Page 57 of Rise
But it was clean, comfortable, and quiet.
And the man who lived here— who had made her tea without asking, who had picked mugs to match the one she gave him every morning, who had brought her here without hesitation or condition— was somewhere down the hall, as steady as ever.
She stepped farther inside and nudged the door closed behind her with one foot.
She padded across the room, her socked feet silent against the hardwood, and set her towel down at the end of the bed. The zipper of her backpack rasped through the quiet as she opened it with one hand, the motion swift, practiced. Hazel pulled out the change of clothes she’d grabbed earlier, whatever had been on top of the laundry basket in her room, folded and clean, chosen without thought.
She hung her dripping jacket over the door of the ensuite, watching for a moment as water leaked from the hem of it and created a small pool on the grey tile below. As she changed, her damp clothes clung to her skin, the cold lingering in her joints, her muscles, the bend of her neck. It wasn’t the kind of chill that passed once you were inside,it was the kind thatsettled,that crept in through the cracks and curled up behind your ribs.
The shorts she pulled on were a soft, cream cotton, loose but short enough that they left most of her thighs bare. The hem of them just barely brushed the bandage Beck had settled against her cut. The matching tank top clung to her body, snug, and it was ribbed and warm, but thin— better suited for summer nights with open windows than Maine in the throes of a coastal downpour. She switched out her damp socks for a pair of long wool ones, pulled up to her calves. The moment they were on, her body sighed with something like relief.
One by one, she folded her discarded, damp clothes and tucked them back into her backpack. When she reached for the sweatshirt she’d worn earlier, her hand paused. She lifted it to her nose, breathing in the familiar, worn scent buried beneath the dampness. Her fingers lingered at the collar, then traced the sleeves, still soaked through at the cuffs.
She considered pulling it back on, purely for the comfort it would provide. But the fabric was too cold, too wet, and the thought of dragging it over her already chilled skin made her flinch.
With a quiet sigh, she folded it, too, and pushed it into the pack with the rest.
And then came the knock. A soft, measured sound at the door— three taps, evenly spaced apart.
Hazel turned, startled out of her thoughts. “Come in,” she called, tugging at the hem of her tank instinctively.
There was a pause, a breath of hesitation. Then the door eased open and Beck stepped inside.
He was holding a mug in both hands and for a second that was all she saw: the gentle steam curling up toward his chin, the curve of his fingers wrapped around the ceramic. There was quiet care in the act and an odd sort of irony struck her, then, with Beck being the one cradling a mug intended for her, rather than the other way around.
But then he looked up and everything shifted.
He froze in the doorway, barely two steps into the room, and his gaze dropped, slowly at first, like gravity had taken hold of it. Hazel felt the air go thick around her.
His eyes moved over her bare legs first, olive-toned, long, and exposed all the way up to the hem of her sleep shorts. She swore she could feel his attention like a hand, warm and dragging over every inch of her skin. Then his gaze traveled up, following the line of her thigh to the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist beneath the thin cotton. Her tank top didn’t cover much— her shoulders were bare, the slope of her collarbones fully exposed, a faint trace of goosebumps already rising in the chill. The neckline dipped slightly between her breasts, and it was there— rightthere—his eyes hesitated.
Hazel didn’t move. She couldn’t.
Her skin prickled all over, flushed and electric under the weight of his stare.
He wasn’t doing anything, wasn’t even speaking, but his silenceroared.Louder than the storm continuing on outside, louder even than the racing of her heart, pressing heavy against her temples and the cage of her ribs.
She watched the muscles in his jaw flex once, then twice, like he was grinding back words, or breath, or something else entirely. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard. And his grip on the mug tightened, knuckles straining faintly against the heat.
He looked like he wastryingto move, but couldn’t. His entire body had gone still, like a wire pulled taut, one spark away from snapping.
Then, finally, his gaze lifted and met hers.
And everything in the room burned.
There was heat there, raw and startled and deep. He looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with the sight of her, like some part of him had imagined it before and wasn’t prepared for the reality of her standing in front of him likethat—in his room, in her socks and shorts and bare skin, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders.
His mouth parted, just slightly, but still no words came.
The mug in his hands trembled, and Hazel almost reached for it out of instinct, afraid he might spill it just standing there.
Beck blinked, sharp and fast, like he was trying to shake himself out of whatever current had caught him. He cleared his throat, the sound cracking down the center. Then he stepped forward, a little too stiff, and crossed the room to set the tea down on one of the nightstands. His movements were off; they were robotic, like muscle memory was the only thing keeping him moving.
“You’re gonna be cold,” he said, and his voice was rushed, uneven. “Heat doesn’t always reach the bedroom too well, especially at night. Especially when the weather is—“
He cut himself off with a sigh and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. She watched his fingers dig into the muscle there, that familiar gesture she’d seen a dozen times behind the counter at Rise. He looked around the room, searching. His eyes landed on the sweatshirt strewn across the armchair, the same one Hazel had spotted earlier.
Without a word, he moved toward it. He lifted it towards his face and sniffed it once, just enough to make sure it wasn’t dirty, then he turned back toward her.
