Page 48 of Rise
Behind her, the kettle continued to shriek.
She winced and turned toward the kitchen, the high whistle suddenly unbearable in the stillness Beck had left behind. Every movement felt strange now, too loud, too sharp against the softness of what had just passed between them. Once she’d made it to the stove, she reached for the knob and turned it off, the burner clicking as the flame died.
Before heading to the living room, she crossed to the back door and unlocked it with stiff fingers.
Her leg screamed in protest as she made her way toward the couch, but she didn’t stop. Once she reached it, she sank down with a hiss of breath, her leg extended carefully in front of her, blood still trickling in warm, syrupy threads into the torn cotton of her sweatpants.
She didn’t know how long she sat there.
The wind pushed against the house in sharp, rhythmic bursts, like it was testing the strength of the windows. Like it wanted to destroy more,takemore. Her leg throbbed in slow, pulsing waves, but it wasn’t the pain that kept her rooted in place. It was the promise that he was coming. That, for once, she didn’t have to carry everything on her own.
She sat with her arms folded tight around her ribs, breath shallow, trying not to cry. Not from fear, not from pain, just the aftershocks of it all. There was a part of herself she’d kept locked up so tight, and it was beginningto loosen in the quiet. She was alone, but not. Because she’d called. And someone was coming.
Her eyes burned at the mere thought. Of what it meant.
Hazel stared at the front window while she waited, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her body tense and shaking. She’d done it, she’d asked for help. And for once, the person on the other end hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t made her explain or justify. He hadn’t told her to call someone else.
He just got in the car and headed in her direction.
She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to carry it.
She had spent so much of her life learning how to survive disappointment, how to hold it like a familiar weight. But this— this quiet, unwavering care— it unraveled her in a different way.
The gravel outside shifted. There were tires grinding, headlights sweeping across the wall before they disappeared. And a car door slammed, firm and final.
She didn’t move, just turned her chin toward the back of the house as the deck creaked. Footsteps sounded against the wet boards, rushed and steady.
And then Beck stepped inside.
His silhouette filled the frame like he belonged there, backlit by the storm, shoulders hunched against the rain. He pushed the door open with one hand and stepped through, soaked to the bone. His dark jacket gleamed with water, droplets tracking down his face, clinging to his jaw, his lashes, the tips of his ears. His hair was flattened, darker than usual, and pushed back from his forehead in wet waves. His breath came in puffs, visible for a moment in the colder air near the door.
His eyes found her through the archway that separated the kitchen and living room.
Hazel didn’t speak, didn’t move. And neither did he.
For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other like the room had gone still in spite of the storm.
Then something in his shoulders dropped. Not in defeat, but inrelief—like he’d been holding himself rigid without realizing it and herpresence had cut the wire. The tension eased from his jaw, his brow, his hands. His chest rose on a long inhale, slow and shaky, like the first breath after surfacing. His eyes softened, like seeing her was enough to undo the worst of what he’d been carrying.
She didn’t know how to carry this, this steadiness, this arrival. Someone showing up just because she asked. Someone saying“I’m already on the road”like it was obvious. She’d spent so long bracing for people to leave, so longwatchingthem do it, one palm pressed to the window or one eye set on the rearview mirror.
And yet… here he was.
Beck closed the door behind him with one hand, pulling it shut with a quietclick, the sound swallowed by the storm still raging outside. He shifted the weight of the dark backpack slung over one shoulder, adjusted it carefully against his back, toed off his boots, and stepped deeper into the house.
There was something about the way he moved that made her throat tighten. He walked through the kitchen like he’d done it before, like he belonged there, his eyes scanning the space as he passed through it. His steps echoed against the worn wood floor and when he rounded the corner and entered the living room, his gaze found hers.
He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.
At her face, at her leg, at the blood-stained fabric on her thigh and the way her shoulders had curled in on themselves, small and exhausted at the edge of the couch.
He made his way around the couch and, without a word, he set the backpack down beside the coffee table. He knelt in front of her in a slow but familiar motion, like his body knew what to do even if his mind was somewhere else entirely.
As he lowered to the ground, he let out a low grunt and Hazel caught the way his jaw tensed, like the movement had cost him something he wasn’t certain he could afford. But before she could ask, his hand reached out and hovered just above her injured leg.
“May I?” he asked, voice low. It was rougher than before, like the wind had scraped against it on the way in. Like he already knew the answer, but would never assume.
Hazel nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Her eyes burned but she didn’t look away, she just blinked and leaned back against the end of the couch, waiting.
