet warmth of that moment, Azzi knew— No matter how sick she felt, Paige’s love was the strongest medicine of all.

[pbucketsblurbs]

REQUESTS

PLEASE SEND ME REQUESTS. I WANT TO WRITE BUT HAVE LIKE ZERO IDEAS!!!!!!!!

[pbucketsblurbs]

Guys I have so many drafts I need to post which should I post.

[pbucketsblurbs]

Guys…………….

[pbucketsblurbs]

It's sort of rushed but I loved this idea!

 “Easy Now” Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader Rating: M (for language, suggestive content, and emotional themes) Vibes: sugar daddy vibes, emotional comfort, angst with fluff, protective Paige, supportive partner, mild spice.

Like 9k words  

Your third job ends at 2:06 a.m. The fluorescent lights of the gas station buzz like a swarm of flies overhead, and your manager tosses a distracted “See ya” your way without looking up from his phone. You mumble something back—words, maybe, or just a sound—and step into the muggy night with a sigh that’s half exhaustion, half defeat.

The bus isn’t coming for another 40 minutes, so you sink into the slumped bench out front, legs aching, back tight, mind fried. You dig into your backpack for your emergency snack—a crumpled vending machine Pop-Tart from three shifts ago. It's the brown sugar cinnamon kind. Not your favorite, but not the worst.

Halfway through the stale pastry, your stomach twists—not from hunger, but from the sudden, sharp realization that your ethics essay is due in five hours.

Again.

You squeeze your eyes shut and lean your head back against the grimy glass. Your phone’s at 12%. Your laptop charger is fraying so bad you have to tape it into a perfect angle just to get it to charge at all. Your shoes have holes in the soles, so your socks soak through when it rains, which it did today. And yesterday. And probably tomorrow too. And your bank account, last time you checked—around lunch, after skipping lunch—was sitting at a majestic $18.43.

Still, you whisper the same lie to yourself. The one you’ve been telling for months now.

If I just grind harder. If I don’t sleep. If I push through. It’ll be worth it.

You try to believe it. But lately, "worth it" sounds more like a question than an answer.

By the time the bus lumbers around the corner and groans to a stop, you’ve mapped out a blurry, caffeine-fueled plan. Get home. Plug in the cursed laptop. Bang out 2,000 barely-coherent words on ethics, referencing two articles you skimmed during a bathroom break. No citations, no proofread. Submit. Nap for maybe an hour. Get to class by 8 a.m. Pretend you're alive.

It’s a plan. A shitty one, but still a plan.

The driver gives you a look as you swipe your pass—part pity, part annoyance, like he's not sure if you’re going to puke, pass out, or both. You find a sticky seat in the back, pull your hood over your head, and pretend the ride is longer than seven stops.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Your apartment is more of a room. One window, no A/C, and a neighbor who practices saxophone at 4 a.m. like he's paid to keep people awake. You plug in your laptop—angle the charger just right—and hold your breath until the screen lights up.

You almost cry. Not because you’re grateful. Because it shouldn’t feel like a miracle.

You start typing.

You delete the first sentence five times.

Your head drops forward once, maybe twice. You blink, slap your own face lightly, and open another browser tab to search the article you were supposed to have read last week. The words blur together. Time slides by in quicksand.

You don’t even notice the sun creeping up through the blinds until the saxophone starts again.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t finish the essay. You submit what you have—barely over a thousand words and not even double-spaced. Your professor probably thinks you’re slacking, but you’re just drowning quieter than most.

You don’t have time to care. You toss on whatever doesn’t smell and grab your backpack, your laptop, and a protein bar you stole from the breakroom snack stash. Your legs feel like jelly and your spine aches like you’re eighty, but you make it to campus just in time to crash onto a bench outside the humanities building.

That’s where she sees you for the first time.

You don’t notice her, not yet. You’re too busy peeling the wrapper off the protein bar and trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes without smearing yesterday’s mascara across your face. You're too deep in your own head, calculating how many hours you need to work this week just to afford groceries and a bus pass.

But she notices you.

And in a few hours, everything is going to change.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The library café is half-asleep, and so are you.

The line is short—no surprise. It's barely 8 a.m., and most people with the luxury of sleep are still curled under blankets, not dragging themselves across campus in clothes that smell like fryer grease and regret.

You step up to the counter, fingers fumbling with your wallet.

“Medium coffee. No—large. Black. Whatever’s cheapest,” you mumble, eyes on the floor.

Your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. You hope they don’t hear it.

“Put her drink on mine.”

The words come from behind you, clear and easy.

You turn, blinking.

And your heart stutters in your chest.

Paige Bueckers.

You’d recognize her anywhere—hell, everyone on campus would. The golden girl of UConn basketball. NIL superstar. Face on every ad in the student union. Most people see her on screens. You’re seeing her in real time, standing three feet away in sweats and a messy bun, like it’s nothing.

She gives you a crooked smile. “You good?”

You’re not. Not even close.

But you nod anyway. “Thanks. I’ll—uh, I’ll Venmo you or something.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, like it’s no big deal.

Like she buys strangers coffee all the time.

You take your cup and retreat to a corner table, cheeks burning. Paige sits across the room with her AirPods in, half-scrolling, half-watching you when she thinks you won’t notice.

But you notice.

And for some reason, you don’t mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour passes.

You reread the same paragraph four times and still can’t tell if it makes sense. Your laptop keeps flashing a “Battery Low” warning. You left your charger at home because the frayed wire shocked you last night and you didn’t have time to tape it up again.

Everything is held together by duct tape and willpower.

You start packing up when a shadow moves beside you.

“Do you always look that tired?” Paige asks.

You almost laugh.

“Only on the days that end in Y.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Nice.”

You try not to look directly at her, like if you do, she’ll disappear—just another stress-induced hallucination. But she’s still there. Still real. Still watching you like she sees something no one else ever looks close enough to notice.

“What’s your major?” she asks.

“Communications,” you say, adjusting your strap. “Trying to be first-gen. Beat the system.”

Her smile fades just a little, more thoughtful now. “And how’s that going?”

You don’t mean to say it.

But it slips out, quiet as confession:

“I’m drowning.”

Paige doesn’t flinch. She just nods like she already knew.

“I figured,” she says. “You’ve got that look.”

You blink. “What look?”

“That barely-holding-it-together look. I’ve worn it before.”

You study her for a moment, unsure how someone like her—famous, successful, shiny—could ever understand what it’s like to feel like you’re barely surviving.

But there’s something in her eyes. Something that says don’t write me off just yet.

“Come on,” she says, nudging her head toward the exit. “Walk with me.”

You hesitate.

And then follow her out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The campus is still sleepy. The sun is just climbing up over the buildings, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Paige walks like she doesn’t have anywhere to be. You walk like you're not used to being noticed.

She asks a few easy questions—what classes you’re in, where you're from, how much sleep you didn't get last night. You answer them on autopilot, surprised at how easy she makes it to talk.

Then she stops walking.

Turns to face you.

“If you didn’t have to work three jobs, didn’t have to scrape by, didn’t have to stress about rent or tuition—what would you do?”

It sounds like a hypothetical.

But her voice is steady. Intentional.

You try to laugh, but it dies halfway out. “Sleep. Eat. Actually show up to class on time.”

She smiles softly. “And?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe figure out who I am. What I want. I’ve been surviving for so long, I haven’t had time to think about anything else.”

She nods. “What if I said I could help?”

You freeze. “Help how?”

Paige shrugs, hands in her hoodie pockets. “I’ve got NIL money. Endorsements, sponsorships, more than I need. I’ve been looking for a way to do something with it that actually matters. And you… seem like someone who matters.”

You blink. “You don’t even know me.”

She meets your gaze. “Not yet.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy with disbelief.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she says. “No strings. Just… let me take some of the weight off.”

Your heart is pounding. Your brain is screaming. You want to say no, out of instinct. Out of pride.

But she’s looking at you like you’re not a project.

Like you’re a person worth investing in.

You swallow.

“Why me?”

Her smile returns—softer, realer. “Because you remind me of who I was. Before all this.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you say the only thing that matters.

“Are you serious?”

She tilts her head.

“As a buzzer-beater.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts as “help.”

She Venmos you rent without asking. The notification hits your phone between classes, and you sit frozen on a bench outside the lecture hall, staring at the screen like it's in another language.

The amount covers the whole month. Plus a little extra. Just enough to breathe.

