Chapter 8 #4
Eventually, when the silence between them had thickened into something that felt like its own kind of confession, Beck pulled back but just enough to look at her.
His hands didn’t drop away immediately; they lingered, one resting against the side of her neck, the other splayed across her back.
His eyes searched hers, checking, reading, listening.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low.
Hazel’s gaze dropped to his mouth, just for a second, studying the curve of it as he spoke. Then her eyes lifted again, startled by her own impulse.
Beck didn’t comment on it. He didn’t say anything at all.
Hazel forced herself to nod, the movement shaky and sudden.
He shifted away from her, his hands drifting out of her space.
He leaned back enough to reach for the backpack he’d brought and she watched the line of his shoulders shift as he unzipped it, his movements careful and fluid, like he’d done this before.
Like helping people was something built into the shape of him.
From inside the bag, he pulled out a small black case that was worn at the corners, its zipper half-busted but still functional.
She watched in silence as he zipped open the bag and unwrapped a roll of gauze. Then he slid out a small bottle of antiseptic and reached for a pair of latex gloves tucked into the side.
“You carry a first aid kit around?” she asked, voice still hoarse but a bit steadier now.
He gave a faint, almost sheepish shrug. “Old habit. I keep it in my truck.”
Hazel didn’t ask for specifics, didn’t feel that she needed them. He was just the kind of man who thought about worst-case scenarios and planned for them. But something about the way he said it made her chest ache, like maybe he’d seen more than his fair share.
Beck reached for her leg again but this time with the gloves on. His hands hovered for a moment.
“I need to clean it,” he said, calm and steady, his eyes meetings hers. “It’s gonna sting.”
Hazel nodded, bracing herself. “Go ahead.”
He rolled the fabric of her sweatpants a bit higher, careful not to press anywhere it would hurt.
She flinched as the antiseptic touched skin a moment later, the sensation of it sharp and cold, but he was already pressing gauze against it, absorbing the worst of the blood, working in slow, measured movements.
His hands were large and completely certain, even beneath the latex of the gloves. There was no tremor in them, no doubt. Just quiet, meticulous care.
She watched him work; watched the furrow between his brows, the way his mouth tightened in concentration.
The storm cracked again outside but neither of them looked toward the windows.
Hazel couldn’t bring herself to look away.
She was captivated by it, the ease with which he worked, the unruffled calmness in his movements.
“You’re good at this,” she murmured.
He gave the barest smile, eyes still focused on her leg. “I’ve had practice.”
There was something in the way he said it that made her want to ask this time. She pressed her lips together, fighting off the urge.
Beck applied a final press of gauze, checked the bleeding, then reached for the bandages.
“You’ll need to keep this dry as best you can for the next couple days,” he said, voice still low, but a bit of warmth had returned to it. Like the worst of this was behind him, behind them both. “Change the dressing tomorrow morning, if you can manage it. I’ll leave you with a few extras.”
She nodded again, biting the inside of her cheek. “Okay.”
He wrapped the bandage around her thigh, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to hold.
His movements were precise, almost reverent, and when he was done, he sat back on his heels with a quiet breath.
The gloves came off with a practiced flick, one then the other, and he dropped them into the small waste bag he’d unfolded beside the kit.
Hazel stared down at the white stretch of bandage now circling her thigh. The pain hadn’t disappeared, not entirely, it still hummed beneath the skin, deep and hot, but something about it felt contained now. It had a boundary, now, a place to stop, and that felt like something.
She swallowed and blinked once, then again.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice coming out rougher than she intended. It was small and hoarse and cracked around the edges, like the words had caught on something soft inside her before they made it out.
Beck’s gaze lifted. His eyes met hers, steady and unflinching, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all.
And when he did, he whispered, “Always.”
And that one word landed like an anchor.
Not heavy, not dragging, but grounding. Like something tethered itself to her chest in that exact moment and held. Like she’d been drifting without realizing it and he’d just offered her a place to stay.
It wasn’t grand or loud. It was solid.
It was Beck, steady and spare with his words, but never with his care. And somehow, that made it worse.
Because it meant he meant it.
Not just you’re welcome or it was no problem— not something polite or something transactional. Just always, like this wasn’t new, like it wasn’t conditional. Like it had already been true before she ever asked. And that it would stay true, as long as she wanted it to. Maybe even after that.
Hazel’s eyes burned again and she had to look away. Her gaze was drawn to the window at the front of the living room, the one that faced the driveway. It was too dark to see much of anything outside, and so instead, she simply watched as the rain traced dozens of paths down the glass pane.
She didn’t know how to hold this kind of constancy.
She wasn’t used to someone offering themselves without qualifiers or expiration dates.
But here he was, kneeling in front of her on her grandmother’s old rug, his palms resting open on his thighs, his body a little tired from the effort but his presence utterly unshaken.
