Beck nodded once more and then turned back toward the stove.
She made her way down the hall, feeling another unspoken sense of warmth wrapping around her, settling deep into her bones.
When she returned fifteen minutes later, dressed, her hair towel-damp and loosely braided down her back, Beck was still in the kitchen, his back to her. The kettle whistled low on the stove and two slices of sourdough toast sat on a plate next to him, steam curling up around the edges.
He glanced over his shoulder as she stepped closer and something flickered across his expression when he saw her, his green sweater still wrapped around her frame, sleeves shoved to her elbows.
She crossed to the island and eased herself onto one of the stools, the wood cool beneath her thighs through the fabric of her leggings. Her toes didn’t reach the floor— the stool was too tall— so they dangled just a bit, the backs of her heels brushing the leg of the chair as she shifted.
Beck turned fully as he heard her settle and slid the plate across the island— the two slices of sourdough were now thick with peanut butter, the edges still warm, soft enough to give under her fingertips. A moment later, he placed a mug beside it, plain white and chipped at the rim. The kind of mug that had survived for years without being replaced.
Hazel wrapped her hands around it, let the warmth seep into her fingers.
“I didn’t have much,” Beck admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes on the plate he’d offered her. “Just toast. And peanut butter. Thought maybe—“
She looked past him, toward the far end of the counter, and spotted the jar of honey she’d noticed the night before. It was still sitting there in the morning light, golden and glowing in its ridged glass.
“Can I have some of that?” she asked.
Beck blinked, turned, and followed her line of sigh. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little unsettled, but not in a sharp sort of way, just in a way that alluded to his lingering surprise. “Of course.”
He retrieved the jar and passed it to her, his fingers brushing hers. He opened a nearby drawer and handed her a spoon.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes catching his for a beat before she looked away.
She smiled faintly, more to herself than anything else, and began drizzling the honey over the toast in slow circles, watching it catch the ridges of the peanut butter, slipping toward the crust.
A moment later, she took a bite.
And for a minute, everything else fell away.
She was seven again. The kitchen at her grandmother’s house was different— larger in memory than she knew it to be now, sun-drenched and too bright for how tired she always felt as a child. She could see herself at the edge of the hallway, swallowed in a coat that didn’t quite fit, sneakers scuffed from too many schoolyards and bus rides. Her backpack hung heavy on one shoulder, already zipped, already ready.
She hadn’t said a word that morning, just made for the door like she always did, head down, quiet, hoping to slip through the morning unnoticed. Back at her house in Portland, with her parents, no one ever stopped her, no one ever even looked her way. There hadn’t been time. Her father was always busy, already gone to work or still half-asleep on the couch, nursing a headache or pacing the kitchen on the phone with someone— a therapist, a doctor, a pharmacist.
But that morning her grandmother had stopped her. A hand, light but firm, touched her shoulder. And a voice, not unkind but absolute, told her to follow. And then sit.
Hazel remembered the way the wooden chair creaked beneath her as she settled in at the dining room table. The soft clatter of a plate being set down. Toast, peanut butter, honey. A glass of orange juice.
Simple. Sweet.
She hadn’t known what to do with it at first. She just stared, hands in her lap, unsure if it was a trick or a test. No one had made her breakfast like that in a long time. Not just food—care. Intention.
Her grandmother stood at the counter in a worn bathrobe, a cup of tea in her hand, steam curling beneath her chin. She smiled when Hazel finally looked up, soft and knowing, like she’d been waiting for this very moment.
“Nothing wrong with a little sugar in the morning, you know,”she said, like it was the most natural truth in the world.“It’s important to eat when you wake up. Helps to fuel the brain.”
And something inside Hazel had shifted. Not everything, not all at once, but enough.
That morning had stayed with her, tucked somewhere small but solid, long after everything else had frayed. A quiet act of care. One she hadn’t known how badly she needed at that age.
Back in Beck’s kitchen, the toast was still warm in her hands. The honey had begun to melt, sinking slowly into the ridges of peanut butter.
Hazel took another bite, slower this time.
Across the counter, Beck leaned against the island, his arms crossed. He was watching her with that same quiet presence he always carried.
Hazel reached for her coffee, next, the chipped white mug warm and steady in her hands, and took a long sip.
