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saii79: Well, I'm most certainly glad that you're enjoying. And many, many thanks.

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Author's Note: I'm well aware that this chapter is far lengthier than the others. I'm still working out how to get to this piece's end without exceeding the appropriate number of updates.

Oh, and I suppose chapters like these are why the piece is rated M.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.

"HA." This is me. "HAHAHAHAHAHA." This is me laughing. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA." And this is me really laughing at Paige's delusion. In fact, I have to sit down from laughing so hard. Laugh, laugh, laughing away. "There's no way in hell that I'm pimping myself out for college."

She stands at the end of my bed, hands on the railing, leaning over in the slightest. "Who said anything about pimping?" she asks. "This is merely an exchange of favors."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

"Just something to think about," she says.

"I'm not sleeping with you."

I proceed to break the cardinal rule of socializing with Paige. That is, assuming. Not just one specific detail, but anything at all. Because I've already begun collecting my arsenal of rebuttals and refusals when she does something terribly unexpected. And that is, she shrugs. The Paige McCullers shrug. It's followed by a simple dip of her head. An even simpler smile. Then she merely says, "Fair enough."

Is it because I've had countless people hit on me before, and many of them persisted long after the initial decline? Could it be because her personality strikes me as one of those people's? Or is it due to Paige's "get what I want, when I want it" attitude? Whatever the case may be, I am thoroughly dumbstruck as she climbs into her bed without so much as another word. "That's it?" I ask.

She grins again. "That's it."

Morning can't come quickly enough. Over the course of however many hours, a disturbing scene lodged itself into my subconscious. A sex dream. Imagine that. I won't even bother mentioning who the two parties were.

More disturbing, though, is the way my eyes try forcing themselves clamped shut long after I've woken. Trying to finish the dream out. Admittedly, it was kind of hot. But I won't go into detail. Not to you, or Paige, or BHB, or anyone, for that matter.

"Did you at least buy me dinner first?" Paige calls out from her bed, still turned over and facing the opposite wall.

How—oh, right. I make a mental note of researching preventatives for sleep-talking later this afternoon. Awkward enough, I suppose. "Even on another level of consciousness, the experience was terrible," I try rationalizing.

She laughs.

Neither of us budges. It's time to get up, get dressed, and take the day on. We don't, though. "The last person I slept with bailed," I admit when the moment feels safe enough. "She up and rolled out without so much as a goodbye."

"No need for explanation," she hums. "But if it helps the case at all, the last person I slept wouldn't leave." Then she snorts in giggling. "Had to change phone numbers and everything."

I laugh, too. "That bad, huh?"

"Bat shit crazy."

"Not enough hate-fire?" I joke.

She rolls over, still grinning. "Exactly."

"Ugh," I faux-groan. "The nerve of some people, expecting sacred involvement in one of the most physically intimate things a person can do. I'll bet the she even read and quoted poetry, huh?"

A thrown pillow hits me in the forehead. "You're an ass."

I chuckle. "Only on days that end in 'y'."

She waits a second before saying, "If it's consolation toward my previous offer, I've already seen you naked."

"Half-naked," I quickly correct.

"Not naked enough," she deadpans, taking the moment before cutting toward me. Devilishly grinning, she says, "Only joking, of course."

These brief conversations continue as such over the course of the next week. We lie in our respective beds, covering any and all topics that fall under the category of sex. Joke around. Tease the other. Even discuss the weird stuff, which isn't so uncomfortable to discuss with Paige. She just makes light of everything. Follows an odd comment with a nonchalant chuckle or shrug. Dips her head and smiles.

"Sex changes everything," I say on a morning when we're both too cold to crawl out from underneath the covers. "It's an emotional experience."

She scoffs, just as she has been when I say something deemed too "mushy". "You're just like every other sap, and it's going to make me vomit."

She fake gags, and I laugh. Don't tell anyone I said this, but Paige is actually a total riot. Well, just so long as you aren't the brunt of her joke. "What can I say? I'm a romantic," I quote again. She finds it amusing when I do.

"And I'm assuming that you've never experienced the non-emotional kind? You know, no eye contact, no feelings, no fuss, no muss? Easy business."

I mull this over. Her assumption would be correct. Call me crazy, but one-night stands have never been my deal. I prefer to be involved. A connection or whatever. And so I say, "Not really."

