Page 29 of Smoke Signals

His words catch me off guard.

“I just want to be honest,” he continues. “About being here, caring, and about going slow.”

My eyes sting unexpectedly.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.

“Then we’ll learn,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

12

STELLAN

I used to live my life by clocks, by tones dropping, by boots hitting concrete and knowing exactly how long it took to get from point A to chaos. Now, Fridays mean something quieter. A different kind of readiness. I get ready early, not because I need the time, but because sitting still with anticipation makes my shoulder ache worse than the injury itself.

I shower longer than usual. Hot water loosens the tight band that lives under my shoulder blade, steam fogging the mirror until I can pretend I don’t recognize myself for a minute. I roll my arm the way the physical therapist showed me, slow and controlled, breathing through the pull. I dress in a clean sweater, jeans, and quickly style my hair.

When I step out into the brisk cold air of Chicago, I shiver.

Shit, I can’t wait for it to start warming up. Winters here have always been cold, but this one feels longer than usual.

A food truck down the block is frying something sweet and greasy, and my stomach growls even though I ate already. I walk instead of drive, hands shoved into my pockets, letting the even pace of my steps settle my thoughts.

Hartley texted me earlier this week.

Not exactly an apology or an excuse, just honesty laid bare in the way people only manage when they’ve run out of ways to protect themselves. He got scared and handled it badly.

I didn’t answer right away. I read it four times before I let myself answer, telling myself I needed time when what I really needed was courage. When I finally said yes it came without hesitation, and I spent the rest of that night staring at the ceiling, wondering if that made me brave or reckless.

The building looks the same as always. Brick worn smooth at the edges, entry light flickering. I pause at the bottom of the stairs and breathe in deep, letting my pulse slow.

I knock.

Footsteps approach, familiar already. The door opens, and there he is.

Hartley looks tired, but not hollow the way he did last week. There’s color in his face, tension still there but coiled instead of frayed. He’s wearing a sweater with the sleeves pushed up. His brown eyes meet mine and hold, and for a second I think he might bolt anyway.

He doesn’t.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

“Hey,” I say back.

The air between us feels different. Not charged exactly. More like the moment after a storm when everything’s still damp and the sky hasn’t decided what it’s doing next.

Alaska appears at his side, peeking around his hip. She grins, small but unmistakable, and holds up her hands.

S-T-E-L-L-A-N.

“Hey, kid,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “I’m glad to see you.”

She reaches for my hand, fingers small and sure. Hartley freezes beside us, not pulling her back, not pushing her forward, just watching like he’s learning something about both of us at once.

“You ready?” Hartley asks her.

She nods hard enough that her hair bounces.

We move into the kitchen like it’s muscle memory now. Alaska drags her chair into place, setting her crayons out in a line so precise it makes me smile. Hartley’s bustling around the apartment, sweeping and putting toys away, present without meaning to be.