Chapter Text
Paige decides, somewhere between Azzi stealing the last bite of her pastry and the sound of rain starting to tap softly against the cafe windows, that she could do this forever.
Not the city, exactly. The cities blur together after a while, especially with them always on the move. It’s the rhythm she could live in forever. The way mornings like this unfold without urgency, calm and quiet. The way Azzi always looks a little too pleased with herself, like she’s already won a game Paige hasn’t realized they’re playing yet.
They’re tucked into a corner table of a small coffee shop that smells like burnt espresso beans and vanilla. The kind of place that offers mediocre drinks they charge way too much for. At least that’s what Paige decided when she had to pull out more than a twenty to cover two coffees and a couple pastries.
Azzi has one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out, boot nudging Paige’s leg absentmindedly as she stirs her coffee and stares out the windows lining the front of the cafe.
Paige’s gaze drifts without permission. She lets her eyes trail along Azzi’s calf, slowly following the long line of muscle up warm, brown skin until it disappears beneath the hem of a short leather skirt that barely does its job when Azzi stands. Paige licks her lips before she can stop herself, mind briefly abandoning the table, the coffee, and their loose plans for the day. She considers dragging Azzi back to the motel for a moment, and picking up exactly where they’d left off that morning in the shower—steam and roaming hands and breathless promises of forever.
“You’re staring again,” Azzi says, eyes still on the window, voice smug with certainty.
Paige shrugs. There’s no point arguing with the truth. She’d honestly stare at Azzi all day if time permitted. Azzi’d probably let her too.
Bringing the cup to her lips, Paige takes a sip of her coffee and grimaces. “This is terrible.”
“You got the wrong roast.”
“I got what you told me to order,” Paige counters.
Azzi smiles and finally looks at her. “That’s on you.”
Then, like she’s conceding a small, strategic loss, Azzi rolls her eyes. With a shake of her head, she slides her own cup across the table. “Try mine.”
Paige does. She takes a thoughtful sip, then nods once. “Way better,” she supplies before handing it back.
Azzi hums in satisfaction and reaches for Paige’s cup instead, pulling it across the table. She takes a sip from it like that was always the plan. “Problem solved.”
Paige shakes her head, but she’s smiling too. It’s impossible not to when she’s in Azzi’s orbit. She leans back in her chair, black hoodie creasing at the shoulders, faded navy blue Dallas Mavericks cap low on her brow as wavy blonde hair spills out from underneath it.
Outside, a town car glides past the bank across the street, tires hissing on wet pavement. The street’s busy. Busier than Paige would prefer.
She lets the moment stretch for another second, watching steam curl from Azzi’s cup—actually her cup—as people drift past the cafe and the small shops lining the street.
“Sleep okay?” she asks casually.
Azzi turns back to her then, and the smile she gives Paige is soft in a way that still makes her heart flutter after all these years.
“I always do when I’m with you,” Azzi says, reaching over to squeeze Paige’s hand.
Paige feels warmth flood through her body, not even phased that Azzi still has this effect on her. The words are a reminder that she’s Azzi’s constant. Her safe place to land. After everything they’ve done, and everything they’ve been through, together and separately, Paige knows that much for certain.
Azzi takes a sip of her coffee, eyes flicking briefly back to the street before returning to Paige. “You?”
Paige laughs quietly “You know how I get.”
Azzi’s mouth curves. “And here I thought I tired you out last night.”
Paige snorts, shaking her head. “Oh, you definitely did that, Az.”
Her mind betrays her immediately, drifting to the way Azzi had thrown her head back, mouth open, muttering expletives and deities and Paige’s name as her cunt pulsed around the strap last night.
Paige clears her throat and takes another sip of coffee to cover it, hoping the flush in her cheeks doesn’t give her away.
Outside, a few men in business suits hurry past, umbrellas tilted against the rain. An Oldsmobile idles near the curb before pulling away. Paige tracks it with her gaze.
“Big day got you nervous,” Azzi asks lightly, eyes still on her.
