Page 37 of Smoke Signals

“Thought we’d try something different,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket. “Same skills, just less sitting still.”

Alaska climbs into her chair without being asked. I spread the picture pages out; simple drawings, cat, sun, bus, apple. I slide the letter tiles across the table, not explaining yet.

“Okay,” I say, tapping the picture of the apple. “You show me what letter it starts with.”

She stares at it for a long moment, lips moving silently. Then she pushes the A tile forward.

“That’s right,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Apple starts with A.”

Hartley leans against the counter, arms folded, watching everything.

We move through a few more. Bus. Sun. Cat. Alaska doesn’t rush. She lines the tiles up carefully, correcting herself once without looking at either of us. When she gets stuck, she looks at me, then Hartley.

“You’re doing great,” Hartley says quietly at one point, and Alaska’s shoulders lift.

By the time we finish her attention is fading, energy spent. She slides down from her chair and signs finished before wrapping herself around Hartley’s leg.

“That’s our cue,” Hartley says, smiling tiredly.

“I’ll hang out,” I tell him. “No rush.”

He nods, relief flickering across his face before he smooths it away. “I’ll be right back.”

I clean up and then move to sit on the couch while he disappears down the hall, the apartment settling into a quieter version than normal when I’m here. I can hear him murmuring to her; the soft cadence of bedtime, the creak of a drawer, the low sound of running water. It’s domestic, which I didn’t expect.

When he comes back, the lights are dimmer. Alaska’s door is closed, a thin line of nightlight glowing underneath.

“She’s out,” he says softly.

“Good,” I reply, just as quietly.

And suddenly it’s different.

No table between us now or lesson plan. Only the low hum of the building, the distant city noise through the windows, and the fact that we’re sitting on the same couch with nothing left that needs doing.

That’s when Hartley exhales like he’s been holding it all night.

“You okay?” I ask gently.

He nods, shakes his head, then laughs under his breath. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“That’s fair.”

He picks at the edge of the throw pillow, fingers worrying the fabric. “I keep thinking I’ll say the wrong thing.”

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to,” I tell him.

He glances up at me then, searching my face.

“I asked you here because I didn’t want to keep pretending,” he says finally. “And because I didn’t want Alaska thinking I push people away when things get hard.”

“I’m not here to push,” I say. “I’m here because you asked.”

He scoots closer, not touching, just enough that our knees almost line up. I can feel the heat of him now, the awareness sharpening in my body like a live wire.

“I need you to know,” he says, voice lower now, “that I’m scared. Not of you. Of what this means.”

I nod. “I figured.”