Page 35 of Rise
“Trying to stay unpredictable,” he teased, eyes lingering on hers for a beat longer than usual. When he looked away again, she felt a sudden absence of warmth within her. She missed the weight of his gaze on hers.
He took the coffee and passed her more than enough bills to cover the cost of his order. When she moved to open the register and get his change, he shook his head and murmured at her to keep it. She smiled, faintly, her own cheeks going warm. Then she stepped back, feeling his gaze on her again, lingering once more.
She didn’t meet it right away, didn’t trust herself to. But eventually, she looked up. And when their eyes met, it hit her like standing too close to the oven when the door swings open— heat, all at once. Like he’d seen more of her than she’d intended to put on display.
She knew she looked tired, she felt it in her bones. But there was no pity in his face. No pity and no pressure.
Beck shifted slightly, like he was going to turn away. Instead, he paused.
His hand tightened briefly around the coffee cup and he looked at her again. “You know you can’t pour from an empty cup, right?”
Hazel blinked, startled— not by the words, but by the quiet care hidden within them.
He didn’t wait for a reply, just gave a small nod and pushed the door open, letting the cold morning rush in behind him.
The bell rang low and clear and then he was gone.
And Hazel just stood there, her hands stilled over the counter, breathing in steam and citrus and something she didn’t have a name for. Something warm and sharp. Something that flickered like light through mist.
By the time Hazel made it to the Northlight Collective, the afternoon light had begun to shift— longer shadows cast through the studio’s arched front windows, golden and soft like tea left to steep too long. The walk from the bakery hadn’t been long, but her legs ached in that deep, unspoken way, like they were tired of holding everything up.
The studio sat at the very end of Main Street, tucked into the corner just across from The Captain’s Rest. One of the larger storefronts on the block, it looked quiet from the outside, with crisp, modern signage affixed above frosted privacy glass that shielded the interior from view.
Inside, the space opened with quiet grace. White-washed brick walls glowed soft beneath the low lighting. The floors were smooth pine, warm beneath her feet even through her shoes. Gauzy curtains fluttered faintly near the windows, and a jungle of plants climbed bookshelves and nested in corners, thriving in the stillness. A faint scent drifted on the air, Palo Santo, bergamot, and wood polish. Soft jazz murmured from somewhere overhead, its rhythm unhurried and low, making room for breath.
Behind the front counter, a small altar had been arranged with care: tea lights flickering in short glass jars, a framed photo of a man that Hazel didn’t recognize, though the name beneath readHenry Shaw.Next to the photo was a shallow bowl full of sea glass, its pieces cool and bright like softened fragments of a broken wish. Just beside it, a large whiteboard served as a communal gratitude board, pastel marker scribbles scattered across its surface like confessions.
I’m grateful for today.
My sister’s laugh.
Mornings at sea.
The waiting area held sleek, modern furniture in hushed tones of cream and brown, soft fabric cushions molded gently from use.
The woman at the front desk smiled and Hazel recognized her from around town, but didn’t know her name.
“You must be Hazel,” she said, her dark eyes alight with an easy, gentle kindness. “Leigh’s expecting you. Studio two is just down the hall on the left, feel free to grab a mat when you get there.”
Hazel had called the studio earlier that day, just before lunch. She wasn’t even sure what she planned to say until she introduced herself and the voice on the other end of the line said,“We were expecting your call.”
And suddenly it was real.
They told her there was space in the four o’clock class that ran on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
“Leigh teaches that one,”the woman had said.“You’ll be in good hands.”
Now, as she traced the route down the hall toward the studio, Hazel wasn’t sure what she’d expected. She felt underdressed and too visible, despite the fact that no one looked up when she entered. There were five or six other women on their mats, already stretching or folded into soft shapes. As promised, there was a wall of mismatched yoga mats at the back of the room, and Hazel padded over and tucked one beneath her arm.
At the front of the room, the instructor, Leigh, sat cross-legged on a lilac mat, her arms draped loosely across her knees as she wrapped athletic tape around one thumb with slow, practiced care. She looked younger than Hazel expected, probably a few years younger than shewas. But even still, there was something quietly commanding about her, like stillness wasn’t a pause but a form of strength. Her body looked sculpted but soft, like it had once been carved from marble and then worn down by wind and movement and life— refined, not fragile.
She wore a ribbed ash-coloured tank and leggings a shade or two darker, faded in places from use. A small crescent moon tattoo curved along her ribcage, just visible as she twisted and rose to her feet in one smooth, unhurried motion. Hazel’s gaze caught on it, on her, just as Leigh looked up and caught her eyes.
“You’re Hazel.”
Not a question, just a quiet, anchoring truth, like she reallyhadbeen waiting for her.
Hazel swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, hi.”
