Chapter 19
HARTLEY
Friday doesn’t sneak up on me anymore; it settles in slowly through the afternoon, familiar enough now that my body recognizes the shift before my brain does.
I sit at the table with a pen and a wrinkled receipt, building a grocery list that keeps growing because apparently feeding a small human requires planning now.
My handwriting drifts when I realize I’m not anxious, not overthinking what tonight might mean.
A few weeks ago I would’ve been pacing holes into the floor, trying to script every possible conversation.
Tonight, I just tap the pen against the paper and wait.
Alaska sits cross-legged on the rug, Barbies scattered around her like tiny dramatic actors mid-scene, one balanced awkwardly on the couch while another rides a plastic horse across the coffee table.
She hums under her breath, completely absorbed, making silent conversations with expressive little movements instead of words.
Late winter sunlight slips through the window in soft gold bands, warming the room just enough to make it feel smaller, safer.
Outside, traffic rolls past in waves, the city loud in the distance but far away from us here.
“You ready?” I ask.
She nods without looking up, completely absorbed as she adjusts one of the Barbies on the couch like the scene in her head matters more than anything else in the room.
Her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth while she concentrates, carefully repositioning a tiny plastic arm before stepping back to inspect her work.
There’s a steadiness to her lately that still catches me off guard; small changes I almost miss, and every now and then she hums under her breath, soft little sounds she doesn’t seem to realize she’s making.
The knock comes right at five.
I open the door and Stellan stands there with a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold. He smiles when he sees me, easy and familiar, like showing up here has quietly become part of his week.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer, stepping back to let him in.
He toes off his boots by the door as he passes me and his hand brushes my waist, then he leans in just long enough to press a quick kiss to my mouth. It’s soft, automatic, over almost before my brain catches up and instead of panic, there’s only warmth lingering behind it.
Across the room Alaska is still on the floor with her Barbies, completely absorbed in whatever dramatic storyline she’s invented.
A second later she looks up, notices him, and her whole face lights up.
She pushes to her feet and pads toward us, fox dragging behind her, already signing his name before he even reaches the table.
His face softens every time she does that. It gets me every time too.
“What’ve we got today?” I ask, nodding toward the bag.
“Something new,” he says, pulling out game cards. “We’re going on a letter hunt.”
He explains it slowly, showing her how each card has a letter and a picture, then walks around the apartment sticking matching letters to different objects.
A magnet on the fridge for F, one near the lamp for L, another beside the couch cushion for C.
Alaska watches with intense focus, rocking slightly on her heels as she tracks every movement.
I catch myself watching them instead of the game, the easy patience between them.
“You’re helping,” I say before I realize I’ve moved closer, leaning against the table instead of retreating to the couch like I usually do.
Stellan glances at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’re allowed to participate, you know.”
“I’m participating,” I say. “Morally.”
He snorts.
Alaska grabs the first card and sets off, determined and serious, matching pictures to letters with careful concentration. When she gets one right she looks at Stellan first, then at me.
My hand brushes his when we both reach for the same card. Neither of us pulls away. The contact barely lasts a second but it lingers anyway, quiet and steady instead of electric and terrifying like it used to feel.
She finishes the last match and claps once, proud, then grabs Stellan’s hand and tugs him toward the couch like she’s already decided the lesson portion is over.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“She’s done,” I translate.
“I gathered that,” he says, laughing as she pulls him down beside her.
I sit too, not across the room, not pretending I have something else to do. Close enough that our knees bump when I stretch my legs out. He glances at me, mouth twitching before he looks back at the screen.
The apartment feels warm in that soft evening way; lights low, the city noise muffled through the windows. For a while none of us say much. Alaska hums faintly as she moves the dolls, completely absorbed.
Then her stomach growls loud enough to interrupt the entire scene.
She freezes, eyes wide, then looks at me like she’s been personally betrayed.
“Well,” Stellan grins, “that sounds like someone’s hungry.” He leans back into the cushions as he asks, “You guys want pizza?”
