Page 107 of Rise
Hazel stayed on the porch, frozen in place, her back against the door, breath clouding in short, uneven bursts in front of her face. Only when the silence settled fully around her, when the last echo of his steps had disappeared into the hush of falling snow, did she lean harder against the door, eyes fluttering shut.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow waves. She lifted a hand, her fingertips grazing her mouth. They still felt like him, still carried the heat of his kiss, the taste of quiet restraint and want and tenderness braided together. The press of his palms at her hips, the shape of his sigh against her skin. It lived there, still.
He was gone.
But the feeling of him— what they’dalmosthad— lingered.
Not vanished.
Just waiting to return, again, when the time was right. When all the shadowed pieces had been dragged before the light, illuminated and shared.
The smell of cardamom and brown sugar hung in the air like a song still humming in the walls. The ovens were already warm, the mixers already wiped clean, and Hazel moved through Rise like someone floating through the soft afterglow of a dream.
She hadn’t slept much. But for once, it didn’t matter.
There was a sweetness in her limbs, a kind of low-thrum energy that made everything feel brighter and softer, like the morning itself had woken up just for her. Outside, the snow lay untouched, a muted stretch of grey-blue under the weight of early morning darkness. The window panes shimmered faintly at the corners, catching the low, flickering light from inside.
She was humming.
Actuallyhumming.
Hazel stirred a bowl of batter with one hand while absently reaching for her phone with the other, snapping a picture of the prep table lined with sugared cranberries and fresh rosemary sprigs, little nests of pastry already curled into shape. She was trying something new this morning: a spiced blood orange galette with rosemary-honey glaze. Inspired, perhaps, by the warmth still lingering in her chest, or the kiss still lingering on her mouth.
Her cheeks flushed at the thought, unbidden and undeniable. She smiled to herself, head dipping towards her chest, her body rocking side to side in time with the quiet holiday playlist drifting from the speakers overhead.
The kitchen was bathed in soft gold. The world outside was muffled and peaceful.
And she was… happy.
So happy, in fact, that she paused in the middle of her baking, drawn by the unfamiliar urge to see herself in this light. Just to look.
She stepped inside the washroom at the back of Rise, wiped her flour-dusted fingers on her apron, and lifted her gaze to the mirror. Her hair was spilling free over her shoulders in loose waves, for once pulled free from the braid she normally wore. Her skin was warm and flushed from the ovens, lips still faintly pink, like they remembered him, too.
She looked lighter.
Like someone who had been kissed against a front door, like someone who had beenwanted. Not in passing and not by accident. But chosen, really and truly, for what might have felt like the first time.
Her reflection smiled first, and she followed suit, shy, instinctive, and real. It bloomed slow across her face, almost as if it startled her. Her eyes sparkled in the glow of it and she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear like it might steady her, anchor her to the moment.
She looked so bright. Not justfine,not just getting by, but full. Filled with something new, something hopeful.
Then her phone rang.
The shrill sound shattered the quiet like glass underfoot— sharp, sudden, and startling in its brightness. Hazel jumped. Her shoulders flew up, her spine going rigid as she spun toward the sound.
It was too early for a phone call. Too early for anything, except this, her quiet morning ritual.
The bakery hadn’t even opened yet. She hadn’t even poured Beck his morning mug of Harborside Brews.
The hallway felt longer than it had a moment ago, darker, the shadows where the light didn’t touch stretched thin across the floor. She moved with quick, unsteady steps, the soles of her shoes silent on the hardwood, her apron swishing around her knees. Something in her gut had already begun to coil— tight, hot, and instinctive. A warning.
She reached the counter where her phone sat, still vibrating against the wood, its sound a sharp, impatient buzz that hummed through her fingers as she picked it up.
And then she saw the name.
Dad.
It wasn’t a name so much as a shiver, somethingfeltmore than read. A single word with too much history, too many hollow spots, too many invisible bruises that still ached when brushed up against. Her stomach dropped instantly, the way it does when a rollercoaster tips over its highest edge, no warning, just that sickening plummet into the place where gravity forgets you.
