Chapter 9
The door pressed open mere minutes later, sharp and sudden, and Hazel lifted her eyes from the floor.
She hadn’t realized how long she’d been staring at the one particular grain of hardwood, watching the faint sway of lamplight stretch across it like a tide pulling in, then out again.
Her fingers were curled in the hem of her sweater, her palm warm where it had pressed to her thigh.
And then he was there.
He’d made it back, just as he’d promised.
Relief hit her like a wave breaking low in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs, not with fear, but with the sudden absence of it.
The terrible imagining of him not returning evaporated all at once, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
Her eyes stung unexpectedly and her throat burned.
She blinked fast, grounding herself in the sound of him there, real and whole and okay.
Beck stood in the threshold between the entryway and the living room, water clinging to the edges of his jacket, boots streaked with gravel and thick ribbons of mud.
There was a slant to his shoulders she didn’t like, like he’d had to brace himself against something she couldn’t see.
And yet, he was steady. Always steady. Like a body of water that didn’t flinch, that knew exactly where the shoreline was and kept coming anyway.
He didn’t speak right away, he just looked at her.
His gaze moved over her, not searching for blood or bruises, not this time, but…
checking. Reading. His eyes landed on the way she was curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the other propped up on a throw pillow, her fingers still trembling.
And still, there was no panic in him, no urgency— only that same impossible calm.
“It’s worse than I thought.”
The words came low, even. But there was gravity in them, a kind of careful, measured weight that made her sit up straighter without meaning to, like she’d missed something vital and was only now catching up.
He stepped farther into the room, loosening the zipper of his jacket with a quiet tug. “The front railings gone, a few boards have shifted and one’s cracked right through. The pillar is gone, like you said. That whole corner’s loose and barely holding.”
Hazel didn’t answer at first, she couldn’t. Her mouth was dry, her chest pulled tight. She sat with the words for a long beat, then whispered, “Shit.”
Beck peeled off his coat and draped it over his arm, water dripping from the hem in quiet, uneven taps. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then looked at her again.
“You got lucky,” he said, and this time his voice dipped just barely, just enough to scrape something raw in her. “If you’d been out there even five seconds longer…”
He didn’t finish, didn’t need to. The silence wrapped around the edge of his words like floodwater. He gave his head a rough shake, jaw tight, as if even saying it aloud was too much.
Hazel dropped her gaze and ran a hand through her hair, still damp from the storm. Her fingers caught on a tangle near the nape of her neck, and she let them stay there, her elbow tucked in close. She felt small, suddenly, like her body wasn’t quite her own.
“So I’ll stay inside,” she murmured, trying for lightness. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
“That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Hazel.”
His voice didn’t rise, didn’t snap, but it held something firm now— that edge of protectiveness that always lived underneath his quiet, the kind you didn’t notice until it pressed up against you, solid and unyielding.
“If anything shifts while you’re asleep… if another gust hits and the structure gives, or the door jams, or you can’t get out fast enough—“ He paused, forcing a swallow. “It’s not safe.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
She kept her gaze away from his, because she knew he wasn’t wrong. And because something in the way he said it— like her safety was a given, a requirement, not a request— made her feel… fragile. Not weak, not exactly, but unsteady. Like she’d forgotten how to accept being protected.
And she had. She knew she had.
Still, her instincts flared. She straightened a little, gestured toward her phone on the coffee table, her voice thinner now. “I can call Iris. Or Malcolm. I’m sure one of them has a guest room.”
Beck shook his head once. “No.”
Just that. A single syllable, solid and unshakeable. The first step onto something that felt like firm, reliable ground— though she wasn’t sure she’d recognize the feeling if it split itself open beneath her feet.
Hazel frowned, her stomach dipping towards the floor. “Beck—“
“There’s no point calling around in the middle of the night when I’m already here. You’re not in any shape to drive, Hazel. And the roads are rough.”
He crouched to toe off his boots, lining them up neatly by the door, his movements calm, practiced. Like he’d already made peace with the outcome before he stepped inside. Like he’d been prepared for this as soon as he’d heard her voice on the other end of the call.
