Chapter 15
STELLAN
Friday still means something to me, even now.
It’s muscle memory more than thought, the way my body starts tracking time as the afternoon stretches toward evening.
I finish the last set of exercises the physical therapist assigned, loop the band back over the doorknob and stand there for a second with my hands on my hips, breathing through the tight pull in my shoulder.
It’s better than it was. Not perfect, but steady.
Progress lives in small increments. I’ve learned to respect that.
I shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound warm against my back, steam fogging the mirror. When I step out I pull on a dark purple t-shirt, jeans, and my boots. I check my phone once, then force myself not to check it again.
Hartley’s message sits there anyway. I’ve read it too many times already.
Hartley: Friday can you stay after I put Alaska to bed? Just to talk.
Just to talk can mean a thousand things, or it can also mean nothing at all. I don’t let myself assume. I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you rush ahead of reality.
When I knock on his door it’s softer than usual, knuckles barely brushing the wood. The apartment is dim when he opens it, lamps low, the overhead light mercifully off. He’s in socks and a T-shirt that has a small hole near the collar, hair still damp like he showered not long ago.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
The apartment smells like dinner, something tomato-based. I step inside, toeing my boots off by the door out of habit.
His mouth curves slightly. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I reply.
I head to the table, setting up, not with flash cards tonight but with a small stack of picture pages and a bowl of letter tiles. Hartley clocks the change, his brow lifting slightly.
“Thought we’d try something different,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket. “Same skills, just less sitting still.”
Alaska climbs into her chair without being asked. I spread the picture pages out; simple drawings, cat, sun, bus, apple. I slide the letter tiles across the table, not explaining yet.
“Okay,” I say, tapping the picture of the apple. “You show me what letter it starts with.”
She stares at it for a long moment, lips moving silently. Then she pushes the A tile forward.
“That’s right,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Apple starts with A.”
Hartley leans against the counter, arms folded, watching everything.
We move through a few more. Bus. Sun. Cat. Alaska doesn’t rush. She lines the tiles up carefully, correcting herself once without looking at either of us. When she gets stuck, she looks at me, then Hartley.
“You’re doing great,” Hartley says quietly at one point, and Alaska’s shoulders lift.
By the time we finish her attention is fading, energy spent. She slides down from her chair and signs finished before wrapping herself around Hartley’s leg.
“That’s our cue,” Hartley says, smiling tiredly.
“I’ll hang out,” I tell him. “No rush.”
He nods, relief flickering across his face before he smooths it away. “I’ll be right back.”
I clean up and then move to sit on the couch while he disappears down the hall, the apartment settling into a quieter version than normal when I’m here.
I can hear him murmuring to her; the soft cadence of bedtime, the creak of a drawer, the low sound of running water. It’s domestic, which I didn’t expect.
When he comes back, the lights are dimmer. Alaska’s door is closed, a thin line of nightlight glowing underneath.
“She’s out,” he says softly.
“Good,” I reply, just as quietly.
And suddenly it’s different.
No table between us now or lesson plan. Only the low hum of the building, the distant city noise through the windows, and the fact that we’re sitting on the same couch with nothing left that needs doing.
That’s when Hartley exhales like he’s been holding it all night.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
He nods, shakes his head, then laughs under his breath. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“That’s fair.”
He picks at the edge of the throw pillow, fingers worrying the fabric. “I keep thinking I’ll say the wrong thing.”
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to,” I tell him.
He glances up at me then, searching my face.
“I asked you here because I didn’t want to keep pretending,” he says finally. “And because I didn’t want Alaska thinking I push people away when things get hard.”
“I’m not here to push,” I say. “I’m here because you asked.”
He scoots closer, not touching, just enough that our knees almost line up. I can feel the heat of him now, the awareness sharpening in my body like a live wire.
“I need you to know,” he says, voice lower now, “that I’m scared. Not of you. Of what this means.”
I nod. “I figured.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Of course you did.”
“I need you to know,” I add, “that nothing happens unless you want it to. I’ll set the pace if you want. Or you can. Or we can do nothing at all.”
He swallows. “Thank you.”
