“All right,” she said, stilling her cloth mid-wipe. “What’s going on?”
Iris blinked, all wide-eyed innocence as her gaze swung in her direction.
“Nothing,” she said, though the word did nothing to soothe the suspicion clawing up the length of Hazel’s spine.
Malcolm didn’t even try to lie. He simply took another sip of his coffee, wiggling the black and white striped paper straw as if it would help redistribute the liquid inside over the ice.
Hazel leaned forward on her elbows. “No, no, no. I know that look. Just say it.”
Iris bit her lip and then glanced at Malcolm again. He just raised his brows and gestured, wordlessly passing the responsibility her way.
“Fine,”Iris said, drawing out the word like she was laying cards on a table. “It’s just…well…there’s a rumour.”
Hazel tilted her head, unimpressed. “Arumour.”
Iris nodded, eyes gleaming now.
“And?”
“And,”Iris said, drawing the word out again, “We were just wondering— casually, of course, no pressure— if it’s true that a certain man who responds only to a shortened version of his last name has been coming by every morning. You know. Right after you open.”
Hazel blinked, her spine slowly beginning to straighten as she rose to her full height, no longer leaning forward onto the counter. She set the cloth down beside the espresso machine, her fingers trembling ever-so-slightly.
She tried, very hard, not to smile.
In an attempt to buy herself a little more time, she turned slowly, crouching to tuck the cloth into the bucket under the counter. She took a brief, steadying breath.
But the smile kept tugging at the corners of her mouth, soft and involuntary, like muscle memory. Like her body had already decided something her heart hadn’t yet put into words. She kept her gaze low, fingers brushing over the rim of the bucket like it needed adjusting, even though it didn’t.
Because Beck.
Of course it was Beck.
His name alone stirred something in her— something warm and slippery, like honey on a hot spoon. Since that first morning, sincehe’d walked through the door and stood there like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to belong, he’d become part of her days. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just there. Quiet, steady, and real. She’d begun listening for the creak of the door at 6:30 on the dot, the soft click of his boots against the hardwood, the way his eyes always scanned the room like it might be different this time but hoping it wasn’t.
She didn’t know what it meant, not really. It wasn’t the kind of crush that made her stomach flip or her thoughts spiral. It was something more grounding than that, something slower. The kind of draw you didn’t notice until you realized your body was leaning toward it without permission.
Hazel stood again, wiping her hands on her apron. Her chest felt full, like something expanding, unfurling in the space behind her ribs.
Malcolm and Iris were staring directly at her, eyes wide, awaiting something—anything.A weak point in her armour.
“I mean…” she said, aiming for casual, even as her pulse quickened. “He likes coffee and I’m open early. Not a lot of other options before seven.”
She didn’t look at them, not directly.
Because if she did, she was pretty sure they’d see it all over her face.
“Mm-hmm,” Iris hummed noncommittally as she leaned both elbows onto the counter, her fingers circling the condensation ring at the base of her cup. Her dark eyes landed on Hazel, pinning her to her spot. “He’s never struck me as a chat-over-coffee kind of guy.”
Malcolm made a soft sound of agreement, the ice in his cup shifting as he gave it another lazy swirl. “Honestly? I’ve been back three years and I think he’s saidmaybeten words to me. Total. And one of them was ‘yeah.’”
Hazel blinked. “Really?”
Her voice came out more surprised than she intended. She didn’t know why, except that maybe she hadn’t realized how little Beck gave to the rest of the world. How rarely he offered up pieces of himself. And yet, she had them— moments, quiet comments, lingering looks. Even now, she could picture his hands wrapped around the same darkceramic mug each morning like it was something that belonged to him, something he had earned.
“He doesn’t mingle,” Iris added, her gaze still on Hazel, searching for something that she was trying very hard not to give away. “Like, at all. We’ve seen him at the co-op, the hardware store, even that community clean-up back in May. And don’t get me wrong, he was helpful. Like, chop-wood-and-carry-water helpful. But he just… doesn’t linger. Doesn’t talk. He does the thing, then he’s gone.”
“Exactly,” Malcolm said, nodding his head in agreement. “He’s not rude. Just… very good at solitude.”
