Chapter 7 #3
The harbour opened up in a slow reveal. A few remaining boats bobbed in their slips, their hulls rocking with the rhythm of the tide.
The wind had picked up just enough to crest the water in soft whitecaps, the waves churning blue-grey and dappled with foam.
A few gulls paced along the edge of the dock, feathers ruffling in the breeze, beaks tucked down like they, too, were preparing for quieter months ahead.
Hazel stepped down from the sidewalk to the creaky boardwalk that wound along the water’s edge. Her pace slowed without her thinking about it. There was no one around, no one to rush for.
She let the silence settle around her, let the weight of the morning drain just enough to loosen her shoulders.
Then came the sound of metal on metal. A sharp clang that echoed across the air, carried along the breeze.
She turned instinctively toward the sound and saw him.
Beck.
He was crouched beside a rust-red skiff just beyond the open bay of a harbourside garage, one knee down, the other bent, working a socket wrench with slow, deliberate turns.
His shoulders moved in steady rhythm, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms streaked with oil.
A pair of mechanic’s overalls were tied around his waist, the top half hanging loose over a charcoal t-shirt faded soft with age.
He hadn’t seen her yet. And still, Hazel stopped.
The world around him was all motion— boats swaying, wind stirring, rope tapping softly against wood— but somehow, he was still.
Hazel stood there for a beat longer than she meant to, coffee cradled in her hands, warmth seeping through to her palms. Something about the scene felt… caught, like a painting between brushstrokes. Like if she breathed too loudly, she might startle it out of place.
She took another sip, slower this time. Her eyes watched him over the rim.
Then she stepped forward, the boardwalk beneath her shoes creaking with the movement.
“Hey,” she called, the sound of her voice carrying just above the wind.
Beck glanced up, blinking against the light like he’d just surfaced from somewhere underwater. His expression shifted, neutral at first, then a flicker of surprise, and finally something gentler, quieter. Something that made her chest tighten without warning.
“Hey,” he echoed.
She stepped closer, moving from the wooden slats to the salt-stained concrete. The closer she got, the more the scent of oil and metal layered over the sea air, industrial and clean in a way she hadn’t expected.
Beck stood, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into the pocket of his overalls that had seen better days. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but the sharp edges of him were gone. Smoothed. Like this was a place he knew true peace, true comfort.
Hazel stopped a few feet away, one hand curled around her coffee, the other tucked into the pocket of her cardigan.
“You know, it’s only fair,” she remarked, her voice lighter now. “That I finally get to see you in your habitat, since you’re always showing up in mine.”
That earned a real laugh from Beck, low and genuine, the kind that came from somewhere deep within his chest. He glanced behind him, toward the open bay of the garage, then back at her. “Didn’t know I had a habitat.”
“Oh, you do,” she said, tipping her mug toward the skiff. “Oil-stained docks, moody lighting, background noise provided by the nearby water and birds. It’s very atmospheric. Suits you.”
Beck snorted, rubbing the back of his neck, smearing oil across his skin as he did. Hazel’s eyes lingered on it, briefly unable to look away.
“You forgot the added charm of old engines that don’t like to cooperate.”
Hazel chuckled. “Even better. You’re basically a Maine tourism poster.”
“Right. Just missing the lobster roll.”
Hazel smiled around the lip of her mug as she took another sip. The wind tugged a strand of her hair forward and she tucked it behind her ear.
“You here on a mission?” he asked, nodding toward her cup. “Or just taking a walk to cool off?”
Hazel raised an eyebrow, startled by how easy he had been able to read her. “That obvious?”
“You’re not hard to read. Most people pretend to walk… you storm.”
That made her huff another laugh, despite herself. “I prefer to call it ‘purposeful striding.’”
Then, after a beat, she shrugged, her eyes drifting away. She watched the water for a few breaths, her eyes following the waves as they crested and then settled. “Had a frustrating phone call. Business stuff.”
He didn’t press but she could feel the weight of his gaze still on her face.
She hesitated for a second, then stepped forward and held out her coffee. “Want some? It’s pretty strong today. You could probably fix an engine with it.”
Beck blinked at the offer but didn’t question it.
His fingers brushed hers as he took the mug, calloused, warm, and steady, and Hazel’s breath caught, though she hid it behind a faint smile.
The contrast startled her: the way his hand dwarfed the cup she could barely wrap one of hers around, the way the stainless steel seemed small and almost delicate between his fingers.
He glanced down at the drink, then up at her, like he was checking that it was okay, that this was really happening. She nodded once and he brought the mug to his lips.
Hazel didn’t mean to watch, not really.
But she did anyways. She couldn’t help herself.
Her eyes were drawn to the way his mouth curved around the rim, deliberate and unhurried.
To the way his throat moved as he swallowed, exposed just slightly where the neckline of his tee hung loose and soft at the edges.
His other hand rested at his hip, relaxed, unaware of the way her stomach turned as he drank from the exact same spot her mouth had been seconds before.
The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than five heartbeats, but her skin was buzzing.