You don't respond right away. What do you even say?

You finally text her: You didn’t have to do that.

Her reply is almost instant: I wanted to.

You don’t argue. Not because you don’t want to—but because you’re too tired to fight something that feels like air after nearly drowning.

A few days later, a box shows up at your door. Inside: a new laptop. Sleek. Fast. Untouched by years of sticky keys and frustration. There’s a sticky note on the screen, written in loopy handwriting:

“No more charging cord gymnastics. You’ve got essays to kill.” – P

Then she pays off your past-due tuition fees.

You only find out when your student account balance magically drops to zero. You sit in the library for ten full minutes, refreshing the page over and over, convinced it’s a glitch. A miracle. A scam.

It’s none of those things.

It’s just her.

You keep waiting for the catch. The pressure. Some unspoken transaction hiding beneath her generosity.

But Paige never asks for anything.

She texts you good luck before every exam. Leaves your favorite snacks on your porch in a little paper bag, labeled with a Post-it: “For the girl who never sleeps.”

Sometimes she FaceTimes you at 1 a.m. when your brain won’t shut off. She listens, half-asleep, while you ramble about deadlines and imposter syndrome and how maybe this was a mistake—maybe she backed the wrong horse.

She never lets you spiral for long.

“You’re doing better than you think,” she’ll say, voice low and sure. “You just need someone in your corner.”

No one’s ever been in your corner before. Not like this.

~~~~~~~~~~~

People start to notice.

You don’t talk about her to anyone, but your professors raise eyebrows when your papers start coming in on time. When you show up to class rested, not just surviving. Your manager at one of your jobs asks if you picked up new hours—he hasn’t seen you around.

You shrug. “Cut back a little.”

You don’t say why.

You don’t tell them that your life has started folding into something new. Something quieter. Something that makes space for things like breathing, thinking, laughing.

You don’t tell them about Paige.

About the way she looks at you like you’re worth something—without conditions.

About the night she stood outside your building in the rain with an umbrella in one hand and soup in the other because you’d texted, I think I’m getting sick.

You don’t tell them that when you opened the door, she looked at you like you were hers already.

You’re not sure what this is. Friendship? Support? Something more?

~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re waiting in line for a coffee when you hear it.

Two girls behind you—communications majors, you think. You’ve seen them in class before. Always dressed in the latest fits, glossy lips, fresh nails. They’re talking too loudly, the way people do when they want to be overheard.

“She looks different lately.”

You freeze.

“New phone, new shoes. I swear she was wearing that same hoodie for like… six weeks straight last semester.”

You stare at the menu like you’re reading it for the first time.

One of them laughs. “Think she got a job that pays now?”

Then the other one—voice edged with something sharper: “Or a sugar daddy.”

Heat flashes up the back of your neck.

You stiffen, force a smile at the barista, and mumble your order like your mouth isn’t dry. You walk away before the coffee’s even ready, half-hoping it spills just so you can feel something real.

The words crawl into your head like worms and don’t leave.

Sugar daddy.

That’s not what this is.

You never asked for anything. Paige never demanded anything. There’s no exchange. No debt.

But still—

You’re different now. And people see it.

They notice your new laptop. Your textbooks. Your shoes with soles that don’t leak in the rain. You’ve stopped looking like you’re losing a fight with life. And apparently, that means someone must be paying for you.

You try to shake it off. Try to laugh at it.

But it follows you.

Into class.

Into the shower.

Into the silence of your room when the sun starts to set and your mind starts chewing on every word like it’s gospel.

You shouldn’t care what people think. You know that.

But when you look in the mirror, you’re not sure you recognize yourself anymore—and worse, you’re not sure if you earned any of this.

Or if Paige just gave it to you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You call her that night.

It rings twice.

“Hey, you,” she answers, casual and warm, like nothing’s wrong. “Everything okay?”

You hesitate.

“No,” you say. “Can we meet?”

She hears it in your voice—the shift. The storm.

“Yeah,” she says without missing a beat. “Come over.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Her apartment smells like fresh laundry and something citrusy.

You sit on the edge of her couch, spine straight, heart pounding. You feel like a fraud in your own skin.

She hands you a bottle of water. Doesn’t press.

“I’ve been hearing things,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “People are talking.”

She leans against the counter, watching you carefully. “What kind of things?”

You can’t look at her when you say it.

“That I’ve changed. That I’ve got… money now. A new life. And they’re saying—” You stop. Swallow hard.

She waits.

“That I have a sugar daddy.”

You say it like it burns on the way out.

Paige’s expression doesn’t change.

“I told them no,” you rush to add. “I denied it. Obviously. I mean, that’s not what this is. I didn’t mean to become… that.”

Paige grins, unbothered. “So what if I am?”

You blink. “What?”

She leans back, cool and confident. “Yeah. So what if I’m your sugar daddy?”

You stare. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I didn’t want to be that.”

She laughs, warm and genuine. “Why not?”

“Because people—”

“People will always talk. You know that. But here’s the thing: I choose to help you. You’re not some charity case or a project. I want to support you. I want to see you win.”

You’re silent, unsure how to respond.

“So yeah,” Paige says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “If being my sugar baby means you get to stop drowning and start living, then maybe that’s exactly what you need.”

Her eyes are bright and daring.

“And honestly? I don’t mind the title.”

You swallow hard.

“Why do you even care?”

She moves closer, voice soft but steady.

“Because you’re not just some ‘help’ to me. You’re you. And that’s worth every penny.”

You want to say it’s complicated. That you’re scared. That this isn’t what you planned.

But all you can do is look at her and wonder if maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what you need.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You're at her apartment one night, tucked into the plushest blanket you've ever touched, watching reruns of New Girl. Paige is in sweats, legs tangled with yours.

“You know you don’t have to keep helping me, right?” you whisper.

She looks over, frowns. “You think I’m doing this out of obligation?”

“I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to be some project.”

“You’re not.” Her voice drops, low and honest. “I’m doing this because I care about you.”

You bite your lip. “You care a lot.”

“I do.”

You look at her, unsure. “Are you flirting with me right now or am I just delusional?”

She smirks. “Little bit of both.”

And then she kisses you.

Soft. Sure. Her hand cupping your cheek like you’re something precious. Like you’re worth all of this and more.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up in her apartment wrapped in too much softness.

The blanket. The morning light. The sweatshirt Paige insisted you borrow. The steady rhythm of her breathing beside you, warm and sure and close enough to believe in.

It’s all so safe, it feels dangerous.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Last night, she kissed you like you were something precious. Held your face like it might shatter if she didn’t love it just right. Like you were something she chose.

This morning, she hands you a mug of coffee with half-lidded eyes and mumbles, “Still good?”

You nod.

But your heart’s already pounding.

Still good… for now.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, you’re curled on her couch with your feet tucked under her thighs and a comfort show playing in the background when she says it, like it’s just another thought:

“You should quit your jobs.”

You blink. “What?”

Paige looks over at you. Casual. Sincere. Too kind.

“The overnight one especially,” she says. “You don’t need it anymore. I’ve got you.”

You laugh under your breath. “It’s just part-time.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You come home at 2 a.m., sleep four hours, and then show up to class with caffeine in your veins and bruises under your eyes. That’s not part-time—that’s punishment.”

You go quiet.

She softens. “I’m not telling you what to do. I just—I know how hard you’ve been fighting. And if the only reason you’re still killing yourself is money…”

She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.

You nod. You smile. You lie.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll quit.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

But you don’t.

Because what if this doesn’t last?

What if Paige is just another chapter in the long list of people who decided you were too much work?

What if one morning she wakes up and realizes she gave too much and got too little?

You can’t let yourself fall with no net.

So you keep the job.

Just in case.

~~~~~~~~~~~

She finds out two weeks later.

It’s pouring.

You’re walking up to your building at 1:12 a.m., hair soaked, apron crumpled in your bag, the sting of fryer oil still clinging to your skin.

She’s already there.

Hood up. Arms crossed. Eyes hard.

“You didn’t quit.”

She doesn’t even say hi.

“Paige—”

“You said you would.” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts.

“I meant to. I just—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t lying, I just—” you falter. “I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t ready.”

“But you didn’t.” She laughs once, bitter. “Why? Was this just a game?”

“No. It wasn’t—” you step forward, hands raised. “I just… I needed to keep it. For now.”

“Why?”

You hesitate.

Then you say the thing you’re not supposed to say.

“In case you changed your mind.”

