I quietly open the door as the room lights up from a shard of lightning.
Hazel turns over to face me. “Is that my doing? Or are you Zeus now?” she asks, pointing to the window. “I can’t keep the fortunes straight.”
“I honestly don’t know anymore.”
I reach for a pillow to make up my bed on the floor.
“You’re not sleeping in the bed?” she asks.
“I… didn’t want to assume,” I say, clutching the pillow.
Hazel pulls back the comforter, welcoming me in. She’s wearing one of my tie-dye shirts that falls just above her upper thighs.
“You make them look so good,” she says, biting down a smile. “Does it look goofy on me?”
“It looks better on you,” I say, taking off my jeans and flannel button-down. Her eyes darken a shade when I remove my T-shirt. “Please, take them all.”
“One’s plenty for now,” she says.
I slide in next to her. She meets me in the middle, the sheets cool. Hazel’s hands and feet are colder.
I gasp when her toes graze my shin. “Fuuuuuu—how long have you been in here?”
“I’m looking into compression socks,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “I fear my toes are frozen to the point of no return.”
I slap my thighs. “Come on. Get them on here.”
Hazel doesn’t wait for me to say it twice. She tucks her feet under my legs and wraps her hands around my stomach.
She releases a contented sigh. “I’m regaining some feeling.”
I shiver. “G-good.”
She laughs and burrows her face into my neck, and the tip of her nose is cold, too. I make a mental note to buy her a truckload of hand and toe warmers for when I’m not around to keep her warm myself.
A deluge of rain beats against the windows and roof, unsynced and chaotic. I feel safe in here with Hazel. Cozy, even. I’ve never had anyone to weather the storm with.
“It’s an oak tree,” Hazel says. “Without leaves?”
She must be looking at my tattoo.
“It’s the stage where the tree has lost everything except for what’s necessary for it to survive. For it to get through the impending winter,” I explain. “In time, though, those leaves come back stronger.” I pause for a moment. “This is the tree that stopped me from crashing into my neighbor’s house, right after barreling through the fence and playhouse.”
She reaches out to touch the dangling root of the oak, stopping before her fingers make contact with my skin. She finds my eyes, like she’s asking for permission. I nod.
Slowly, she drags her finger from the roots at my triceps up to a tree trunk and its barren branches sprawled over my shoulder.
“Trees have hard years,” Hazel says quietly. “They survive droughts, windstorms, flooding. They weather storms. They’re resilient.” She takes her time, sliding her finger over to my biceps. I wonder if our contact sets everything within her on fire, too. “They earn every inch.”
She stops at my shoulder, the pads of her fingers finding a raised groove.
“Scar from the glass,” I explain, filling in the blanks.
“It must’ve been really hard going through that,” she says. “I wish I could’ve been there for you.”
“Me, too.”
Hazel turns onto her side so we’re chest to chest, intertwining her legs with mine like the roots on my arm. She leans over to kiss the scar, trailing her kisses down the tree. As she does, I drop a kiss on her temple.