"It's the most fun a person can have. Here, at least," she says. "Makes the bad stuff feel less shitty."

"Doubt that," I dismiss. Everything about Piney Groves feels relatively shitty. Even the times when I can hardly contain a smile and practically overflow with joy. Because at the end of every day, you're still disconnected. Still separated from loved ones. Captive of a battle between here versus there. And the things that used to comfort you, they don't anymore.

I think about this for a while. Let it fill the hollow space in my chest. "Tell me a secret," I eventually say when the silence becomes too unbearable. A means of distraction, if anything.

"What kind?" she mumbles through a yawn.

"You already know what I've wanted to know."

She sighs heavily. "Okay, okay. The rumors are true. I killed a man once, but it was a total accident. And I may or may not have singlehandedly formulated the polio vaccine, but we must keep that under wraps as well."

I groan and roll over, facing her. She's breathlessly chuckling at that last remark. "You're deflecting," I point out. "You're always deflecting."

"De-who-ing?" More noiseless laughing follows as I roll my eyes forcefully enough to induce a migraine. And when Paige finally takes note of my agitation, the switch flips. Joking and hearty to serious in an instant.

I watch her face shift. Fingers dance their way across the fabric that covers her forearm. Eyes close. Lips purse. All in a manner of three seconds. "I'm not sure how much more you want," she almost whispers.

"The truth's always a great starting point," I say, primarily because "more" would insinuate that there was an explanation to begin with, and there's been no such thing.

Paige laughs. It's the mocking kind. Bitter. Resentful. The noisy equivalent of my eye-rolling. With enough time, after a last disbelieving shake of her head, she says, "I was in a bad place and now I'm not anymore." The confession is speedy. Thankfully, my ears were at the ready, or else I would've missed it entirely.

"Promise?" I ask, as if promises really exist between the two of us. And if they do exist, then as if such oaths matter. But they must, for Paige leans across the gap that separates our beds, pinkie extended. I do the same. And when our littlest fingers are connected, looped together and cementing an elementary pact into place, I ask, "Would you ever tell me if you went back to that bad place?"

With this, she immediately releases my finger. A painful smile creeps across her face. Then there's the subtlest shake of Paige's head before she says, "I wouldn't bet on it."

The next evening, instead of being posted up in her bed, Paige is in mine, with glasses on, mulling over yet another stack of paperwork. "Is this supposed to be some sort of artful seduction?" I ask the intruder. "Because it's not working."

Rather than teasing me, quoting lines from the very personal, discrete letter that I wrote, she merely stares disbelievingly at the paper. Not an awe-struck kind of disbelief, but the scoffy kind. A disgruntled way of receiving information. She crumples the sheet into a ball and tosses it across the room before breathing, "I got in. They actually accepted me. Yippe-fucking-kai-yay."

I retrieve the ball and scoot Paige over, joining her atop the mattress. Further inspection of what appears to not be my letter proves that she has, in fact, been accepted into Stanford University. At least that's what I gather from the elegantly worded opening line about congratulations and looking forward to her presence in the fall. But to someone who views Danby as the end-all Harvard, her charade is incredibly discomforting. From a person in my position, apathy means a serious lack of gratitude. "You know," I sigh, trying to suppress my annoyance, "I don't get you, Paige. This should be a joyous occasion, and instead, you're acting extremely…bleh."

Rather than biting my head off with a snide quip, she quietly snickers. "Quite the extensive vocabulary you have there, Fields. It's a wonder they're not jumping at the gun to scoop up a catch such as yourself." There she is. There's the Paige I know.

I nudge her in the ribs, giggling as well. "Well, I didn't pimp myself out this one girl, so my college options are looking pretty slim."

"Maybe that one girl was testing the waters," she returns, eyes cutting to me as she grins from ear to ear. "Seeing how far she could get without pushing the envelope too much."

"Well that mission was a total failure," I joke.

She leans in and mutters, "And I'll even bet that one girl still expects you to swim your non-pimping heart out for those scouts." I cock a questioning eyebrow at my roommate. "I'm an asshole," she says, "but I'm no cruel asshole."

We both then nod and sigh, settling back into the pillows. Minutes pass until the early November chill sets in and I'm forced under the shelter of covers. They're surprisingly warm. I quickly chalk this up to Paige having lain in my bed for a decent while. It would explain why she missed dinner. And I'm about to call it a night when Paige speaks up. "Would you hate me if I accidentally fell asleep right here?"

