The same woman from opening day. The one who’d walked into Rise as if she were conducting an inspection, not considering buyinga pastry. She hadn’t offered a name, but Hazel hadn’t needed one, not with a presence like that. The memory returned all at once: the clipped remarks, the backhanded compliments, the cool assessment that had left Hazel shaken long after the door had closed behind her. Whenever something went wrong inside Rise, in these past few weeks, it wasthis woman’svoice that Hazel heard, at the back of her mind. A lingering reminder that failure was possible; perhaps even inevitable.
She looked exactly the same now. Sleek and composed, her heels striking the pavement in sharp, deliberate bursts. Her hair was scraped back into that same flawless bun, not a strand out of place, like even her edges had edges. And that expression, icy and practiced, was the same one she’d worn inside the bakery. Smooth in a way that wasn’t soft, like something too polished to be real.
Hazel’s stomach curled. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she remembered exactly how it had felt to stand in front of her: small, unsteady, as though the ground might shift with the wrong answer.
She took another sip of her coffee, the bitterness landing harder this time. She kept moving, kept breathing. The path sloped downward, gently, toward the water.
The town thinned out here, fewer people and fewer distractions. The shopfronts gave way to boat rentals that had closed for the season, weathered sheds, and lobster-streaked signage that hadn’t been repainted in years.
The harbour opened up in a slow reveal. A few remaining boats bobbed in their slips, their hulls rocking with the rhythm of the tide. The wind had picked up just enough to crest the water in soft whitecaps, the waves churning blue-grey and dappled with foam. A few gulls paced along the edge of the dock, feathers ruffling in the breeze, beaks tucked down like they, too, were preparing for quieter months ahead.
Hazel stepped down from the sidewalk to the creaky boardwalk that wound along the water’s edge. Her pace slowed without her thinking about it. There was no one around, no one to rush for.
She let the silence settle around her, let the weight of the morning drain just enough to loosen her shoulders.
Then came the sound of metal on metal. A sharp clang that echoed across the air, carried along the breeze.
She turned instinctively toward the sound and saw him.
Beck.
He was crouched beside a rust-red skiff just beyond the open bay of a harbourside garage, one knee down, the other bent, working a socket wrench with slow, deliberate turns. His shoulders moved in steady rhythm, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms streaked with oil. A pair of mechanic’s overalls were tied around his waist, the top half hanging loose over a charcoal t-shirt faded soft with age.
He hadn’t seen her yet. And still, Hazel stopped.
The world around him was all motion— boats swaying, wind stirring, rope tapping softly against wood— but somehow, he was still.
Hazel stood there for a beat longer than she meant to, coffee cradled in her hands, warmth seeping through to her palms. Something about the scene felt… caught, like a painting between brushstrokes. Like if she breathed too loudly, she might startle it out of place.
She took another sip, slower this time. Her eyes watched him over the rim.
Then she stepped forward, the boardwalk beneath her shoes creaking with the movement.
“Hey,” she called, the sound of her voice carrying just above the wind.
Beck glanced up, blinking against the light like he’d just surfaced from somewhere underwater. His expression shifted, neutral at first, then a flicker of surprise, and finally something gentler, quieter. Something that made her chest tighten without warning.
“Hey,” he echoed.
She stepped closer, moving from the wooden slats to the salt-stained concrete. The closer she got, the more the scent of oil and metal layered over the sea air, industrial and clean in a way she hadn’t expected.
Beck stood, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into the pocket of his overalls that had seen better days. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly,but the sharp edges of him were gone. Smoothed. Like this was a place he knew true peace, true comfort.
Hazel stopped a few feet away, one hand curled around her coffee, the other tucked into the pocket of her cardigan.
“You know, it’s only fair,” she remarked, her voice lighter now. “That I finally get to see you in your habitat, since you’re always showing up in mine.”
That earned a real laugh from Beck, low and genuine, the kind that came from somewhere deep within his chest. He glanced behind him, toward the open bay of the garage, then back at her. “Didn’t know I had a habitat.”
“Oh, you do,” she said, tipping her mug toward the skiff. “Oil-stained docks, moody lighting, background noise provided by the nearby water and birds. It’s very atmospheric. Suits you.”
Beck snorted, rubbing the back of his neck, smearing oil across his skin as he did. Hazel’s eyes lingered on it, briefly unable to look away.
“You forgot the added charm of old engines that don’t like to cooperate.”
Hazel chuckled. “Even better. You’re basically a Maine tourism poster.”
“Right. Just missing the lobster roll.”
