“We’re not judging,” she said, her voice warmer now. “Honestly? We’re kind of impressed. The man’s like folklore. And somehow you’ve cracked the code.”
Malcolm nodded, thoughtful. “He’s like a cryptid who likes cinnamon and moody lighting.”
That broke Hazel, easing the tension that had settled between her shoulder blades. Finally. She let out a laugh, short and helpless, and brought her hand to her mouth to smother the worst of it. It wasn’t even that funny. But it was all too much— the ridiculousness of it, the ring of truth, the part of her that didn’t want to admit how deeply shefeltall of it.
Because they weren’t wrong.
Not about Beck. And not about the way she’d started watching the door without realizing it. How his presence— quiet, grounding, and watchful— had begun to shape the start of her day,everyday. She couldn’t name it, not yet. But something inside her knew; she’d started building her mornings around the possibility of him. And he was still, for the most part, a complete mystery to her.
“You two are unbearable,” she said at last, voice fond and defeated.
“But lovable,” Iris offered without missing a beat.
“Deeplylovable,“ Malcolm echoed.
Hazel moved back behind the counter, hands finding the clean mugs stacked neatly by the espresso machine. Her fingers traced the bottom of one, not because it needed adjusting, but because she wasn’t quite ready to speak again. The laughter still hung in the air, bright and warm, but beneath it something quieter had taken root.
Something that felt a lot like hope. Like wonder.
Beck was a mystery to her, still, but she liked that about him. There was a sort of quiet respect that he gave the space around him and the way he didn’t fill the air just to fill it. Some mornings, they barely spoke beyond a gentlegood morningand a comment or two on the weather. Other days, he’d offer a line or two about the smell of the scones, or something he’d fixed up the night before that had kept him awake too late. He never stayed long, never took up more than a sliver of time.
But it was enough.
She was just about to suggest a second round of drinks when the door creaked open again.
It was a small sound, barely a breath, the sigh of wood and hinges and the faint pull of cool September air from the street, but Hazel heard it immediately. Felt it, more than anything. The subtle shift in pressure.
Her head lifted, instinctive now, muscle memory etched into the start of every morning.
And there he was.
Beck.
He never asked for attention— actively shied away from it, even. But the room always gave it to him anyway, just as it did now.
He stepped inside with the kind of quiet that made the whole room seem to pause. He wore the same dark green sweatshirt he’d had on that morning, sleeves pushed up over strong forearms, the fabric soft and worn at the cuffs. His jeans were dusted faintly with dirt and grass, the knees faded from real use. Wind had left his hair mussed at the edges, curls settling at the nape of his neck.
In one hand, he held a small brown paper bag. It was folded tight at the top and slightly more worn at the corners, like he’d fussed with it a few times too many on the walk over.
His eyes did one slow pass of the room. They found Hazel first and then held there for a beat too long.
Then they flicked to Iris and Malcolm, still perched at the counter mid-conversation, drinks in hand, both frozen in place.
His jaw shifted slightly, the movement subtle, not sharp. It was a flicker of something that might have been hesitation, like he wanted to turn back around and pretend he’d never stepped inside.
As it all happened, Hazel had forgotten how to breathe.
Her entire body flushed, heat racing up the back of her neck and into her cheeks so fast it felt like her skin might spark. She straightened abruptly from where she’d been leaning, palms flattening against the counter in hope it might anchor her in place.
Behind him, the door closed on a draft that had been carried in from the harbour.
Iris and Malcolm didn’t speak, not yet, but she felt them stiffen on the other side of the counter. She felt the ripple ofoh my godenergy pass between them like they’d conjured him just by saying his name. Iris shot Malcolm a look that was so sharp, so stunned, that Hazel almost laughed.
Except she couldn’t.
Because Beck washere.And she hadn’t been ready. It wasn’t just before opening— he’d already been by once today, ordered his usual and sat by the window, exchanged a few words with Hazel before she had to move back to the kitchen and pull some more sticky buns out of the oven. They had become so popular in the opening week that she had been doubling the batch, and even then, they often sold out in an hour or two.
There was something about him standing there, now, that made the whole space shift, like someone had reset the order of things. The heat that had built from their teasing moments earlier now bloomed into something much heavier, something that pulsed low in her chest and crawled all the way down her spine.