She turned her eyes back to him as he returned the supplies to his bag, methodical and practiced.
He moved with an easy sort of competence, but there was something else behind it, too, something heavier in the curve of his shoulders, the faint tension in his jaw.
He zipped the case closed and set it aside, resting his forearm on one knee for a breath, his fingers curling loosely.
Then he took another breath and looked up, meeting her gaze.
“I’m going to check the front,” Beck said, his voice even and measured. The kind of calm that had nothing to do with ease and everything to do with choice.
Hazel blinked at him, caught off guard by the words. “Now? Are you sure?”
He nodded once, already shifting his weight like the decision had been made long before he spoke it aloud. “Just the porch,” he clarified. “If it’s not stable, you shouldn’t stay here tonight.”
The words should’ve made sense. They were practical, reasonable. And rationally, she knew that Beck wasn’t wrong— if the deck was compromised, if the structure had been weakened by the tree, it wasn’t safe.
But logic didn’t soften the sudden twinge of doubt that bloomed in her chest.
Something in her clenched and her throat tightened. Her fingers curled around the edge of the cushion beneath her. And before she could stop herself, the words slipped free— too fast, too raw.
“Beck, please…”
He paused, mid-step, his body angled toward the front door but not yet moving.
Hazel’s breath caught in her chest. She hadn’t meant for it to sound like that— so desperate, so small, like something afraid. But it was too late to pull it back now.
“The wind’s still bad,” she said, her voice quieter this time, but no steadier. “You don’t know what’s out there. The trees… the lines. Everything’s still shifting. Something could happen.”
It wasn’t panic, not exactly, but it was something close to it. That coiled, wary kind of fear that lived in the body long after the danger had passed.
She didn’t want him out there, didn’t want him to walk back into the storm— into the dark and the wet and the unknown— just to check if something might go wrong. Didn’t want him putting himself at risk, again, for her.
Beck turned to look at her fully. His expression didn’t flicker, not in any overt way, but something in his dark eyes softened, just a fraction. Like he’d caught what she wasn’t saying, tucked into the spaces between her words.
“I’ll be careful,” he said, voice soft. His eyes held hers, gentle and reassuring.
And he meant it, of course he did.
But he was still moving, still turning, still walking away.
And Hazel— without thinking, without planning— reached out and caught his hand.
Her fingers wrapped around his, not tight, but just enough to stop him. Enough to ask him, without asking, not to go. Not yet.
His hand stilled in hers, warm and rough and grounding. He turned back again, slower this time, eyes catching hers with that same unflinching focus he always seemed to carry, like nothing outside that moment existed. Like she was the only thing in the room.
Hazel swallowed hard, her pulse roaring in her ears. She could feel the words building in her chest, pressing against her ribs like they needed out. She wasn’t good at this— wasn’t used to needing people, or naming what she felt before it could twist into shame.
It made her feel sick, like something poisonous had curled up inside her and taken root.
But he was standing there, solid and still and waiting. And something in her unraveled as a result.
“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” she said, the words barely more than a whisper, but they carried weight. Not just because she meant them… but because of what they cost her to say.
Beck didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t deflect with the kind of easy charm other people used when they didn’t know how to hold something that mattered. He just looked at her. Really looked. And for a moment, she thought he might say nothing at all.
Then he nodded, slow and deliberate, like it was more for her than him. His fingers tightened around hers briefly, not enough to hurt, just enough to say: I heard you.
“I’m gonna be just fine,” he murmured. “I promise.”
But he didn’t say it like a promise, he said it like a truth he carried with him— quiet and constant and already proven.
Then his hand slipped from hers, fingertips trailing against her palm for a beat longer than necessary.
Hazel let him go, but her eyes didn’t leave him.
She watched the line of his shoulders as he crossed the room, first to the back door to pick up his boots, and then to the front. He braced a hand against the wall as he reached the door, sliding the boots onto his feet.
He didn’t turn back right away, but just before he stepped outside, just as the door opened and wind shoved hard against the frame, the cold spilling into the warm pocket of the house, he glanced back.
Only once, but it was enough.
It wasn’t a look of farewell. It wasn’t even reassurance. It was a thread, connecting the two of them, tethering them to one another. And without the words, the action said to her, I’ll be back. You’re not alone. I promise.
The door shut behind him. And the storm, greedy thing that it was, swallowed him whole.
Hazel sat there, her palm still tingling, the weight of his hand still imprinted on her skin. Her leg throbbed dully beneath the fresh bandage and her heart beat a little too fast. The lamp in the far corner flickered again. And for a long moment, she just listened to the wind.
He was out there.
She didn’t know what made her more afraid— the thought that he might not come back, or the thought that he would.