Chapter 3
HARTLEY
I check my phone for the fourth time in under two minutes and immediately hate myself for it.
Four fifty-seven.
I’ve already wiped down the kitchen counters twice, straightened the couch pillows, and moved Alaska’s crayons into a neater line even though she already had them exactly how she likes them.
The apartment smells like chicken salad and lavender cleaner, which wasn’t intentional but feels like it says something about my current mental state.
Alaska sits at the table, coloring carefully, her feet swinging just above the floor. She’s wearing her Power Ranger shirt because she had it on before I opened the door; the green one with the slightly cracked print. I let it go because tonight is not the night to fight battles that don’t matter.
“You remember,” I say, keeping my voice casual even though my chest feels tight, “if you don’t like him, he leaves.”
She doesn’t look up, just nods once, deliberately.
“And we don’t need you to talk…unless you want to,” I add quickly, because even now people forget that part. “You can wave, or sign, or not do anything at all.”
She switches crayons, lines the blue one up next to the red, then finally looks at me. Her gaze is steady, assessing.
I crouch in front of her, resting my elbows on my knees.
“You’re in charge,” I tell her, signing it too. “Always.”
Another nod.
The knock comes right on time.
“I’ll get it,” I say, standing too fast, knocking my elbow into the table, swearing under my breath as Alaska watches with mild concern.
I wipe my hands on my jeans even though they’re clean, take a breath, then open the door.
Stellan fills the doorway, tall and broad and none of it decorative.
He’s built like someone who uses his body for work, not for show, shoulders wide beneath his jacket, chest solid without being bulky.
His hair is cut short on the sides, longer on top, brushed back like he ran a hand through it and called it good enough.
There’s a beard along his jaw, trimmed but not precise, the kind that looks better the longer you stare at it.
He looks capable in a way that settles something inside of me, like if something went wrong he’d already be moving before anyone finished panicking.
And my brain, traitorous thing that it is, immediately files that under problem.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and easy. “Hartley, right?”
I nod, suddenly aware of everything about myself—my posture, my hands, the fact that I’m still holding the door like I might slam it shut by accident.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say. “Come in.”
He steps inside, pauses just long enough to take the apartment in without staring, then closes the door behind him carefully.
That’s when I notice the shoulder.
It’s subtle—a slight hitch in the way he shrugs out of his jacket, the way his left side moves just a fraction slower than the right. Not dramatic, not performative, just there if you’re paying attention. Which, being a massage therapist, it’s kind of my job to notice.
“Hi,” he says, dropping his gaze slightly, softening his presence as he looks past me into the kitchen. “You must be Alaska.”
She looks at him. Really looks at him.
He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t wave or crouch or try to be charming. He just stands there, hands loose at his sides, expression open, waiting.
She turns her crayon in her fingers, then gives him a small wave.
“Hi,” he says back. “Thanks for letting me come over.”
Letting.
I gesture awkwardly toward the table. “You can sit if you want. Or not, whatever’s easier.”
He smiles a little, like he finds my rambling endearing rather than annoying.
“I’ll sit,” he says. “If that’s okay with you, Alaska.”
My niece watches him pull out the chair slowly, like he’s speaking with his body. He sits sideways, resting his forearms lightly on the table without reaching toward her things.
“I see you like dinosaurs,” he says, conversational, not expectant.
Alaska blinks, then slides her green crayon toward him. An offering.
He accepts it like it’s something precious.
“I like them too,” he says. “They’re impressive, and a little misunderstood.”
Something warm and unexpected unfurls in my chest.
Oh no.
The thought hits me hard and uninvited.
He’s hot, and the way he’s so easily adapting to talking with my girl is sexy as hell.
Not in the obvious way, not in the I want to tear his clothes off way, but in the dangerous way; the quiet competence, the steady voice, the way he treats Alaska like she’s already capable and deserving of respect.
I’ve always known I’m attracted to both sexes. That part of me has never been a question. But men have always stayed theoretical, a possibility that never turned into want. None of them ever caught my attention long enough to make me curious.
I shift my weight, suddenly hyperaware of my hands, my breathing, the fact that I haven’t moved from the doorway.
“You said you’re tutoring while you’re on leave,” I say, because I need to say something that isn’t wow, you’re affecting me in ways I didn’t consent to.
“I am,” he says easily. “Mostly younger kids, some older ones too. Depends on what they need.”
“And you’re okay with,” I gesture vaguely, “this situation?”
He focuses on me intently, and his eyes show understanding, as if he knows my unspoken question.
“I’m okay with whatever makes her feel comfortable,” he says. “We don’t have to do anything tonight beyond introductions.”
Alaska colors while we talk, her crayon strokes steady. Stellan doesn’t interrupt her, doesn’t correct, just observes.
“What happened to your shoulder?” I ask before I can stop myself, immediately wishing I’d kept that thought inside.
He rolls it gently, testing the joint.
“Work injury,” he says.
“And tutoring helps fill the time,” I say.
“And keeps me useful,” he replies, smiling slightly.
There it is again, that sense that he sees more than I’m saying.
Alaska suddenly pushes her coloring book toward him, taps one dinosaur, then looks up at me.
“She wants you to color with her,” I translate softly.
Stellan glances at me.
“Go ahead,” I say. “She’s picky about colors.”
“Good,” he says, picking up the crayon. “So am I.”
They sit like that for a while, coloring together, Stellan careful with his movements, favoring his shoulder without drawing attention to it. Alaska relaxes inch by inch, her foot swinging a little faster.
I watch them, my thoughts a tangled mess of relief, fear, attraction, and something dangerously close to hope.
Stellan glances up at me once, catches me staring, and there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Not smug or teasing, just aware.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I clear my throat and move farther into the kitchen, needing to feel like I’m part of the room again. I lean against the counter, arms folding loosely even though my pulse hasn’t slowed down yet.
“So,” I say, aiming for normal and landing somewhere adjacent. “Brielle said you’re good with kids.”
He keeps coloring while he answers, his focus still mostly on Alaska. “I’m good at listening,” he says. “The rest tends to follow.”
Alaska hums softly, not a tune, just sound, and Stellan doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t look startled or curious.
“She doesn’t like to be rushed,” I say, unsure why I feel the need to explain.
“Neither do I,” he replies easily.
He hands the crayon back to her when she taps the page twice, waits while she reorders them, then resumes when she nudges it toward him again.
I realize then that he’s not trying to impress me or win her over. He’s just being here.
“How long have you been tutoring?” I ask.
“On and off for years,” he says. “More steadily since the injury.”
Alaska finishes her dinosaur, pushes the book away, then signs something small and quick.
“She’s done,” I translate.
Stellan nods like he understands exactly what that means. He stands slowly. “Thank you for letting me visit,” he says to her, then looks at me. “I can come back, if you want. Or not. Whatever works.”
There’s no pressure or assumption in it.
I glance at Alaska. She looks at him for a long moment, then signs thank you.
“You’re welcome.” He smiles at her.
I look at the doorframe instead of at either of them.
“Friday,” I say. “Same time.”
His smile is quiet, satisfied.
“Friday,” he agrees.
When he leaves, the apartment feels different. Alaska goes back to her crayons like nothing monumental just happened. I stand there longer than I should, staring at the closed door.