She goes still.

Dead still.

“You really think I’d do that.”

“I don’t know.” Your voice cracks. “Everyone always leaves. My mom, my dad—people only stay until they realize I’m too much, or not enough, or not worth it.”

“You think I’m everyone else?” she snaps.

“I think I don’t know how to trust that you’re not.”

Her face folds. Just a little.

And for the first time, she doesn’t reach for you.

She steps back.

Your silence says everything.

She breathes in sharp, looking away like she can’t believe this is happening.

“You know how much I care about you. I’ve shown you—over and over—and you still can’t believe I mean it.”

“I do believe you I… I’m trying,” you say, desperate. “I just… I don’t know how to let you.”

She laughs once, bitter and exhausted. “I can’t keep proving it to you every time you decide to test whether I’ll stay.”

And then she says the thing you didn’t expect.

“I need space.”

You freeze. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m gonna go home tonight,” she says. “We’ll regroup and talk tomorrow.”

She turns. Walks down the stairs.

And this time—she doesn’t look back.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t sleep that night.

You sit on your bed, lights off, hands shaking. Every breath hurts. You keep replaying her face—I need space. Her voice cracking. The ache in her eyes when you didn’t trust her again.

She left.

She finally left.

You knew it would happen. You knew.

So you do what you’ve always done when people give up:

You make it easy for them.

~~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, you pack it all up.

The clothes. The laptop. The coffee mug she said matched your eyes. The picture she framed of the two of you after her last game—still sitting on your nightstand.

You fold everything gently.

Like it still matters.

You write a check—your entire balance, barely over two hundred dollars—and tuck it in the bag with her name scrawled on an envelope.

You walk the three blocks to her apartment with your heart thudding like a funeral drum.

And you leave it all on her doorstep.

Then you turn and walk away.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It takes her less than an hour.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You jump out of your skin.

“Open the door!”

Your heart seizes. You already know who it is.

She’s not supposed to be here.

“I swear to God—if you don’t open this door—”

You unlock it slowly, hands trembling, guilt swallowing your voice.

Paige bursts in, soaked from the rain, hoodie dark with water, face wild.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You flinch. “I thought—”

“You thought I left, so you packed up all the shit I gave you like I was some mistake you needed to erase?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could’ve called me!”

“You said you needed space.”

“SPACE, not a breakup! Not a damn goodbye! You left a check like I was a one-woman GoFundMe—what the hell, baby?”

Tears well in your eyes. “I thought you were gone.”

Her voice softens for the first time. “Why?”

“Because that’s what people do.”

You shake your head, chest tight, throat burning.

“Everyone leaves. Eventually. They decide I’m too much. Or not enough. Or not worth staying for. So I just—I returned everything. So it wouldn’t hurt when you didn’t come back.”

You cover your mouth as your voice breaks. “I thought that’s what you were doing. Leaving. Like everyone else.”

She’s silent.

Then she crosses the room in two strides and wraps her arms around you so tightly you collapse against her.

“I was never leaving,” she whispers. “You just… wouldn’t let me stay.”

You sob into her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you say. Over and over. “I’m sorry.”

She just holds you tighter.

“You don’t have to earn this. I chose you. Let me keep choosing you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige shows up for you in ways that don’t make a scene.

It’s not about bouquets or big speeches. It’s her leaving a bag of peanut M&M’s in your hoodie pocket before a test. It’s making sure she walks you to the library, even if it’s out of her way. It’s her texting you a reminder to “drink water or I’ll lecture you like a dad at a softball game.”

It’s the way she sits through your favorite show—quiet, slow, the kind with characters that feel like home—and never asks why you like it. Just holds your legs in her lap and stays until you fall asleep on the couch.

You didn’t know someone could care about you in quiet ways. In steady ways.

You’d always learned love came with noise. That people left as fast as they arrived. That if you wanted to be worth staying for, you had to work for it.

Paige made it look easy.

Like loving you wasn’t a job. Like staying wasn’t a choice she had to keep making—but one she made gladly.

You let her in slowly.

Not because you don’t trust her—but because trusting someone like her feels dangerous.

She’s too kind. Too good.

Too here.

So you hold the most fragile parts of you back. Just in case.

Especially today.

It starts when you wake up already hollow.

The air feels heavy. The light too sharp.

It’s the same day it always is: the anniversary of your mom’s death. The first loss. The one that set the tone for all the others.

You don’t text Paige good morning like you usually do.

You don't get out of bed.

You lie there, staring at the wall, curled in on yourself like if you stay still enough, the grief won’t notice you’re awake.

But it always does.

It crawls in quietly. Wraps around your lungs. Makes the room feel smaller with every hour.

Your phone buzzes from the kitchen.

Paige: “Hey, beautiful. You sleep in? :)”

You don’t answer.

She texts again a little later.

Paige: “Everything okay?”

Still nothing.

By 3 p.m., she’s pacing her dorm room, calling you. It goes to voicemail.

By 5, she’s left three messages. They start casual. Then worried. Then tight.

By 6:30, she’s outside your building.

The door is unlocked.

Her heart sinks.

She hates that.

You’ve had a habit of leaving it open when you forget—too tired, too distracted. But Paige has warned you about it before, gently, worried. “It’s not safe, babe. Please. Lock it when I’m not there.”

She pushes it open slowly, calling your name.

“Baby?”

No answer.

Her voice echoes through the apartment, met only with silence.

She moves carefully. Your backpack is on the floor by the door. Jacket still hung up. Phone face-down on the counter, the screen lit up with unread messages.

Her chest tightens.

The bedroom door is ajar.

She nudges it open.

And then she sees you.

You’re curled up on your bed, facing the wall, knees pulled to your chest, your whole body shaking in tiny, helpless movements.

Your breaths are coming too fast. Too sharp.

You’re crying—but not the kind of crying that makes sound.

Just tears. Endless. Silent. Your chest barely rises under the weight of it all.

You don’t even notice her.

Paige goes still.

She’s seen you sad.

She’s never seen you like this.

She crosses the room carefully, kneels beside the bed.

“Hey,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

Still nothing.

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Don’t move at all.

You’re gone. Floating somewhere inside your own panic, lost in it.

She reaches out, but not to touch—just to let you see her if you can.

“Can you hear me?”

Still nothing.

So she tries again, softer:

“Baby, it’s me. You’re not alone.”

Your breathing shudders.

That’s the only response.

So she climbs into bed behind you, slowly, carefully, and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you back against her chest like she’s done it a hundred times—but this time, it’s different.

This time, you don't lean into it.

You stay rigid.

But you don’t pull away.

So she stays.

And holds you through it.

It takes nearly an hour before your body begins to calm.

The sobs slow. The shaking eases. Your breaths are uneven, but not panicked.

Then, barely audible:

“I didn’t want you to see this.”

Her eyes sting.

“I’m glad I’m here,” she says, voice cracking.

You still don’t turn to face her.

“It was today,” you whisper. “Ten years ago……when my mom died.”

Paige closes her eyes.

“I didn’t know.”

You nod, just once.

“She was the first person who ever left me,” you say, voice flat. “And after that… it was like everyone else just followed. Like it opened the door for it.”

Silence.

“I thought if I ignored it, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Paige presses her forehead gently to the back of your neck.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I didn’t want to lose you, too.”

You finally turn your head—just enough to see her eyes.

Raw. Red.

Still there.

Still yours.

“I locked the door after her,” you whisper. “And no one ever knocked. Nobody tried to open the door. They just… they left.”

Paige reaches up, touches your face so carefully it makes you cry again.

“I’ll knock,” she says softly. “Every damn day, if that’s what it takes.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time since you woke up, you breathe.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night the air is still thick.

Not with panic anymore—but with exhaustion. That hollow, aching tired that sits in your bones after your body has cried too hard, too long.

You don’t say much.

Neither does Paige.

She doesn't need to.

She just lies there behind you, one arm still around your waist, her thumb brushing softly over your shirt like she’s reminding you, You’re here. I’m here. Still breathing.

Eventually, she speaks. Barely above a whisper.

“You wanna take a shower?”

You hesitate.

Everything feels… too much.

But also… not enough.

You nod.

She doesn’t let go for a few seconds. Just holds you a little tighter, like the decision alone meant something big. And it does.

When she finally gets up, she moves around your room gently, like she doesn’t want to startle anything. She grabs a hoodie for you. One of hers. A big, soft gray one she knows you love. Then she takes your hand, and you follow her—barefoot, wordless—into the bathroom.

