Chapter 12 #3
Hazel, peeking through the pass, blinked in recognition. Leigh. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair pulled into a twist, a knit scarf wrapped high around her neck. She was smiling as Juno handed her a stamped paper bag and moved to the espresso machine to tend to her drink.
Hazel had been in the kitchen since well before sunrise, coaxing the gingerbread loaves into the perfect rise, watching over a tray of cranberry brie hand pies with careful eyes.
Her sleeves were dusted with flour, the hem of her royal blue sweater rolled at her forearms, the scent of clove and molasses soaked into the fabric.
She’d only just pulled a second round of cinnamon coffee cake muffins from the oven when the bell above the door chimed again.
She glanced up just in time to catch Malcolm stepping through the threshold, his frame unfolding from the cold like it was something he could finally set down.
His coat was dusted with snow, as was the beanie tucked carefully over his head.
He unwound his scarf as he entered and nodded toward Juno at the counter, who waved back and started prepping his usual drink without him having to say a word.
Hazel shook her head with quiet amusement. She had barely known how to steam milk on her first few weeks open; she’d had to watch hours of YouTube videos just to figure out the giant, imposing machine. But Juno? She made it look effortless, as easy as breathing.
A few moments later, as Hazel wiped down her work surface and adjusted the parchment beneath a cooling rack, she heard the soft thump of boots approach the kitchen. Malcolm leaned against one side of the archway, his phone angled in one hand.
“You see this?” he asked, eyes lit with something half-curious, half-impressed. He flipped the phone so she could see the screen.
It was Rise’s Instagram page. The one Juno had started just a few days earlier.
Only, it wasn’t just a page.
It was a gallery. A mosaic of rich, moody photos— fresh-pulled pastries under morning light, layered drinks in Malcolm’s ceramic mugs, candids of regulars tucked into corners.
Every post was captioned with warmth and wit, a kind of offhand charm Hazel had never been able to fake.
She’d always assumed people didn’t care that much about captions. But these were… alive.
She blinked at one post in particular, a recent one. It was a wide shot of the counter, golden light pouring through the front window. Beck stood near the edge of the frame, holding a cup of coffee, looking off to the side, a soft sort of fondness in his dark eyes. The caption read:
Rise regulars. Local legends. #QuietMorningsInBarHarbor
Her chest tugged unexpectedly. She knew where his eyes had been focused, in that moment— on her.
He had come back eventually. A week after that night on the porch, he’d returned.
That first morning, the air between them had been taut and uneasy, their words clipped and cautious.
Beck had ordered his coffee and a muffin without quite meeting her eyes, then left without sitting, the bell above the door the only thing that lingered after he’d gone.
But the days that followed had softened, slowly.
Their rhythm found its way back— gentle nods, the occasional smile, a low laugh shared over something small.
He started staying again, claiming the corner table near the front and lingering just long enough to finish his drink while Hazel moved through her morning routine.
He never demanded more of her than she could give, and she did the same.
Still, the silence around the almost-kiss stretched, unspoken but as thick as fog. A single misstep, one wrong word, and they might both trip the wire.
She stared at the photo, her chest tight. A part of her wanted to save it. Another part wanted to scroll past and forget it had ever made her feel anything at all.
“Three thousand followers,” Malcolm said, tapping the screen, drawing her back to the moment. “In under a week.”
Hazel stared. Then looked back at the front counter.
Juno was handing Leigh a to-go cup with practiced ease, already wrapped in a kraft sleeve. Leigh turned, her eyes flickering towards Hazel, her smile widening.
“Hey, Hazel— when’s the article coming out, again?” Leigh called over the counter, weaving between two customers just stepping inside with practiced ease.
“Tomorrow,” Hazel called back, catching her eye with a grateful smile. “Thanks again for the connection.”
Leigh gave a small wave, her voice already fading into motion. “Of course. See you at class later?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The yoga classes had started as a whim, an answer to Iris’s suggestion, her grandmother’s pestering gift left behind, and the ache in Hazel’s hips that wouldn’t quite fade.
But over time, they had begun to chip away at her tension.
Not all at once, but slowly. The same way sourdough rose. The same way trust returned to a room.