I reach out slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he doesn’t I rest my hand over his, warm and steady. His fingers curl into mine like they’ve been waiting for permission.
“You being a firefighter,” he says carefully, like the words might bite. “That scares me.”
I don’t interrupt, I don’t try to soften it or explain it away. I just let him talk. This matters too much to rush.
“Since Lance,” he continues, “I don’t do well with what-ifs. Alaska’s already lost too much. I can’t let her get attached to someone who might not come home.”
Something tightens in my chest. I keep my face steady, but my jaw locks for a second before I can help it. I breathe out slowly through my nose, grounding myself the way I’ve learned to.
“She already loves you,” he murmurs. “I see it. She trusts you. And if something happened to you…” He shakes his head. “I can’t put her through that again. I can’t.”
“I’ll be safe,” I say.
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re wrong.
He stiffens just enough for me to feel it. “You can’t promise that,” he says, sharper than he probably means to. “Lance said the same thing. Every time he walked out the door he said it, and now I’m raising my niece alone.”
I don’t pull my hand away. Instead, I let my thumb press lightly into his skin.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. “I can’t promise I’ll never get hurt. I won’t insult you by pretending I can.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth believing.
“But I can promise I don’t take it lightly,” I continue. “Not a single call. Not a single shift. And no matter where this goes,” I add, lowering my voice, “I won’t disappear on you. Or on her.”
His throat works as he swallows, and something in his expression cracks just a little.
“Life’s too short to live in fear of what-ifs, Hartley,” I say.
“I’m beginning to see that,” he says.
That’s when he shifts closer, our shoulders brushing, touching now. I lean in slowly, my breath catching as I give him every chance to pull back, to change his mind if this is moving too fast. But his eyes hold mine, dark and steady, flickering with something raw and unspoken.
Our lips touch softly at first, like we're both savoring every fleeting second, mapping the moment. His mouth is warm, yielding just enough to invite me deeper, tasting faintly of the dinner he had earlier mingled with the clean, earthy scent that clings to his skin.
His hand rises to my chest, fingers splaying wide over my heartbeat, palm flat against the steady thrum beneath my shirt.
It's like he's feeling the rhythm of my pulse sync with his own, the pressure firm yet tender.
I respond by tilting my head slightly, deepening the kiss with care, my tongue brushing his lower lip in a silent question.
He parts for me without hesitation, a soft sigh escaping against my mouth—a sound so vulnerable, so laced with need that it slices straight through me, igniting heat low in my belly.
His body relaxes into the touch, shoulders easing as he leans closer, his free hand finding my waist, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of my shirt as he pulls me nearer.
I slide my arm around his back, my palm settling against his spine as his body shifts under my touch, arching just enough to meet me as the kiss deepens.
The kiss builds, lips sliding slick and insistent now, breaths mingling in short, heated bursts.
His tongue meets mine with a tentative stroke, then bolder, exploring with a hunger that mirrors the ache building in my chest. Every brush, every pull back for air only to dive in again heightens the intimacy; the way his eyelashes flutter against my cheek, the faint scrape of stubble along my jaw, the shared warmth blooming between us.
In this suspended space it's just us, bodies attuned, hearts pounding in unison, the world narrowing to the electric pull of skin on skin.
I break the kiss and search his eyes, my thumb brushing lightly over the flush on his cheek. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Don’t,” Hartley says, then corrects himself with a shaky laugh. “I mean, don’t stop.”
I smile, the sound of his voice, raw and earnest, stoking the fire already simmering between us.
The air feels thick, charged, and I can’t wait any longer.
I stand up slowly, pulling him with me by the hand still tangled in his shirt, our fingers interlocking as I meet his gaze.
“Where’s your bedroom?” I ask, my voice low, laced with intent.
Hartley blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nods, leading me down the short hallway.
His steps are steady but quick, like he’s as eager as I am and I follow close, my free hand grazing the small of his back, feeling the tension there ease under my touch.
He pushes open the door to his room, a simple space with a bed against one wall, dresser opposite, soft light filtering through half-drawn blinds—and before he can say a word, I spin him gently against the closed door, pressing my body to his.