Page 34 of Smoke Signals

“We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he adds. “This isn’t a test.”

The relief hits so hard it almost makes me dizzy.

I kiss him again before I can overthink it, a little deeper this time, a little less careful. His hand comes to my waist, firm and grounding, and my body lights up.

And then reality crashes back in.

I pull away again, heart hammering, hands shaking.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I blurt, the words coming out half laugh, half panic.

He steps back immediately, giving me space without withdrawing completely.

“I don’t get to want things like this,” I say, frustration sharp in my own voice. “I have responsibilities. I have a kid who’s already lost too much. I can’t afford to be reckless.”

He nods slowly. “Wanting me doesn’t make you reckless.”

“It feels like it does,” I admit, because wanting him doesn’t feel simple. It feels like standing on the edge of something I don’t know how to survive if it collapses. One wrong choice, one mistake, and it wouldn’t just be me paying for it. Alaska’s face flashes through my mind, trust given so easily, like it costs her nothing.

We stand there for a moment, the city resuming its noise around us, a car honking somewhere down the block, someone laughing too loud again. He reaches out, brushes his thumb over my knuckles, then drops his hand like he’s reminding himself to be careful too.

“Go back to work,” he says softly. “Think about it. I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod, because it’s all I can do.

When I step back into the studio, everything looks and sounds the same.

But I’m not.

14

HARTLEY

The kiss doesn’t leave my body when I wake up.

It’s there before I even open my eyes, a phantom pressure on my mouth, heat curling low in my stomach. My lips feel different, sensitive enough that I press them together just to check. That makes it worse. Memory floods in anyway; the way his hand braced near my shoulder, the way he waited, the way it didn’t feel rushed or hungry or reckless. It felt deliberate.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall. Somewhere outside a truck backfires and my body jumps before I can stop it. I swallow hard and wait for my pulse to slow.

This is stupid. It was just a kiss.

Except it wasn’t.

Alaska pads down the hall a few minutes later, bare feet soft against the floor. She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. She climbs into my bed and curls against my side, her head warm and solid against my shoulder. I slide my arm around her automatically.

“Morning,” I murmur.

She hums, then pulls back just enough to look at my face. Her eyes search mine, slow and careful. I know that look. It’s the same one she uses when she’s checking the room, checking me, checking for something that feels off.

I’m the thing that’s off.

She touches my mouth with her fingertip then she signs.

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

“He’s okay,” I say, even though that isn’t what she asked. “He’ll be here Friday.”

I don’t know if she believes me. I’m not sure I even do.