Paige smiles, leaning back in the stiff wooden chair but taking Azzi’s hand with her. “You make me nervous, baby. The rest is all background noise.”
It’s the truth. It always has been. Paige’s world has a way of narrowing until there’s only Azzi at the center of it, everything else blurring at the edges. And she knows, just as surely, that Azzi feels the same.
Azzi tilts her head, studying her. “Even after all these years?”
The question tugs a memory loose.
Paige thinks back to East Valley High. New halls, new lockers, her parents freshly divorced. Her dad’s apartment smelled like cardboard boxes and microwave dinners even weeks after they moved. Paige transferred freshman year, three months into the school year, which was arguably the worst thing that could happen to a teenage girl. She remembers eating lunch alone, day after day, the weight of being new and unnoticed settling heavy in her bones.
The second week, she’d carried her tray outside into the courtyard on impulse, rules be damned. She’d found Azzi sitting on the concrete steps with a cigarette between her fingers, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes closed, head tipped back, soaking in the sun. Wearing black ripped jeans and a cropped East Valley Class of ’84 shirt that hung just loose enough, she looked cool without trying. Almost ethereal.
“You’re… you’re not supposed to be out here,” Paige had stuttered, entirely caught off guard.
Azzi laughed effortlessly, the sound instantly captivating, and Paige wondered for a fleeting second if she was an angel.
“You’re not supposed to be either,” Azzi shot back, a little edge in her tone.
Then her eyes opened and her gaze turned to Paige. It traced the cafeteria tray balanced in Paige’s hands, the way she stood half-turned like she was ready to leave if asked, the tired softness around her eyes. Azzi’s had expression softened, her eyes narrowing like she was piecing something together before a flicker of understanding appeared.
Azzi shifted, tapping the empty concrete beside her, and held the cigarette out like a truce. “Going to tell on me?”
Paige shook her head without hesitation, settling beside Azzi as if some quiet gravity had taken hold. When she pulled the cigarette from Azzi’s grasp, Paige’s breath caught, electricity flooding through her so suddenly it almost startled her. She didn’t know then just how far that pull would take her, or how much of herself she would hand over without question. But even in that first moment, something in her had already begun to orbit Azzi Fudd.
“Even after all these years,” Paige confirms, meeting Azzi’s gaze across the table in the coffee shop.
Azzi smiles, satisfied with the answer, and turns back toward the window as another wave of people passes by, the rain steady, the morning unfolding easily.
“We should get going,” she sighs.
Paige knows Azzi wishes they could stay in this perfect, warm little bubble a bit longer. These mornings always try to drag them in, but they’ve got places to be.
Paige nods. “Just gotta get some cash out before we hit the road,” she says with a smile.
Azzi just rolls her eyes.
They leave the coffee shop, fingers laced together, pushing through the door and out into the rain. It’s coming down harder now, the kind that soaks you through in seconds. Azzi squeals when the cold droplets hit her, and she tugs Paige forward, both of them half-running, half-slipping as they pull their hoods up and dash across the street to the bank.
Inside, it’s warm and quiet, stuffy in the way banks always are, sound muffled by old carpet and wood paneling. They slow down instinctively, shaking rain from their sleeves as they move toward the long desk along the wall where the bank slips are stacked neatly in acrylic holders.
Paige grabs a pen and a slip of paper, leaning her hip against the counter as she starts filing it out. Azzi presses in close behind her, one arm sliding around Paige’s waist, the other warm against her low back. She rubs slow, absent circles there, like she’s got all the time in the world.
An older woman standing a few feet down the counter shoots them a look laced with shock and disgust. She looks like she already wears a scowl permanently, but has saved this specific degree for extremely egregious infractions—like two women in love.
Azzi catches it without even turning her head. She lifts her chin slightly, unapologetic, and slides her hand higher, fingers brushing the back of Paige’s neck, playing with the blonde baby hairs spilling from her bun. Then she rises up onto her toes and presses a quick kiss to Paige’s cheek, lips lingering as she makes eye contact with the old lady.
