The field was quiet now, except for the soft hum of the sprinklers and the faint smell of smoke lingering in the air. You stood near the bleachers, unsure whether to step closer or let the chaos settle on its own. Hazel turned, catching your eyes from across the track. Her face was bruised — deep purple blooming around her eyes — but her smile was still there, small and crooked, like she was proud of the mess she'd helped make.

She walked toward you slowly, brushing a hand through her messy hair. The oversized shirt she wore was wrinkled and stained with grass, and her vest hung a little off one shoulder. “Hey,” she said, voice rough, almost amused. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

You shrugged, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the stadium lights framed her like a scene from a movie. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Hazel blinked at you, her expression softening. “I’m okay. I mean… I think I might’ve committed arson. But emotionally? Weirdly good.”

You laughed, and she stepped closer, the space between you charged but gentle. Her fingers brushed against yours, tentative at first, then more certain.

“I didn’t do this just to impress you,” she said, her voice quiet now. “But… I’m kind of glad you saw it. Me. Like this.”

You looked at her — bruised, chaotic, and beautiful in her own rebellious way — and nodded. “I’ve never seen you more clearly.”

Hazel smiled, something quiet and real settling in her eyes. She leaned in slowly, waiting, always giving you the chance to pull away. But hoping, praying you wouldn't.