Chapter 10 #2
By the time the toast was gone, just a few soft crumbs left behind on the plate, Beck pushed away from the island with a quiet exhale and rolled his shoulders back.
He stepped out of the kitchen and toward the front door, pausing to crouch down as he reached for his boots.
A low sound escaped him as he bent, half-groan, half-sigh.
It was the kind of sound that came from a body that had worked hard.
One that carried weight without complaint.
“I’m gonna clean up a bit outside,” he said, tugging the laces tight with practiced ease. “Then I can take you home.”
Hazel nodded. “Okay.”
But her voice was soft; thinner than she meant it to be.
Beck glanced at her, just a flicker of a look over his shoulder, like he could feel something shifting between them again, but he didn’t comment. He stood, pulled on his jacket, and stepped outside.
The door clicked closed behind him.
And the quiet that followed was somehow louder than before.
Hazel let her fingers rest on the edge of the plate, then drew them back, tucking her hands into the sleeves of his sweater. The cuffs fell past her wrists. She folded them once, absentmindedly, and exhaled through her nose.
After a beat, she reached for her phone, pulled from the waistband pocket of her leggings. Two notifications from Iris lit the screen.
The air smells like moss and pine and rain. I need avocado toast immediately.
Thank the heavens you close the bakery on Sundays! Fork & Fable at 11?
Hazel smiled, the expression tugging something loose in her chest.
She stood, sliding the phone into her hand, and made her way towards the wall of windows at the back of the house. Through the glass, she could just make out the blur of movement near the trees— the shape of Beck shifting debris, dragging limbs towards the edge of the clearing.
After sliding her feet into her boots and her phone back into her pocket, Hazel opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.
The wood beneath her feet was slick and dark from the storm, water pooled in the shallow spaces between planks.
The air was crisp and clean, tinged with the scent of damp cedar and soil, just as Iris’s message had said.
She spotted Beck a short distance away, half-shadowed by the trees.
He was bent at the waist, hauling a thick branch toward a growing pile near the treeline, his movements steady and sure.
The morning light caught on the sweat at his brow, dampening the collar of his shirt, the sleeves of his jacket pushed high up his forearms like always.
Hazel stepped down off the porch and into the gravel, her boots landing with a quiet thud.
“Hey,” she called out, her voice soft but clear.
Beck looked up, one hand braced on his knee.
“Would it be okay if you dropped me at Fork & Fable instead of home?” she asked. “Iris is demanding brunch. There’s no rush, though. She wants to meet at 11.”
He straightened and nodded once. “Yeah, of course.”
Hazel hesitated for only a second before she crossed the space that separated them. The air was cold enough to make her cheeks flush, but it felt good— like she’d finally stepped out of something heavy and into something open. Grounded.
Without asking, she reached down and picked up a branch near his feet— small enough to manage, heavy enough to require effort— and carried it toward the pile he’d started.
As she bent, the bandage wrapped around her thigh stretched, but there was no real pain, just a dull ache, reminding her it was there.
Beck didn’t say anything. He just glanced at her once, a quiet flicker of acknowledgment, and moved to gather the next piece.
They worked like that for a while, quiet and methodical. It was the kind of shared labour that didn’t need filling with words. Hazel’s fingers ached a little from the cold as she stacked branches beside his, stepping carefully over the uneven ground, pine needles slick beneath her soles.
Somewhere in the trees, a bird called out. The clouds were beginning to lift.
By the time they climbed into Beck’s truck a while later, the time on the dash read 10:49. Hazel settled into the passenger seat, brushing dark hair from her face, the warmth of the cabin still clinging faintly to her sweater. His sweater.
Beck started the engine, the low rumble filling the silence between them.
Hazel looked out the window for a moment, then asked, almost absently, “Do you happen to know a carpenter in town? I need to get that porch looked at, sooner rather than later.”
Beck kept his eyes on the road as he pulled onto the road, but he nodded once, just like before.
“Probably.”
That was it.
No offer, no questions. Just a quiet, even reply.
Hazel didn’t press. She’d send him a message later, after brunch, checking to see if he had any names or numbers. For now, she just wanted to enjoy this: the peace, the quiet, the gentle warmth that surrounded her in the cab of his truck.