"Seems you've been awfully accident prone as of late," I say, "but I kind of already figured as much."

This should be the end. It isn't. Instead, Paige turns over, facing me. "So you wouldn't hate me?"

I cough. "You're kind of a difficult person to hate."

"Are you sure? Because I would," she mutters. "I do."

Where is this sudden need for affirmation coming from? All of this seriousness? Last night and now tonight? I'm climbing Everest in flip flops, here. I think of every argument we've ever had. Every time I've yelled those words specifically. "I hate you." Had I meant it? Granted, the phrase was often fueled by an outward source. Something she'd said. Something I'd done, but become angry with her for realizing. That day at the hospital. The weeks leading up. I undoubtedly had meant them then. And now? Now, I just want sleep. Sleep before I consider too heavily what she said all of twenty-four hours ago. Before she possibly admits to being in the bad place once more, and I have no idea of how to react. So I say, "You probably shouldn't do that." Smooth, Fields. Smooth.

Paige's body relaxes. She turns over, facing the opposite wall. Not another word is breathed.

I've heard of recurring nightmares before. Common with small children, images of their biggest fears come to life at night. The very images that are stowed away in backs of their minds, never to be retrieved.

But a recurring sex dream? And a continuation of the night before's, of all things? Is this what our health teachers warned about? Hormones and all? Hell, you'd think that I'd be more accustomed to the concept; more easily rid of the idea. It's just sex. We've all been there. Done that. No one's ever so bluntly mentioned it to me, though. So up-front. And that was a couple of days ago. We've since had plenty of disturbing conversations that could infiltrate my dreams.

"I've gone mad," I proclaim to BHB one evening at dinner. Paige skipped out a while ago, so the boy and I have ample time for girl talk. "I'm absolutely off my rocker."

Poking at a bowl of cereal, he listens as I vaguely describe the nightly issue. He occasionally nods like a therapist might. And when I finish the haunting recount, he coughs. "Well, on the bright side, you're not crazy. You do, however, seem to have a specific problem that need be promptly addressed."

"It has been," I gripe. "We're talking about the problem, it's being addressed, and I should be able to move on."

BHB shakes his head. "I saw a Dr. Phil episode on this once," he says with a mouth full of Corn Flakes. "The dreams aren't going anywhere. But they used what's called the 'exposure method', or something like that. You basically confront the issue, see it as unthreatening or even somewhat enjoyable, and live happily ever after." He chuckles.

But this is no laughing matter. Nothing to joke about. "No, no, no," I insist. "Think of a different way, because that method is certainly not going to help."

"A bit impractical, I suppose," he agrees, thumbing his chin. "Say you were being chased by a giant chicken in these dreams. It would be terribly difficult to recreate." He looks over the brim of his glasses. "You aren't being chased by a chicken Godzilla, are you?"

"I should only be so lucky."

Another moment before BHB makes the aha face. "How do you feel about hot dogs?" he asks.

Oh, god. He knows that I've been dreaming about Paige. He's used that massive noggin to deduce the reasoning for my vague answers. He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows, he knows. My throat catches. Nervously and almost inaudibly, I say, "I'm gay, Bobby."

His face twists as he looks around. "What does that have to do with food?"

Relax. He's clueless. I shake my thoughts clear. Swallow once. Twice. Ball and unball my fists. "Hot dogs aren't so bad," I finally respond.

"They're friggin' delectable," he says. "But before you every tried your first, how'd you know that they were so magical?" I shrug. "Precisely," he continues. "You didn't. But after that first taste, you were hooked. Can't love something until you've tried it, yeah?"

"But I'm not dreaming about tubes of ground-up meat," I note.

He grins. Takes a bite of cereal. "Metaphor," BHB says, spooning the last floating flakes. "It basically means that if you have an itch, you'd better get to scratching."

We don't say anything for the remainder of dinner. I've barely poked at my food on account of trying to deem BHB's logic irrational. Subsequently, there are few flaws in his argument. Isn't his method the way that most issues are resolved? Nipping things in the bud? Get to the source of the problem and you've eliminated it entirely?

