Page 48 of Smoke Signals

Despite myself, I laugh. “Please never say ‘emotionally constipated’ again.”

“No promises.”

She shifts slightly under my hands.

“So,” she says softer now, less teasing, more curious. “Is he good to you?”

I think about Stellan standing in my kitchen like he belongs there. The way he waits for Alaska to decide first. The way he doesn’t push when I panic.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “He is.”

Brielle hums like that’s the only answer that matters.

“Then what’s the problem?”

My hands keep moving, slow, steady.

“He’s a firefighter.”

She goes very still for exactly half a second.

“You can’t punish him for something that hasn’t happened,” she says quietly.

“I’m not punishing anyone,” I say, defensive even to my own ears.

“Hartley,” she says, softer now. “He’s not Lance.”

My hands still against her spine.

“It’s not me I’m worried about; it’s Alaska. She’s already super attached to him, and looks forward to seeing him every week.”

Then, just like that, her eyes widen and the mood shifts.

“Wait,” she says, pushing herself up on her elbow despite the pillow. “It’s Stellan, isn’t it?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

Her hand slaps the table. “Oh my God.”

I wince. “Volume.”

“You lucky asshole,” she hisses, grinning like she just got handed premium gossip. “Do you have any idea how many women at prenatal yoga talk about that man like he’s a public service?”

Heat floods my face. “Can we not?”

“No, we absolutely will,” she says, delighted. “You bagged the hot firefighter with the sad eyes? That’s a trope, Hart.”

“I didn’t bag anyone.”

“Uh huh,” she says, squinting at me. “And I’m here for the free aromatherapy.”

I let out a breath, resisting the instinct to hide my face when my hands are literally coated in oil. My ears burn anyway.

“It’s not like that,” I insist.

“Are you smiling when you text?”

“I’m not⁠—”