Chapter 6
STELLAN
By the fourth session with Alaska, Hartley doesn’t hover anymore.
He opens the door, gives me a quick nod, and lets Alaska lead the way to the table like this is just another part of the week now. No standing too close. No watching my hands like he’s waiting for a mistake. He still pays attention, I can tell, but from a distance.
Alaska barely glances back at him before she sits, already reaching for the foam letters. She taps the table once, impatient, then signs start.
I smile. “Bossy today,” I tell her.
She grins and scoots her chair in.
Hartley disappears into the living room with a book and the TV turned low. He’s close enough to hear us, far enough to let the room belong to Alaska for a while. I catch him pretending to read more than once, eyes drifting up here and there.
He still pretends to clean sometimes. Old habits die hard, but not today.
Today he’s sitting on the couch relaxing, which he needs more than he realizes.
We settle into the lesson easily. Letters first, then matching sounds to pictures, then a short break because Alaska’s attention has a limit and I know it. She corrects me twice, tapping the card, pointing to my hands, shaking her head like I should know better by now.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “My bad.”
She approves with a nod and moves on.
Hartley wanders in and prepares snacks halfway through and sets them down without interrupting, snagging a few crackers and cheese for himself. Alaska eats, then pushes the plate away and reaches for her coloring book, sliding it between us.
We color together, dinosaurs, stars, and shapes that don’t exist. Alaska presses her knee against mine when she concentrates, grounding herself without thinking about it. I let it happen. She pulls back when she’s ready.
When we finish I stretch my shoulder without thinking, rolling it slowly, carefully the way the physical therapist drilled into me. It’s nothing dramatic, just stiff from sitting too long.
“You okay?” he asks, already halfway toward us.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just the shoulder.”
He hesitates, then asks, “You’re still on leave, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. From the firehouse.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
His eyes widen like I just said something he wasn’t prepared to hear. His posture goes rigid, shoulders pulling tight, breath catching just enough for me to clock it. Shock flashes across his face before he schools it into something neutral.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s quiet, but it’s loaded.
Alaska looks between us, alert now, fingers curling into the fabric of Hartley’s shirt. He notices immediately, drops a hand to her back, and rubs slow circles until her shoulders loosen.
“Can I,” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”
“Of course,” I say, already standing.
We step into the living room, just far enough that Alaska can see us if she looks up. Hartley leans back against the wall like he needs it to stay upright.
“My brother,” he says. “Lance. He was a firefighter.”
I know the next sentence before he says it.
“He died on a call a year ago,” Hartley continues. “Structure fire.”
The words land heavily.
"That's how I got custody of Alaska. Her mom died having her, so it was always just the two of them. And then it was me. She hasn’t spoken since. She can hear just fine, she understands everything, she just… doesn’t talk. Not since he didn’t come home.”
I don’t interrupt or rush him.
“I didn’t know,” I say finally. “I’m really sorry.”
He nods once. “I’m not saying you can’t be here,” he adds quickly, like he’s worried I’ll hear something he isn’t saying. “You’re good with her. She likes you. I just needed you to know. Firefighting isn’t neutral for us.”
“I get that,” I tell him, and I do. More than he probably realizes.
He exhales slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”
We stand there a moment longer than necessary, the space between us quiet but heavy with something new.
From the kitchen Alaska clears her throat, and Hartley’s head snaps in her direction.
“Coming” he calls, already moving.
We join her, and the rest of the session finishes calm but careful. Hartley stays closer than usual, sitting at the edge of the table instead of the couch.
She colors and signs finished when she’s done. When it’s time to go, she signs thank you again. I sign it back, holding her gaze a beat longer.
At the door, Hartley meets my eyes.
“Next week still okay?” he asks.
“If it is for you,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah. I think it is.”