Chapter 18
HARTLEY
The studio is already warm when I unlock the door, that dry forced heat humming through the vents.
The air smells faintly like something floral and fruity; I must have left the diffuser running overnight again, so the herbal scent hangs thick and heavy instead of subtle.
It’s meant to calm people down. Right now it just makes everything feel denser and harder to breathe through.
I step inside, flip the light switch with my elbow, and the fluorescents flicker awake with a low buzz that feels louder than it should this early. Outside the front windows Chicago is still stretching into morning; traffic crawling, engines grumbling, pedestrians hunched into coats.
I set my bag behind the desk and let myself stand there for a second longer than necessary, then I start to move through my morning routine with muscle memory. Fresh sheets folded tight, tables wiped down in slow circles, and music turned low.
Last night keeps replaying whether I invite it or not.
I press my palms flat against the counter and draw in a slow breath. My pulse hasn’t quite settled since I woke up, like my body hasn’t decided whether it’s relieved or terrified. Probably both.
The bell over the door jingles before I’m ready for it.
Brielle walks in like she owns the place, one hand braced at the small of her back, the other clutching an iced coffee.
“Tell me again why I agreed to a nine a.m. appointment,” she mutters.
“Because you said, and I quote, ‘If I don’t come early, I’ll cancel and then I’ll complain my hips hurt,’” I say, grabbing a fresh sheet and snapping it over the table.
She huffs, but there’s no heat in it. “Pregnancy brain is real, and I hate it.”
“You love it,” I shoot back.
“I love the baby,” she corrects, lowering herself carefully into a chair. “Everything else can go straight to Hell.”
I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my mouth. Brielle has always been like this: loud and blunt and somehow still kind under all the bite.
I wash my hands, the warm water grounding, soap sharp with lemon and lavender. My shoulders feel tight, and it isn't the muscle.
She watches me in the mirror.
“You look weird,” she says.
“That’s not helpful.”
“No,” she says, tilting her head. “I mean different weird. Not sleep-deprived or stressed weird. Like… you have a secret.”
“I don’t have a secret,” I mutter, reaching for the lotion bottle.
“Mhm.”
I finish setting the table and gesture toward it. “Go on.”
She removes her shirt and settles onto her side with a theatrical groan while I stack pillows behind her back and slide a bolster between her knees. The sound melts into something more genuine once she’s comfortable.
“You ever notice how nobody warns you that pregnancy turns your spine into a suggestion?”
“I think they try,” I say, adjusting the pillow under her head. “People just don’t listen.”
She snorts.
I warm the oil between my palms and place my hands carefully at her lower back, easing into the pressure slowly. Her muscles are tight under my fingers, tension braided deep along either side of her spine.
“Oh, thank God,” she groans. “I swear this kid is using my spine as a jungle gym.”
“Probably accurate.”
We sit in the quiet for a minute, the kind that usually settles easily between us. Today it doesn’t, because my brain keeps replaying a pair of steady blue eyes and the feel of callused fingers touching my body.
Brielle’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“So,” she says casually. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or am I guessing?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re literally blushing,” she says, twisting enough to look at me over her shoulder.
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I hate you.”
“You love me,” she sings, then narrows her eyes. “Did you get laid or did you fall in love?”
“Jesus, Brielle.” My hands still briefly before I force them to keep moving.
“What?” she says innocently. “Those are the two looks.”
“I don’t have a look.”
“You absolutely have a look.”
I press my thumb into a knot a little harder than necessary.
She hisses. “Okay, hostile is also a look.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “It’s… complicated.”
“So it’s woman issues.”
“No…not technically.”
“Oh my God,” she says, voice lighting up. “It’s a man.”
My hands freeze for half a second before I recover.
She gasps dramatically. “I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know you’re too emotionally constipated for a normal straight relationship.”
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—”
“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.”