I consider this for the next fifteen minutes. It could be easy. Get in. Get out. Clear my conscience and go on my merry way. There are far worse people to have one's thoughts captivated by, I suppose. Paige is certainly the lesser of, well, just one evil. But still, she's my roommate. She's a somewhat down-to-earth person. And there are certainly worse things that I could do.

But like I've also said before: sex changes things. It changes people. It has the power to alter friendships. Bring two individuals closer together or push them farther apart. Not like it matters in our case. We just kind of float in that weird, gray, in-between area, anyway. Not close, not distant. Just…there. Simply discussing any and everything across the board. Yeah, that's it. We're just friends that talk. Confidantes. You can't ruin that kind of partnership with sex, can you?

Besides, she was the one to suggest it in the first place.

Then again, I was the one to deny it just as quickly.

That kind of confusion can ruin a partnership.

Decisions, decisions, decisions. Eventually, decision-making time is cut short by the bell that signifies the handful of hours before bed. BHB stands, collects his tray, and asks, "Anything else I can help you with, or have we pretty much sorted your problem out?"

"Just one last question," I say with a deep breath. "Where's Paige?"

BHB's directed me to what would serve as the swim coach's office, if our team actually had a lasting coach. Instead, from the outside looking in, it appears to be nothing more than a makeshift storage closet. Dusty pieces of furniture litter the area. Couches, chairs. Boxes of old uniforms. There's also a single metal desktop. Paige sits behind it, scouring over a list of names before directing her eyes to a whiteboard hanging from the wall.

It's sectioned into different categories. Names are shifted from box to box. Since Paige steps in as our director at most meets, it can quickly be deduced that she's preparing for this weekend. A big meet. The meet in which a college scout will be in attendance. Standing just outside the office, I'm momentarily distracted from why I've originally come. Nervousness from the upcoming competition shadows the nervousness of what's recently been playing throughout my mind.

Until my thoughts start jumping back and forth from idea to idea. Until I'm one big walking sack of nervousness. One, two, three, I think, counting each breath. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.

An ungodly force moves my hand to the door's handle. A nameless one turns the knob and pushes forward. Sheer human nature is what catches Paige's attention, her head darting upward.

I'm moving too quickly. Too courageously. If I stop to think, then there's no starting up again. "No feelings," I say, tugging the blind's cord, the only visible opening into this small area cutting off. "No cuddling after," I continue, a hand moving to my shirt's topmost button. "This isn't because of a scholarship, and no one's falling madly in love with anybody else." Paige has begun smirking, but yet to move. My shirt, however, is halfway undone just as I mutter the last bit. "I'm bored. You're bored. And we're simply two consenting individuals who feel that being bored together is the best approach. Agreed?"

Paige removes her glasses, gently massages both eyelids, and says, "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

And just as the last button on my shirt is undone, Paige has an arm wrapped around my back, our lips pressed firmly together. With light steps, she maneuvers our pair to the low-sitting, dusty leather couch, gently lowering me onto my back. Her body falls flush against mine; her warmth courses through my veins.

At first, I'm insistent on moving quickly. Forward, forward, forward. Hesitate and I'll lose all nerve. Paige, on the other hand, takes time in her endeavors. She needs no momentum. No push or pull. Eventually, though, our opposite ends connect. Like magnets, we fall into a rhythm. Mouth working against mouth for dominance, neither ever truly gaining the upper hand. Her lips are soft and far from mechanical. Fluidly, they form against mine. I relax into the moment, allowing her to take control. Submit to the tongue that beckons for entrance into my mouth. Furiously work my hands for something substantial to take hold on. Much like our previous make out session, the backs of Paige's thighs are what I find.

She winces when I squeeze, so I cease in doing so, not wanting to harm my roommate. But the sheepish nod she releases mid our next kiss is affirmation enough, and so I begin again. Pulling her into me. Grinding my middle against her center.

There isn't much room to move on this tiny couch, and we eventually topple off of the side, falling a couple of inches to the ground. We both laugh. Paige then becomes distracted in the momentary lapse, quickly scanning the floor. She fishes an old swim jacket from underneath a pile of mess, bundling the material up and lifting my head to place the makeshift pillow underneath. I smile. Her eyes soften as she does, too.

The next two minutes are devoted to disrobing the other while trying to keep our lips connected. I struggle at first, but Paige appears to be a girl of many talents. For she manages to unclasp both my bra and hers with separate hands. And then our bare chests are pressed together on the cluttered ground, and it's quite possibly the most glorious feeling in the world. Hot skin against hot skin. Not knowing where one body ends and the other begins.

