Chapter 10
Hazel woke to stillness.
Not silence exactly, but the kind of quiet that comes after something, like the air was still remembering the weight of the storm.
The only sound was the faint tick of rainwater sliding off the eaves outside, slow and steady, the world still wringing itself out.
Beyond that, she could hear the gentle whine of the radiators as they worked overtime to push warm air out into the house.
For a long moment, she stayed where she was, beneath the navy comforter and grey sheets, half-swallowed by Beck’s bed. The weight of being here, in his room and his bed, had been wrapped around her all night long.
The ache in her thigh had dulled overnight, but it pulsed faintly now as she pushed herself upright and brushed back the blankets.
Morning light filtered in through the blinds, pale and silver, softened by mist. She stretched her arms up and over her head, letting out a faint groan at the tension still working its way out of the curve between her neck and shoulder.
A moment later, her feet hit the floor and she stood, limbs sore but moving.
The scent of brewing coffee drew Hazel out of the bedroom. She padded down the short hallway, noticing that the bathroom door across the hall was sealed shut. As she passed, she heard the faintest sound inside: running water, either from the shower or the tap.
Beck.
She kept going on her path down the hallway, leaving the sounds of him behind. The house was brighter now as it opened up before her, not lit by lamps, but by daylight. And it changed everything.
In the living room, the long wall of windows faced the back of the cabin, and Hazel wandered toward them instinctively, drawn in by the view. She stood at the edge of the rug, socked feet just brushing the floorboards, and let her gaze sweep outward.
Beck’s home was tucked high into the tree line just above town.
Through the tangle of bare-armed trees, still slick and dripping, she could make out the rooftops of Bar Harbor, the slow curve of Main Street, the clustered brick and pastel siding of downtown.
Beyond that, lower, the waterfront glimmered faintly in the grey morning, soft and settled and blurred like a watercolor painting.
It was stunning.
Private. Wrapped in forest, but never disconnected from the rest of the world.
It was exactly the kind of place she would have imagined Beck choosing for himself.
She took the view in with a slow sort of reverence, her eyes catching on everything else the storm had left behind: scattered leaves across the deck outside, the wooden slats dark with water, and a few tree limbs littered across the yard, snapped and dangling.
She turned as she heard the soft creak of footsteps behind her.
Beck stood in the open space at the end of the hall, already dressed in a worn black t-shirt and dark jeans.
His hair was damp and his jaw was still rough with stubble he hadn’t shaved away.
His eyes met hers and something passed between them, something quiet and unfinished, like a reminder of the late night that had come before.
Hazel’s gaze flickered to the couch. The blanket he’d used was still there, crumpled and half-folded, one pillow bearing the faint outline of where his head had rested. Her chest ached a little at the sight.
“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low.
She nodded, a soft smile curving at the corners of her lips. “Better than I expected.”
Beck didn’t say more, just held her gaze for a second longer, nodded, and turned toward the kitchen.
Hazel hesitated for a moment before she followed, padding across the space towards him.
“Would it be okay if I took a quick shower?” she asked, voice lower now.
Beck paused mid-step, then turned back to her and nodded again. “Of course.”
A beat passed.
“Just—“ He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flickering to her injured thigh— still bare, bandage still on display from just beneath the hem of his oversized sweater. “Try to keep the bandage dry, if you can.”
“I will,” she said, her lips curving at the edges again.
Then, almost a whisper, he added, “Do you need help rewrapping it after?”
The question landed soft. Not teasing, not heavy, just offered.
Hazel’s heart tugged.
“No, I’ll be okay.”
Beck nodded once more and then turned back toward the stove.
She made her way down the hall, feeling another unspoken sense of warmth wrapping around her, settling deep into her bones.
When she returned fifteen minutes later, dressed, her hair towel-damp and loosely braided down her back, Beck was still in the kitchen, his back to her. The kettle whistled low on the stove and two slices of sourdough toast sat on a plate next to him, steam curling up around the edges.
He glanced over his shoulder as she stepped closer and something flickered across his expression when he saw her, his green sweater still wrapped around her frame, sleeves shoved to her elbows.
