Page 23 of Rise
“Do you want help putting it up?” she asked, her voice gentler now, more careful. She nodded toward the doorframe, where the wood still bore a faint smudge from years of knocks and deliveries. “I’ve got a step stool in the back I can grab.”
Beck shook his head, already moving toward the entrance. “Don’t need it,” he said. “I’ve got it covered.”
He aligned himself with the door frame and pushed the door open by a hair, cool air pressing into the space around them. It was a welcome reprieve from the heat still staining Hazel’s cheeks that familiar crimson colour and she allowed herself a moment to breathe, tryingto calm the flutter of something unnaturally akin to butterflies in her stomach.
And then Beck reached up, testing locations for the bell.
Hazel blinked, watching him, her eyes flaring wide once more.
Of course he didn’t need the stool.
His sweatshirt lifted as his arms stretched overhead, revealing a sliver of golden skin, taut and sun-warmed, above the waistband of his jeans. She caught the faintest suggestion of muscle, the kind built from work, not the gym. There was a subtle shadow of a hipbone. A line of dark hair that trailed from his navel down into the denim, and her brain… forgot itself. Just blinked out entirely. Her thoughts scattered like flour on a breeze.
She caught a glimpse of Malcolm out of the corner of her eye, turning a full one-eighty to stare at a mug on the open shelving like it had just betrayed him.
Iris’s breath hitched loud enough to be heard, followed by the telltale sound of her knocking into a chair with her hip as she whispered, “You were right. He reallyisn’treal.”
“Right?” Malcolm murmured. “He’s like a human version of a dog-eared Hemingway novel. Mysterious. Surprisingly well-built.”
Hazel didn’t turn to look back at them, perhaps shoot them another look thatbeggedthem to stop. She simply couldn’t.
Her face was already flushed, the heat climbing from her chest to her scalp in one uninterrupted wave. She turned away from the door too quickly, pivoting toward the menu board that displayed the days specials, like it held the key to salvaging her composure. Her hands found the wooden edge, fingers wrapping around it and giving it a gentle nudge. She adjusted the angle of it by an inch. Then adjusted it back again.
Behind her, the sound of metal against wood began, steady and purposeful. Beck worked the bracket into the frame like it was just another item on a list, like he hadn’t just broken the laws of physics and logic by being both thoughtful and stupidly attractive in the same moment.
Hazel leaned into the counter with one hip, her heart thudding so hard she swore it echoed off the walls. Her fingers were still dusted with flour, her braid loose at the nape of her neck. She felt undone in the strangest way— not messy, not disheveled, but…open.Exposed in a way she hadn’t prepared for.
And he hadn’t even said another word.
The bell gave a softchimeas Beck tested it, just once. A crisp little sound, clear and warm, like the ring of a teacup against porcelain. It echoed faintly in the room, delicate but grounding.
Hazel turned then, swallowing down the heat still blooming under her collarbones. She took a step closer and purposefully avoided looking at Beck, instead focusing her attention on where the bell was now settled against the doorframe.
“That’s… perfect.”
Beck dropped his hand, giving the bell a small, simple nod of approval, like he hadn’t just casually performed the most soul-melting, absurdly considerate gesture Hazel had ever witnessed.
“Should do the trick,” he said, brushing his palms along the backs of his thighs, against the denim material stretched thin there.
He crouched to gather the small screwdriver and tin of brass nails he’d brought, the fabric of his sweatshirt bunching at his back. Hazel tried not to look and failed instantly. Something about the way he moved— unbothered, entirely focused on the task at hand— made her pulse tick faster, like her body was responding to a secret it hadn’t told her yet.
He stood and tucked the tools into the worn back pocket of his jeans, the waistband shifting just enough to reveal another glimpse of skin. There was a flash of that same dark trail of hair disappearing beneath denim, the hint of a life lived in movement and sun and the comfort of being unbothered by his own presence.
Hazel didn’t mean to move, not really, but before she could overthink it, before logic or nerves could rush in and drag her back, her hand reached out. Just slightly. Just enough for her fingertips to graze the bare skin of his forearm.
Itwas a featherlight touch, almost nothing. A barely-there press of flour-dusted fingertips to sun-warmed skin.
But it surefeltlike something. An anchor tossed overboard, sinking to the ocean floor beneath, ensuring that they would stay there a while.
Beck stilled, his breath catching so subtly she might’ve missed it if she hadn’t beenright there. He didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch— he just let her touch land and stay, brief, soft, and grounding.
“Thank you,” she whispered, voice far steadier than she felt. “Seriously. That was… you didn’t have to.”
He gave the faintest shrug, still facing the door. His voice, when it came, was low. “Didn’t like the idea of you being surprised here, alone. That’s all.”
Hazel’s fingers dropped away, lingering in the space between them like the echo of a word she hadn’t spoken yet. Her hand hovered there for a beat, suspended between impulse and restraint, before folding slowly against her side.
Behind her, she heard the telltale squeak of a table leg shifting, followed by a poorly stifled cough from Iris. The kind of sound that could’ve meantwow, orholy shit, ordid that really just happen,or, knowing Iris, all three.
