Page 18 of Smoke Signals
“I wouldn’t do that to her,” he says. “Or to you. If I’m in this, it’s because I can be consistent. I’ll make sure that I still come over to tutor her one night a week after I’m released back to duty. If it has to change nights, I’ll make sure I explain that to her myself thoroughly.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. “That’s all I needed.”
We start the session like normal after that. Everything looks fine from the outside.
After Stellan leaves, I sit on the couch and rub my hands over my face, trying to understand why that conversation feels heavier than it should. Alaska climbs into my lap without asking and presses her forehead against my chest.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, more for myself than her. “We’re okay.”
8
HARTLEY
Time doesn’t jump all at once; it slides. One session turns into four, then six, then enough that the knock on the door doesn’t spike my pulse the way it did that first night. Tutoring becomes part of our week. Fridays, five o’clock sharp. Alaska has it down by now. She sets her crayons out before he even arrives.
I’m still there, just not hovering anymore.
At first I told myself I was giving them space, letting Alaska build something on her own. That part is true, but also sitting at the table felt like too much, like standing too close to a heat source I wasn’t sure I could trust. So I stay busy. I wipe down counters that don’t need wiping. I fold laundry that’s already folded. I pretend to watch whatever’s on TV while listening to the cadence of Stellan’s voice drift from the kitchen.
He doesn’t comment on it or ask why I’ve put a chair’s worth of distance between us. He just works with Alaska like that’s the only thing that matters.
She finishes faster now, pushes the cards back toward him when she’s ready for the next one and gets impatient if he’s too slow for her liking.
She signs more, tongue tucked between her teeth as she works through each card, pausing before she commits, correcting herself without looking embarrassed. When she gets it right she looks to Stellan first, then to me.
Stellan is still favoring his shoulder, and it should be well on its way to healed. It’s small things; the way he switches hands without comment, the way his shoulder rolls once, then stills when he notices me watching. It’s the kind of tension I’d clock on a client without even trying.
“You’re stiff,” I say without thinking, leaning against the counter with a dish towel in my hands.
He glances over. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding at his shoulder. “It’s worse than it was.”
He shrugs. “Comes and goes.”
I shouldn’t offer. I know that even as the thought forms. Lines exist for a reason. Boundaries, professionalism, all the things I’ve been clinging to, but it’s my job, too. My actual job. Bodies don’t lie the way people do.
“I could take a look,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Nothing weird. You’re carrying a lot of tension, and I am a massage therapist.”
He nods. “If you’re sure.”
“I am,” I say. I make it sound casual, like this isn’t a moment I’ll replay later in my head.
Alaska is coloring, fully absorbed, tongue poking out in concentration. I grab a clean towel and gesture toward the chair.
“Just sit,” I tell him. “You don’t even have to take your shirt off.”
He huffs a laugh. “Real tempting offer.”
“Focus,” I say, even as heat creeps up my neck.
I stand behind him, keeping my movements professional. I place my hands carefully on his shoulder, thumbs pressing into muscle that’s knotted and warm under my palms. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction.
“That spot,” he says quietly. “Yeah.”
I adjust, and sink in a little deeper. His body responds immediately, tension easing under practiced pressure. It’s familiar territory. My thumbs find the knots without effort. Then I realize I’ve stopped counting breaths, stopped thinking about pressure, stopped thinking at all.
Because at some point, I stop thinking about muscle groups and start thinking about him. About how solid he feels under my hands, and the way his breathing changes when I hit the right spot, deeper now, slower.