My hands instinctively begin fumbling with her pants button. Jeans are always the most difficult, and Paige smiles into yet another open-mouthed kiss at my struggle. She leaves it alone, though, cradling the back of my neck with her left hand and peppering hot kisses up and along my throat. Then the underside of my jaw. This minor disturbance causes my breath to hitch. My hands still in their previous efforts.

But a surge of confidence flows through me. I was nervous about this?

"I'm usually the one on top, you know," I mutter for whatever reason. Maybe it's the carnal stupor she's managed to put me in. A mild paralysis. Maybe it's because of these. damn. jeans.

I can practically feel Paige's smirk against my neck. "Says the girl who's currently lying on her back," she half-whispers, a trickle of breath catching the underside of my ear.

Fueled by yet another nameless force, I quickly leverage the strength of my upper body and catapult forward, pushing Paige backward and to the ground. She lands with a thud. "I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch your last remark," I tease. "It's kind of hard to hear from all the way up here."

Everything comes to a stand-still at precisely this moment. Because a hand snakes free, meeting my gaze in the form of a balled fist and protruding thumb. "Winner gets top," she challenges.

On account of being incredibly bothered in just about every corner of my being, I don't question her methods. Instead, I mimic her gesture, balling my fist. Our thumbs proceed to battle it out in the weirdest, almost-naked thumb wrestling match imaginable. And much to my disdain, Paige trumps me by a landslide.

The same hand disappears once we're repositioned on the ground. The final resting place—I on my back, her body hovering dangerously close to mine. It toys with the waistband of my sweatpants. It runs flat against the lower part of my stomach, cool skin against cool skin causing goose bumps. Outlining my oddly-defined abs. Tracing at a painfully slow pace. She kisses me for a moment before that very hand runs along the insides of my thighs, spreading my legs farther apart. Her body settles in between, a thigh pressing lightly at my center.

Embarrassingly, a gasp catches in my throat. She presses harder, the once guttural moan diminishing into nothing more than a whimper. I'm trying to play it cool, but playing it cool requires some fraction of self-restraint. Restraint is difficult when every ounce of your body is on fire. When the knot in your stomach threatens to unwind at any moment. Paige must sense this, for she gently lifts my hips into the air, slowly coaxing any and all fabric from my hips. Sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion. It's absolutely torturous.

Even more excruciating is when she stops moving altogether. "Are you all right?" she asks, worry spreading across her face.

"Yeah," I grunt, certainly not appreciating the sudden stoppage. A sudden lack of touch. "I just—I kind of figured that 'angry' entailed something a bit different."

Paige grins. "Oooooh, that. Changed my mind." It's lighthearted, but she must read something in my expression, because she continues with, "Hey, we'll do this however you want. Fast, slow, angry, or not at all. But it's just you and me, okay? So feel free to relax and go with it. There won't be a quiz at the end." We both giggle to ourselves as she reaches down, picks my wrist up, and brings it to the back of her head. I hadn't realized how tensed up I've been up until my fingers slowly unwind, cracking as they stretch through her hair. The same can be said as she reaches for my calf, wrapping it around the lower part of her back, just above the hem of her jeans. We each smile. Nod.

Then, as her lips meet mine a last time, a single finger reaches below and runs through me. Then two. Slowly. Not enough to do any real damage, but plenty to elicit an involuntary buck of my hips. Despite the chill that creeps in through the open window, it's burning up in here. So much so that a bead of sweat forms on my brow. Then again, it could very well be due to the heat of Paige's mouth as it works across my upper body. Neck, nape of my shoulders, breasts.

Not one square inch goes untouched. I try controlling my bottom portion, but it's useless against Paige. She'll dig into the outside of my thigh, bring a hand to brush against my clit, then push down against the hips that rise to aide her efforts.

"You're teasing," I breathe as the combination becomes too much. Expectantly, I've been rising, only to be continuously pushed back down. "Paige."

Swiftly and without warning, a single finger plunges inside, silencing any further complaints. Her left hand returns to its original position, tenderly cradling my neck as the thumb of her right ever so softly brushes against my clit. It's still teasing, but I'll take what I can get.

