Chapter 3 #3
He nodded once, then let his gaze travel slowly through the space.
She watched it happen, this quiet taking-in of the world she’d spent the last few weeks building.
His eyes drifted from the place on the counter where the hand-labeled syrups sat, to the mismatched mugs lined like old friends along the shelf, to the chalkboard where her soft, looping handwriting spelled out that morning’s specials.
There was something unflinchingly present about the way he looked at things.
It wasn’t just seeing. It was registering, reading, committing to memory.
“Could’ve guessed,” he murmured, lips curving just slightly at the edges.
Hazel tilted her head, curious. “Why’s that?”
His gaze flicked back to hers, quiet and firm. “Because it doesn’t feel designed… it feels lived in. Like someone made it for people, not pictures.”
The words hit gently but they landed like truth, like something solid enough to plant roots in. Hazel’s smile came slower this time. Not reflexive, but real. A beat passed between them, charged not with tension, but with something weightier… recognition, maybe. Or respect.
“Thank you,” she said, and the words tasted honest in her mouth. His words meant more than he likely knew. More than she could explain.
Beck didn’t say anything, just looked away and reached for the sticky bun.
His fingers curled around the plate with care, like he didn’t want to disrupt the spiral of glaze or the warmth still rising from its center.
He took a slow bite, chewing in silence.
Hazel watched for a flicker or some shift, some signal.
It came gradually, first with a soft easing of his brow, then the faintest lift of his shoulders.
A sound, barely more than a breath, left him, though it was not quite a sigh and not quite a hum.
But close. Pleased, and a little surprised, maybe.
Hazel watched him longer than she meant to, eyes tracing the quiet satisfaction in his posture, the way he leaned slightly forward over the plate like the food had drawn something from him he hadn’t meant to share. She didn’t interrupt. Just held the moment with him, unspoken and delicate.
And then, because she had to move or she’d just keep watching him, she stepped back toward the counter, her breath deeper than before.
Outside, the morning light was shifting, the world waking slowly.
But in here, in this warm, fragrant and imperfect space, it had started to feel like something had settled. Like the day had already begun.
The rush had crested and broken and Hazel was still riding the aftershocks.
It was just after ten, though the air inside Rise felt thicker than that, warmed by hours of movement, breath, coffee steam, and conversation.
The soft notes of instrumental piano drifted from the ceiling speakers, a backdrop she’d barely registered for hours.
Her braid had all but unraveled at the nape of her neck, and her apron bore the day’s history in smudges of sugar glaze, flour, and faint trails of coffee grounds.
She hadn’t sat down since before sunrise.
But she was smiling. Softly, tiredly. The kind of smile that came from somewhere deep, somewhere earned and real.
She stood near the register, one hand loosely wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone tepid in the time it took to serve her last three customers.
Still, it was a comfort, a pulse of warmth against her palm.
The pastry case in front of her was mostly empty now.
A scatter of Sold out cards marked where the galette, the sticky buns, the muffins, the scones and the hand pies had once lived.
The croissants and cupcakes had dwindled to a few slightly lopsided survivors.
People had come and gone in a steady rhythm all morning; curious townspeople who remembered her from when she was simply “Wendy’s granddaughter,” and wide-eyed tourists who asked about the foam on the Verdance by the Sea.
She’d written names on to-go cups in neat cursive, made conversation about the weather, the foliage, and where to find the best trails just outside of town.
Malcolm had come by earlier, as quiet as always.
He’d carried in a ceramic vase wrapped in brown paper and twine, which he’d placed on the counter without a word and only a modest lift of his brows.
It was beautiful; a smooth, pale clay with a slightly flared lip and that subtle speckled glaze she recognized as his signature.
She’d thanked him too many times, laughing softly when he waved it off.
“You busy?” he’d asked.
“Not yet.”
“So… one of everything?”
Hazel had packed him a box while he sipped on his iced latte, her handwriting looping his name across the plastic cup.
She’d drawn a smiley face beside it without really thinking and he’d noticed but didn’t mention it.
Just grinned faintly, thanked her, and left with his hands full and his shoulders loose.
As he’d stepped over the threshold, she’d looked down and realized he’d tipped her far too much.
