Page 59 of Smoke Signals

I start the truck and pull into traffic.

23

STELLAN

I wake before my phone’s alarm because my body is already back on shift hours even when there isn’t one waiting for me. For a few seconds I don’t move, I just lie there staring at the ceiling, listening. The sheets feel different under my hands, softer than mine, warmer too. When I turn my head I see Hartley still asleep beside me, face turned into the pillow, hair pushed into his eyes, breathing slow and steady.

I watch him longer than I mean to. Last night sits in my chest in pieces that don’t feel sharp or overwhelming. We talked until late, nothing urgent, nothing dramatic. Just stories, quiet touches, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything back. At some point we fell asleep without deciding to, legs tangled, his hand resting against my ribs.

I slide carefully out of bed so I don’t wake him, moving slowly because I know that the floorboards creak near the doorway if you step wrong. I grab my T-shirt from the floor, pull it on, then head toward the kitchen.

Morning light slips through the blinds in thin stripes across the counter. I find the coffee without searching, because I’ve been here enough times now to know where things live. That realization hits quietly while I measure grounds into the machine, memory formed somewhere between visits.

I don’t ask where mugs are anymore, I just reach for one.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, loud in the stillness, and I wince before glancing toward the hallway. No movement, Hartley and Alaska are still asleep. I lean against the counter and wait, watching steam curl upward, hands resting flat against cool laminate while my mind catches up to what my body already knows.

I’m not tense here.

At the firehouse, I’m alert even when I’m relaxed. At my place, I’m alone even when it’s calm. Here, standing barefoot in Hartley’s kitchen at sunrise, I feel something else entirely.

I feel steady and at peace.

A soft shuffle comes from the hallway. I look up just as Alaska appears, hair tangled from sleep, fox tucked under one arm, eyes half open. She pauses when she sees me, then walks straight across the room and climbs into my lap when I sit down at the table.

“Morning,” I murmur.

She presses her face into my chest and I automatically wrap an arm around her so she doesn’t slide off my knee. Her small hand curls into my shirt and I sit there holding her.

She smells like shampoo and blankets… like home.

I don’t know the exact moment she stopped treating me like a visitor. It had to have happened slowly, somewhere between letters and pizza nights and quiet goodbyes at the door.

The coffee clicks off. I don’t move yet because she’s already drifting again, eyes closed, breathing evening out against me.

Footsteps sound in front of us.

I glance up and see Hartley standing at the edge of the hallway, watching. He looks softer than usual, sleep still clinging to him, one hand braced against the wall like he stopped walking mid step.

Neither of us speaks right away.

His gaze moves from Alaska curled against me to my arm around her, then back to my face. Something shifts there, something quiet and almost disbelieving.

“She woke up,” I say softly. “Decided I was furniture.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Yeah, she does that sometimes.”

He walks closer, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and I notice he isn’t tense, no guarded posture or careful distance. He stops beside the chair and brushes his fingers lightly over Alaska’s hair.

“She didn’t even check if I was here,” he murmurs. “Usually she comes into my room and wakes me up if she rises before me.”

I shrug slightly. “Guess I passed inspection.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then leans down and presses a slow kiss to my mouth. It’s gentle, unhurried instead of heated. I feel Alaska shift between us and we both pull back, smiling despite ourselves.

“Coffee’s ready,” I tell him.

“You’re spoiling me,” he says, grabbing a mug.