Time comes to a halt. Even as both hands works against me in more ways than one. The left placed firmly against my lower back, sending a rush of chills through me. The right skillfully maneuvering my bottom half. Brush, kiss, thrust. It feels like years before a second finger is gently forced inside. And at this point, I grab both sides of Paige's neck, pulling her closer until our lips meet. I've been utterly unprepared, it seems, because as her fingers move increasingly deeper and harder inside of me, I cannot bring myself to properly kiss. Not when I'm desperately gasping for air.

"Do me a favor," she whispers against my mouth. "Moan like that again." And I do, just as her lips moves lower, gently working against my chest.

I can feel every molecule swirling about throughout my body. It's by far the best high I've ever experienced. Simply enough, because there are so many elements to focus on. So many that cannot be grasped on the sheer account of another dominating my senses. Do I focus on the softness of her tongue as it transitions from mouth, to chest, and back to mouth? Do I pay close attention to the tenderness of Paige's touch, which treats me as I'm frail and threaten to snap in two at any moment? Or do I try resisting the most agonizing ache that further digs its way into my core?

Is it even possible to experience all three at once?

I try my damndest. In fact, I'm so focused that I become utterly unaware of my nails as they dig into her back. She whimpers and cowers under my touch, and so I continue upholding my end. Reaching under her arms and over the backs of both shoulders. Digging in further. Just as before, when I cease in doing so because of a too-painful reaction on Paige's part, she noiselessly beckons for me to carry on. And I do.

At least, up until I'm dancing on the edge. All bets are off at this point. A single, final thrust is what sends me over, and I cling onto Paige's shoulders for dear life. Even as the knot breaks. The nagging ache is suppressed. Heat radiates throughout my very being, and a white light fills my eyes. Thankfully, my body arches into Paige's enough as to where she can capture my breathy moan with a lasting kiss.

As before, I'm lowered to the ground slowly and methodically. And when my back meets rough carpet, a heaviness sets in. Limbs are all but functional. It's as if Paige has been carrying my weight all this time.

She flashes a toothy grin at me when I finally release hold of her neck. Our breathing falls into sync. Eventually, I regain use of my body and begin moving toward her, prepared to return the favor. But she waves a dismissive hand, shaking her head. "I've had my fun. Trust me."

Her shirt is retrieved from feet away. "No smoke?" I ask, lying back across the floor, not worried about dressing at the moment.

Paige shakes her head, despite her strict "after sex and food" regime. "Not this time."

"So that's it?" I ask as she's near the door, about to leave the room.

"You've pretty much nixed every common post-fun activity," she points out. Then, biting her lip, she says, "I mean, we could go get popsicles and mess with Bob?"

And we do. He's across the building, lounging around in the first floor common room. Slurping from a purple popsicle (she insisted that I have the blue), Paige snatches the remote from BHB and sits on him. He laughs as she flips through the channels, pretending that another human being is currently not squished underneath her butt.

This carries on for a while, all of us horsing around. Well, more like Paige and me holding BHB down, tickling the boy until his face turns purple. But as we finally calm down, sitting side by side on the couch, my mentor's expression sours. His nose wrinkles. "You guys reek," he says, leaning in closer to Paige. He peels one of her eyelids back. "And you look like you've just run a friggin' marathon."

I tense up when his gaze bypasses Paige and focuses on me. If she's been obvious enough for BHB's radar, then there's no way that I'm sneaking by.

"I mean, look at you two, donning the baby-making eyes. The lady baby-making kind," he says, which sounds like a joke at first, up until his eyes suddenly widen. In just above a whisper, BHB looks me square in the face and says, "Hold on. That was your dream? You guys—."

"We did not—"

My words are cut short when the boy cups both hands around his mouth and announces, "HAHAHA. HOLY SHIT. SHOTS HAVE BEEN FIRED. I REPEAT, SHOTS HAVE BEEN FIRED AT COUCH NUMBER FORTY-TWO."

He's about to put us on blast to but a few individuals even further when Paige slaps a hand over his mouth, leans in, and whispers something that silences the boy almost immediately. I smirk, finishing off my roommate-turned-no-feelings-sex-partner-approved frozen treat. And in case you're wondering, it tastes a solid twelve times better than it might've one day ago.

