The drill paused.
He must have heard her, or felt her, because he looked up, then. He shaded his eyes from the sunlight pouring in through the trees behind her with the back of his hand.
Their eyes met across the stretch of gravel and pine needles.
Beck didn’t smile right away.
But when he did, it was slow and subtle, just the corner of his mouth tilting, and it hit her like gravity.
And Hazel smiled back.
11
The front door creaked on its hinges as Hazel stepped onto the porch, a glass pitcher balanced in one hand, two mismatched cups clinking gently in the other.
The late afternoon light was golden, casting long shadows over the lawn, catching in the curling wisps of sawdust that clung to the air like smoke.
Beck was crouched at the edge of the porch, one hand braced on his thigh, the other guiding a drill into the new beam he’d installed. His flannel shirt was rolled to the elbows, the collar darkened with sweat. A smear of dirt marked the edge of his jaw. He looked up at the sound of the door and squinted, eyes catching hers for a beat longer than necessary before falling to the pitcher in her hand.
She crossed the porch with slow, quiet steps, her socked feet slowing before they touched the new boards he’d just finished staining. She held a glass out towards him, her lips curving into a gentle smile.
“Thought you could use a break.”
He stood, brushing his hands on the thighs of his jeans before reaching out toward her. His fingers brushed hers, just for a second, warm and rough, but in the best possible way. He took a sip, then stilled, swallowing with a slight tilt of his head like he was trying to place the taste.
“There’s something extra in this,” he said, blinking down at the glass like it had revealed a secret to him. “Surely you’re not trying to poison me.”
Hazel let out a quiet laugh, shifting her weight to one foot. “Family recipe. My grandmother used to grow mint right along the back fence, said it kept the deer away. And that it gave her lemonade that little extra zip.”
Beck’s lips twitched into something just shy of a grin. “I like it,” he murmured, then took another sip. “Thanks.”
She nodded once, then turned before he could say anything else, before he could look at her too long andsee— see the way her chest had tightened at the sound of his voice, the way it justdidnow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a gentle, unspoken shift. A quiet flutter beneath her ribs, a heat that pooled somewhere low in her belly whenever he looked at her with that steady kind of gentleness, like hesawher even when she wasn’t doing anything worth noticing.
She didn’t know what to do with it— this slow-building ache, this tether that kept tightening between them. She hadn’t admitted it aloud, not even to herself in the privacy of her own mind, not fully. But it was there. In the way her eyes found his each morning when he entered the bakery, a soft sort of warmth in his eyes. In the way she had grown not only to look forward to their soft, gentle moments together, but also in the way she actively sought them out. And how she wished for more of them, selfishly.
She told herself it was just gratitude, just friendship, just a crush. That he was kind to her and kindness like this was a rarity. But even as she turned away, retreating to the quiet clatter of dishes and drawers, she knew that wasn’t the truth. Not anymore.
Iris had been right. There was something here, brewing between the two of them— slow and quiet, but undeniable. A warmth gathering like sunlight in the pit of her stomach. A tension that never fully dissipated, not even when he wasn’t in the room. But Hazel wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. It felt too fragile to name, too raw to prod at. That sort of knowing, the gut-deep certainty that something real wasblooming between them, wasn’t something she was used to. Not even now, at nearly thirty years old.
She’d dated in Boston, yes. Men with quick smiles and good jobs, men who liked food and wine and talking about their gym routines. But they’d always been distractions more than desires— people to pass the time with, to drink cocktails beside, to kiss at the end of an evening and feel nothing about the next morning. There’d been laughter, sure. There’d been comfort. But there’d never beenthis.
Not someone who showed up the moment she needed him, before she’d even found the words to ask. Not someone who saw straight through the silence she hid behind and stayed anyway. Not someone whose steadiness madeherfeel steadier, whose quiet made the world feel a little less loud.
Beck was something else. Something she hadn’t planned for. Something that made her want things she didn’t know how to reach.
And maybe that was the most terrifying part. Because if she reached for it— really reached— and it slipped through her fingers, she wasn’t sure how she’d come back from that.
Back inside, the house was still and cool. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, the condensation from the pitcher still damp against her palm. From the living room window, she could just make out the crown of his head bent over the porch again, his movements focused and slow. The shadows on his back shifted each time he exhaled.
She watched longer than she meant to.
A while later, Hazel pulled the oven door open with a soft exhale, the scent of crisping parmesan and roasted tomato thickening in the air. Steam curled outward, fragrant and warm. She reached for a tea towel, nudging the pan slightly, her face flushed from the heat. Somewhere outside, she could still hear the soft clatter of tools, the steady thump of movement as Beck worked. Every few minutes, the rhythm of it would change— quiet for a beat, then a sharp knock, then the creak of wood shifting beneath his weight.
The living room window was cracked open just enough to let in the breeze, and every now and then it carried the sound of hisvoice— low, indistinct, murmuring something to himself as he checked a level or replaced a screw. Every time the sound of it shifted into the kitchen, where Hazel stood, a soft smile would tug at the corners of her lips.
She set a plate down on the table, then another, and tugged her sleeves up past her elbows. She poured two glasses of water. Then, just as she reached for the pan again, there was a shift behind her— a quiet drag of boots on old hardwood, followed by the low brush of a voice.
“That smells incredible.”