The light is dim. The mirror fogs slowly as the water warms.

You sit on the edge of the tub while she tests the temperature. When she turns back around, her eyes are on you, steady but soft.

“Want me to help?”

You nod.

Your voice still won’t work.

She doesn’t make it a thing.

Just helps you peel off your clothes with careful fingers and a gentleness that makes your chest ache. No rush. No judgment. Just… patience.

When you step into the water, she follows.

She washes your hair first.

You stand still as her fingers thread through the strands—slow, grounding motions, like she’s untangling more than knots.

Your eyes close. You lean into it.

She soaps your back next. Then your arms. Then just holds you under the stream until your breathing evens again.

Afterward, she dries you off like you might break.

You let her.

You let her dry your hair, too—laughably careful, like she thinks you’ll crack open if she pulls too hard.

You’re quiet the whole time.

But she never asks for more.

She just keeps offering the kind of care you’ve never had to receive before.

She dresses you in her hoodie and thick socks.

Then leads you to the kitchen with a hand on your back.

The silence stretches between you like something sacred—not awkward, just… soft.

She makes toast. Nothing fancy. Just bread and butter. She places it in front of you with a glass of orange juice.

You don’t touch it for a while.

But eventually, your fingers move. You take a bite. Then another.

And Paige smiles, barely, like it’s a win.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When she sits beside you on the couch later, you lean into her without thinking.

You curl your legs under you and rest your head on her shoulder. Her arm loops around you instantly.

Still no words.

But her hand moves across your back in slow, warm circles.

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t have to.

She already knows.

When your eyelids are heavy again, and your heart feels just a little less sharp—you whisper something into the space between you.

“She was soft. My mom. Like you.”

Paige doesn’t speak.

She just pulls you closer.

And when you fall asleep on her chest, safe for the first time all day, her heartbeat under your cheek is steady, strong.

Still here.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Things get… complicated.

Not between you and Paige—not really.

Things with her are still steady. Still soft.

But outside of the bubble you’ve both carefully built? That’s where things start to buzz.

Whispers. Looks. Screenshots.

You’d been careful, at first. You weren’t exactly hiding, but you weren’t making out at half court either. Just little things—fingers brushed under tables, late-night walks, her hoodie in your laundry pile, the way she always, always texts goodnight.

But then there were the photos.

One of her holding your hand on campus.

Another from across a café—her sitting too close, looking at you like you hung the moon.

The internet did what the internet does.

And suddenly, you weren’t just nobody anymore.

You were… someone Paige Bueckers was touching.

And people had things to say about that.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is that Paige’s girlfriend?” You hear it in the student center.

A whisper, not even directed at you.

You freeze mid-step. You weren’t even holding her hand, just walking next to her—close, but not obvious.

Your stomach flips.

Your face goes hot.

Paige hears it too.

And without missing a beat, she wraps her arm around your waist and pulls you into her side like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Then she leans down and presses a kiss to your temple—soft, slow, deliberate.

You go still.

She feels it.

Whispers become stares.

And then she says, low in your ear, “Let them talk.”

You manage to breathe out, “They are.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are calm. Steady.

“They can talk all they want. I don’t care.”

You want to ask if she’s sure.

You want to say, But I’m not like them. I’m not shiny or easy or press-ready.

But then she slips her fingers through yours and gives your hand a squeeze, like she already knows everything you’re about to spiral over.

And she answers it anyway.

“You’re mine. They can know that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

But later that night, you sit on her bed and ask her anyway.

“Are you sure?”

Paige looks up from where she’s scrolling. “About what?”

“Me. Us. All of it being… public.”

Her expression softens.

She puts her phone down. Moves closer.

“I was sure the second you fell asleep on me in that stupid study room. You remember that?”

You blink. “Barely.”

“You were curled up in your hoodie like a little burrito. You drooled on my notebook.”

You groan.

She laughs.

“I looked at you, and I knew. I didn’t want to do any of this without you.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then, “It’s just… I’ve never been something people watched before.”

“You’re not something,” she says, threading her fingers through yours again. “You’re someone. And if they’re watching, I hope they’re jealous.”

You smile.

Small. Shy.

But it’s there.

And Paige sees it.

She leans in, presses her forehead to yours.

“They can talk,” she whispers. “As long as they know you’re loved.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts in the bathroom.

Of all places.

You weren’t even meant to hear it.

You were just washing your hands in the campus coffee shop, minding your own business, when two girls walk in mid-conversation—loud, careless, like the door closed behind them was soundproof.

“She’s just some nobody. You’ve seen her, right? She’s not even cute like that.”

You freeze.

Your stomach drops.

You don’t want to believe they’re talking about you.

But then:

“Paige could literally have anyone. It’s kind of embarrassing, honestly. Like, is she doing charity work now?”

Your heart pounds.

You try to move.

Try to breathe.

But you’re frozen in place, staring at your own reflection like maybe it’ll soften the blow.

It doesn’t.

There’s laughter.

Another voice adds, “I mean, she’s probably just trauma-bonding or something. She has that savior complex.”

You shove the door open and walk out without looking at them.

You don’t make a sound.

But your chest is splitting open.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You try to pretend you’re fine.

You text Paige back like normal.

You show up to class like your skin isn’t crawling.

You even smile when she finds you after her practice and kisses your cheek in public—something you usually can’t get enough of.

But today, it stings.

Because now all you hear is charity.

Pity.

She could have anyone.

And all she chose was you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige notices before you even say a word.

She always does.

“You good?” she asks in the locker room hallway, towel slung around her neck, eyes scanning your face.

You nod too quickly.

She tilts her head. “You’re lying.”

You look away. “I’m tired.”

She accepts it for now.

But her eyes stay sharp.

Watching.

Worried.

Waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It explodes the next day.

You don’t know Paige is even there.

You’re outside the library with your headphones in, pretending to study, when the same girls from the bathroom sit at the table behind you. You try to ignore them.

Until one of them says—loud, clear, cruel:

“Honestly, I’d give it another month before Paige comes to her senses. She’ll drop her like all the others. Just a phase.”

Before you can even blink, Paige is there.

She doesn’t yell.

Not at first.

But her voice slices through the air like glass.

“Say it again.”

The girl turns, startled. Laughs, trying to play it off. “Whoa, hey. We were just—”

“I heard you.” Paige steps forward, jaw clenched. “Say it again.”

No one speaks.

Paige looks at the girl dead in the eyes. “You think you get to talk about her like that? Like she’s disposable? Like she’s not the best thing that’s ever happened to me?”

You don’t know when you stood up.

Or when your heart started pounding louder than the words.

But Paige keeps going.

“I don’t care what you think about me. But if you come for her again, I swear to God, I will make sure you remember what it feels like to be embarrassed.”

Silence.

Total, stunned silence.

Then Paige turns to you.

Still furious.

But her face softens the second her eyes find yours.

“You good?”

You nod.

Tears brimming.

Voice gone.

But you nod.

She slides a hand into yours like it's instinct. Like she’s grounding both of you.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.”

And this time, she kisses you not just on the cheek—but on the mouth. Right there in front of them.

Firm. Intentional.

Loud.

~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, curled up in her bed, your voice finally cracks open.

“I heard them in the bathroom yesterday.”

She stills.

You go on, barely audible.

“They said I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t cute enough. That you were doing charity.”

She exhales. Long. Sharp.

And then she pulls you into her chest like she’s trying to absorb the damage.

“You are so much more than enough.”

Your fingers fist in her shirt.

“I’m scared you’ll believe them one day.”

“I won’t,” she whispers. “I swear to God, I won’t.”

You let yourself cry, finally.

And Paige lets herself hold you.

All night.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You come home to three bags on your bed.

Not grocery bags. Not school stuff.

Designer. Heavy. Ridiculous.

A pale pink one with your favorite brand’s logo stitched in gold. A black garment bag that screams custom. And a smaller box—white, ribbon-tied, taunting.

You stare at them like they might explode.

Then Paige walks out of your bathroom, holding her spare toothbrush like she lives here.

“Oh, good. You’re home.” She smiles. Casual. Like it’s not a crime scene of wealth behind her. “I was so glad I beat you here.”

You just blink. “What is all that?”

She shrugs, tucks her toothbrush into the holder. “Stuff.”

“Paige.”

“Okay.” She grins. “Presents.”

