“Did you trim your beard?” I bring a hand to it, equal parts satisfied and self-conscious. She noticed. “Just a little.” Her smile deepens. “It looks nice.” More warmth spilling through me. You’d think she told me the sun rose when I did, given how good it feels. “Thanks, Lula.” “You missed about four inches, though. And you used the wrong tool.” She makes a buzzing noise and mimes dragging a razor along her jaw. “You leave my beard alone, Clarke. It gives me character.” She laughs, straight from her belly, and I grin like a fool. “You have character aplenty without a woodsman beard, Bergman.”