Beck finished the sip and lowered the mug, licking a trace of coffee from his bottom lip in one unconscious flick. He looked at her, not with anything obvious, just that same steady awareness he always seemed to carry. Like he was listening, even when she hadn’t said anything.
“It’s good,” he said, offering it back.
Hazel took the mug, letting her fingers brush his again, this time on purpose. Her pulse kicked but she didn’t show it. Beck’s eyes flickered down to the point of contact and then drifted away, out towards the water.
“I only serve the best,” she said, cradling the mug against her chest like armour. “Or so I’ve been told.”
That brought the smallest of smiles to his lips, barely there but unmistakable. The kind that said he remembered. Not just the coffee, but that morning, a few weeks ago, when he’d told her she made a mean cup of coffee— even though all she ever did was brew it and pour.
His gaze lingered on the horizon and something in it had hardened.
They stood like that for a moment, the quiet stretching out between them. The water shifted gently below, lapping against the boardwalk in soft, uneven beats.
“Storm’s coming,” Beck said finally, his dark eyes still fixed on the sky. “Later tonight, maybe into tomorrow. Got the feel of it in the air.”
Hazel followed his gaze. The sky looked swollen and heavy, grey thickening into slate at the edges. The wind dragged low across the docks, rustling the loose edges of the canvas tarps and setting a weathered buoy swaying on its chain, its hollow clank echoing over the water.
“You have everything covered?” he asked. His voice was quieter this time, gentler. His eyes stayed on the horizon, but there was something else tucked beneath the words… concern, maybe. A kind that felt personal.
Hazel nodded, though his eyes hadn’t found hers yet. Her gaze remained fixed to his profile, studying the sharp curve of his jaw. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve got backup generators at the house and the bakery, just in case.”
That finally made him look at her.
And when he did, it wasn’t just a glance, it was a study.
A slow, steady taking-in, like he was checking for cracks.
Like he didn’t quite believe the answer unless he could see it for himself.
Hazel held the look, her fingers curling tighter around her coffee, as if somehow it would make her feel stronger beneath his prodding gaze.
After a beat, Beck extended a hand, his palm open towards her. “You got your phone?”
Hazel blinked. “My phone?”
“Pass it here. Just for a second.”
She hesitated, confused, but there was something in his face, something solid and certain, not pushy, but not casual either. Just… there.
So she reached into the pocket of her cardigan, unlocked her phone, and handed it over.
Beck tapped a few things, thumb slow against the screen. When he handed it back, his touch was light.
“I added my number,” he said, nodding towards her. “Just in case. You reach out if you need anything, alright?”
Hazel looked down at the screen.
Beck.
Nothing more, nothing less, like it didn’t need to be.
Her throat tightened but not in a painful way. It was that same, unspoken and cresting emotion that often threatened her in these quiet moments with him. The one she often pushed aside, too afraid to try and ponder for too long. She did it again, now, swallowing against the heaviness of it.
“Okay,” she agreed, a beat later. Her voice was soft, her eyes remaining on his. “Thanks.”
The wind tugged at her hair again, curling it across her cheek, and this time she didn’t bother to tuck it back. Beck had turned toward the water again but something about his stance shifted. He had angled himself just slightly toward her, like instinct. Like protection.
They stood that way for another long, unspoken moment.
And then Hazel reached back out towards him, offering the mug of coffee for a second time.
He took it from her without a word and swallowed another sip, slower this time, his lips curving just slightly at the taste, the warmth. It should’ve felt strange or intimate in a way that bordered on too much, sharing a cup of coffee. But it didn’t. It felt natural.
He tried to pass it back but Hazel shook her head.
“Keep it,” she said. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”
He started to protest, already lifting it in offering again, but she cut him off with a wide smile.
“You can just bring the mug back tomorrow.”
That made him pause.
A smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth, not wide like hers, and not bright, but warm in a way she felt in her ribs.
“Alright,” he agreed, nodding. “Tomorrow.”
Hazel stepped back a little, wrapping her arms around herself against the wind. It carried in off the water now, stronger and cooler than before. She didn’t shiver, not exactly, but he noticed. She could tell by the way he moved just slightly again, like he might block more of it if she stayed.
“You should get back to your skiff,” she murmured, though she wanted nothing more than to stay there with him, soft words exchanged between them as their eyes wandered the darkening horizon.
“Yes, ma’am,” Beck said, dry and even, already turning back toward the open bay, but not before giving her one last unreadable look.
Hazel lingered a moment longer, just to watch him move.
He was efficient, and grounded, entirely unbothered by the cold.
The tiniest bit of wince in his step, like always.
She wondered what he’d do once the storm hit.
If he’d keep working, if he had a place like hers to hunker down.
If he’d end up at the lighthouse, keeping watch on the town from his high perch.
She wondered what else he did when he wasn’t here, or when he wasn’t installing bells in bakeries, or helping with shorefront clean-ups. She had a feeling that a lot of what he did was in service of others; but in that quiet, unspoken way of his. The type that never sought out a thank you.
The thought sat warm and unsteady in her chest.
She turned, finally, and started the slow walk back up the hill, coffee-less now, but steadier somehow.