Page 60 of Smoke Signals

“I’m using your beans,” I reply, standing and carrying Alaska to the couch before laying her on the soft cushions.

“Still counts.”

We move around each other easily in the small kitchen, passing mugs, opening the fridge, working without bumping or apologizing. Alaska wakes fully fifteen minutes later and slides off the couch to climb into her chair like mornings with me sitting here are already normal.

Hartley watches us while he drinks his coffee, eyes thoughtful. I recognize that look now. He’s cataloging something, deciding whether it’s safe to let himself believe this is lasting.

I reach across the table and rest my hand over his for a second. He doesn’t flinch, instead his fingers turn slightly under mine, holding there.

I belong here.

Not because anyone said it out loud, not because we made rules or promises, but because mornings like this have been experienced; coffee brewing while a sleepy kid climbs into my lap and Hartley looks at me like I’m part of the picture instead of passing through it.

“You got plans today?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just groceries later. Laundry if I feel ambitious.”

I nod once then look at Alaska, who immediately perks up. “You want pancakes?”

Her entire face changes. Eyes wide, shoulders straight as she nods so hard her hair bounces everywhere.

Hartley laughs under his breath. “Well, that’s a yes.”

“There’s that diner around the corner,” I say. “The one with the cartoon menu.”

“The Mickey Mouse pancakes,” he says, already smiling.

“Exactly.”

Ten minutes later we’re dressed, Alaska wedged between us on the sidewalk holding both our hands like this is the most normal thing in the world. The morning air is cold enough to wake me fully, but nice enough that we can walk as long as we have a good sweater on.

Someone walks a dog across the street, buses groan past, and the smell of bacon drifts faintly from the diner before we even reach the door.

Inside, the place is loud; plates clatter, coffee pours nonstop, and a waitress calls everyone ‘honey’ without waiting for permission. We slide into a booth, Alaska immediately climbing beside me so she can see the menu pictures.

She immediately clocks the Mickey pancakes and taps her finger on it repeatedly.

“Strong choice,” I tell her.

Hartley watches us with a soft expression again, only breaking his gaze when the ‘honey’ waitress approaches our table.

He orders a ham and cheese omelette. I order bacon, eggs, and hash browns, and Alaska gets her pancakes shaped like a smiling cartoon mouse.

She claps once when they arrive.

Hartley laughs. “We’ve peaked. Nothing tops this.”

We eat slowly, talking about nothing important. Hartley steals bacon from my plate and I pretend not to notice. Alaska drowns the cherries and chocolate chips pancakes in syrup that floods her plate. At one point she presses a sticky fork toward me as if she’s offering a bite, and Hartley nearly chokes laughing when I accept it without hesitation.

After breakfast we step back into the cold, full and unhurried. The children’s museum sits only a few blocks away, bright banners flapping outside, families already filtering in. Alaska pulls forward the second she recognizes where we’re headed, excitement vibrating through her whole body.

Inside, noise fills every corner. Kids running, laughing, building towers that immediately collapse. Alaska disappears into a play area filled with climbing structures and pretend storefronts, completely absorbed within seconds.

We find seats along the wall, watching her move from one activity to the next with focused determination. She looks back occasionally to make sure we’re still there. Every time she finds us watching, she smiles before going back to whatever she’s building.

Hartley leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She didn’t used to wander this far,” he says quietly.

“She knows where you are,” I answer.