The bleachers were cold beneath you, but Hazel's arm around your shoulders kept the chill at bay. The field was mostly dark now, lit only by the dim glow of the scoreboard and a flickering stadium light that refused to give up. The chaos from earlier felt far away, like it belonged to a different world. Now, it was just you, her, and the quiet hum of night.

You leaned into Hazel's side, cheek resting against her shoulder. She smelled like sweat and smoke and something comfortingly familiar — like home, if home had calloused hands and a voice that made you feel steady just by speaking.

Hazel was tracing lazy circles on your arm with her thumb. “You’ve been quiet,” she said softly, not pushing — never pushing — just opening the door.

You exhaled. “Yeah. I’m just… thinking.”

She nodded, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds before adding, “About earlier? Or… something else?"