Chapter 23
STELLAN
I wake before my phone’s alarm because my body is already back on shift hours even when there isn’t one waiting for me.
For a few seconds I don’t move, I just lie there staring at the ceiling, listening.
The sheets feel different under my hands, softer than mine, warmer too.
When I turn my head I see Hartley still asleep beside me, face turned into the pillow, hair pushed into his eyes, breathing slow and steady.
I watch him longer than I mean to. Last night sits in my chest in pieces that don’t feel sharp or overwhelming.
We talked until late, nothing urgent, nothing dramatic.
Just stories, quiet touches, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything back.
At some point we fell asleep without deciding to, legs tangled, his hand resting against my ribs.
I slide carefully out of bed so I don’t wake him, moving slowly because I know that the floorboards creak near the doorway if you step wrong. I grab my T-shirt from the floor, pull it on, then head toward the kitchen.
Morning light slips through the blinds in thin stripes across the counter. I find the coffee without searching, because I’ve been here enough times now to know where things live. That realization hits quietly while I measure grounds into the machine, memory formed somewhere between visits.
I don’t ask where mugs are anymore, I just reach for one.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, loud in the stillness, and I wince before glancing toward the hallway.
No movement, Hartley and Alaska are still asleep.
I lean against the counter and wait, watching steam curl upward, hands resting flat against cool laminate while my mind catches up to what my body already knows.
I’m not tense here.
At the firehouse, I’m alert even when I’m relaxed. At my place, I’m alone even when it’s calm. Here, standing barefoot in Hartley’s kitchen at sunrise, I feel something else entirely.
I feel steady and at peace.
A soft shuffle comes from the hallway. I look up just as Alaska appears, hair tangled from sleep, fox tucked under one arm, eyes half open. She pauses when she sees me, then walks straight across the room and climbs into my lap when I sit down at the table.
“Morning,” I murmur.
She presses her face into my chest and I automatically wrap an arm around her so she doesn’t slide off my knee. Her small hand curls into my shirt and I sit there holding her.
She smells like shampoo and blankets… like home.
I don’t know the exact moment she stopped treating me like a visitor. It had to have happened slowly, somewhere between letters and pizza nights and quiet goodbyes at the door.
The coffee clicks off. I don’t move yet because she’s already drifting again, eyes closed, breathing evening out against me.
Footsteps sound in front of us.
I glance up and see Hartley standing at the edge of the hallway, watching. He looks softer than usual, sleep still clinging to him, one hand braced against the wall like he stopped walking mid step.
Neither of us speaks right away.
His gaze moves from Alaska curled against me to my arm around her, then back to my face. Something shifts there, something quiet and almost disbelieving.
“She woke up,” I say softly. “Decided I was furniture.”
A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Yeah, she does that sometimes.”
He walks closer, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and I notice he isn’t tense, no guarded posture or careful distance. He stops beside the chair and brushes his fingers lightly over Alaska’s hair.
“She didn’t even check if I was here,” he murmurs. “Usually she comes into my room and wakes me up if she rises before me.”
I shrug slightly. “Guess I passed inspection.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, then leans down and presses a slow kiss to my mouth. It’s gentle, unhurried instead of heated. I feel Alaska shift between us and we both pull back, smiling despite ourselves.
“Coffee’s ready,” I tell him.
“You’re spoiling me,” he says, grabbing a mug.
“I’m using your beans,” I reply, standing and carrying Alaska to the couch before laying her on the soft cushions.
“Still counts.”
We move around each other easily in the small kitchen, passing mugs, opening the fridge, working without bumping or apologizing. Alaska wakes fully fifteen minutes later and slides off the couch to climb into her chair like mornings with me sitting here are already normal.
Hartley watches us while he drinks his coffee, eyes thoughtful. I recognize that look now. He’s cataloging something, deciding whether it’s safe to let himself believe this is lasting.
I reach across the table and rest my hand over his for a second. He doesn’t flinch, instead his fingers turn slightly under mine, holding there.
I belong here.
Not because anyone said it out loud, not because we made rules or promises, but because mornings like this have been experienced; coffee brewing while a sleepy kid climbs into my lap and Hartley looks at me like I’m part of the picture instead of passing through it.