You eye the bags. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” She walks over, already proud of herself. “You mentioned like three weeks ago that your coat had a rip. And last Tuesday you said your headphones were dying. And you were staring real hard at that perfume in Sephora.”

You blink again. “I… don’t even remember saying that.”

She shrugs. “I do.”

You open the first bag. There’s a new coat inside. Not just any coat—thick, warm, beautiful. The kind of coat people stop and notice. You run your hand across the fabric like you’re not sure it’s real.

The box holds noise-cancelling headphones—sleek and shiny. The tag on the perfume says To my favorite scent.

You look up at her, stunned. “This is so unnecessary.”

She leans against the wall and watches you unwrap your disbelief. “Maybe. But I’m leaving for an away game tomorrow. And I didn’t want you to forget how much I care about you while I’m gone.”

Your chest tightens.

“It’s just the weekend. That’s not gonna happen.”

She pushes off the wall, walks toward you slowly. “I know. But just in case, I wanted to stack the odds.”

You laugh, soft. A little overwhelmed. “You really don’t have to do all this.”

“Maybe not. But I want to.”

You sink onto the bed, half buried in tissue paper and excess.

Paige sits beside you, gently pulls your legs over hers. “Let me spoil you a little.”

You look at her. “What if I don’t deserve it?”

She cups your cheek. “You do princess.”

You lean into her touch.

And for once, you don’t try to downplay the warmth in your chest. You don’t apologize for the tears behind your eyes.

You just let yourself be loved.

Big. Loud. Soft.

Like you're something worth celebrating.

Because to her—you are.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige has been gone for twelve hours.

You made it six before it got stupid.

At first, it was just wearing the coat around the apartment. Because, obviously, it’s the nicest thing you own and kind of makes you feel like the mysterious heiress in a murder mystery.

Then came the headphones. You turned them on without playing music just to pretend you were too important to be interrupted.

Then the perfume. Then the boots.

Then, for no reason at all, you pulled out the designer shopping bags, stuffed your throw pillows inside them like luxury loot, and staged a full photoshoot on your phone.

You’re wearing all the things at once—coat, headphones, boots, sunglasses Paige left at your place, and a hoodie of hers that nearly swallows you whole. You set a self-timer, perch on your couch like you own 42% of Manhattan, and caption it:

you: “just a humble student 🧍‍♀️”

You send her six photos in a row.

Then one more.

Then a video where you say in your most serious fake-wealth voice: “Miss Bueckers, your card did not decline. And now I fear I’ve become a problem.”

Paige, 4 minutes later: 📸💀 STOP. I’m literally in film. Paige: Also you look hot. Paige: Don’t wear that outside. Someone might fall in love with you and then I’ll have to fight. Paige: Actually, no. Do. I want them to know what they’ll never have.

Meanwhile, in the team van, her phone won’t stop buzzing.

Azzi leans over. “Your girl again?”

Paige glances at the screen, already smiling. “Always.”

KK grins. “You’ve got that ‘I’d marry her right now if I could’ look.”

“She sent me a video where she pretends to be rich and dangerous. She’s wearing the coat, the boots, and my sunglasses. She looks like she eats husbands for breakfast.”

Ice: “Send it. I want to see this chaos.”

Paige does.

Azzi scrolls through the pictures, laughing. “She’s literally insane. I love her.”

Nika tilts her head. “Is this the one who cried over your pasta last week?”

Paige’s face softens immediately. “Yeah. That’s her.”

Azzi whistles. “Whipped.”

Paige shrugs. “Proudly.”

KK reaches for her phone. “I’m changing her name in the group chat to Paige’s Problem.”

Paige doesn't even argue.

She just sets one of the photos as her lock screen and says, dead serious:

“She’s gonna freak when she sees this.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at your apartment, you’re halfway through reapplying perfume for no reason when your phone buzzes again.

A screenshot.

Paige’s lock screen.

It’s you—wearing everything, draped across your couch like you own the world.

Paige: You’re the background now. I miss you so much it’s unholy. Stay hot until I’m home. Then we’ll talk about how spoiled you really are.

You laugh, biting your lip.

Then you send back: “Can’t wait. Bring snacks.” And a picture of your pouty face with her sunglasses slipping down your nose.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The FaceTime rings at 10:42 PM.

You answer on the second ring, already smiling.

Paige is in her hotel bed, hair still damp from her post-game shower, wearing the gray hoodie you definitely stole first. The screen is angled low enough that you can see the soft sheets, the warm lamplight, her bare legs tangled in the comforter.

“Hey,” she says, voice low and warm. “Miss me yet?”

You roll onto your stomach, chin in your hands. “Mm… a little.”

She smiles. “Liar.”

You smile back. “Okay. A lot.”

She leans into the camera, tilting her head. “You wearing that hoodie I like?”

You raise an eyebrow. “The one you ‘accidentally’ left here?”

“I leave things with intention.”

You grin. “So you can claim me?”

She hums. “So I can undress you later.”

Your breath catches.

There it is.

The shift.

Her voice, her gaze, the heat under your skin.

“You’re not playing fair,” you murmur.

“I’m not playing at all,” she says, mouth tilted just enough to make your stomach flip. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

You try to play it cool. “Yeah?”

She nods, slow. “That video you sent me? Of you in my sunglasses? I haven’t recovered.”

You smirk, already warm. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Painfully.”

Her voice drops a little further.

“I’d be kissing you right now if I were there. Probably more than that.”

Your breath hitches.

“Paige…”

She’s about to say something else—something that sounds like trouble—when the hotel room door swings open.

“BROOOO—”

You jump.

She groans.

Suddenly KK’s voice is in your ear, loud and dramatic: “NOT YOU TRYNA SEXT IN 720p.”

The screen jostles as Paige throws a pillow at KK, but it’s too late. KK dives onto the bed, grabs the phone mid-squeal, and flips the camera.

“Hi!!” KK beams. “You’re way cuter than her pictures.”

You laugh, caught between flustered and flattered. “Thank you? I think?”

“She was literally whispering sweet nothings like we couldn’t hear her through the thin-ass walls.” KK tosses her braids back and gives you a knowing look. “She’s down bad.”

In the background, Nika yells, “Tell her we had to do push-ups because Paige missed a free throw thinking about her girlfriend!”

Azzi’s voice joins in: “Ask her who she was texting during film! I dare her!”

Paige reappears in the corner of the screen, red-faced, trying to wrestle the phone back. “Okay—okay! You’ve had your fun!”

KK dodges her with a laugh. “She put you as her lock screen, you know? Like a simp.”

Paige finally grabs the phone, wild-eyed, and you see her teammates falling dramatically onto the other bed behind her.

She looks into the camera, flustered. “You weren’t supposed to see any of that.”

You grin. “But I’m glad I did.”

She sighs, dramatic. “This is cyberbullying.”

“You were whispering about undressing me, Paige. In a shared room.”

“Exactly.” She deadpans. “Shared. Unreliable.”

You bite your lip to hide the smirk. “So, what I’m hearing is… next time, book a single.”

Paige’s eyes darken just a little. “Next time, you’re coming with me.”

You flush.

She winks.

From the other bed, KK groans loudly. “CAN Y’ALL FLIRT IN PRIVATE?”

Paige yells back, “GET OUT OF MY ROOM.”

You laugh until your stomach hurts.

She’s embarrassed. You’re giddy. And when she finally settles down again, earbuds in, lights dimmed, you stay on FaceTime until one of you falls asleep.

(Later, you wake to find she screenshotted your sleepy face. Set that as her new lock screen, too.)

~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve been planning this since she left.

Paige’s back tonight.

Her flight lands late, but you’re already at her apartment hours before, armed with flowers, fairy lights, and enough ingredients to make her favorite dinner from scratch.

The place feels different somehow—more yours now.

The living room is sprinkled with fresh flowers and the soft glow of candles flickers against the walls.

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you hear the door unlock.

Paige walks in, tired but glowing, her travel bag slung over one shoulder.

Her eyes widen when she steps inside.

“You did all this?”

You shrug, cheeks warm. “Thought you deserved it.”

She pulls you into a tight hug, breath catching against your hair. “I’ve missed you so much love.”

Later, the two of you sit at the table, sharing food and quiet stories. The world outside fades until it’s just your soft laughter and the clink of dishes.

When you finish, you start clearing the table, and Paige watches you, eyes dark and full of something unreadable.

“God I can’t believe you're mine,” she says.