She crossed to the island and eased herself onto one of the stools, the wood cool beneath her thighs through the fabric of her leggings. Her toes didn’t reach the floor— the stool was too tall— so they dangled just a bit, the backs of her heels brushing the leg of the chair as she shifted.
Beck turned fully as he heard her settle and slid the plate across the island— the two slices of sourdough were now thick with peanut butter, the edges still warm, soft enough to give under her fingertips.
A moment later, he placed a mug beside it, plain white and chipped at the rim.
The kind of mug that had survived for years without being replaced.
Hazel wrapped her hands around it, let the warmth seep into her fingers.
“I didn’t have much,” Beck admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes on the plate he’d offered her. “Just toast. And peanut butter. Thought maybe—“
She looked past him, toward the far end of the counter, and spotted the jar of honey she’d noticed the night before. It was still sitting there in the morning light, golden and glowing in its ridged glass.
“Can I have some of that?” she asked.
Beck blinked, turned, and followed her line of sigh. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little unsettled, but not in a sharp sort of way, just in a way that alluded to his lingering surprise. “Of course.”
He retrieved the jar and passed it to her, his fingers brushing hers. He opened a nearby drawer and handed her a spoon.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes catching his for a beat before she looked away.
She smiled faintly, more to herself than anything else, and began drizzling the honey over the toast in slow circles, watching it catch the ridges of the peanut butter, slipping toward the crust.
A moment later, she took a bite.
And for a minute, everything else fell away.
She was seven again. The kitchen at her grandmother’s house was different— larger in memory than she knew it to be now, sun-drenched and too bright for how tired she always felt as a child.
She could see herself at the edge of the hallway, swallowed in a coat that didn’t quite fit, sneakers scuffed from too many schoolyards and bus rides.
Her backpack hung heavy on one shoulder, already zipped, already ready.
She hadn’t said a word that morning, just made for the door like she always did, head down, quiet, hoping to slip through the morning unnoticed.
Back at her house in Portland, with her parents, no one ever stopped her, no one ever even looked her way.
There hadn’t been time. Her father was always busy, already gone to work or still half-asleep on the couch, nursing a headache or pacing the kitchen on the phone with someone— a therapist, a doctor, a pharmacist.
But that morning her grandmother had stopped her. A hand, light but firm, touched her shoulder. And a voice, not unkind but absolute, told her to follow. And then sit.
Hazel remembered the way the wooden chair creaked beneath her as she settled in at the dining room table. The soft clatter of a plate being set down. Toast, peanut butter, honey. A glass of orange juice.
Simple. Sweet.
She hadn’t known what to do with it at first. She just stared, hands in her lap, unsure if it was a trick or a test. No one had made her breakfast like that in a long time. Not just food— care. Intention.
Her grandmother stood at the counter in a worn bathrobe, a cup of tea in her hand, steam curling beneath her chin. She smiled when Hazel finally looked up, soft and knowing, like she’d been waiting for this very moment.
“Nothing wrong with a little sugar in the morning, you know,” she said, like it was the most natural truth in the world. “It’s important to eat when you wake up. Helps to fuel the brain.”
And something inside Hazel had shifted. Not everything, not all at once, but enough.
That morning had stayed with her, tucked somewhere small but solid, long after everything else had frayed. A quiet act of care. One she hadn’t known how badly she needed at that age.
Back in Beck’s kitchen, the toast was still warm in her hands. The honey had begun to melt, sinking slowly into the ridges of peanut butter.
Hazel took another bite, slower this time.
Across the counter, Beck leaned against the island, his arms crossed. He was watching her with that same quiet presence he always carried.
Hazel reached for her coffee, next, the chipped white mug warm and steady in her hands, and took a long sip.
“You make a mean cup of coffee,” she murmured, grinning around the rim as her eyes lifted to his.
Beck huffed a soft laugh and looked down, shaking his head. But when his eyes lifted again, they met hers with something warm behind them.
Neither of them spoke for a while after that, but the silence wasn’t empty.