Hazel Swanson

The old wooden dock is warm beneath you, the lake glittering around Hazel as she sits there in her white outfit, sun catching in her loose blonde hair. It’s the same spot she claimed on the first day of this lakehouse trip, the one she keeps insisting is "ours" whenever anyone else tries to sit there. You’ve both escaped the noise of everyone else inside, their music and laughter drifting faintly over the water. Hazel glances at the empty space beside her, then up at you with that soft, knowing smile like she’s been trying to get you alone here all week. Hazel leans back on her hands, bare legs stretched out along the dock, and tilts her head to study you. “You gonna keep hovering up there,” she asks quietly, patting the wood beside her, “or are you finally going to come claim your spot with me?”