Chapter 11
The front door creaked on its hinges as Hazel stepped onto the porch, a glass pitcher balanced in one hand, two mismatched cups clinking gently in the other.
The late afternoon light was golden, casting long shadows over the lawn, catching in the curling wisps of sawdust that clung to the air like smoke.
Beck was crouched at the edge of the porch, one hand braced on his thigh, the other guiding a drill into the new beam he’d installed.
His flannel shirt was rolled to the elbows, the collar darkened with sweat.
A smear of dirt marked the edge of his jaw.
He looked up at the sound of the door and squinted, eyes catching hers for a beat longer than necessary before falling to the pitcher in her hand.
She crossed the porch with slow, quiet steps, her socked feet slowing before they touched the new boards he’d just finished staining. She held a glass out towards him, her lips curving into a gentle smile.
“Thought you could use a break.”
He stood, brushing his hands on the thighs of his jeans before reaching out toward her. His fingers brushed hers, just for a second, warm and rough, but in the best possible way. He took a sip, then stilled, swallowing with a slight tilt of his head like he was trying to place the taste.
“There’s something extra in this,” he said, blinking down at the glass like it had revealed a secret to him. “Surely you’re not trying to poison me.”
Hazel let out a quiet laugh, shifting her weight to one foot. “Family recipe. My grandmother used to grow mint right along the back fence, said it kept the deer away. And that it gave her lemonade that little extra zip.”
Beck’s lips twitched into something just shy of a grin. “I like it,” he murmured, then took another sip. “Thanks.”
She nodded once, then turned before he could say anything else, before he could look at her too long and see— see the way her chest had tightened at the sound of his voice, the way it just did now.
It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a gentle, unspoken shift.
A quiet flutter beneath her ribs, a heat that pooled somewhere low in her belly whenever he looked at her with that steady kind of gentleness, like he saw her even when she wasn’t doing anything worth noticing.
She didn’t know what to do with it— this slow-building ache, this tether that kept tightening between them.
She hadn’t admitted it aloud, not even to herself in the privacy of her own mind, not fully.
But it was there. In the way her eyes found his each morning when he entered the bakery, a soft sort of warmth in his eyes.
In the way she had grown not only to look forward to their soft, gentle moments together, but also in the way she actively sought them out.
And how she wished for more of them, selfishly.
She told herself it was just gratitude, just friendship, just a crush. That he was kind to her and kindness like this was a rarity. But even as she turned away, retreating to the quiet clatter of dishes and drawers, she knew that wasn’t the truth. Not anymore.
Iris had been right. There was something here, brewing between the two of them— slow and quiet, but undeniable.
A warmth gathering like sunlight in the pit of her stomach.
A tension that never fully dissipated, not even when he wasn’t in the room.
But Hazel wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.
It felt too fragile to name, too raw to prod at.
That sort of knowing, the gut-deep certainty that something real was blooming between them, wasn’t something she was used to.
Not even now, at nearly thirty years old.
She’d dated in Boston, yes. Men with quick smiles and good jobs, men who liked food and wine and talking about their gym routines.
But they’d always been distractions more than desires— people to pass the time with, to drink cocktails beside, to kiss at the end of an evening and feel nothing about the next morning.
There’d been laughter, sure. There’d been comfort. But there’d never been this.
Not someone who showed up the moment she needed him, before she’d even found the words to ask. Not someone who saw straight through the silence she hid behind and stayed anyway. Not someone whose steadiness made her feel steadier, whose quiet made the world feel a little less loud.
Beck was something else. Something she hadn’t planned for. Something that made her want things she didn’t know how to reach.
And maybe that was the most terrifying part. Because if she reached for it— really reached— and it slipped through her fingers, she wasn’t sure how she’d come back from that.
Back inside, the house was still and cool.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, the condensation from the pitcher still damp against her palm.
From the living room window, she could just make out the crown of his head bent over the porch again, his movements focused and slow.
The shadows on his back shifted each time he exhaled.
She watched longer than she meant to.