You glance over, smiling. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

The night deepens, and soon you’re getting ready for bed.

You slip into the bathroom to freshen up.

Paige waits outside, casually scrolling through her phone, but the moment the bathroom door opens and you step out—wearing a delicate black lace set that hugs your curves just right—her eyes darken, and she bites her lip.

“Baby are you tryna kill me,” she murmurs, voice low and thick with desire.

You feel the heat pool in your stomach, cheeks flushing as you meet her gaze.

She moves closer, hands sliding around your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse spike.

Her breath brushes your ear as she whispers, “Need you so bad pretty girl.”

You grin, voice teasing, “Is that so? Did you miss me that much?”

Her lips curve into a slow, sultry smile. “More than you know.”

Her mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s slow, teasing, then suddenly urgent—her hands roaming lower, fingers tracing along your hips, then down to your ass.

You respond in kind, hands sliding up under the thin fabric, skin warm beneath your touch.

She pulls back just enough to flash a mischievous grin.

“Trying to get me distracted?”

You groan softly, breath catching. “Mm just wanna feel you.”

Her fingers curl into your hair, tugging gently as she deepens the kiss again, heat sparking wherever you touch.

You press closer, hips nudging, breath mingling, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Paige’s hands wander—across your sides, down your thighs, lingering on places that make your breath hitch.

You bite your lip, heart pounding, begging, “Please I need you.”

She chuckles low, voice husky. “Mmm I know mama.”

Your fingers tangle in her hair as her lips find your collarbone, nipping and sucking softly.

You tilt your head back, letting the sensation wash over you, caught in the perfect storm of touch and heat.

Paige pulls back, eyes dark and shining, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

“Get on the bed for me sweetheart,” she breathes.

The night hums with promise as you melt into each other—teasing, and losing yourselves in a tangle of whispered secrets, moaning into each other's touches, and breathless kisses.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunlight filters through the curtains, warming the room as you slowly wake up—only to realize your clothes are nowhere to be found.

You sit up, scanning the room, but it’s like they’ve vanished.

Panicking slightly, you look over at Paige, who’s still half-asleep, sprawled out beside you with a lazy smile.

“Uh?” you whisper, voice sheepish. “Can you grab my clothes?”

She blinks slowly, then smirks. “I don’t know mama you look perfectly fine to me?”

You groan, “PAIGE!” 

Paige stretches and sits up, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Honestly, I don’t mind. You’re pretty cute in just the sheets.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help smiling. “Baby seriously.”

She laughs, stands, and rummages through her closet.

“Here—borrow my hoodie and these,” she says, tossing you an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of her boxers. Climbing back in next to you.

You pull them on, feeling cozy and ridiculously comfortable, though a little amused.

Paige watches you, grinning. “See? I take good care of you.”

You grin back, leaning into her. “I guess this means I get to stay longer.”

Her arms wrap around you, and she whispers, “Good. Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige spoils you, sure.

Not just with the obvious stuff—expensive dinners at places you’d never thought you’d step foot in, jewelry that catches the light just right, and that spontaneous weekend getaway to Miami because, in her words, “You looked like you needed sun and saltwater.”

You still can’t believe she whisked you away like that, just because you’d had a terrible week.

But the real luxury isn’t the designer bags or the surprise roses delivered to your door. It’s how Paige listens.

She remembers the little things—the exact way you like your tea when you’re sick, the song that always calms your anxiety, the way you curl up when the weight of everything gets too much.

She’s there on your worst days, wrapping you up in her arms, holding you without needing you to say a word.

And she fights—oh, does she fight.

When some idiot in your Communications class has the nerve to whisper “gold digger” loud enough for half the room to hear, Paige doesn’t hesitate.

“I chose her,” Paige snaps, jaw tight. “So either say it to my face, or shut the hell up.”

The room goes silent, the guy swallowing hard before mumbling an apology.

It’s not all about the money, you know that now.

It’s about respect.

And love.

The End

Request for anyone writing for Paige Bueckers rn:

Sugar momma type deal where the reader is struggling, working multiple jobs trying to afford college and failing to keep up with school work and one day she meets Paige who surprises herself by offering to support you through college on her NIL money after one conversation and their romance blossoms from there. Maybe some spice, maybe some protective Paige, maybe some sappy love?

@uncuredturkeybacon @bueckersbitxh @ihrtpaige, yall are some of my favorites if you’re looking for something to write but no pressure and feel free to ignore this

[pbucketsblurbs]

Bigger Problems

Paige x Reader

| humor → spiral → softness | 

You don’t hear Paige walk in at first.

Probably because you’re too deep in a Reddit thread titled: “Anyone regret getting a boob job?”

Your laptop’s perched on your knees, your phone is on the pillow beside you open to a plastic surgery clinic’s Instagram, and you’ve got AirPods in playing a video essay about breast implant types. It’s a weird scene.

Paige walks into the bedroom with a protein shake and a post-practice glow and stops dead in her tracks.

She squints.

“Babe?”

You flinch. One AirPod flies out. “OH MY GOD.”

She raises her hands. “Whoa. Didn’t mean to scare you mid… wait are you watching porn?”

You slam the laptop shut. “No.”

Paige smirks and flops onto the bed beside you, opening your laptop and eyeing extremely sus internet history. “Were you actually just watching a video titled ‘Boobs 101: What They Don’t Tell You’?”

You groan. “Forget what you saw.”

“Not a chance.” She grins. “You thinking about getting a boob job?”

You pause for a beat too long.

“…Maybe.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, I mean—listen. I support all forms of self-expression, bodily autonomy, and hot girl behavior. And also... boobs. So.”

You blink at her. “Wait. You’d actually be into it?”

She shrugs dramatically. “I’m a supportive girlfriend. I would hold ice packs to your new boobs all week long. Gently. Respectfully.”

You throw a pillow at her. “Paige!”

She laughs and catches it. “Okay, okay — I’m mostly kidding.”

You try to laugh too. But it comes out thinner. Hollow.

She notices. Her smile fades just slightly.

“… Wait you’re not kidding, are you?”

You swallow hard and stare down at your hands. “I don’t know. Maybe I was. But then I started thinking about it more and now I can’t stop. Like… maybe if I looked more like the girls you follow, I’d feel better about myself.”

The room shifts.

“Whoa. Wait. Hold on.”

You force a shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is if you think you need surgery to feel good enough.”

You sigh and sit back against the headboard. “I was scrolling through your tagged photos the other day. And I saw the comments. The ones from girls with perfect faces and perfect bodies. And I just… I don’t know. It messes with my head. Makes you feel like you’re not enough unless you look like them.”

Paige is quiet now.

Not because she’s mad — but because she’s thinking. Hard.

“I was joking around when I said I’d be into it,” she says softly. “I didn’t realize you were actually feeling that way.”

“I didn’t either. At first.”

She scoots closer to you, knee brushing yours. “Hey.”

You look up.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to change something for you. But if you're doing it because you think you’re not hot enough for me, or because of some random girl on Instagram who uses a filter named after a Kardashian—then no. No way.”

You blink fast, throat tight.

“I didn’t fall for you because of your boobs,” Paige says. “I fell for you because of your stupid jokes and the way you talk to dogs like they’re people. Because you bring me snacks without asking and you say ‘I love you’ like you mean it. Not because you look like a Victoria’s Secret ad.”

You exhale slowly. It helps. A little.

She nudges your knee. “And for the record? You’re already hot as hell.”

“You’re biased.”

“I am,” she agrees. “But I’m also correct.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Paige grins. “No. Concerned? Yes. Ready to throw your phone into the sun so you stop looking at other girls tits? Also yes.”

You laugh — actually laugh — and she relaxes at the sound.

“Hey,” she adds, looping her arm around your waist. “You don’t need to change for me. Or anyone else. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”

You rest your head on her shoulder. “What if I still want to do it someday?”

“Then I’ll be in the waiting room with flowers and a boob-shaped cake.”

You snort. “Boob-shaped cake?”

“I'm a supportive girlfriend,” she reminds you. “And a woman of vision.”

You laugh again — louder this time — and press a kiss to her cheek. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Paige says. “and insanely into you. Just the way you are.”

Without any warning she’s face first in your chest biting at them through your tanktop and squeezing them.

“Baby oh my god stop.” You're laughing so hard you start tearing up.

“Mmm but baby they’re so perfect,” She’s motorboating them now. “Could die here!”

