So when the quiet stretched long and unbroken, she let it.
She moved back into the kitchen and reached for a dish towel to wipe down the last of the prep counters. Her mind was already spinning ahead, chasing the rhythm of the day. She planned to start a second round of baking by mid-morning, maybe a third before lunch, but only if there was enough demand. Only if anyone came at all.
Her shoulders ached, but it was the good kind of ache. It was the kind that settled deep, earned and honest. The kind that came from using her whole body, from showing up.
She walked to the small shelf that housed the modem and flipped on the overhead music, something soft and instrumental. Piano notes curled into the air like breath, drifting upward toward the exposed beams of the ceiling.
And that was when she heard it.
A throat clearing, soft but deliberate.
Hazel jumped. Her elbow knocked lightly against the edge of the prep counter, and her heart pitched, catching halfway between inhale and reaction. She turned sharply toward the sound and rushed to the archway that separated the kitchen from the front of the bakery.
He was already there.
The man from the street. The one she’d passed weeks ago beneath the amber wash of a streetlamp and a sky full of stars. The one who hadn’t smiled but hadn’t looked away, either. Just a flicker of presence, then gone. She hadn’t seen him since, despite many mornings and evenings spent here in the bakery, or wandering through town, seeking inspiration or answers that never came.
Now he stood just inside the door of her bakery, one boot still angled on the mat, like he hadn’t fully committed to entering. His brown jacket looked soft and worn at the edges, the kind you pulled on without thinking.
Hazel took a breath and stepped behind the counter, smoothing her hands along the front of her apron like that might settle the flutter in her chest. She felt unprepared in a way that had nothing to do with muffins or receipts.
Up close, he was even more striking than she remembered. Sharp-jawed and dark-eyed, the kind of face that looked like it had weathered storms, both literal and otherwise. His features were bold but balanced: a strong brow, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it rarely gave anything away. His hair was a dark, tousled mess, still damp at the ends like he’d run his fingers through it on his walk over. And his eyes were deep-set, and unreadable, the kind you had to earn the answer to.
He looked far too awake for six in the morning.
Hazel’s pulse tripped once more and then landed in a steadier rhythm. Not calm, not quite. But perhaps a bit more grounded.
She offered a small, slightly crooked smile. The kind that felt half-lived-in, the rest of it still learning how to stretch.
“Sorry,” she murmured, her voice soft. “You startled me.”
His expression shifted, just slightly. Not a full apology, but a note of recognition. His gaze flickered back behind him, toward the door frame overhead.
“Door doesn’t have a bell,” he said. His voice was lower than she’d expected, filled with gravel and lightly hoarse, like it hadn’t quite settled into the day. Like perhaps she was the first person he’d used it on. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Hazel let out a quiet, startled laugh. “Too late. But that’s alright.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up, barely there.
“I’m Hazel Simmons,” she said, trying to find the steadiness in her tone. “I own the place.”
Obviously.She wore the apron. She smelled like cardamom and sugar and stress sweat. She felt a bit foolish for saying it, her cheeksbeginning to heat with the lingering pressure of embarrassment, but he didn’t call her on it. He just nodded once, like he had that night when they’d first crossed paths. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, the rest already slipping loose from the braid she’d twisted at three-thirty that morning. Her linen pants were wrinkled at the knees and her T-shirt clung faintly with heat. But she stood tall, even as her pulse skipped and stuttered.
“Oliver Beckett,” he said. His voice hitched minutely around the syllables, like he wasn’t used to saying them out loud. “Beck’s fine.”
She let the name settle for a beat, then nodded.
“Well,Beck,”she said, gesturing toward the pastry case beside her. “You’ve officially become my first customer.”
He glanced around the bakery, from the curved front counter painted in muted sage, to the small chalkboard sign that readSoft Opening – Be gentle,and the mismatched ceramic mugs stacked behind her. Then his eyes returned to her.
“I guess someone’s gotta be.”
The words weren’t flippant, just factual. And Hazel smiled anyway, soft and surprised by how much it meant.
“What can I get you? Coffee’s fresh and croissants just came out. There’s sticky buns, muffins, either sweet or savoury. Or, if you’re a cookie for breakfast type, I won’t judge.”
He stepped forward, slow and measured. His gaze slid along the hand-written menu board where the names of drinks curled in chalk script beside tiny doodles she’d done up, sideways flowers and a sun with a smiling face affixed to it. Her sad attempt at a lobster and a sailboat. Then he looked toward the pastry case, filled with glass trays of golden-brown pastries and lined baskets cradling hand pies.