She smiled faintly, tucked her hands into her lap, and watched the trees slip past her window as they drove toward town.
Fork & Fable looked like it had been styled for a magazine spread.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east wall, flooding the space with soft natural light that filtered through gauzy linen drapes.
The tables were small but elegant— white marble with black trim, accented by rose gold cutlery and linen napkins folded with impossible precision.
Staff moved through the space in crisply pressed black-and-white uniforms, every motion fluid and practiced.
The scent of citrus and espresso hung in the air, layered with the faint bite of cracked pepper and something sweet. A record played low in the background, something soft and jazzy, full of piano and longing.
It was the kind of place Hazel could imagine reading about in a specialized edition of Food and Wine or Bon Appétit.
She stepped through the front door just after eleven, the bell above her giving a delicate chime.
And immediately, she felt it. Eyes on her.
Iris was already seated, tucked into a two-top near the back window, a latte in one hand and a worn book of short stories open next to her.
Her hair was twisted up in a loose knot, curly tendrils escaping around her temples.
She wore a cinnamon knit sweater with a high neck and wide-legged linen pants in a shade of green that matched the plants always draped around her shop windows.
Big brass earrings swung gently when she turned her head.
She looked up the moment Hazel walked in and froze mid-sip.
Hazel didn’t even make it to the table before Iris called out, voice warm but sharp, like she didn’t want to shout, but couldn’t not say something.
“Did I just see you get dropped off by a certain someone’s truck?”
Hazel blinked, heat already climbing her neck.
Iris tilted her head. Her gaze swept downward, narrowing, catching the hem of Hazel’s sweater— the one that hung past her wrists, too big through the shoulders, faded and soft from years of wear.
Her friend arched a dark brow.
“And you’re wearing his clothes?”
Hazel slid into the seat across from her with a quiet sigh.
“Shh. Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not making a scene,” Iris whispered, leaning across the table. “You are the one who walked into this establishment smelling like freshly cut wood and unspoken emotional intimacy. I’m just reacting accordingly.”
Hazel opened her mouth, then closed it again. She reached for the glass of water already set in front of her and took a long sip, trying to buy herself some time.
She should have known that with Iris, there was really no use.
Her friend leaned back in her chair, arms folding, earrings swaying like exclamation marks.
“Well,” Iris said with a theatrical wave of one hand. “I’ll need the full story, from the very beginning, please. Preferably told in chronological order and with emotional commentary. Do not spare a single delicious detail.”
Hazel hesitated, then glanced around— at the polished concrete floors, the soft white walls, the delicate flicker of tea lights on the bar counter.
The space around them was full but not loud.
Gentle conversation drifted from nearby tables.
A server passed with a tray of Bellini’s balanced perfectly between manicured fingers.
She let out a breath. “Okay… but you can’t interrupt.”
Iris mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
Hazel adjusted her napkin, her eyes holding on the edge of the table for a beat before they lifted back to Iris’s, and then she began.
“There was a tree.”
Iris blinked, clearly not expecting the story to begin there.
“Not like— just a tree, okay? A huge one. It came down during the storm and took out my front porch. I didn’t know what to do. It was just… I was in the house alone, and the wind was howling, and I panicked. Really panicked. So I called Beck.”
“You called him?”
Hazel gave her a look.
“Right, no interruptions. Sorry. I just didn’t even know you had his number. Anyways, continue.”
“He answered immediately and came to get me. He was on the road before I’d even really said anything— definitely before I asked.
He just told me to stay put and then he was there, like the storm didn’t even phase him.
Then he took me back to his place… said it wasn’t safe to stay with the front porch’s beam broken. ”
Iris was still, her whole body leaning in. Her dark eyes were wide, almost comically so.
“He gave me his bed, Iris. Made me tea. Didn’t crowd me, didn’t make it weird. Just… let me be there.”
Hazel paused. Her fingers tugged at the end of one sleeve, rolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger.
“And then this morning he made me toast,” Hazel said, her voice barely heard above the clink of dishes and silver around them. “Coffee, too.”