Page 83 of Rise
Hazel laughed and the sound curled up into the warm corners of the bakery like sugar into steam.
Friday morning came soft and slate, the sky outside still wearing its early winter hush. Rise was already warm and alive by the time Beck stepped through the door. A gust of salt-laced air followed him in, ruffling the edge of the chalkboard sign and making Hazel look upfrom where she stood behind the counter, adjusting a fresh tray of cinnamon coffee cake muffins.
“You’re late,” she said without looking directly at him, her mouth twitching upwards at the edges.
“You’re bossy,” he replied, no longer hesitant as he crossed the threshold and headed for the front counter.
She passed him his coffee in a to-go mug before he could ask, her fingers brushing his for the briefest second. “Flannel again,” she noted, eyeing the dark green check of his shirt. “You’re really leaning into the rugged lumberjack aesthetic, I see.”
“Think I’d give the old folks a heart attack if I switched things up.”
Hazel snorted softly, shaking her head. She turned to reach for a towel, wiping down a spot of icing sugar near the register. Their comfortable rhythm held— tentative, but slowly healing.
Beck took a sip, then leaned against the counter with a hip, his voice low. “So what’s this I’m hearing about a feature in some fancy magazine?”
Hazel froze. Her spine stiffened just enough for him to notice.
“Who told you about that?” she asked, not looking up.
He just smiled, not offering up any names.
Hazel rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushed. She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the screen. “It should be posted any minute.”
“Good,” Beck said, his gaze lingering on hers for a beat before he turned, heading for his usual table near the window. “Send me the link when it’s up.”
And so, she did. A few taps and it was off, and though she would have been content to hide behind the espresso machine and read it on her own, Beck coaxed her over, pushing the chair next to him out just enough to make room for her. She sighed and crossed the bakery, settling down against the sage green cushion.
There’s something about Rise that feels like a memory you forgot you missed— warm air, the scent of apple crumble and spiced chai, the kind of place that breathes. I’d barely crossed the threshold when awoman— flushed, flour-dusted, and flustered— dropped a handmade mug that shattered across the hardwood floor. She cursed under her breath and apologized three times. I liked her immediately.
Hazel let out a groan just as Beck started to laugh, his broad shoulders shaking.
“Did you seriously drop a mug as a first impression?”
She nudged his chair with the toe of her sneaker, her lips settled down into a deep frown. “I was nervous!”
“You don’t say,” he murmured, grin still curling at the corners of his mouth as he scrolled on.
They read in companionable silence after that, the kind that didn’t demand commentary, just presence. Hazel caught the way Beck’s brow furrowed when the article touched on her grandmother, and how his gaze lingered when Eli described the pastries as tasting like someone had put love and grief in the mixing bowl together. She didn’t ask what he thought— she didn’t have to. She just kept reading, one arm wrapped around her waist, her heart a little high in her throat.
When they reached the end, Beck set his phone down and looked over at her. “It’s good, Hazel,” he said, voice low. “Really good.”
Hazel gave a noncommittal shrug, one hand lifting to her hair to brush the dark locks back behind her ear.
She would never admit it aloud, but Beck was right— the articlewasgood. Eli was honest, and open, and even alluded to the fact that Hazel’s parents seemed to be a wound she’d rather leave untouched. But he had done it in a way that didn’t feeltooprodding, too sharp, and even after she’d finished reading the piece, the words settled at the back of her mind, playing on repeat.
A chime sounded from the back of the bakery, in the kitchen, and Hazel pushed away from Beck’s table. “That’s my cue,” she mumbled, letting out a soft, half-breathless laugh, silently grateful for the excuse to put some distance between them again.
After she’d transferred the gingerbread cookies from the oven to the cooling rack and switched off the oversized machine, she returned to her perch behind the counter. Her fingers absently brushed through the bakeries calendar, connected to the registers online system, double checking what time Juno was set to start her shift today.
From Hazel’s periphery, she caught sight of Beck rising from his seat. He made his way towards her and she lifted her head as he neared, her eyebrows rising with curiosity. He leaned up against the side of the counter again, just beside Hazel, and the hand not holding his coffee shifted into the space between them until it landed on her outstretched forearm.
It wasn’t much. Just the pad of his thumb brushing against the bend of her arm, the quiet press of his fingers through the soft weave of her sweater. But it startled something loose inside her, all the same. Not fear, not exactly, but a sharp awareness. The sudden, unsteady thrum of being seen and steadied at once.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
So instead, she just stood there, trying to anchor herself in the feel of it— his hand, his steadiness— and trying, too, not to read too much into what it meant. Because she didn’t know what anything meant anymore. Not the text he’d sent last week, not the awkward silence that followed, not the way their mornings had slowly stitched themselves back together like the hem of a torn sleeve.
Not the almost-kiss she’d though had ruined everything. Or the emotions that simmered inside of her, deep and buried, awaiting their chance to break free again.