I'm still floating on something of a cloud as we walk back to the room. Silently. Not touching, looking, or speaking to the other. We maneuver around the stragglers in each hallway. But when we try passing Calley in one of the lower floors, and she goes out of her way to forcefully bump into my shoulder, I'm quickly knocked off of the cloud.

Paige has always been a living, breathing paradox. There's no use in reiterating that. Every second of every day is proof enough. One second, she's walking calmly beside you, occasionally cracking a smile, but never hinting at more. The next moment, she's bowed up, prepared for confrontation.

Thankfully, having lived beside the girl these past months has taught me to become fully aware of one's surroundings. So I manage to equally coddle a quickly swelling shoulder while reaching out with a free hand, tugging the back of Paige's shirt. She struggles against me for but a split-second before grunting and following me down the hallway.

I use the room's sink mirror to inspect the wound. It's bruising rapidly. Swelling at an even more heightened pace. A single touch causes excruciating pain. So when Paige wordlessly coaxes me to her bed, I'm apprehensive. But the gentleness of her expression is convincing enough, and I do, submitting to the hand that pulls the side of my head to her reclined chest.

At least an hour passes in this fashion. I lay still while nimble fingers push the blood across my shoulder. Like a massage, only more methodical. It's painful. It's soothing. It hurts like hell. It's the most relaxed and secure I've felt in quite some time. In fact, it's the last feeling I remember before dozing off to sleep.

We don't have any more late-night conversations, Paige and I. Instead, she simply crawls into my bed most nights. I always ask whether or not she's having a bad spell, and she always assures me that it's merely because my mattress feels better. "Less lumpy," to be specific.

It's all completely innocent. She tries nothing more. No longer "tests the waters". She mostly just falls right to sleep. Not after massaging my shoulder, of course.

I always hold still. In fact, I use the moments as a time of reflection. More often than not, I think of a remark I overheard when Mom, Dad, and I were vacationing one year. It was some old guy who worked on some old boat that sailed on some old sea. But he talked, talked, talked to Dad, and every so often, he would say, "the winds of change are ablowin'." Now, I couldn't tell you if he was just deranged or actually meant the statement, but it surfaces in my mind. Maybe the winds aren't as prevalent as I've believed them to be, though. Maybe they're more like soft breezes that come in the form of an exchanged smile. Or a steady gust that blows by when Paige crawls in beside me each night. Sometimes they're tornado-like, though.

Because with each morning that comes, an arm is snuggly fixated around my stomach. Clinging on for dear life, more appropriately. And despite her constant assurances, the muffled early-morning cries that Paige chokes out are reason enough to believe that something much deeper is troubling my roommate. Maybe this is why, despite the initial apprehension of allowing her into my bed each night, I don't move. I don't wrestle free from the grip that threatens to hinder my breathing.

Sometimes she'll jerk. Lash out an invisible threat. I do what I can. Hold her arm. Pin her hand close to my chest. Paige never remembers, but it's probably just as well.

If a girl whimpers in the middle of the night, and only one person is around to hear it, does it really make a sound? Or is it possible for that same girl to be so hardened, distant, and cold, yet still remain so fragile?

I can't help but believe my previous assumptions to be true. That we're all looking for someone to hang onto. Someone to steady us, even if it's nothing more than in the midst of a nightmare. Or that being with another person, as Paige and I may or may not have foolishly done, changes things. Even if that change falls on the smallest scale.

So I settle into the idea. Settle my head on her chest every night as she massages my shoulder. Settle into her back pressed against mine as the sun rises each new day. Hang on should the nightmares reappear. Use the early awakenings to think. Probably too much. Quietly consider BHB's notion of Paige's shift of heart having come around the time that I showed up at Piney Groves.

Yes, that's it, I think as the sun rises yet again, marking a week's passing since our evening in the old office. A week of unmentionable nights. A week of wordless mornings. Change is coming. Change has arrived. Change has been here for quite some time.

Good; bad; who knows? If Paige were weighing the evidence, she'd scientifically rationalize it one way or another. I am not so well-equipped. I can merely operate under the idea that whatever we've had up until now is irrelevant. If we've had anything at all. Because now, I'm beginning to formulate theories of my own. Paige has always been a living, breathing paradox. There's no use in reiterating that. Every second of every day is proof enough.

It's all valuable insight, as the girl snoring next to me might deem these conclusions.

And I guess I have sex to thank for that.