Page 49 of Rise
Beck’s fingers moved to the fabric of her sweatpants, stained and torn just above the knee. He pushed the material back, his touch gentle as he exposed the wound beneath. There was an angry red line along the length of torn skin and blood smeared and dried in uneven streaks.
He hissed through his teeth and his brow furrowed as he took in every detail. Not in panic or disgust, just a focused kind of worry that felt heavier than anything she could’ve prepared for.
“Shit,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
“I told you I was fine,” she whispered, voice barely audible.
“You told me you got out of the way,” Beck said back, still studying the cut. “You didn’t say how close it was.”
There was a current of protectiveness clinging to him that Hazel had come to recognize in the last few weeks, like it lived under his skin. Like it rose to the surface around her whether he meant it to or not.
He looked up at her then and something in him shifted. All the rough edges in his expression softened at once, his jaw loosening, his eyes searching hers. He looked at her like she was breakable. Not weak, not fragile… just something worth taking care of.
“You scared me,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it.
Hazel blinked. And then a tear slipped free, uninvited. It slid along the curve of her cheek and vanished into the collar of her sweater. Her chest tightened with it. Not from pain, but from the sound of his voice. From the way it carried something raw and unguarded, something she’d never heard from him before.
What am I supposed todowith someone like him?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. The words trembled in the space between them.
And then— because she didn’t know what else to do, because everything in her ached, because he was here and he’d come for herand said her name like itmeantsomething— she reached for him. Just barely. A hand lifted, shaky and unsure, hovering like it might change its mind.
But Beck didn’t hesitate, not for a second.
He moved forward just as soon as she did, not fast, but with certainty. One knee shifted closer, then the other, the hardwood groaning faintly beneath his weight. And then he wrapped his arms around her, his touch gentle and warm and comforting in every way she hadn’t realized she’d needed.
One of his arms braced behind her back, drawing her in without pressure. The other curled around her shoulder, hand rising to cradle the back of her head, fingers sliding into her damp hair with a striking tenderness.
Hazel sank into him with a sound that didn’t quite make it out— a soft, broken exhale against the side of his neck. Her arms looped around him, slow and tentative at first, then tighter.
His chest rose against hers, steady and slow. She could feel the shape of his breath— how controlled it was, how carefully he held himself. He smelled like wet wool and pine, like rain and whatever grease or oil still clung to him from earlier. But beneath that, was something warmer and familiar. Something she already knew she’d remember.
He didn’t speak, didn’t try to soothe or shush. He justheldher.
And Hazel let herself fold into it. She let herself tremble in the circle of his arms, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her breath hitching as she clung tighter. His thumb moved slowly against the nape of her neck, as steady as a heartbeat.
Eventually, when the silence between them had thickened into something that felt like its own kind of confession, Beck pulled back but just enough to look at her. His hands didn’t drop away immediately; they lingered, one resting against the side of her neck, the other splayed across her back. His eyes searched hers, checking, reading,listening.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low.
Hazel’sgaze dropped to his mouth, just for a second, studying the curve of it as he spoke. Then her eyes lifted again, startled by her own impulse.
Beck didn’t comment on it. He didn’t say anything at all.
Hazel forced herself to nod, the movement shaky and sudden.
He shifted away from her, his hands drifting out of her space. He leaned back enough to reach for the backpack he’d brought and she watched the line of his shoulders shift as he unzipped it, his movements careful and fluid, like he’d done this before. Like helping people was something built into the shape of him.
From inside the bag, he pulled out a small black case that was worn at the corners, its zipper half-busted but still functional.
She watched in silence as he zipped open the bag and unwrapped a roll of gauze. Then he slid out a small bottle of antiseptic and reached for a pair of latex gloves tucked into the side.
“You carry a first aid kit around?” she asked, voice still hoarse but a bit steadier now.
He gave a faint, almost sheepish shrug. “Old habit. I keep it in my truck.”
Hazel didn’t ask for specifics, didn’t feel that she needed them. He was just the kind of man who thought about worst-case scenarios and planned for them. But something about the way he said it made her chest ache, like maybe he’d seen more than his fair share.