The woman huffs and rolls her eyes before gathering her things and hurrying away.
Paige bites back a laugh, cheeks flushing as she finishes the last line on the slip. She loves this about Azzi. Her absolute refusal to shrink, to apologize, to care even a little bit about what anyone else thinks of them. All that matters to her is Paige. Everyone else can get fucked.
She caps the pen and glances toward the tellers.
Three of them today.
“So,” Paige murmurs, not looking at Azzi yet. “Who helped you the other day?”
Azzi hums behind her, amused. “Guess.”
Paige loves how they turn everything into a game, a way of keeping even the most ordinary moments interesting. Though she doesn’t really believe anything with Azzi involved could ever be mundane. It helps, or maybe complicates things, that they’re both competitive to a fault.
She turns her head slightly, eyes scanning the counter.
The first guy looks close to their age, hair slicked back with too much gel, crisp button-up tucked neatly into slacks. Paige nods toward him. “Him?”
Azzi shakes her head, smiling.
Paige’s gaze shifts to an older woman, maybe in her fifties, reading glasses perched low on her nose, expression all business. Paige snorts quietly. “Definitely not.”
She follows her line of sight farther down the counter, toward the window.
The last teller is a man in his forties, maybe older, hair carefully combed over in a piss poor attempt to cover a rather large bald spot. A maroon cable-knit sweater clings tight over a soft beer gut, his posture stiff as he counts bills for a customer.
Paige squints. “That one?”
Azzi laughs under her breath and nods.
Blue eyes shoot wide open, incredulous. “Really?”
Azzi just shrugs, pressing closer, chin resting gently against Paige’s shoulder.
Paige exhales, something sharp and possessive flickering through her chest. She turns, cups Azzi’s face, and presses a light kiss to her lips. “I’ll be right back, baby.”
She starts to pull away, but Azzi catches the front of her hoodie and tugs her back in, mouth crashing into Paige’s with more heat this time. It’s brief but intense, laced with the unmistakable promise of more.
Paige pulls back a second later, breathless, eyes dark.
Azzi smiles like she’s already won.
Paige doesn’t even know what game they’re playing, but—Azzi has won.
She always does.
Paige turns toward the counter, slip in hand, anxious to get back on the road.
The teller by the far window doesn’t look up right away. He finishes typing something into his computer, fingers moving less than efficiently. When he finally notices her standing there, he exhales through his nose like she’s already inconvenienced him.
“Yes?” he says, sighing. “Can I help you?”
Paige smiles.
It’s small and calm and entirely wrong for the moment. She leans in just enough to close the distance.
“Yeah,” she says pleasantly. Then, quieter, harsher. “You can fucking help me.”
She reaches into her hoodie, movement smooth and unhurried, and pulls the gun just far enough to flash it—black metal, unmistakable—before sliding it back into the front pocket of her hoodie. At the same time, she pushes a black bag across the counter with two fingers, stopping it right in front of him.
“You can keep your hands above the counter,” Paige says, voice steady, almost conversational like this is an ordinary transaction. “And fill this with cash. Big bills.”
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at her.
Paige watches it happen, the moment recognition lands. The way his wide eyes flick down to the bag, then back to her face, which is eerily calm despite the circumstances. The way his mouth opens slightly, then closes, like he’s forgotten how words even work. His skin drains of color in real time, shock freezing him in place, his earlier annoyance wiped clean and replaced with something raw and frightened.
Paige loves this part.
She loves the exact second a man realizes he’s misjudged her completely.
Because they always do.
And proving them wrong is her absolute favorite part of every job.
His hands hover uselessly above the counter, fingers twitching, like he’s waiting for someone to tell him this is a prank, that there’s a camera, that he’s allowed to breathe again.
But it’s not a prank.
There are no cameras.
And after what he said to Azzi yesterday, she’d be fine if he never breathed again.
Paige tilts her head, patient for half a second before she leans over, fists the front of his shirt to yank him forward and growls, “Did I fucking stutter?”