“Whatever’s best warm,” he said.
Hazel nodded and bent to scan the trays, though she already knew her answer.
“The sticky buns are still warm,” she said over her shoulder, towards him. “Salted caramel glaze, toasted pecans. Might ruin you for anything else though.”
Beck didn’trespond, but his silence had weight to it. The kind that sounded like yes.
“For here or to go?” she asked, straightening.
He hesitated.
Just for a second, but it was long enough that Hazel caught it— the flicker of a man not used to staying. Someone who took his coffee and vanished back into whatever quiet place he came from. But now, his eyes met hers again, and something in his posture shifted.
“I’ll sit,” he said. “For a little while.”
Hazel felt her smile widen without permission. “Great. Sure.”
She grabbed a mossy green plate from the stack and used the pastry tongs to ease the best bun from the tray. The glaze glistened, still warm, curling into the edges like slow amber.
“Coffee?” she asked, setting the plate down.
He nodded. “Please.”
She turned, reaching for one of her favourite mugs. Dark matte ceramic, simple and solid, with a slight thumbprint curve in the handle. She poured from the fresh pot of Harborside Brews and set it down beside the plate.
“Milk? Sugar?”
Beck shook his head. “Nah, I like it honest.”
That made her smile, brighter than before. “Me too.”
The screen on the register glowed bright in the otherwise gentle light of the bakery. Hazel tapped the total and Beck pulled a worn card from his wallet. He paid without small talk. But when she reached for the printer as his receipt came through, she caught sight of him slipping a few crumpled bills into theTips (No pressure!)jar.
Her cheeks warmed and she swallowed, trying to dislodge the sudden thickness at the back of her throat.
“There’s a few spots by the window, if you want,” she said, voice softer. “Best view in the house, if you ask me. I can bring your stuff over to you in a minute.”
Beck nodded again and turned. His stride was even, but deliberately so. The adjustment in his gait was subtle, barely there, but Hazelnoticed it again. She wasn’t sure what it meant, if it was new or old, painful or not.
He settled into the corner table, the one nearest the window, where pale light filtered through the mist and caught on the edge of the warm wooden table. He sat like someone who always scanned the room first, like someone who didn’t take rest lightly. His shoulders didn’t quite drop, but they softened. His gaze lifted to the wall, where the black and white photo frames of her family had been hung.
She watched him longer than was polite, taking in more now than she had before. His jaw was angular beneath a few days worth of scruff, just enough to blur the line between clean-shaven and rugged, like he could grow a beard if he wanted to but never quite let it happen. Hazel busied her hands with the napkins, but her gaze strayed, drawn to the way the window light slid across the curve of his bare forearm, the edge of his jaw, the place where his stubble met the hollow of his throat. It was ridiculous, how easy he was to look at.
She blinked, pulling her gaze back to the task at hand. She gathered his items onto a small tray— coffee, bun, a folded napkin, a small brass cream pitcher, just in case. She added one of Malcolm’s napkin holders, shaped like a cresting wave, and adjusted it without needing to. Her cheeks had gone warm but she told herself it was just the ovens.
She wasn’t in a rush and so she took a moment and let herself breathe. Let herself feel the strange gravity of someone already seated, already present. And not justanysomeone.
Beck. The quiet man with a lot of unspoken words locked behind his dark eyes.
She crossed the room with the tray, footsteps light. Her sneakers squeaked faintly on the floor. She set everything down before him with careful hands.
Behind them, soft piano music drifted from the overhead speakers— gentle, unobtrusive, a low current of sound that filled the silence without asking anything of it. Notes curled upward toward the beams above like the scent of croissants, warm and slow.
Outside the window, the fog had started to pull back, just slightly, revealing the crooked edge of a rooftop and the faint shimmer of lighton the glass at Greyfin across the street. The bakery wasn’t bright, not yet, but the light was shifting. Like the town was waking up around them.
“Thanks,” Beck said, and when his eyes met hers, they didn’t just glance, they held. It was the kind of look that didn’t search for anything but saw everything anyway. It sent a low warmth curling through Hazel’s chest, soft and immediate. Like sunlight reaching a part of her she hadn’t realized was cold.
She nodded once, fingers brushing over the front of her apron like they needed a task, anything to anchor her in the moment.