“Ok ok I get it babe you can stop now,” you say, shoving her face away. “What are you 14!”

Paige is smiling like a lunatic as she comes up and starts peppering your face with kisses.

“I love you.” she says between kisses.

[pbucketsblurbs]

Cold Coffee & Quiet Goodbyes

"Breakfast in Bed" by Nessa Barrett

Paige Bueckers x Reader

You wake up to the sound of her breathing — shallow, even, distant.

The sun is low through the blinds, slatted gold across the room like bars on a cell, and the first thing you notice is the space between your bodies. An ocean, it feels like. One you used to cross with a lazy smile and sleepy kisses. Now it feels too wide. Too cold.

Paige lies beside you, turned away. Her shoulder rises and falls with each breath. She used to sleep wrapped around you like the world was ending. Now she curls into herself like she's trying to disappear.

You stare at her back for a long time before getting up.

In the kitchen, the silence follows. The floor is cold. The tiles haven’t been swept. The coffee tastes like regret.

You make her breakfast because it’s what you used to do. Because somewhere deep down, you hope it will mean something. That maybe she’ll see the plate and remember the version of you she used to reach for in the dark.

Burnt toast. Strawberries sliced thin — the soft ones from the bottom of the container. Scrambled eggs you half-assed because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You place it all carefully on the plate. You pour her coffee. You carry it back into the bedroom like it’s holy.

She’s awake now. Sitting up, phone in her hand. Scrolling. Her face blank.

"Hey," you say softly.

She glances at you and nods. “Morning.”

That’s all.

You place the plate on her nightstand. The clink of the ceramic sounds too loud. You wait for her to say something. She doesn’t.

You sit on the bed, unsure what to do with your hands. “You’ve got practice?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Saturday.”

She shrugs. “Need to keep my rhythm.”

You nod. You hate how routine this has become — you asking, her barely answering. This slow, steady drip of distance.

“I made breakfast.”

“I see that.” Her voice is flat. She doesn’t touch the food.

You look at her then — really look. Her eyes are tired. Not just from lack of sleep, but like her soul’s worn thin. Her smile is gone. Even her presence feels temporary.

It hits you like a sucker punch: She’s already halfway gone.

“Paige,” you say, the name soft on your tongue, breaking. “Talk to me.”

She presses the heel of her palm into her eye like she’s trying to keep the truth in.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything,” you whisper. “Everything.”

She exhales slowly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There doesn’t have to be something wrong. We can just… work through whatever this is. We always have.”

She flinches, like the idea of trying hurts more than just letting it die.

“You don’t look at me anymore,” you add quietly. “Not like you used to.”

“I’m tired.”

“You keep saying that,” you reply, voice shaking now. “But you won’t let me in. You won’t let me hold any of it with you.”

“I don’t want to be held,” she says, and it’s cruel, but honest.

Silence crashes between you.

“I want to feel like myself again,” she continues, softer now. “And when I look at you, all I see is the girl I’m hurting. And I hate that. I hate myself for that.”

Your heart cracks so loudly you’re sure she hears it.

“I never asked you to be perfect,” you say, standing. “I just wanted you to stay.”

She finally meets your eyes. Hers are glassy, but no tears fall.

“I don’t think I know how to anymore.”

That’s when you realize: She’s already left.

Her body might be here, in this room, but her heart — the one that used to beat against your chest at night — is somewhere else. Somewhere you can’t reach.

Still, you try.

You move to her, kneel in front of her where she sits on the edge of the bed.

“I love you,” you say, voice barely audible. “Even when you’re breaking. Even when you’re pulling away. I love you, Paige.”

She closes her eyes like it hurts to hear. Maybe it does.

“I love you too,” she whispers. “But I’m tired of bleeding into something I can’t keep holding together.”

Your hands tremble as you let go of hers. She doesn’t stop you.

You sit in silence, the sun rising higher, washing the room in painful clarity.

She picks up the coffee. Takes one sip. Grimaces.

“It’s cold.”

“Yeah,” you say, throat dry. “It’s been sitting.”

So have you. So has she.

The breakfast stays untouched. The bed stays messy. The goodbye is never really said.

But you both feel it. Like a weight. Like a scar that hasn’t even formed yet.

And when she finally leaves that morning — duffel slung over her shoulder, hoodie up — you let her go.

Because the worst kind of heartbreak isn’t the door slamming. It’s the slow, quiet way someone stops loving you while you’re still right there.

[pbucketsblurbs]

“Will You Stay Forever?”

Still Here Final Part

WOW this is really the end I'm gonna cry

Content Warning: Contains explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional themes. Please read with care.💛

November| Iceland, Part II

Day Five – Northern Lights 

It took months to plan this.

A private tour guide. A remote location far from the city lights. A photographer hiding behind a boulder. A diamond ring that’s been burning a hole in my backpack all week.

Zoe doesn’t suspect a thing. She’s wearing three layers and a fuzzy hat with ear flaps and she looks like the most beautiful snow goblin I’ve ever seen.

We’re alone in a field of snow, wrapped in blankets and breath.

And then they appear.

The northern lights — slow at first, like someone’s turning the sky on with a dimmer switch. Then bright and dancing. Green, pink, purple — all moving above us like the universe is throwing a surprise party.

Zoe is crying before I even say anything. Just staring up at them, mouth open.

“I still can’t believe I get to see this,” she whispers.

Zoe’s cheeks are pink from the cold. There’s snow in her hair. Her eyes are reflecting the sky like they were made to.

She’s looking up at the lights, wiping a tear like she always does when she tries to play it cool.

I take a deep breath. My heart's in my throat, but my voice is steady — because when it comes to her, I’ve never been more certain of anything.

I reach for her hand, the box burning in my pocket like it knows the time is now.

I step in front of her. Heart pounding. Knees weak. Not from nerves — from the weight of knowing I get to love her forever.

She looks down and sees the ring.

Freezes.

She speaks softer than I’ve ever heard. “Baby no you are not—”

“Baby remember when we first met? The day you laughed in that hallway and made fun of my sneakers ever since then I haven’t wanted to be anywhere you weren’t.

I’ve watched you fight for every breath. I’ve watched you laugh in moments most people would’ve cried. I’ve seen you at 2 AM on hospital floors and in the stands at every big game. You’ve held my hand through pressure I didn’t think I could handle. And when I felt like I was falling apart, you reminded me who I was — with a joke or a look or just... staying.

You stayed.

And because of you, I learned how to stay, too.

I know this isn’t some fairytale love story — it’s messier. It’s 4 a.m. meds and missed flights and bad days and complicated futures. But it’s also you and me, showing up, again and again. Choosing each other.

And if I get the privilege, I want to keep choosing you in all the quiet ways and big ways and impossible ways. For the rest of my life.

I want to be the one to help you organize the medicine cabinet and set up your pill trays every week. I want to fold the laundry with you. I want to wake up next to you in a hundred different cities. I want to be the calm in your storm, the background to your fire. I want to be your home — always.

So, Zoe Noelle Wilson…..

Will you marry me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She’s crying — the kind of cry where her nose scrunches and her lips tremble and she presses her forehead to mine like she’s trying to anchor herself.

Then finally, softly — like it’s the easiest thing in the world

“Yes . Oh my god. Yes.”

The photographer pops out. Zoe doesn’t notice. She’s already tackled me into the snow and is kissing me like I just gave her a new set of lungs again.

“Paige Madison Bueckers,” she whispers against my lips, “I’m gonna marry the hottest woman alive.”

“So am I,” I whisper back.

Zoe finally pulls back, nose red, eyelashes wet, grinning like a woman who just won the lottery.

I’m breathless. Mostly because she tackled me. But also because—damn. She said yes.

Zoe props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me like I’m the best thing she’s ever unwrapped.

"You planned all this and still managed not to ugly cry?” she teases, brushing snow from my eyebrow. “I’m almost offended.”

“Excuse you,” I say, sitting up. “I was inches away from full sobbing. But I had to keep it together for the photos. You’re welcome.”

She squints. “Wait—photos?”

Right on cue, the photographer coughs somewhere behind us.

Zoe gasps and slaps my arm. “You planted a photographer? You sneaky little—”

“Fiancée,” I interrupt, smug. “Say it.”

She narrows her eyes. “You sneaky fiancée.”

Then she kisses me again, slow this time. Her cold hands slide inside my jacket, and I yelp.

“Babe!”

