Chapter 9 #2
She looked at him for a long moment, watching the way his jaw had begun to relax.
She studied him, not out of resistance, not anymore.
Not to search for the brief give in his armour.
Instead, she was just… piecing it all together.
The way he looked at her, the steadiness in his voice, the shape of his care, never loud, never demanding— but there. Always there.
And slowly, that quiet, trembling part of her, the part that still didn’t know how to receive something without suspicion, unfolded. It scattered into the howling wind pressing up against them from outside, and drifted out to sea.
Then, finally, she nodded. Just once.
“Okay.”
And it wasn’t surrender, not really.
It was trust.
The storm had eased a bit by the time they turned off the main road.
Not gone, not really, just softened— like it had burned itself out and left only the ghost of its former strength behind. The rain still came in scattered sheets, drifting across the windshield in loose, half-hearted swipes, and the wind moaned faintly through the trees. But the worst had passed.
Hazel felt it. Not just in the weather, but in the way her body had begun to unclench.
The drive was short, maybe ten minutes, just like Beck had said, but it stretched longer in the dark, their headlights cutting through the thick blur of pine and fog.
Every so often, he had to swerve around something: a fallen branch, a scattering of debris, a length of siding that must’ve peeled off someone’s shed and gone airborne.
She watched it all pass from the passenger seat, her backpack resting by her feet. Inside were the barest of necessities: a change of clothes, some toiletries, her phone charger, her wallet. She hadn’t packed like she was leaving home, just enough to get through the night.
And yet, she couldn’t help but feel relieved. Grateful, even. There was a twinge of embarrassment there, too, hidden beneath it all. At herself, for the way she’d fought him on this for so long. And also for giving in, for allowing herself to accept
But as the storm passed by outside, Hazel realized that there was no way she could have driven this on her own.
Not in the dark, not in this rain, not with her leg aching and her nerves frayed thin.
The road curved hard in places, dipped low in others, and the trees pressed in tight on either side, their limbs skeletal and swaying.
It was the kind of drive you had to know, the kind that required steadiness even in the tensest of moments.
Beck drove like someone who knew every bend before it came.
Eventually, the gravel turned rougher, the forest thicker.
His truck bumped along the incline, and then, just as Hazel was starting to wonder where exactly they were going, the trees parted.
A clearing opened up ahead, small and dark and slick with rain, and the headlights swept across the silhouette of a cabin at its center.
It was made from thick wooden logs, darkened with age and weather, and the porch wrapped around the front like a crooked smile.
Hazel caught a glimpse of railing, of uneven steps, of a rain barrel tucked around the side.
The windows were dark, no lights spilling out from within.
Only the sweep of the headlights tracing over wood and shadow.
And then the engine cut, the lights blinked out, and the clearing was swallowed whole by the night.
Hazel blinked into the inky blackness, disoriented by the sudden loss of sight. Her hand hovered near the door handle, unsure.
A moment later, Beck’s door creaked open. She heard his boots crunch against the gravel and the soft thud as he shut the driver’s side door behind him. She watched through the windshield as he rounded it, heading for her side.
Her door was pulled open, just as she’d begun to push on it. Rain swept in on a gust of cold air, and Beck was there, framed by the shape of his cabin behind him. He didn’t speak, just extended a hand. And Hazel took it.
His grip was warm and familiar now. He helped her down from the truck without a word, and before she could reach for it herself, he bent to grab her bag from the floorboard, too. He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
This was a habit, she realized, one that was already forming— him doing things for her before she could offer. Not in a way that demanded thanks or made a show of it. Just… reflex. Instinct.
The rain had picked up again, thinner but colder now, and her jacket clung to her arms, damp and heavy. Her breath fogged in front of her and she pulled her hood tighter as Beck led the way toward the porch, steps creaking beneath their feet.
At the door, he fished a key from his pocket and fit it into the lock, the motion practiced. He opened it wide, stepped in first, and reached for the light switch. Warm, golden light filled the space a beat later.