“You got plans today?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just groceries later. Laundry if I feel ambitious.”
I nod once then look at Alaska, who immediately perks up. “You want pancakes?”
Her entire face changes. Eyes wide, shoulders straight as she nods so hard her hair bounces everywhere.
Hartley laughs under his breath. “Well, that’s a yes.”
“There’s that diner around the corner,” I say. “The one with the cartoon menu.”
“The Mickey Mouse pancakes,” he says, already smiling.
“Exactly.”
Ten minutes later we’re dressed, Alaska wedged between us on the sidewalk holding both our hands like this is the most normal thing in the world. The morning air is cold enough to wake me fully, but nice enough that we can walk as long as we have a good sweater on.
Someone walks a dog across the street, buses groan past, and the smell of bacon drifts faintly from the diner before we even reach the door.
Inside, the place is loud; plates clatter, coffee pours nonstop, and a waitress calls everyone ‘honey’ without waiting for permission. We slide into a booth, Alaska immediately climbing beside me so she can see the menu pictures.
She immediately clocks the Mickey pancakes and taps her finger on it repeatedly.
“Strong choice,” I tell her.
Hartley watches us with a soft expression again, only breaking his gaze when the ‘honey’ waitress approaches our table.
He orders a ham and cheese omelette. I order bacon, eggs, and hash browns, and Alaska gets her pancakes shaped like a smiling cartoon mouse.
She claps once when they arrive.
Hartley laughs. “We’ve peaked. Nothing tops this.”
We eat slowly, talking about nothing important.
Hartley steals bacon from my plate and I pretend not to notice.
Alaska drowns the cherries and chocolate chips pancakes in syrup that floods her plate.
At one point she presses a sticky fork toward me as if she’s offering a bite, and Hartley nearly chokes laughing when I accept it without hesitation.
After breakfast we step back into the cold, full and unhurried. The children’s museum sits only a few blocks away, bright banners flapping outside, families already filtering in. Alaska pulls forward the second she recognizes where we’re headed, excitement vibrating through her whole body.
Inside, noise fills every corner. Kids running, laughing, building towers that immediately collapse. Alaska disappears into a play area filled with climbing structures and pretend storefronts, completely absorbed within seconds.
We find seats along the wall, watching her move from one activity to the next with focused determination. She looks back occasionally to make sure we’re still there. Every time she finds us watching, she smiles before going back to whatever she’s building.
Hartley leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She didn’t used to wander this far,” he says quietly.
“She knows where you are,” I answer.
He nods, thinking about that.
We sit there a while, talking easily. Favorite colors come first somehow.
Mine’s blue. His is green, though he admits he never thought about it until now.
We argue lightly about books, he likes quiet character stories, I admit I mostly read thrillers on shift because they’re easy to pick up and drop.
We talk about vacations we never took, places we’d go if time and money lined up.
“What about your family?” he asks eventually.
“They’re in Rockford,” I say. “About an hour and a half out. Still in the same house I grew up in.”
“You see them a lot?”
“Not enough,” I admit. “I’m supposed to go next weekend actually.”
He nods, watching Alaska stack oversized foam blocks taller than she is.
The idea forms before I think it through.
“You should come,” I say.
He looks at me, surprised.
“With Alaska,” I add quickly. “My mom will lose her mind over her. My dad will pretend he isn’t emotional, and then immediately teach her something dangerous.”
Hartley laughs, but uncertainty flickers across his face. “I don’t know. That feels… fast.”
I turn toward him, reaching for his hand. “Please,” I say quietly. “They’ll love you. They’ll love her even more.”
He hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s thinking too hard. I lean in and kiss him, soft and quick, right there on the bench while kids run past and no one pays us any attention.
“It’s just a visit,” I say. “Nothing scary.”
He exhales slowly, then nods. “Okay. Yeah…okay.”
Relief floods my entire body.
We watch Alaska a little longer before gathering her up, promising we’ll come back soon. She takes both our hands again once we’re outside, swinging between us while we walk back toward the apartment. Her hands squeeze ours tight, and without thinking Hartley and I fall into step together.
I text my mom before we hit the corner.
Me: Three of us. Saturday.