“What? I’m warming up,” she says, sliding her fingers up under my layers like she’s trying to build a tent inside me. “This is what happens when you propose in the Arctic tundra.”

“This is what happens when you accept,” I say, catching her hands.

She grins. “Totally worth it.”

I wrap my arms around us both, pulling her into my lap. She fits like a secret I’ve always known.

“Can I just say,” she murmurs, “you really went full Pinterest board out here.”

“I did not.”

“Private guide, hidden photographer, Northern Lights, P. The only thing missing was a string quartet popping out of the snow.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, rude. Also I thought about the quartet but decided it was too much.”

Zoe cackles. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you did all this.”

I shrug. “Look, if Imma wife you up, I gotta come correct.”

She goes quiet, then leans her forehead against mine. “You did,” she says, softer. “You really did.”

 We lay down as the sky shifts above us — green becoming pink, becoming violet — and for a while we just lay there, wrapped in warmth and each other.

Then Zoe speaks again, voice full of mischief.

“Okay but serious question, how mad would you have been if I said no?”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

She smirks. “Just hypothetically. Like, would you have tackled me into the snow?”

I narrow my eyes. “No. I would’ve left you out here with the photographer and eloped with the tour guide instead.”

“Oooh,” she laughs, climbing into my lap again. “Kinky revenge arc. I like it.”

I kiss her nose. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re stuck with me now.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

She wiggles her fingers in front of me, watching the diamond catch the lights.

“This thing is so shiny. Are you trying to blind me into submission?”

“Is it working?”

She pretends to consider it. “Mmm… ask me again once we’re naked and indoors.”

“Oh, now you want to go inside.”

Zoe grins and kisses me one more time, slow and deliberate.

She holds out her hands, “C’mon, fiancée. Let’s go make out under some heated blankets before my lips fall off.”

I smirk “Only make out baby! That rock on your hand is worth at least 20 minutes between these pretty thighs!”

I bend down and scoop her up — hands firm under her thighs, lifting her clean off the ground like she weighs nothing.

Zoe yelps, half-laughing. “Paige! What are you doing?!”

I kiss right under her ear nipping at her skin.

“You’re so strong,” she teases, voice muffled. “Do you lift all your girlfriends like this?”

I suck on her neck, “Mmm only the one I’m gonna marry.”

“Mm. Good answer.”

Back at the cabin

The cabin glows as I carry her in. Fireplace flickering. Air warm. Her weight pressed against me like it’s always belonged there.

I don’t put her down.

Not when she’s in my arms like this — legs looped around my waist, her breath warm against my jaw, her fingers tucked into the back of my neck like she’s afraid if she lets go, I’ll disappear.

We’re both smiling too hard. Grinning like idiots. Drunk off each other. Off the moment. Off that word — yes — still echoing somewhere in my chest like a drum I can’t quiet.

“I still can’t believe you did all this,” she whispers against my cheek.

I kiss the corner of her mouth. “I knew you’d say yes.”

She snorts. “Cocky.”

I smirk. “Committed.”

She tries to glare, but she’s too soft with me now. Too melted. Her fingers are tracing slow circles at the base of my neck like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

When I get her into the bedroom, I don’t toss her on the bed — I lower her gently. I let her slide down my body like gravity’s suddenly romantic. Her legs unravel from my waist, and I don’t let go of her thighs until the last second.

She’s watching me. That look in her eyes — it’s not just love. It’s heat. Hunger. Mischief.

She pulls me down with her.

I tease, letting my forehead press to hers. My voice lowers, playful. “Whatcha want, mama?”

She leans in, lips brushing mine. “You.”

I kiss her hard.

It starts slow — familiar and aching — but it deepens fast. Her hands are already sliding up under my sweatshirt again, colder this time, and I shiver.

“You’re freezing,” I whisper against her mouth.

“Then warm me up.”

And I do.

I slide my jacket off, then hers. My hoodie follows. Her sweaters. One layer at a time, we undress each other like we’re unwrapping a secret. Everything we peel back makes her shiver — from the air, from me, I don’t even know. Her skin is pink from the cold but warming fast under my hands.

I trace my hands over the curves of her body, my lips trailing kisses down her neck, her collarbone. I move my hands lower teasing her soft skin.

She arches her back, a soft moan escaping her lips, her hands in my hair.

I could feel her heart pounding under my fingertips, her breath coming in fast, shallow gasps.

“Baby please — please stop teasing,” She whines. 

“Mmm just relax baby.” 

I trail my tongue down her perfect body and I part her thighs revealing her perfect pussy.

“Fuck Zo you this wet for me hmm.” I all but moan at the sight.

“No, the ring.” She says trying to push my head where she needed me most.

I nip at her thigh “You think your so funny ma, you bout to be crying for me”

“Paige if you don’t do something I'll do it mysel—,”

I cut her off running my tongue through her folds pulling her closer by her hips.

“Ahh shit.” She gasped her hips bucking up.

She’s making the prettiest noises I think I have ever heard in my life and I never wanna stop. I dip my tongue lower teasing her just how she likes it and I can already tell she's close to falling apart. 

“More Paige please!” She screams.

At this point she's basically riding my face as my tongue flicks her clit  and teases her entrance drawing her closer to the edge.  

“Oh god baby I’m so close please—please don’t stop!”

I stopped and looked up at her through hooded eyes probably looking more fucked out then her.

“Nooo!” She cries out her hips lifting off the bed looking for pleasure.

“Tastes so good baby,” I say moving my hand to have my thumb rub circles right on her clit. “Want you to cum on my face, can you do that for me?” Slowly adding my fingers. 

Her body trembling, her moans growing louder, I can feel her starting to pulse around my fingers.

I looked up again, her head was thrown back. “There you go baby cum on my fingers.”  I went back in with my tongue on her clit.

Her hands came down gripping my hair pulling me impossibly closer as she came with a loud cry. 

I started to slow down my fingers as she came down from her high trailing kisses back up her body finally getting to her lips.

“Mm my fiancé tastes so good” I mumble against her lips as her breathing starts to return to normal.

She smiles. “Yeah?”

“Mhm she’s so perfect.”

“I wonder if mine tastes good.” She said with a teasing tone.

Before I knew it she flipped us over and started kissing down my body.

We lost track of time after that. Just tangled limbs and quiet gasps and warm hands under too many blankets. We laugh in between kisses, fumble with layers, get distracted by the feel of each other’s skin, and fall into the kind of rhythm that doesn’t need words.

Outside, the lights fade from the sky.

And when we finally collapse into the pillows — breathless, flushed, wrapped up in each other and everything we’ve just promised — she curls against me like it’s muscle memory.

I run my fingers down her spine, slow and soft.

“I’m really gonna marry you,” I whisper.

Zoe hums against my collarbone. “Good. Took you long enough.”

I press a kiss to her temple.

She falls asleep with her ring hand resting over my heart.

And I don’t sleep at all — not because I can’t, but because for the first time, I don’t want to close my eyes.

She said yes.

And now I get forever.

Day Six – Cabin

I wake up wearing the ring. I stare at it for five full minutes.

“Good morning,” Paige mumbles, still half-asleep.

“I’m engaged to a professional athlete.”

“Mmm.”

“Like. I’m gonna be legally connected to someone with a player profile on ESPN.”

“Mama please can we sleep some more—”

“Do you think I can put ‘fiancé of sexy point guard’ on my resume?”

She groans and pulls the blanket over her face.

I yank it off. “PAIGE. YOU PROPOSED. I’M ALLOWED TO BE INSANE FOR AT LEAST A FULL 72 HOURS.”

Later we get coffee and pastries, “I’ll have a cinnamon roll and also, this is my fiancé. We’re very in love. She has a jump shot and commitment issues she got over for me.”

Paige blushes and mutters, “Send help.”

Later, we go back to the Sky Lagoon. Paige wears her hoodie over her swimsuit and sunglasses like she’s trying to hide from paparazzi that are non-existent in Iceland.

“I’m gonna introduce myself to strangers as ‘Paige Bueckers wife’ and see how it feels,” I say.

“You’re unhinged.”

“And engaged.”

Iceland Trip Recap

-1 dream cow encounter -7 spa steps, 3 shrieks -1 surprise private tour -1 perfect diamond ring -6 random strangers now know Zoe’s engaged to a “Sexy Lady” -2 girls, forever changed

The girl with seemingly no time.

She'll get a lifetime with her forever.

And the girl who never believed in forever?

She'll get her forever for a lifetime.

The End💛