Just that. A single syllable, solid and unshakeable. The first step onto something that felt like firm, reliable ground— though she wasn’t sure she’d recognize the feeling if it split itself open beneath her feet.
Hazel frowned, her stomach dipping towards the floor. “Beck—“
“There’s no point calling around in the middle of the night when I’m already here. You’re not in any shape to drive, Hazel. And the roads are rough.”
He crouched to toe off his boots, lining them up neatly by the door, his movements calm, practiced. Like he’d already made peace with the outcome before he stepped inside. Like he’d been prepared for this as soon as he’d heard her voice on the other end of the call.
“I’ve got space,” he continued. “And I’m ten minutes up the road. I’ll drive you back in the morning.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her throat pulled tight once more and she swallowed, trying to gather herself.
“I don’t want to put you out,” she managed to say, after a beat.
“You’re not.”
He said it like it was fact, like there was no argument to be made. Like her comfort, hersafety,was already accounted for. Non-negotiable.
And that’s where it hit her.
People didn’t do this. Not for her. Not since—
Her breath caught, the rest of the sentence folding in on itself.
Her grandmother had, certainly, back when Hazel was small, before she ever understood that most people had that sort of love in spades. Before Boston, before the long years of silence that weren’tquitesilence, but felt like it anyway. The distance between them hadn’t started with a fight, it had just… happened. She’d left home, pursued something bright, something burning, and though they still spoke, sent birthday cards, managed the occasional visit, the weight of care had shifted. There hadn’t been someone to call when things got hard; not when she locked herself in a walk-in fridge just to cry between lunch and dinner service, not when the migraines came, or her hands split open from the cold.
She’d learned to carry it alone. Tobealone.
And yet— here he was.
She looked at Beck, this man who showed up every morning without fail. Who drank his coffee black and didn’t so much as blink when she was quiet. Who had installed a bell above the bakery door without her asking, without making it a thing, just so she wouldn’t be startled when customers walked in. This man who’d offered his number when a storm was coming, and told her to call— and when she did, he’d gotten in his truck and come straight to her, no hesitation.
And when Iris made comments about how often he lingered— or Malcolm raised a brow about hissupposeddisinterest— he’d never denied it. If anything, he’dconfirmedit. Not with words, but with his presence, day in and day out. And with the way he watched her, and the way he stayed.
Hazel’s fingers curled in her lap. The part of her that wanted to keep arguing and keep pushing back was the same part that had spent years convinced no one would ever do this without strings, without expecting something in return.
Still, she hesitated. She simply couldn’t stop herself. This piece of her was buried too deep.
Finally, her gaze lifted to his. With a soft, barely there sigh, she whispered, “There’s always the inn.”
Beck scoffed, shaking his head. “They’ll give you scratchy sheets and a busted radiator,” he said, his dark eyes pouring into hers. “A second floor room, if you’re lucky, and if they’re not full already. If they even have power.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know that,” he whispered back, his voice softening again. “But I am. Please… just let me.”
And there it was. That unwavering thing in him, the quiet certainty. The refusal to let her talk her way out of being cared for.
Hazel looked down, pulse thudding in her ears, matching the slow, even rhythm of his breath a few feet away.
This shouldn’t have felt like so much.
It was just a ride. Just a couch. Just one night.
But it wasn’tjustanything.
Because it was with him.
And he wasn’t just offering her shelter, he wasn’t just offering convenience.