The stretches were still hard sometimes and her hamstrings still screamed some evenings on the walk home, but she found herself looking forward to the space and the way the music sank beneath the rhythm of breath. The way her body settled, inch by inch, into itself.
Before almost every class, she passed Sylvia at the front desk, quiet and observant in her layers of wool and linen, always wrapped in some shade of heathered grey or warm rust. They rarely spoke beyond a greeting but there was something solid between them, a gentle kinship built on silence and shared understanding, on grief that wasn’t quite the same, but settled in from a familiar place.
Hazel pulled herself back to the moment just as Juno rounded the counter with Malcolm’s drink in hand.
“Extra hot, two pumps of vanilla, made with oat milk,” she said, presenting it like a gift.
Malcolm accepted it with a smirk. “Show-off.”
Juno just grinned. Hazel wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the girl without a smile on her face.
Then she caught sight of the phone in Malcolm’s other hand.
“Oh my god,” she said, pressing her palms to her cheeks, her eyes flickering towards Hazel and flaring wide. “You finally saw it? I was gonna show you, Hazel, but I didn’t want to make it, like, a thing.”
Hazel blinked at her, still half-stunned. “You did all that?”
Juno shrugged one shoulder, her grin somehow both bashful and proud. “Just snapped some photos during slow hours, wrote some copy on my breaks, it’s nothing too crazy.”
Hazel looked again at the screen, then back at Juno.
And something inside her settled, like dough falling into place after the final knead.
Because it wasn’t just the number of followers, it was the mood, the warmth, the way every post looked like how Hazel wanted Rise to feel— intentional, beautiful, and safe.
Like home.
It was then that the front door creaked open. Beck’s bell gave a quick, cheerful chime, and Juno glanced up, her whole face brightening.
“I’ve got it!” she called, already hurrying toward the front counter with practiced ease, her voice trailing behind her like sunlight. “Hi! Come in out of the cold— wait, your coat is so cute, where did you get that?”
Hazel smiled faintly, watching her go. Then she exhaled and turned toward Malcolm again, who was still standing at her side, silently sipping his drink like this was just another morning and not some kind of surreal, deeply affirming fever dream.
She rubbed her thumb against a flour smudge at the hem of her sweater and muttered, mostly to herself, “I think I need to pay her more.”
Malcolm snorted. “Oh, you definitely do,“ he agreed without looking up.
Hazel huffed a quiet laugh, but the sound caught in her chest— fond and a little breathless.
Malcolm took another sip of his drink, thumb tapping lightly against the sleeve. He glanced toward the front of the shop, watching Juno joke with the newcomer, her energy bright but never overbearing, then back to Hazel.
Her gaze met his and she reached out, tapping the end of her finger against his forearm. “Did the sign-ups go live yet? For the art program?”
The question pulled a smile from him, the weight of it curving at the edges of his lips. There was a gentle gleam in his eye at the mere mention of the program, and the sight of it sent a flicker of warmth through Hazel’s chest.
“Yesterday afternoon. We had three parents reach out within the hour.”
Hazel eyes flared wide, a smile breaking across her face. “Mal, that’s amazing!”
He gave a little shrug, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but his eyes flicked down for a second, almost shy.
“No, really,” she went on, leaning over to nudge him with a shoulder. “You’ve been talking about this for months. The outreach, the curriculum, figuring out the scheduling of the space… I know how much time you’ve put into this. It’s a big deal.”
His gaze returned to Hazel’s, a thoughtful softness settling over his expression. “I just wanted to make something accessible. A lot of these families don’t have a ton of money… I don’t want that to be a barrier if a kid really wants to learn.”
“Well, you did. And it clearly matters to people already.”
He looked at her then, longer this time, and the gratitude in his expression was quiet, but present. “And what about you, huh? How did the thing at the Captain’s Rest go?”
Hazel blinked, the question catching her off guard— not because she’d forgotten about it, but because she hadn’t expected anyone else to still be thinking about it.
She leaned back against the edge of the butcher block, her fingers brushing the soft linen of the towel at her hip.
Her gaze drifted to the far side of the kitchen, where the last tray of cranberry white chocolate muffins sat cooling beside a bowl of sugared cranberries she’d prepped for a new garnish.
“It was good,” she admitted, after a moment. Then, quieter, she added, “Really good.”