Chapter 13
HARTLEY
My phone rings in the middle of a stretch I don’t actually need to be doing, palms pressed into the edge of the massage table, spine lengthening because my body doesn’t know what else to do while waiting.
I wipe my hands on my scrub pants before I pick up, even though they aren’t damp. The second I see his name on the screen my breath catches.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound normal and like my pulse isn’t suddenly in my throat.
“Hey,” Stellan says. I’m picturing him smiling even if I can’t see it. “You busy?”
I glance at the schedule taped to the wall. A client just left, and my next one isn’t for almost two hours. A big, rare gap I’d been planning to use to catch up on notes or doom scroll or stare at the ceiling and think about all the ways I’ve been fucking up my own life lately.
“I have some free time,” I say. “Why?”
There’s a pause, just long enough that my brain starts filling it with worst-case scenarios, and then he says, “I was thinking of grabbing lunch. Nothing fancy. There’s a place a couple blocks from your place. If you want.”
Lunch.
Not tutoring. Not Alaska. Just lunch.
My first instinct is to say no. Not because I don’t want to go, but because I do.
“I can do lunch,” I hear myself say anyway. “I’m not at home, though. I’m at work. I’ll shoot you the address.”
I hang up and text him that I’ll meet him at the corner. He tells me he’s already nearby, and when I set my phone down, my hands are shaking a little. I press my palms flat on the counter and breathe until it eases.
This is fine. This is normal. Two adults eating lunch.
I grab my jacket and step outside. The Chicago air is sharp against my cheeks, the noise of traffic, voices and bus sounds grounding me whether I want it to or not.
Stellan’s already there when I reach the corner, leaning against a light pole like he belongs to the street itself.
Hands in his pockets, shoulders broad under a hoodie that looks soft enough to sleep in.
He looks up when he sees me and smiles. “Hey,” he says again, like he didn’t just say it ten minutes ago.
“Hey,” I reply, because apparently that’s the only word I can say around him.
The place he takes me to is exactly what he promised. Chicago dogs wrapped in paper, fries dumped into a red plastic basket, cans of soda sweating onto the table. It smells like onions and mustard and fried grease, the kind of food that demands you commit to it fully, or not at all.
We sit inside because it’s one of those days where spring is trying, really trying, but the wind still bites a little. I balance the hot dog carefully, already knowing I’m going to get mustard on my sleeve and Stellan laughs when it happens, like he expected it.
“Rookie mistake,” he says.
“I live here,” I protest. “I should know better.”
“You still did it anyway,” he points out.
He’s not wrong.
We eat messily, elbows brushing, fries stolen back and forth like it’s instinctive. Every time our hands bump, something low and warm twists in my stomach. I tell myself it’s nothing.
“You’re good with Alaska,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You let her lead.”
I wipe my hands on a napkin, buying time. “I don’t really know how else to do it.”
“Most people rush kids,” he says. “Fill the quiet because it makes them uncomfortable.”
“I hate that,” I say. “She doesn’t need noise. She needs space.”
He watches me when I say it, really watches me.
“You’re a good guardian,” he says.
The word guardian lands heavier than it should.
I shrug it off, pick up a fry. “I’m just trying not to screw her up.”
When we’re done eating, neither of us stands right away. He taps his fingers against the table, thinking.
“Walk with me,” he says. Not a question or a demand.
I check my watch out of habit, then realize I don’t actually want to leave yet. “Okay.”
We toss our trash and step back onto the sidewalk. The sun’s out, weak but trying, bouncing off windows and puddles. He keeps pace beside me, hands in his pockets, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.
“You miss firefighting,” I say before I can stop myself.
He looks at me then, surprised enough that it feels like a small win. “Yeah,” he admits. “More than I thought I would.”
“I get that,” I say quietly.
“So,” he says, glancing at me sideways. “How’d you end up doing massage?”
“Hands made sense to me. Bodies tell the truth. You don’t have to talk around things.”
He hums. “Yeah. I get that.”
“You do?”
“Fire’s honest,” he says. “Doesn’t pretend or negotiate. You either respect it or it takes what it wants.”
That lands somewhere deep. We stop outside the studio, brick warm against my back when I lean without realizing I’ve done it. He steps closer, not crowding, just there. The city noise fades into something distant and unimportant.
“Lunch was good,” I say, because my brain is scrambling for neutral ground.
“It was,” he says. “I’m glad you said yes.”
“Me too,” I admit, softer than I meant to.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then braces against the wall near my shoulder. Not touching, just close enough that I feel the heat of him. The awareness between us sharpens, bright and unavoidable.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
I don’t.
He leans in, slow enough that I could pull away, and my body makes the decision before my brain can argue. My hand comes up, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie and when his mouth meets mine, it’s gentle and devastating all at once.
The kiss is soft, almost tentative, like we’re both checking if the other is real. His lips are warm. He tastes like mustard, soda, and something uniquely him. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise my ribs from the inside.
I kiss him back, the world narrowing to the point where we connect. My brain finally catches up and immediately panics.
I pull back, breath coming too fast, forehead resting against his chest because I need the contact even as I’m trying to regain control.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, words tumbling out before I can talk myself out of them.
“Okay.”
“I’ve never…” I swallow, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I’ve never been with a man. Not really. I mean, I’ve known I’m bi for forever, that part isn’t new, but this is. You are.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Thank you for telling me,” he says.
I look up at him, searching his face for disappointment, pressure, or anything that would justify the fear roaring through me. I don’t find it.
“We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he adds. “This isn’t a test.”
The relief hits so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
I kiss him again before I can overthink it, a little deeper this time, a little less careful. His hand comes to my waist, firm and grounding, and my body lights up.
And then reality crashes back in.
I pull away again, heart hammering, hands shaking.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I blurt, the words coming out half laugh, half panic.
He steps back immediately, giving me space without withdrawing completely.
“I don’t get to want things like this,” I say, frustration sharp in my own voice. “I have responsibilities. I have a kid who’s already lost too much. I can’t afford to be reckless.”
He nods slowly. “Wanting me doesn’t make you reckless.”
“It feels like it does,” I admit, because wanting him doesn’t feel simple.
It feels like standing on the edge of something I don’t know how to survive if it collapses.
One wrong choice, one mistake, and it wouldn’t just be me paying for it.
Alaska’s face flashes through my mind, trust given so easily, like it costs her nothing.
We stand there for a moment, the city resuming its noise around us, a car honking somewhere down the block, someone laughing too loud again. He reaches out, brushes his thumb over my knuckles, then drops his hand like he’s reminding himself to be careful too.
“Go back to work,” he says softly. “Think about it. I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, because it’s all I can do.
When I step back into the studio, everything looks and sounds the same.
But I’m not.