Page 31 of Smoke Signals

We talk–about Alaska’s favorite books, about the way the radiator knocks in winter, my therapy schedule and how bored I am. He tells me about his clients, about the way work feels off lately, like he’s meant to do more but doesn’t know what that is yet.

“You’re just distracted.”

He exhales slowly. “I am.”

The conversation drifts, easy and careful, like we’re both learning how to exist in this new version of the room. At some point we end up closer, standing side by side instead of across from each other. Our shoulders don’t touch, but they could.

I’m acutely aware of him. The faint scent of soap and coffee. The warmth radiating from his arm. The way his breath changes when he’s thinking hard.

I don’t lean in.

Neither does he.

That restraint feels louder than any move would.

“I should go,” I say eventually, even though I don’t want to.

He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

At the door Alaska appears again, a stuffed fox tucked under her arm. She hands me one of the letters we were working with earlier. The letter F.

“For fish?” I ask.

She shakes her head, then points at the picture of her dad in front of the firehouse and back to me.

Hartley sucks in a breath.

“For fireman,” he whispers.

She nods once, solemn.

I crouch in front of her. “That’s a good letter,” I say gently. “He’d like that.”

She studies my face, then signs something slow and deliberate.

S-T-A-Y

Not a demand. Just a wish.

“I’ll be back,” I promise her. “Okay?”

She nods, satisfied enough.

Hartley walks me to the door, quiet again. When it opens the city rushes in, loud and impatient.

“Thanks for not disappearing,” he says.

“Thanks for letting me back in,” I reply.

Our eyes hold. The space between us feels thin but steady.

I leave without touching him.

On the stairs my shoulder twinges, sharp enough to ground me. I welcome the sensation. It reminds me where I am.

Outside, the air is cold and clean. I wander instead of heading straight home, letting the city move around me.

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