Page 49 of Smoke Signals

“You are,” she says with absolute confidence. “You’re doing the thing where you pretend you’re annoyed, but your whole face softens.”

I open my mouth, then close it because arguing just makes it worse.

Brielle crosses her arms and smiles.

“He’s good with her, isn’t he?” she says quietly.

“Yeah,” I admit. “He is.”

“And he’s good with you.”

I don’t answer that, because I don’t trust what’ll come out if I do.

She pats my wrist. “You deserve something that doesn’t feel like survival mode all the time,” she says.

“Yeah,” I manage. “Maybe.”

She settles back onto the table with a soft groan.

“Also,” she adds, “still unfair you got the hot firefighter.”

I snort. “Please stop calling him that.”

“Never.”

19

HARTLEY

Friday doesn’t sneak up on me anymore; it settles in slowly through the afternoon, familiar enough now that my body recognizes the shift before my brain does. I sit at the table with a pen and a wrinkled receipt, building a grocery list that keeps growing because apparently feeding a small human requires planning now. My handwriting drifts when I realize I’m not anxious, not overthinking what tonight might mean. A few weeks ago I would’ve been pacing holes into the floor, trying to script every possible conversation. Tonight, I just tap the pen against the paper and wait.

Alaska sits cross-legged on the rug, Barbies scattered around her like tiny dramatic actors mid-scene, one balanced awkwardly on the couch while another rides a plastic horse across the coffee table. She hums under her breath, completely absorbed, making silent conversations with expressive little movements instead of words. Late winter sunlight slips through the window in soft gold bands, warming the room just enough to make it feel smaller, safer. Outside, traffic rolls past in waves, the city loud in the distance but far away from us here.

“You ready?” I ask.

She nods without looking up, completely absorbed as she adjusts one of the Barbies on the couch like the scene in her head matters more than anything else in the room. Her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth while she concentrates, carefully repositioning a tiny plastic arm before stepping back to inspect her work. There’s a steadiness to her lately that still catches me off guard; small changes I almost miss, and every now and then she hums under her breath, soft little sounds she doesn’t seem to realize she’s making.

The knock comes right at five.

I open the door and Stellan stands there with a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold. He smiles when he sees me, easy and familiar, like showing up here has quietly become part of his week.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I answer, stepping back to let him in.

He toes off his boots by the door as he passes me and his hand brushes my waist, then he leans in just long enough to press a quick kiss to my mouth. It’s soft, automatic, over almost before my brain catches up and instead of panic, there’s only warmth lingering behind it.

Across the room Alaska is still on the floor with her Barbies, completely absorbed in whatever dramatic storyline she’s invented. A second later she looks up, notices him, and her whole face lights up. She pushes to her feet and pads toward us, fox dragging behind her, already signing his name before he even reaches the table.

His face softens every time she does that. It gets me every time too.

“What’ve we got today?” I ask, nodding toward the bag.

“Something new,” he says, pulling out game cards. “We’re going on a letter hunt.”

He explains it slowly, showing her how each card has a letter and a picture, then walks around the apartment sticking matching letters to different objects. A magnet on the fridge for F, one near the lamp for L, another beside the couch cushion for C. Alaska watches with intense focus, rocking slightly on her heels as she tracks every movement. I catch myself watching them instead of the game, the easy patience between them.

“You’re helping,” I say before I realize I’ve moved closer, leaning against the table instead of retreating to the couch like I usually do.