Chapter 16
HARTLEY
I lie there with my eyes closed, floating in that thin space between sleep and awareness, my body warm and heavy under the blankets.
Then I feel it, a second weight settled beside me—warm, solid, undeniably real—and my eyes open slowly. When my vision finally clears, the first thing I register is that Stellan is still here.
He’s on his back, one arm bent under his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. The early light slipping through the blinds cuts across his chest and shoulder, catching the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
I go still, the weight of it almost too much.
This actually happened.
Last night wasn’t a panic spiral, a half dream, or something I invented because I wanted it too badly. He’s here, in my bed, in my apartment, breathing slowly and even like he belongs in this space.
I stay still, afraid that if I move too fast, I’ll wake him and the spell will break.
I swallow and my mouth tastes like sleep and nerves. My brain starts catching up in pieces. We talked, kissed, and crossed that invisible line I’ve been pacing for weeks.
My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which means Alaska is still asleep down the hall. The thought lands heavy and immediate.
Reality is back.
This isn’t just two men in a bed pretending or having a good time. There’s a little girl twenty feet away who lines up her crayons and watches my face.
I turn my head slowly and look at Stellan again.
He’s still asleep.
He doesn’t look guarded the way he usually does when he’s awake. Right now he just looks tired, human, and younger than he does when he’s standing in my kitchen acting like he’s got everything under control.
My chest does something strange.
Last night didn’t feel reckless.
That’s the part I keep circling.
It should have.
It should have felt like jumping off something without checking how far the drop was.
Instead it felt like stepping into warm water, slow and careful, testing each inch before committing my whole body.
He never rushed me or pushed. Every time I hesitated he slowed down, like my comfort mattered more than whatever he wanted.
I shift slightly under the blankets, and the mattress dips.
Stellan’s breathing changes, and his eyes open. They’re unfocused at first, that hazy half second where someone hasn’t fully re-entered their body yet, then they land on me and sharpen. There’s no confusion in his expression, just recognition and something soft underneath it.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
The sound of it slides straight down my spine.
“Morning,” I say back, my voice quieter than I intended.
We just look at each other for a second.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, and then I shake my head slightly because honesty feels like the only option now. “I mean. I’m… a lot of things. But I’m not freaked out.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll take that as a win.”
I laugh.
The blanket shifts when he moves his arm, careful with his shoulder even now. His eyes flick to mine, and he gives a small shrug that’s more expression than motion.
“Still there,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply softly. “I can tell.”
I reach out before I think too hard about it and rest my hand lightly over the front of his shoulder, not pressing, just feeling the warmth of his skin.
He doesn’t flinch or even freeze; just lets me touch him. My pulse picks up because it feels different touching him now. It’s not accidental or clinical, it’s…intentional.
“You didn’t leave,” I say before I can stop myself.
His brows pull together slightly. “Leave?”
“Yeah,” I admit, heat creeping up my neck. “You could’ve left after. I don’t know. I half expected to wake up and find the other side of the bed cold.”
Something in his expression shifts, not hurt exactly, but serious.
“I told you I wouldn’t disappear,” he says quietly.
The words land deeper than they should.
I nod, swallowing hard. “I know.”
From down the hall, there’s a faint creak and my entire body goes alert.
Alaska.
Stellan hears it too. I see the way his eyes flick toward the door instinctively.
“She usually sleeps in on weekends,” I whisper.
Kids don’t follow schedules when it would be convenient.
He nods slowly.
“You want me to head out before she’s up?”
The question is careful, not defensive. Part of me wants to say no, but I'm terrified of what explaining this would look like at seven in the morning to a four-year-old.
“I don’t want her confused,” I admit quietly.
“I get that,” he says.
God. I don't know what to do with a man who just gets it.
We lie there for another minute, neither of us rushing to move even though we both know the moment is ending. The room is starting to lighten, turning a pale gold through the blinds.
Reality is coming, whether I’m ready or not.
Stellan shifts carefully and sits up, the mattress dipping under his weight. I push myself upright too, the blanket sliding down to my waist.
The air is cool against my skin, and I resist the urge to pull it back up.
He runs a hand through his hair, still messy from sleep, and lets out a slow breath like he’s mentally switching gears.
“This doesn’t have to change how we handle Alaska,” he says.
I look at him. “You mean that?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “She comes first. Always.”
“Okay,” I say softly. “Yeah.”
He stands and reaches for his clothes, movements unhurried. There’s no awkward scrambling, no embarrassment.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him, my mind running a thousand directions at once.
Last night happened. We crossed that line, and somehow the world didn’t implode.
Stellan pulls his shirt down, adjusts the hem, then glances at me.
“You good?” he asks again.
I nod. “Yeah.” I hesitate, then add, “I don’t regret it.”
His expression softens, something warm moving through his eyes.
“Neither do I.”
Another floorboard creaks down the hall.
We both go still.
“Okay,” I whisper, adrenaline spiking. “That’s probably her.”
He nods, already reaching for his jacket.
We move quietly toward the door, the apartment still wrapped in that early morning hush.
At the entryway, he turns back to me and for a second neither of us says anything. Then he lifts a hand, hesitating before brushing his knuckles lightly along my jaw.
My breath catches.
“I’ll text you later,” he says softly.
“Okay.”
He opens the door slowly so it doesn’t click too loud, then steps into the hallway.
Cold air slips in for a second before he pulls it shut behind him. The apartment goes quiet again as I stand there with my hand still half-lifted, like I forgot what I was doing.
From down the hall, a soft shuffle finally breaks the silence.
I turn just as Alaska appears at the end of the hallway, hair a tangled halo around her head, fox tucked under her arm. She pauses there for a second, watching me, quiet and observant.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” I say, my voice gentle.
She pads toward me in slow, sleepy steps and presses into my side without a word.
I wrap an arm around her, my hand settling at the back of her head.
“You okay?” I murmur.
She nods against my shirt.
I rest my cheek against the top of her head and breathe in the smell of shampoo and sleep.
I glance down the hall toward my bedroom, the sheets still rumpled, the faint warmth of someone else lingering in the air.