Page 52 of Rise
It wasn’t a look of farewell. It wasn’t even reassurance. It was a thread, connecting the two of them, tethering them to one another. And without the words, the action said to her,I’ll be back. You’re not alone. I promise.
The door shut behind him. And the storm, greedy thing that it was, swallowed him whole.
Hazel sat there, her palm still tingling, the weight of his hand still imprinted on her skin. Her leg throbbed dully beneath the fresh bandage and her heart beat a little too fast. The lamp in the far corner flickered again. And for a long moment, she just listened to the wind.
He was out there.
She didn’t know what made her more afraid— the thought that he might not come back, or the thought that hewould.
9
The door pressed open mere minutes later, sharp and sudden, and Hazel lifted her eyes from the floor. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been staring at the one particular grain of hardwood, watching the faint sway of lamplight stretch across it like a tide pulling in, then out again. Her fingers were curled in the hem of her sweater, her palm warm where it had pressed to her thigh.
And then he was there.
He’d made it back, just as he’d promised.
Relief hit her like a wave breaking low in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs, not with fear, but with the sudden absence of it. The terrible imagining of him not returning evaporated all at once, leaving a hollow ache in its place. Her eyes stung unexpectedly and her throat burned. She blinked fast, grounding herself in the sound of him there, real and whole andokay.
Beck stood in the threshold between the entryway and the living room, water clinging to the edges of his jacket, boots streaked with gravel and thick ribbons of mud. There was a slant to his shoulders she didn’t like, like he’d had to brace himself against something she couldn’t see. And yet, he was steady. Always steady. Like a body of water that didn’t flinch, that knew exactly where the shoreline was and kept coming anyway.
He didn’t speak right away, he justlooked at her.
His gaze moved over her, not searching for blood or bruises, not this time, but… checking. Reading. His eyes landed on the way she was curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the other propped up on a throw pillow, her fingers still trembling. And still, there was no panic in him, no urgency— only that same impossible calm.
“It’s worse than I thought.”
The words came low, even. But there was gravity in them, a kind of careful, measured weight that made her sit up straighter without meaning to, like she’d missed something vital and was only now catching up.
He stepped farther into the room, loosening the zipper of his jacket with a quiet tug. “The front railings gone, a few boards have shifted and one’s cracked right through. The pillar is gone, like you said. That whole corner’s loose and barely holding.”
Hazel didn’t answer at first, she couldn’t. Her mouth was dry, her chest pulled tight. She sat with the words for a long beat, then whispered, “Shit.”
Beck peeled off his coat and draped it over his arm, water dripping from the hem in quiet, uneven taps. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then looked at her again.
“You got lucky,” he said, and this time his voice dipped just barely, just enough to scrape something raw in her. “If you’d been out there even five seconds longer…”
He didn’t finish, didn’t need to. The silence wrapped around the edge of his words like floodwater. He gave his head a rough shake, jaw tight, as if even saying it aloud was too much.
Hazel dropped her gaze and ran a hand through her hair, still damp from the storm. Her fingers caught on a tangle near the nape of her neck, and she let them stay there, her elbow tucked in close. She felt small, suddenly, like her body wasn’t quite her own.
“So I’ll stay inside,” she murmured, trying for lightness. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
“That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Hazel.”
His voice didn’t rise, didn’t snap, but it held something firm now— that edge of protectiveness that always lived underneath his quiet, the kind you didn’t notice until it pressed up against you, solid and unyielding.
“If anything shifts while you’re asleep… if another gust hits and the structure gives, or the door jams, or you can’t get out fast enough—“ He paused, forcing a swallow. “It’s not safe.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
She kept her gaze away from his, because she knew he wasn’t wrong. And because something in the way he said it— like her safety was a given, a requirement, not a request— made her feel… fragile. Not weak, not exactly, but unsteady. Like she’d forgotten how to accept being protected.
And she had. She knew she had.
Still, her instincts flared. She straightened a little, gestured toward her phone on the coffee table, her voice thinner now. “I can call Iris. Or Malcolm. I’m sure one of them has a guest room.”
Beck shook his head once. “No.”
