Paige wrenched the duct tape off the roll and slapped it onto the back of the protest sign to hold the dowel to the back. It had been a long goddamn week. Yes, she was busy with work, yes, she feared for her job, and yes, she’d been preparing for the march, but she also couldn’t get Carter out of her head.

Why the hell not? He’d made it clear that his fiscal policy convictions were more important to him than say her fundamental human rights, and that was some bullshit.

The worst part was that she’d thought he was different. That he could be reasonable. That yes, he was fiscally conservative and had more of a libertarian bent than she cared for, but could he not see her argument? Could he not see what he’d voted for? What the party he supported was doing to the country? And more specifically, to women and other people who were already marginalized? It boggled the mind.

Luckily, it was over. They’d had a night of hot sex including some of the best head she’d ever gotten, and she’d delighted in having his ass. So what if she’d never have those things again? It was better than losing her soul because Carter would support this administration no matter what shit they brought down on Americans’ heads.

It hurt. It hurt a lot. But she wouldn’t cry about it. She’d channel that anger, that rage, that despair into holding this sign for hours upon hours. Into marching in public and asking for what was rightfully hers. Into exercising her constitutionally guaranteed right to protest. Damn fucking right.

She grabbed her pink pussy hat. It was too warm for it but she was going to wear anyhow. She pulled it onto her head before taking up her sign and heading out her door to take a hopefully overcrowded subway to the march site.

* * *

There were a lot of people here. Like, a lot of people, and that was fucking with his resolve a bit. Not enough to turn tail and go home, but yeah, some. He didn’t like that being in a crush of people was enough to make him think about giving up and trying to contact Paige some other time, but one really couldn’t control how their social anxieties manifested, now could one?

Carter felt queasy and dizzy as he entered hour three of wending his way through the crowd, but tried to swallow it because this was important. Paige was important. And after scribbling a diagram of their interactions on a whiteboard he’d hung over his desk in his room, pacing in front of it, and preparing as he always did for a debate by making himself fluent in the arguments of both sides, he could see how she felt the way she did.

Hell, he could more than see it. He agreed with her and he wished he could’ve found a way to say so at the time. Which is why he was here. To apologize. Not with flowers or chocolates or jewelry, or even a ham, but with a gesture he hoped Paige would be able to see for what it was. A heartfelt mea culpa, a way to not only say he was wrong, but show it. Put his body where his mouth was, which knowing Paige, was probably more valuable than money.

Someone with a Bitches Get Shit Done sign jostled him, and it tightened his throat in panic. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t going to die here. Probably. What made him buck up and keep pushing is that he could see the headline: Rising Republican Policy Star Rage-Trampled by Angry Liberals. He didn’t want to be martyred. Not for that at any rate.

It was possible that searching through this sea of bodies would be fruitless. That he’d never find Paige, and then what would he do? It wasn’t as though he could take some trite selfie and send it to her as proof and everything would be okay and she would give him another shot. He needed to see her, dammit.

Which is when he did. At least he thought he had, through all the signs, and the hats, and the kids riding on people’s shoulders. But a swishing flash of black braids capped off by a bright pink pussy hat and a sign reading So Bad Introverts Are Here. He exhaled. Yes, he could hope.

He started pushing toward her, trying not to anger or hurt people, but he couldn’t lose her. Not now that he had her in sight. The closer he got, the harder his heart beat until the hammering of his pulse in his ears was louder than even the crowd of thousands around him. Replaced his crowd anxiety with the unsettling sensation that despite what he’d done, she’d still tell him to fuck off and she’d be right to do so. He should’ve spoken up when Eric was being a jerk, he regretted not voicing his disagreement, and not just for Paige’s sake.

The push-pull of the crowd meant it took him minutes to make his way through the dozens of bodies standing between him and Paige. But finally he’d made it, and there she was. Wearing her hair in braided pigtails that dangled from under her fuchsia pussy hat. She was also wearing a Resist T-shirt and some jeans that hugged her butt just right—was it wrong to objectify a woman’s ass during a protest march? He really hoped not, but just in case that was another thing he and Paige disagreed on, he’d keep it to himself.

She was holding a sign above her head with arms he could see shaking. How long had she been carrying it? How strong was she to have borne it and all the rest of the intangible things she carried? Not to mention having taken on the responsibility of guiding someone through a sexual experience they’d never had before. He hadn’t thought of fucking someone as a responsibility, a promise to that person, but he would now.

His heart clenched, and not for the first time he was paralyzed by the fear that maybe he wasn’t good enough for her. That she was strong and smart, had earned everything she had, and had put up with boatloads of shit to get where she was. Even if she wouldn’t give him another shot, he wanted to offer her an apology. He needed her to know how marvelous he thought she was and how much he respected and admired her, and fuck yes, thought she was every bit his equal in all the places. The woman he wanted to worship and give himself over to in bed.

It was hard, but he wasn’t going to throw away his shot. This time, he would say something. So he reached out and wrapped a hand around the dowel of the sign she was carrying. “Can I hold this for you for a while?”