“I’ve got space,” he continued. “And I’m ten minutes up the road. I’ll drive you back in the morning.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her throat pulled tight once more and she swallowed, trying to gather herself.
“I don’t want to put you out,” she managed to say, after a beat.
“You’re not.”
He said it like it was fact, like there was no argument to be made. Like her comfort, her safety, was already accounted for. Non-negotiable.
And that’s where it hit her.
People didn’t do this. Not for her. Not since—
Her breath caught, the rest of the sentence folding in on itself.
Her grandmother had, certainly, back when Hazel was small, before she ever understood that most people had that sort of love in spades.
Before Boston, before the long years of silence that weren’t quite silence, but felt like it anyway.
The distance between them hadn’t started with a fight, it had just…
happened. She’d left home, pursued something bright, something burning, and though they still spoke, sent birthday cards, managed the occasional visit, the weight of care had shifted.
There hadn’t been someone to call when things got hard; not when she locked herself in a walk-in fridge just to cry between lunch and dinner service, not when the migraines came, or her hands split open from the cold.
She’d learned to carry it alone. To be alone.
And yet— here he was.
She looked at Beck, this man who showed up every morning without fail.
Who drank his coffee black and didn’t so much as blink when she was quiet.
Who had installed a bell above the bakery door without her asking, without making it a thing, just so she wouldn’t be startled when customers walked in.
This man who’d offered his number when a storm was coming, and told her to call— and when she did, he’d gotten in his truck and come straight to her, no hesitation.
And when Iris made comments about how often he lingered— or Malcolm raised a brow about his supposed disinterest— he’d never denied it. If anything, he’d confirmed it. Not with words, but with his presence, day in and day out. And with the way he watched her, and the way he stayed.
Hazel’s fingers curled in her lap. The part of her that wanted to keep arguing and keep pushing back was the same part that had spent years convinced no one would ever do this without strings, without expecting something in return.
Still, she hesitated. She simply couldn’t stop herself. This piece of her was buried too deep.
Finally, her gaze lifted to his. With a soft, barely there sigh, she whispered, “There’s always the inn.”
Beck scoffed, shaking his head. “They’ll give you scratchy sheets and a busted radiator,” he said, his dark eyes pouring into hers. “A second floor room, if you’re lucky, and if they’re not full already. If they even have power.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know that,” he whispered back, his voice softening again. “But I am. Please… just let me.”
And there it was. That unwavering thing in him, the quiet certainty. The refusal to let her talk her way out of being cared for.
Hazel looked down, pulse thudding in her ears, matching the slow, even rhythm of his breath a few feet away.
This shouldn’t have felt like so much.
It was just a ride. Just a couch. Just one night.
But it wasn’t just anything.
Because it was with him.
And he wasn’t just offering her shelter, he wasn’t just offering convenience.
He was offering care. Steady, unflinching, given freely and without condition.
Her gaze lifted and she took another beat to study him, to search for any flicker of doubt within him. Rain clung to the angle of his jaw and his hair had begun to dry in soft curls near his temples. His shirt stuck to his shoulder and his brow was furrowed, not with frustration, but with concern.
Real, quiet concern. The kind that didn’t ask to be seen, but was impossible to miss.
“I’m sure I’ll be okay on my own for one night,” she said, her voice so quiet she hardly recognized it.
That hesitant, terrified part of her was screaming, begging her to stand her ground.
But she knew, after this, she didn’t have much left inside of her.
This was her one last protest, born more out of habit than anything else.
Beck shook his head again.
“You’re coming with me,” he said, simple and calm. His dark eyes were firm, his lips set into a line so straight the colour had begun to fade around the edges. “Stop arguing.”
Hazel stilled, though maybe it should have made her bristle. Maybe she should have clung tighter to the edges of her independence, to the years she’d spent surviving without anyone else.
But she didn’t… because he wasn’t taking anything from her. He was giving to her, choosing her.
Again. And again.
“I’ll help you get your things,” he added, turning towards the staircase, just hidden from Hazel’s view. “And then we’ll go.”