Iris mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
Hazel adjusted her napkin, her eyes holding on the edge of the table for a beat before they lifted back to Iris’s, and then she began.
“There was a tree.”
Iris blinked, clearly not expecting the story to beginthere.
“Not like— just a tree, okay? A huge one. It came down during the storm and took out my front porch. I didn’t know what to do. Itwas just… I was in the house alone, and the wind was howling, and I panicked.Reallypanicked. So I called Beck.”
“Youcalledhim?”
Hazel gave her a look.
“Right, no interruptions. Sorry. I just didn’t even know you had hisnumber.Anyways, continue.”
“He answered immediately and came to get me. He was on the road before I’d even really said anything—definitelybefore I asked. He just told me to stay put and then he was there, like the storm didn’t even phase him. Then he took me back to his place… said it wasn’t safe to stay with the front porch’s beam broken.”
Iris was still, her whole body leaning in. Her dark eyes were wide, almost comically so.
“He gave me his bed, Iris. Made me tea. Didn’t crowd me, didn’t make it weird. Just… let me be there.”
Hazel paused. Her fingers tugged at the end of one sleeve, rolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger.
“And then this morning he made me toast,” Hazel said, her voice barely heard above the clink of dishes and silver around them. “Coffee, too.”
Iris’s expression shifted, subtle but undeniable. The sparkle in her eye dulled to something warmer, more grounded. Her teasing posture softened, and for a moment, she justlookedat Hazel. Saw her. Saw every unspoken detail clinging to the light in her eyes, the curve of her lip, the ache in her jaw.
“Oh, Hazel,” she murmured. “That’s a caretaker move. That’s soil deep. He’s got itbad.”
Hazel looked down instead of answering, letting her fingertips drift along the edge of her water glass, tracing a slow path through the condensation. The chill bit at her skin, grounding her. She shifted the glass, then adjusted her fork, more for the sake of movement than order. The sweater sleeves bunched at her wrists, soft and worn, still carrying the faintest trace of cedar and flannel and something else— something warm. Somethinghim.
She exhaled and ran her tongue along her bottom lip, then bit it, trying to steady herself against the current rising in her chest.
Because it hadn’t just been the tea, or the toast, or the bed he gave up without hesitation. It was the silence and how it never felt like punishment. It was the steadiness and how it never once faltered. It was the way he never asked her to explain her fear— he simply saw it, acknowledged it, and stayed.
“He dropped you off here?”
Hazel nodded, the motion small.
“And how did it feel? Being with him?”
Hazel didn’t answer right away.
She leaned back in her chair, spine straight but fingers still fidgeting— this time, her fingertips shifted to the ends of her hair, toying with the dark, curling locks. She’d pulled it free from the braid on the drive over.
She glanced around the restaurant, eyes skating over the rose gold cutlery, the gleaming tile behind the bar, the black and white menu with its looping, curated calligraphy. She tried to focus on the hum of the brunch crowd, the sparkle of overcast light drifting through the windows, the muted jazz filling the space.
But none of it could anchor her.
Because the only thing she could feel washim.
The quiet steadiness of his presence. The way his voice never rose, even when things broke. The way he looked at her like hesawher. The way he didn’t flinch when she panicked. Didn’t hesitate when she called, just showed up.
And stayed.
She swallowed, her throat tight.
“It felt like…” her voice wavered, and she blinked down at the table. “Like I’d been picked up and put back together without realizing I’d come apart.”