Now the shop had grown still again, the kind of lull that followed a swell.
She leaned into it and let herself breathe.
The air still buzzed with the scent of warm sugar and fresh espresso, but everything else had quieted— no scraping chairs, no orders murmured over the counter, no rush of feet.
She set down her coffee mug, brushed it a bit out of the way, and leaned against the counter for a moment, palms pressed flat.
The door at the front of shop pulled open, then, letting in a rush of cool sea-stained air once more.
Hazel looked up and barely had time to brace herself before Iris swept in.
She entered like the tide— bright, loud, and impossible to ignore.
Hazel caught the glint of her earrings first, tiny gold suns swinging beneath the curls that framed her face, left loose and flowing over her shoulders today.
Her linen tote bag was slung over her shoulder like she’d packed for a revolution instead of a flower delivery.
“Oh my god,” Iris gasped, juggling a bundle of wildflowers in one arm. “You did it. You really did it.”
Hazel’s smile broke, wide and surprised. “Iris, hi. I didn’t think you’d—“
“Miss the soft opening of the year? Please.” Iris crossed the floor in quick strides, her dark curls bouncing with the motion, her long mustard-yellow skirt trailing behind her like an exclamation.
She was wearing a cropped denim jacket over a graphic tee that read Support Local Everything.
Her sandals clacked against the hardwood as she leaned over the front counter, reaching for Hazel’s forearm to give it a gentle squeeze.
“I brought flowers,” Iris said, extending the unruly bouquet like a crown, bowing slightly as she did.
Her fingers were smudged faintly with soil, a curl of grass caught in the sleeve of her denim jacket.
The arrangement was generous and wild; goldenrod and dahlias, deep violet asters, stems of eucalyptus and wild fennel, and a few blush-toned roses tucked in with near reverence.
Each stem looked like it had been plucked with intention, cradled gently, arranged by someone who knew how to build beauty with both hands and heart.
Hazel reached for one of the lavender sprigs near the center, brushing her thumb across it.
The scent lifted instantly, cool and familiar, like linen drawers and late summer gardens.
She didn’t speak right away, just let the feeling bloom inside her.
Another gentle reminder of the person who’d brought her back here, after all this time.
“They’re perfect,” she murmured, her eyes still lingering on the lavender.
“Local, obviously,” Iris said, eyes gleaming. “And hand-picked with love. I put aside my very last bit of goldenrod for these. Malcolm said everything in here smells like magic and early autumn nostalgia, so I figured… florals to match.”
Hazel smiled again, already moving. She reached beneath it and gently unwrapped the vase Malcolm had brought earlier that morning, the twine unspooling in soft loops.
“I was going to use this later… but now feels like the right moment,” she said, quieter now, her fingers curved around the cool ceramic.
Iris’s voice softened, too, her eyes flaring wide as she followed Hazel’s steady movements. “Oh, that’s one of his new ones. The clay blend’s different, right? I’ve been telling him it’s moodier, more romantic. Did he bring it over for you?”
Hazel nodded, setting the vase beside the tip jar. It was nearly full now, surprisingly so, with crumpled bills and a few gleaming coins that caught the morning light.
“He said it was an opening gift.”
“Classic Malcolm,” Iris said with a fond eyeroll, that same soft smile still affixed to her face. “Scissors, please?”
Hazel turned, pulled open a drawer, and handed over the shears.
She replaced the emptiness in her hand with a nearby cloth, wiping absently at the counter.
As Iris trimmed the stems of her bouquet with clean, confident motions, the cut ends dropped onto the counter like small, fragrant offerings.
Water droplets beaded on her fingers. The room filled with the scent of eucalyptus and marigold sap, grounding and sharp, layered over the lingering sweetness of sticky buns and caramelized sugar.
“You’ve done something really special here,” Iris said after a pause.
Her voice didn’t rise; it settled, sure and quiet.
“This place…” She turned in a slow, gentle movement, eyes roaming the sunlight slipping across the hardwood, the chalkboard with its smudged edges, the empty trays waiting to be refilled.
“It feels like you, but bigger. Like what your grandmother imagined and what you’ve made are braided together somehow. ”
Hazel’s breath caught, but not dramatically— just enough to still her hands.