A while later, Hazel pulled the oven door open with a soft exhale, the scent of crisping parmesan and roasted tomato thickening in the air.
Steam curled outward, fragrant and warm.
She reached for a tea towel, nudging the pan slightly, her face flushed from the heat.
Somewhere outside, she could still hear the soft clatter of tools, the steady thump of movement as Beck worked.
Every few minutes, the rhythm of it would change— quiet for a beat, then a sharp knock, then the creak of wood shifting beneath his weight.
The living room window was cracked open just enough to let in the breeze, and every now and then it carried the sound of his voice— low, indistinct, murmuring something to himself as he checked a level or replaced a screw.
Every time the sound of it shifted into the kitchen, where Hazel stood, a soft smile would tug at the corners of her lips.
She set a plate down on the table, then another, and tugged her sleeves up past her elbows. She poured two glasses of water. Then, just as she reached for the pan again, there was a shift behind her— a quiet drag of boots on old hardwood, followed by the low brush of a voice.
“That smells incredible.”
Hazel turned and caught sight of him standing in the living room, framed by fading evening light, shoulders still dusted faintly with sawdust. One of his hands lifted, rubbing absently at the back of his neck.
She smiled, her expression soft. “Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t want you to eat something that smelled terrible.”
He huffed, rocking back on his heels, and looked down at the floor. “You didn’t have to cook for me, you know. I didn’t come here expecting that.”
“I know,” she said, turning back to the stove. “But you did come here, just to fix my porch… after you’ve already done so much for me already. Seriously?” She glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a look threaded through with amusement. “It’s the least I could do. Now sit.”
He hesitated, then obeyed, sliding into one of the old wooden dining chairs like he’d done it a hundred times. Hazel brought the pan over and began plating, the rich red of the sauce catching in the low light, the cheese melted golden and bubbling.
“I haven’t made this in a while,” she said, mostly to fill the quiet.
It took a lot of focus just to keep her eyes on her movements, avoiding the line of his gaze.
“It was actually one of the first dishes I learned in culinary school. We were supposed to master ‘the basics’ before we could move on to anything else.”
“It’s not basic, Hazel,” Beck said, accepting the plate she handed him with both hands. “It looks like something out of a magazine.”
Hazel rolled her eyes, but a small smile pulled at her mouth, her cheeks flushing warm from his compliment. “You’re just saying that because you’re hungry.”
He lifted a shoulder and leaned back in his seat, his gaze following her as she settled into the chair across from him. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Hazel rolled her eyes, the motion softened by the quiet curve of her mouth, and gestured for him to take a bite.
She felt her teeth catch against her bottom lip, holding it there as he finally cut into the chicken, the tines of his fork clicking faintly against the plate.
He didn’t rush it— of course he didn’t— just took his time, spearing a piece and dragging it through the sauce before bringing it to his mouth.
She watched, breath caught high in her chest, as his expression shifted almost imperceptibly, brows lifting just enough to betray surprise, or maybe pleasure.
“This is…” he paused, shaking his head once as if the right word refused to line up for him.
“It’s incredible.” His voice carried a kind of quiet certainty, the same tone he used when telling her a storm was coming in or that she couldn’t stay in the house, not with the porch half-broken and unsteady.
He set the fork down, leaning back with a faint exhale.
“I shouldn’t get too used to eating like this. ”
Hazel’s smile unfurled before she could stop it, slow and warm, her pulse stumbling at the weight of his gaze locked on hers.
“What’s the harm in getting used to it?” she asked, the words light but laced with something else— something that made her fingers tighten around the body of her water glass. “I like cooking for people.”
The space between them felt smaller for a moment, the air thicker, as if the walls themselves had leaned in to listen. Beck’s eyes stayed locked on Hazel’s for a moment in the silence, a sharp glimmer of something unspoken hidden in their dark depths.
They ate for a few minutes in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward so much as peaceful— full of clinking forks, the occasional low hum of approval. Then Beck spoke again, voice thoughtful.