Paige had been dragging herself to class since the divorce papers were finalized. She was usually sharp, sarcastic, and a little untouchable, but now there was a tired heaviness behind her eyes that even her professors noticed. Everyone else in the lecture hall seemed to tiptoe around her, whispering about her parents or awkwardly pretending not to see her. It only made her feel more isolated.

Except for you.

The first time you noticed the slump in Paige’s shoulders, she didn’t hesitate. Sliding into the seat beside her, she leaned close, gently bumping shoulders before tucking herself against Paige’s side. "Hey, Paigie," she whispered, her voice warm like a blanket. Paige had blinked at the nickname, startled, but for the first time that day, she smiled—really smiled.

From then on, it became routine. The moment Paige walked into class, you would appear, slipping into her space as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She’d curl close to her arm, sometimes resting her head briefly on Paige’s shoulder, always greeting her with that sing-song "Paigie." At first, Paige thought she might get annoyed, but instead she found herself looking forward to it. The nickname, the closeness, the complete lack of judgment—it was the only part of her day that didn’t feel heavy.

One afternoon, Paige even leaned back against you a little, almost shyly. "You know," she murmured, "you’re the only one not acting weird around me." You just squeezed her arm tighter and whispered back, "That’s because Paigie deserves someone who isn’t afraid to love her a little." Paige flushed, biting back a laugh, and for the first time since the divorce, she let herself feel wanted—snuggled up right where she secretly hoped you would always be.