And Hazel stepped inside Beck’s home.
It was small and simple, but not bare.
The living room and kitchen shared the same open space, broken only by the gentle shift in flooring, a line where tile met wood.
A couch sat near the far wall, facing a set of tall windows that ran the length of the room.
She couldn’t see what they looked out onto, but she imagined the view was something.
The kind you built a home around. In the far corner, an old TV perched atop a mismatched stand, cables trailing behind it like forgotten threads.
And yet, the room didn’t feel neglected. It felt lived in.
A red-and-black flannel shirt was draped over the back of the couch, soft with wear.
A wool blanket, grey and slightly unraveling at one end, was bunched near one side of the couch, like it had been recently tossed aside.
Hazel glanced toward it, her chest tightening.
Had he been lying there, she wondered, before she called?
Half-asleep with the storm waging on outside, only to pull himself up and come for her?
A large bookshelf took up the wall to her right, packed full of novels.
Dog-eared, spines cracked, all seemingly well-loved.
They were not arranged in any kind of order she could see, just read.
Their presence filled the room with quiet weight.
It was another piece of Beck she wasn’t sure she’d earned.
By the door, a small wooden shoe rack held three pairs: sneakers, scuffed and worn; a pair of polished black dress shoes that looked nearly untouched; and a pair of sandals so out of place it made her blink.
She tried— and failed— to imagine him wearing them.
To imagine him anywhere someone might need sandals, even.
The kitchen, though small, was clean. Cabinets made from warm wood with crisp white countertops.
A kettle sat on the stove, ready but untouched.
A plant sprawled across the center island, vines curling down one side like it had grown too fast to be stopped.
It was surprisingly healthy. Hazel couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at it, momentarily perplexed.
Everything in the space— the mismatched chairs at the small dining table, the jar of honey on the counter, the cast iron skillet still on the stove— felt deliberate, chosen and used. Not cluttered, but not styled, either.
Hazel stood just inside the doorway, water dripping faintly from the hem of her jacket, her shoes leaving damp marks on the wood. She didn’t move at first, just let the warmth of the cabin sink into her bones after so much cold.
Beck set her bag down near the base of the couch and then stepped into the kitchen and flicked on another light. The added glow softened the corners of the space, casting warm shadows against the wooden walls.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, like he was afraid he might startle her if he spoke too loud.
Hazel’s fingers curled around the edges of her sleeves as she nodded. “Just… taking it all in.”
She hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like stepping into something settled. Something real.
Beck nodded once, then turned toward the stove.
She watched as he reached for the kettle, filled it at the sink, and set it on the burner.
The motion was smooth and familiar, like something he did often, a ritual that had long since turned into a habit.
He turned the dial and the element glowed red beneath the coil.
Then, without hesitation, he opened the cabinet beside him and pulled down two mugs.
Hazel’s breath caught in her throat, her entire body going still.
They were familiar and unmistakably Malcolm’s work.
Dark charcoal clay with a wide, rounded handle and a slight curve near the lip.
That same faint thumbprint indentation was on the side, meant to rest your grip just so.
She recognized them instantly. She picked one that exact shade for Beck more mornings than she could count at Rise.
She always reached for it without thinking, as if her body already knew what felt like his.
And now here these mugs were, so similar, almost mirrored back to her in his hands. But not just one… a pair of them.
Something warm unfurled low in her chest, unexpected and deep. Her cheeks flushed, heat creeping up her neck. He’d gone to Greyfin, found Malcolm’s work, and bought two mugs that matched the one she always handed him.
Why?
The answer came, sudden and hot, and began to settle deep within her chest.
Because they reminded him of something. Of her. Of mornings in the bakery, of his newfound routine.
She looked away, blinking back the sting of something sharp and tender that threatened her eyes with a sudden round of tears.
“The couch pulls out,” Beck said, still facing the stove. “But you’ll take the bedroom.”
His voice was steady and practical, like he was listing storm safety tips, not offering her a place to sleep in his home.