Page 93 of Rise
Beck stood near one of the tall glass windows, his hand braced against the frame, the other wrapped loosely around a travel mug— one she recognized instantly. Hers.
He wasn’t moving, just watching. The sea, the sky, something far off that didn’t need naming. His jacket was open, the flannel beneath buttoned to the top, hair ruffled from the wind. He looked like he’d been carved from the same stone as the tower— solid, quiet, older than he let on.
And then he turned.
His eyes met hers, warm and sharp, but softened in a way that undid something knotted in her chest.
“Hey,” he said, lifting his arm out into the space between them, offering the thermos to her.
“Hey,” she whispered back, that same dull burning sensation beginning to rise once more against the backs of her eyes. She took a few steps closer and lifted a hand, taking the outstretched mug from him. It was warm and the heat bled into her fingers, into her bones, like it belonged there.
They stood together in silence for a few minutes after that, Hazel occasionally lifting the mug to her lips and letting the bitterness of the coffee inside push the emotion back down into her chest where it belonged. After she’d had a few sips, she handed it back to Beck.
His eyes were on the horizon, the faintest movement of his thumb against the mug the only sign that he, too, was circling something wordless. After a long pause, he nodded toward the corner of the room, where an old folding chair sat beneath the narrow window, a crooked stack of worn paperbacks beside it. There was a thick jacket draped over the back of the chair and a water bottle in the mesh cup holder, half-hidden in shadow. It looked like a quiet little shrine to time spent waiting, or escaping, or surviving.
“This is where I come when I don’t know what else to do,” he said, his voice steady, low, worn thin at the edges but still intact. “Figured it might work for you, too.”
Hazel followed the line of his gaze, eyes landing on the modest arrangement. It was practical, makeshift, and comforting in a way that tugged hard at her ribcage. She could picture him there, his spine bent, wind howling through the windows, his broad hand resting on the page of a book he wasn’treallyreading. She could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying and the space he had made for her inside it.
Her chest ached with the shape of it. The intention, the quiet kindness of it all. She turned back to the view, the horizon stretching before them in all its bleak, endless honesty. The sea was bruised and thrashing, but it hadn’t broken. It just kept moving.
“It does,” she said, voice shaky with the effort of holding everything back.
Something loosened in her ribs, an invisible fist unclenching, letting the breath move through her body without catching in her throat. The weight she had carried from the moment she left the care facility— this muddled tangle of grief and tenderness, of shame and warmth, of longing for something that could never quite be reclaimed— shifted in her chest, less like a burden and more like something that might be carried if she let it. She hadn’t said what she wanted to say. Hadn’t said enough. Hadn’t stayed long enough. Hadn’t been there the last time, or the time before.
She blinked hard against the sting rising behind her eyes again, her shoulders beginning to curl inward as though her body knew what was coming before she did.
And then, without a word, Beck stepped closer. No hesitation, no pause for permission, just a slow, careful folding into her space, his arm curling around her shoulders like he was made to fit there. She didn’t flinch, didn’t freeze, she justwent.Her body moved into his like breath returning to lungs, like muscle remembering the shape of warmth. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, the collar of his jacket cool against her cheek. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his side, and for a moment, she stopped trying to hold anything in.
He didn’t stiffen and he didn’t speak. He just held her, as steady as stone, one large hand anchoring her against him. Then, with a slow dip of his head, there was the gentlest brush of lips at her hairline, not a kiss so much as a silent promise. A way of sayingI see you,without needing to speak.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, barely louder than the wind, the words curling into her scalp like warmth seeping into cold skin. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
Her throat tightened. Her grip on him did not loosen.
“But I’m here,” he added, softer still. “I’ve got you.”
And he did.
In the absence of questions, in the absence of explanation, he had her.
And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to be held. Not as something fragile, but as somethingtired.Something human.
They stood like that for a long, long moment, the softened breeze licking at the edges of her coat, salt and snow on the air. Her face tucked into the collar of his jacket, breath warm against his skin. His hands were large and still against her back, save for a thumb that brushed back and forth— rhythmic, like a tether.
Then, with a soft sort of reluctance, Hazel spoke.
“She looked good,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Healthy. Her hair was down and brushed and she was smiling when I walked in. And for a second I thought—“ Her breath caught, eyes pressing shut. “I thought maybe I made it all up, that maybe I remembered things wrong. Because she was… bright, even. Warm.”
Beck didn’t speak. Just exhaled a soft breath, like he didn’t want to jostle the shape of her words. His hand at her back slowed, then resumed its careful motion.
“But the last time I saw her… it was completely different. There’d just been a rainstorm, one of those nasty ones that knocks trees sideways and grounds half the flights. I managed to get there, anyway, flew in early and rented a car. And she…” Hazel shook her head, the words catching like thorns. “She was frantic. Paranoid. Kept talking in these whispered riddles, like we were being watched. She told me not to use my phone, said‘they’were always listening. I asked her who, and she just looked at me like I should already know.”
Hazel drew back a little, not all the way, just enough to tilt her face up, resting her temple beneath his jaw.
Beck’s brows were knit together in a deep frown. “That must’ve been hard… seeing her like that.”
“I don’t even really see her as my mom,” she whispered, and though the words were honest, they were threaded through with years of unspoken shame, with emotions she’d never allowed herself to feel, not fully. “Not really. It’s just not a role she ever played. Not since I was too small to remember.”