Alaska immediately pops to her feet, bouncing in place, nodding so hard her hair flies everywhere, hands moving fast in an excited version of yes that doesn’t need translation.
Stellan grins at her reaction. “I’m gonna take that as an enthusiastic yes.”
"Yeah," I say, feeling my shoulders loosen, which still catches me off guard. "Yeah, I could eat."
He pulls out his phone, shifting closer so we can both see the screen, Alaska climbing right between us again like that’s where she’s always belonged.
“Alright,” he says. “Important question. Deep dish or tavern style?”
I scoff immediately. “Deep dish.”
He groans. “Deep dish is a casserole.”
“It is not,” I protest, turning toward him. “It’s iconic.”
“It’s soup in bread.”
“You take that back.”
He laughs under his breath, clearly enjoying himself, and Alaska looks between us with curiosity. She lifts a Barbie toward Stellan, and he takes it, saying it's a good one. She takes it back and hands him a different one. Apparently that wasn't the question.
He turns the doll over, inspecting it. “What do you think? Deep dish?”
She nods solemnly.
I point triumphantly. “See. Democracy.”
“Rigged election,” he mutters, but he’s smiling as he places the order anyway.
When he sets the phone down he relaxes back into the couch, his arm stretching along the back cushion behind us without quite touching. Alaska settles back onto the floor, already returning to her dolls, completely at ease.
And somewhere between arguing about pizza and watching Barbie apparently survive another dramatic plot twist, I realize something quietly shifted inside me.
No one asked if he was staying.
No one needed to.
When the pizza arrives, the apartment fills with the smell of melted cheese and garlic, warmth settling into every corner.
We migrate back to the couch with plates and forks because deep dish demands actual commitment, the slices heavy enough that eating straight from the box would be a disaster waiting to happen.
Cheese stretches stubbornly with every cut, sauce threatening to slide off the edge, and within minutes we’ve all given up on staying neat.
Napkins pile beside us, laughter slipping out every time one of us loses a battle with melted mozzarella.
Alaska climbs between us while I scroll through the streaming menu, her attention split between her plate and the screen. She taps the remote when bright animation flashes past, eyes lighting up in instant recognition.
“K-Pop Demon Hunters?” I ask.
She nods hard, fork still clutched in her fist.
Stellan laughs under his breath. “I feel like I should be concerned; I’ve never heard of that.”
“You should be,” I tell him, queuing it up anyway. “It’s apparently the greatest cinematic achievement of her generation.”
The opening music fills the apartment, bright and loud and a little ridiculous, colors flickering across the walls. Alaska settles in without hesitation, leaning into Stellan’s side while she eats, her small hand resting absently on his arm.
He doesn’t react to it at first, he just keeps eating, but his movements slow; careful not to jostle her, the way his shoulder angles slightly toward her without thought.
A few weeks ago I would’ve watched the clock, measured the distance, and reminded myself this was temporary.
Tonight I just sit there, balancing a plate on my knee, watching animated demons fight across the screen while Alaska laughs softly between us and Stellan punches my shoulder playfully when I steal one of his pepperonis.
It feels ordinary, which somehow feels bigger than anything else.
Alaska yawns, dramatic and wide, then climbs halfway into my lap before leaning back against him too, somehow managing to use both of us as furniture.
“Traitor,” I murmur.
She smiles sleepily as the TV murmurs in the background.
After a while I carry Alaska to bed, her arms loose around my neck, hair warm against my cheek. She signs goodnight to me before rolling onto her side, fox tucked under her chin.
When I come back out, Stellan’s sitting on the couch scrolling through something on his phone, socks on, completely at ease in my living room.
I sit beside him.
We share the last slice from the box, fingers brushing in the grease-stained cardboard, and he absently turns his hand so his thumb traces slow circles over mine. The gesture is unconscious, gentle enough that I almost miss it, except my whole body notices anyway.
I don’t pull away or panic. I just sit there.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say, and realize I mean it.
I lean back into the couch, shoulder pressed against his, and don’t move.