Page 55 of Rise
This was a habit, she realized, one that was already forming— him doing things for her before she could offer. Not in a way that demanded thanks or made a show of it. Just… reflex. Instinct.
The rain had picked up again, thinner but colder now, and her jacket clung to her arms, damp and heavy. Her breath fogged in front of her and she pulled her hood tighter as Beck led the way toward the porch, steps creaking beneath their feet.
At the door, he fished a key from his pocket and fit it into the lock, the motion practiced. He opened it wide, stepped in first, and reached for the light switch. Warm, golden light filled the space a beat later.
And Hazel stepped inside Beck’s home.
It was small and simple, but not bare.
The living room and kitchen shared the same open space, broken only by the gentle shift in flooring, a line where tile met wood. A couch sat near the far wall, facing a set of tall windows that ran the length of the room. She couldn’t see what they looked out onto, but she imagined the view wassomething.The kind you built a home around.In the far corner, an old TV perched atop a mismatched stand, cables trailing behind it like forgotten threads. And yet, the room didn’t feel neglected. It felt lived in.
A red-and-black flannel shirt was draped over the back of the couch, soft with wear. A wool blanket, grey and slightly unraveling at one end, was bunched near one side of the couch, like it had been recently tossed aside. Hazel glanced toward it, her chest tightening. Had he been lying there, she wondered, before she called? Half-asleep with the storm waging on outside, only to pull himself up and come for her?
A large bookshelf took up the wall to her right, packed full of novels. Dog-eared, spines cracked, all seemingly well-loved. They were not arranged in any kind of order she could see, justread. Their presence filled the room with quiet weight. It was another piece of Beck she wasn’t sure she’d earned.
By the door, a small wooden shoe rack held three pairs: sneakers, scuffed and worn; a pair of polished black dress shoes that looked nearly untouched; and a pair of sandals so out of place it made her blink. She tried— and failed— to imagine him wearing them. To imagine him anywhere someone mightneedsandals, even.
The kitchen, though small, was clean. Cabinets made from warm wood with crisp white countertops. A kettle sat on the stove, ready but untouched. A plant sprawled across the center island, vines curling down one side like it had grown too fast to be stopped. It was surprisingly healthy. Hazel couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at it, momentarily perplexed.
Everything in the space— the mismatched chairs at the small dining table, the jar of honey on the counter, the cast iron skillet still on the stove— feltdeliberate,chosen and used. Not cluttered, but not styled, either.
Hazel stood just inside the doorway, water dripping faintly from the hem of her jacket, her shoes leaving damp marks on the wood. She didn’t move at first, just let the warmth of the cabin sink into her bones after somuch cold.
Beck set her bag down near the base of the couch and then stepped into the kitchen and flicked on another light. The added glow softened the corners of the space, casting warm shadows against the wooden walls.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, like he was afraid he might startle her if he spoke too loud.
Hazel’s fingers curled around the edges of her sleeves as she nodded. “Just… taking it all in.”
She hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like stepping into something settled. Somethingreal.
Beck nodded once, then turned toward the stove. She watched as he reached for the kettle, filled it at the sink, and set it on the burner. The motion was smooth and familiar, like something he did often, a ritual that had long since turned into a habit. He turned the dial and the element glowed red beneath the coil.
Then, without hesitation, he opened the cabinet beside him and pulled down two mugs.
Hazel’s breath caught in her throat, her entire body going still.
They were familiar and unmistakably Malcolm’s work. Dark charcoal clay with a wide, rounded handle and a slight curve near the lip. That same faint thumbprint indentation was on the side, meant to rest your grip just so. She recognized them instantly. She picked one that exact shade for Beck more mornings than she could count at Rise. She always reached for it without thinking, as if her body already knew what felt likehis.
And now herethesemugs were, so similar, almost mirrored back to her in his hands. But not just one… apairof them.
Something warm unfurled low in her chest, unexpected and deep. Her cheeks flushed, heat creeping up her neck. He’d gone to Greyfin, found Malcolm’s work, and bought two mugs that matched the one she always handed him.
Why?
The answer came, sudden and hot, and began to settle deep within her chest.
Because they reminded him of something. Ofher.Of mornings in the bakery, of his newfound routine.
She looked away, blinking back the sting of something sharp and tender that threatened her eyes with a sudden round of tears.
“The couch pulls out,” Beck said, still facing the stove. “But you’ll take the bedroom.”
His voice was steady and practical, like he was listing storm safety tips, not offering her a place to sleep in his home.
“It’s at the end of the hall on the right. There’s an ensuite attached… or the main bathroom’s the first door on the left.”
Hazel shifted, her arms folding tight over her chest. “Beck, I can take the couch. I don’t want to take your room from you… you’re already doing so much for me.”
