HAZEL LEVESQUE

Hazel remembers her mother’s voice more clearly than she remembers most things from that life.

Not the house. Not the streets. Not even the faces of people who must have passed through her days like shadows. But her mother’s voice—gentle, steady, certain in a way that made it feel like truth even when Hazel didn’t understand it—has always stayed.

“A lot of boys will give you flowers, Hazel.”

You can almost hear it, the way she must have once, the words carried in a quiet moment that probably didn’t seem important at the time.

“But one day... you’ll meet a person who will learn your favourite flower. Your favourite song, your favourite sweet. And no matter what, they’ll be the one to have space in your heart.”

At the time, Hazel hadn’t believed it.

Not really.

Life hadn’t given her many reasons to believe in things like that—things soft and certain and simple. Love, in her experience, wasn’t something that came easily or stayed gently. It was complicated, tied up in expectations and loss and the weight of choices she hadn’t always been able to control.

So she had listened, maybe nodded, maybe even smiled a little.

But she hadn’t believed.

Not then.

Not until you.

—

It isn’t something she realizes all at once.

There’s no single moment where everything shifts, no sudden clarity that makes the world stop and rearrange itself around you. It happens slowly. Quietly. The way most important things seem to happen in her life.

It starts with small things.

It always does.

You don’t announce them. You don’t make a point of showing that you’ve noticed. You just... do.

The first time, she barely registers it.

You’re walking through New Rome, the late afternoon sun dipping low, painting everything in soft gold. There’s a small vendor near the edge of the forum, selling flowers—simple ones, nothing extravagant.

You pause.

She notices that.

“...Do you want one?” you ask casually, glancing at her.

She shakes her head immediately. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. “I want to.”

You don’t ask what she likes.

You don’t hesitate.

You just pick one.

A quiet, unassuming bloom, soft in color, the kind most people would overlook in favor of something brighter, more obvious.

Her favourite.

You hand it to her like it’s nothing.

Like it didn’t take effort.

Like it didn’t matter.

But it does.

She stares at it for a second too long, her fingers curling around the stem carefully, like she’s not sure if she should say something.

“...How did you—”

You shrug.

“You mentioned it once.”

Once.

That’s all it took.

She doesn’t say anything after that.

But something settles in her chest.

Something quiet.

Something she doesn’t fully understand yet.

—

The second time, it’s music.

It’s late. The camp is quieter than usual, most people already turned in for the night. You’re sitting together, not doing much—just existing in the same space, comfortable in the silence.

There’s a small speaker between you, playing something soft in the background.

Hazel isn’t paying much attention at first.

Not until—

She freezes.

Just slightly.

The melody is familiar.

Too familiar.

Her gaze flickers toward you, then back to the speaker, like she’s trying to confirm what she’s hearing.

“...This song,” she says slowly.

You glance at her.

“Yeah?”

She hesitates.

“...It’s my favourite.”

You nod, like that’s obvious.

“I know.”

She stares at you.

“You... know?”

“You hum it sometimes,” you say. “When you think no one’s listening.”

She goes very still.

Because she didn’t think anyone was listening.

Not like that.

Not closely enough to notice something so small, so unimportant.

But you did.

And suddenly, that quiet feeling in her chest deepens.

—

The third time, it’s even simpler.

You’re sitting together again—this time during the day, the warmth of the sun settling comfortably over everything. There’s nothing urgent, nothing pressing.

You reach into your bag.

“...Here,” you say, handing her something.

She takes it automatically, glancing down.

Her favourite snack.

The exact one.

She blinks.

“...You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” you repeat, the same way you did before.

She looks up at you.

And this time, she doesn’t look away immediately.

Because it’s starting to feel like a pattern.

A quiet, intentional pattern.

You don’t just notice things about her.

You remember them.

You hold onto them.

And you act on them without making it a big deal.

Without expecting anything in return.

—

That’s when it starts to make sense.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Hazel finds herself thinking about it later, when she’s alone, when the quiet gives her too much space to reflect.

Her mother’s words.

The ones she hadn’t believed.

“A lot of boys will give you flowers...”

You didn’t just give her flowers.

You gave her her flower.

“...but one day, you’ll meet a person who will learn your favourite—”

You didn’t just learn them.

You remembered.

You paid attention in a way no one else ever had.

And suddenly, the memory doesn’t feel distant anymore.

It feels real.

It feels like something that was always meant to happen, even if she didn’t know it at the time.

—

She doesn’t say anything about it at first.

She doesn’t know how.

Hazel isn’t the kind of person who puts things like this into words easily. Not when they matter this much.

But she starts to show it in other ways.

In the way she lingers a little longer when she’s with you.

In the way her hand brushes against yours more often, not by accident.

In the way her gaze softens when she looks at you, like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to find.

And one evening—

It’s quiet again.

Of course it is.

You’re sitting together, the sky fading into soft shades of dusk, the world settling into that familiar calm.

Hazel is beside you, closer than usual.

Her shoulder rests lightly against yours.

She doesn’t move away.

“...My mother used to say something,” she says suddenly, her voice quiet but steady.

You glance at her.

“Yeah?”

She hesitates.

Just for a moment.

Then—

“She said that one day, I’d meet someone who would learn my favourite things. Not just give me something nice, but... understand what I like. What matters to me.”

You listen.

You don’t interrupt.

“She said that person would be the one who... stays.”

There’s a pause.

The kind that feels full instead of empty.

Then Hazel turns her head slightly, just enough to look at you properly.

Her golden eyes are softer than usual.

More open.

And there’s something there—something quiet but certain.

“I think she was right,” she says.

You blink.

“...Yeah?”

She nods once.

Small.

But deliberate.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly, she shifts just a little closer, her shoulder pressing more fully against yours.

Not hesitant.

Not uncertain.

Just... choosing.

And this time, when the silence settles around you again, it feels different.

Not just comfortable.

Not just familiar.

But full of something deeper.

Something that doesn need to be said out loud to be understood.

Because she knows now.

And maybe, without realizing it—

So do you.