Chapter 12
STELLAN
I used to live my life by clocks, by tones dropping, by boots hitting concrete and knowing exactly how long it took to get from point A to chaos.
Now, Fridays mean something quieter. A different kind of readiness.
I get ready early, not because I need the time, but because sitting still with anticipation makes my shoulder ache worse than the injury itself.
I shower longer than usual. Hot water loosens the tight band that lives under my shoulder blade, steam fogging the mirror until I can pretend I don’t recognize myself for a minute.
I roll my arm the way the physical therapist showed me, slow and controlled, breathing through the pull.
I dress in a clean sweater, jeans, and quickly style my hair.
When I step out into the brisk cold air of Chicago, I shiver.
Shit, I can’t wait for it to start warming up. Winters here have always been cold, but this one feels longer than usual.
A food truck down the block is frying something sweet and greasy, and my stomach growls even though I ate already. I walk instead of drive, hands shoved into my pockets, letting the even pace of my steps settle my thoughts.
Hartley texted me earlier this week.
Not exactly an apology or an excuse, just honesty laid bare in the way people only manage when they’ve run out of ways to protect themselves. He got scared and handled it badly.
I didn’t answer right away. I read it four times before I let myself answer, telling myself I needed time when what I really needed was courage.
When I finally said yes it came without hesitation, and I spent the rest of that night staring at the ceiling, wondering if that made me brave or reckless.
The building looks the same as always. Brick worn smooth at the edges, entry light flickering. I pause at the bottom of the stairs and breathe in deep, letting my pulse slow.
I knock.
Footsteps approach, familiar already. The door opens, and there he is.
Hartley looks tired, but not hollow the way he did last week. There’s color in his face, tension still there but coiled instead of frayed. He’s wearing a sweater with the sleeves pushed up. His brown eyes meet mine and hold, and for a second I think he might bolt anyway.
He doesn’t.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.
“Hey,” I say back.
The air between us feels different. Not charged exactly. More like the moment after a storm when everything’s still damp and the sky hasn’t decided what it’s doing next.
Alaska appears at his side, peeking around his hip. She grins, small but unmistakable, and holds up her hands.
S-T-E-L-L-A-N.
“Hey, kid,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “I’m glad to see you.”
She reaches for my hand, fingers small and sure. Hartley freezes beside us, not pulling her back, not pushing her forward, just watching like he’s learning something about both of us at once.
“You ready?” Hartley asks her.
She nods hard enough that her hair bounces.
We move into the kitchen like it’s muscle memory now. Alaska drags her chair into place, setting her crayons out in a line so precise it makes me smile. Hartley’s bustling around the apartment, sweeping and putting toys away, present without meaning to be.
I pull out the sheets I brought, pictures and letters paired together, laminated and worn from use. Alaska lights up immediately, sorting them into piles with careful concentration, tongue peeking out between her teeth as she works.
“Okay,” I say, crouching to her level. “Let’s match the sounds.”
She taps the picture of a dog, then the letter D, eyes flicking to mine.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s it.”
Hartley watches from the edge of the kitchen, broom still in hand. I can feel his attention like a steady heat, not uncomfortable, just there.
We work like that for a while. Alaska focused, hands busy, confidence building with every small win. She hums under her breath, not quite a tune, just sound and I go still, remembering the last time she said a word. I want to hear her sweet, tiny voice again.
“You’re doing really well,” I tell her.
She beams and signs thank you, then goes back to her cards.
I glance up and catch Hartley smiling at her, his whole face soft and not for me to see. When he sees me looking, he clears his throat and looks away, ears pinking just slightly.
Eventually Alaska wanders off to her room, letters and sounds forgotten, drawn by whatever world lives inside her head tonight. The apartment settles into a quieter hum.
Hartley doesn’t immediately fill the silence.
Neither do I.
He pours water into two glasses and hands one to me, fingers brushing mine briefly. The contact is nothing and everything. He doesn’t flinch though, and that feels like progress.
“Thanks for coming back,” he says.
“I said I would,” I reply.
He nods. “I know. I just… still.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”
We stand there, close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough to respect the space we’re rebuilding.
“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I tell him. “You didn’t.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, relief cutting through tension. He leans back against the counter, arms braced behind him.
“I’m bad at this part,” he admits. “The not running part.”
I smile a little. “Most people are.”
His eyes bounce back and forth between mine. “You could’ve walked away, told me to find a new tutor.”
“I could’ve,” I agree. “I didn’t want to.”
The words hang between us, honest and unadorned.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says.
“Neither do I.”
He laughs softly, more breath than sound. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“Yeah,” I respond. “I know.”
We talk–about Alaska’s favorite books, about the way the radiator knocks in winter, my therapy schedule and how bored I am. He tells me about his clients, about the way work feels off lately, like he’s meant to do more but doesn’t know what that is yet.
“You’re just distracted.”
He exhales slowly. “I am.”
The conversation drifts, easy and careful, like we’re both learning how to exist in this new version of the room. At some point we end up closer, standing side by side instead of across from each other. Our shoulders don’t touch, but they could.
I’m acutely aware of him. The faint scent of soap and coffee. The warmth radiating from his arm. The way his breath changes when he’s thinking hard.
I don’t lean in.
Neither does he.
That restraint feels louder than any move would.
“I should go,” I say eventually, even though I don’t want to.
He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
At the door Alaska appears again, a stuffed fox tucked under her arm. She hands me one of the letters we were working with earlier. The letter F.
“For fish?” I ask.
She shakes her head, then points at the picture of her dad in front of the firehouse and back to me.
Hartley sucks in a breath.
“For fireman,” he whispers.
She nods once, solemn.
I crouch in front of her. “That’s a good letter,” I say gently. “He’d like that.”
She studies my face, then signs something slow and deliberate.
S-T-A-Y
Not a demand. Just a wish.
“I’ll be back,” I promise her. “Okay?”
She nods, satisfied enough.
Hartley walks me to the door, quiet again. When it opens the city rushes in, loud and impatient.
“Thanks for not disappearing,” he says.
“Thanks for letting me back in,” I reply.
Our eyes hold. The space between us feels thin but steady.
I leave without touching him.
On the stairs my shoulder twinges, sharp enough to ground me. I welcome the sensation. It reminds me where I am.
Outside, the air is cold and clean. I wander instead of heading straight home, letting the city move around me.