His name in her mouth seemed to land between them like something deliberate. He tilted his head, those dark eyes of his gleaming in the dim porch light that hung above them. “Maybe, but I’ve earned it, don’t you think?”
Hazel laughed again, quieter this time, the sound trailing as she let her gaze drift. The soft curl of his hair around his ears. The warm shadow of stubble along his jaw. The silvered scar at the bridge of his nose she hadn’t noticed until the kitchen lights had caught it while he washed dishes beside her, silent and steady.
Everything about him felt like a memory she hadn’t lived yet.
Somehow, at some point, the space between them had collapsed. Her shoulder brushed his when she shifted, barely a touch, but enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. He didn’t move away and neither did she.
“Areyou ever going to tell me why you keep showing up when I need something?” she asked, the words spilling past her lips before she could stop them.
Beck blinked, slow, his expression betraying that she’d caught him off guard. “Because you keep needing things.”
“That’s not an answer.”
A pause stretched long between them, interrupted only by the creak of the wind against the eaves.
“Maybe I just like being around you,” he admitted at last, his voice rough around the edges. Like saying the words cost him something. “This stuff—“ he gestured toward the railing, the newly rebuilt porch, ”—is just a good excuse.”
Hazel’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass. Her pulse beat a little faster in her throat and she hated how obvious it felt. With Beck this close, and two glasses of wine behind her, she had to believe he could read her now, as clear as day. Her cheeks were tinged with pink and her heart was racing within her chest, thudding in her temples so loud she could hardly hear herself think.
“You’re allowed to say that, you know,” she whispered, tilting her head to one side as she peered over at him. “You’re allowed to just… say it. That you like being around me.”
Beck looked at her then,reallylooked. And something in her face must’ve done it, must’ve stirred something under the surface, because his expression shifted and softened, like an exhale. “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding. “I guess I am.”
Silence settled between them again, but this time it didn’t feel empty. It felt like waiting, like permission.
And then, slow and unthinking, her breath a shaky tether in her chest, Hazel leaned in. Her eyes fluttered shut. She felt the nearness of him, the quiet pull of heat and gravity. This was it, this was the moment where the two of them finally crossed over the threshold, leaving the uncertainly ofwhat is thisbehind.
But his hand landed on her knee, gentle but firm. A stop.
Her eyes opened instantly. She froze, her face inches from his, the breath still caught behind her ribs.
Beck’s gaze was fixed to her lips, his dark eyes wide, his shoulders leaning back. Not far, but enough.
His expression was different now— not closed, not cruel, but distant. Careful. Like the porch boards had become a tightrope and one wrong step might splinter everything. Like he wasn’t willing to cross this distance she’d begun tiptoeing towards.
“I—“ he cleared his throat, his hand slipping from her leg. She felt the absence of it,of him,like cold air. “It’s late. And you’ve been drinking, Hazel. We shouldn’t.”
Hazel sat back, slow. Her face flushed hot with something deeper than embarrassment— a slow, crawling burn of shame. She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat and came out hollow, breathless.
“Oh,” she whispered, her eyes beginning to burn. “God, I’m sorry. That was— that wassostupid. I didn’t mean to make things weird.”
“It’s not that,” Beck said, shaking his head. But even as he said the words, even as he tried to reassure her, he rose to his feet. He withdrew. “You didn’t.”
His words were clumsy, evasive. He rubbed his hands down his jeans like he didn’t know what else to do with them. And from there, he simply went silent, no further whispers offered to her, to calm her frayed nerves. The wine glass in his hand met the top of the porch railing with a softclink— a sound that felt too loud, too final.
Hazel wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. Her fingers curled at the edges, knuckles pale with tension. Her body still leaned toward where he’d been sitting, like it hadn’t caught up to the rejection. The air there still held his warmth, but it was fading, leaving her with nothing but the cold, hard truth of the moment— that she’d been about to kiss him, and he’d stopped her.
“I really am sorry, Beck,” she whispered, her eyes trained to the broad line of his shoulders. She hated how small it sounded, like she was apologizing for wanting more.
He lingered for a moment, his weight shifting, his expression unreadable. Then, slow, like the choice cost him, he stepped back toward her. She didn’t move, barelybreathed,as his hand lifted. His fingers caught on a loose strand of her dark hair, tucking it behind her earwith a care that made her stomach pull tight. The backs of his knuckles grazed her cheekbone, lingering just long enough for her to feel the calloused heat of them. Her eyes flickered against the touch, falling shut for just a beat.
“It’s okay, Hazel. Really.” His voice was low and warm in the cool night air, like he meant it— not as a dismissal, but as a promise that she hadn’t ruined something beyond repair.
Before she could find words, he stepped away again, the distance returning like a tide she couldn’t fight.
“Thank you again for dinner,” he said, and the formality in it stung, a closing line, a door swinging shut.
Hazel nodded, swallowing hard past the ache rising in her throat. The wine sat heavy in her gut, curdled now with the lingering humiliation. He moved down the porch steps, the thud of his boots on the new wood echoing like a countdown. She stayed where he’d been a moment ago, frozen. Her hand still curled around the stem of her glass, her other around the blanket like armour, the ghost of his touch still warm against her cheek.
