Chapter 24
HARTLEY
Clothes are folded into neat stacks, Alaska’s small sneakers lined beside the door, her fox tucked carefully into the top of her backpack like it needs fresh air for the trip.
I move through the rooms slower than usual, checking things twice even though I know I haven’t forgotten anything.
It’s not exactly nerves. It’s more like that weird moment right before something changes, and you know you can’t plan your way through it.
Alaska sits on the floor beside my duffel bag, placing random treasures inside when she thinks I’m not looking. A plastic bracelet, two crayons, and a Barbie shoe without its partner. I catch her halfway through adding a wooden block and she freezes, watching my face carefully.
“That doesn’t need to come,” I tell her gently, pulling it back out.
She presses her lips together and nods, then immediately swaps them out for a tiny stuffed dinosaur.
I sigh. “Okay, maybe one friend can come.”
She smiles, satisfied with the compromise, and zips the bag herself with intense focus.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Stellan: Here.
I grab our bags and take one last look around the apartment. The knock comes a second later, solid and familiar. When I open the door, cold air slips inside along with him. He looks relaxed, wearing jeans and a hoodie, hair pushed back like he ran a hand through it too many times on the drive.
“Hey, baby,” he says, stepping close enough that his hand finds my waist before I even think about it. He leans in and kisses me slowly, as if he’s been waiting all day to do exactly that.
The drive and nerves all fade for a second when his mouth moves against mine.
When we pull back his smile lingers, soft around the edges, and then his eyes slide past me to Alaska.
“Hey, sweet girl,” he adds.
Alaska launches forward with both arms raised, pure confidence, and he catches her easily, lifting her against his chest like it’s the most automatic thing in the world.
“Ready for an adventure?” he asks.
She nods hard.
I lock the door behind us, suddenly aware of how normal this feels, like we’ve done it a hundred times already.
The drive starts loud and busy, Chicago traffic pressing in from every side. Horns, brake lights, buildings stacked close enough to block the sky. Stellan drives one handed, relaxed, music low enough that conversation fills the space instead.
Once we hit the tollway, everything stretches out. Lanes open, buildings thin, and the skyline fades behind us until it’s just a memory in the rearview mirror.
Alaska hums softly in the backseat, kicking her feet while she watches trucks pass.
We drive in comfortable silence for a while before a massive blue building appears ahead.
“Is that an Ikea?” I squeal like a teenager.
“It is,” Stellan says, as if it’s no big deal.
I sit up straighter. “It’s bigger than I thought.”
“You’ve never been?”
I shake my head. “I’ve heard the meatballs are amazing though.”
He laughs. “They are. Dangerous place though. You go in for a lamp and leave questioning your entire life.”
“I already question my entire life,” I mutter.
“That means you’ll fit right in.”
The highway gives way slowly to smaller roads, traffic thinning until storefronts replace exits.
The town our exit leads us through isn’t tiny, but it’s not a large town either.
Brick buildings line State Street that look older than anything back home, storefront windows decorated with handmade signs, newer cafés tucked between places that have clearly been there for decades.
There’s a bakery with fogged glass, a hardware store with faded lettering, an ice cream shop with a neon sign buzzing faintly even in daylight.
Fast food chains sit farther down the road, a Walmart rising beyond them, proof the modern world still exists here. Houses spread out along quiet streets, close enough to feel neighborly but far enough apart that yards actually matter.
I look out the window longer than I mean to.
“I could see myself living here,” I say, not realizing I said it out loud.
Stellan glances at me, smiling softly. “Yeah?”
“It’s… calm,” I admit. “Cute.”
He nods toward the road ahead. “I loved coming out this way when I was younger. Friends lived around here. Rockford’s bigger, busier, but this always felt easier.”
“You miss it?”
“Sometimes.”
We pass kids riding bikes along sidewalks, a woman changing the wreath on her porch, someone walking a dog without rushing anywhere.
“You ever think about moving back?” I ask.
He hesitates.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Lately I have.”
I turn toward him. “Why’d you leave?”
He exhales slowly. “I wanted the big calls. Bigger city, busier firehouse, more action. Chicago felt like where I needed to be if I wanted to prove something.”
“And now?”
His hand slides off the steering wheel long enough to find mine resting on the console, and his fingers lace through mine.
“Now, I think about slower mornings,” he says quietly. “Making sure I come home. A house closer to family sounds good.”
Something tight loosens in my chest.
“I moved to Chicago to run,” I admit. “After my brother died, everything back home felt heavy. I looked up schools, neighborhoods, places where a massage studio might survive. I thought a big city would mean more opportunity.”
“And?”
“I do okay,” I say. “But there’s a lot of competition. Sometimes I wonder if I chose wrong.”
He squeezes my hand. “You didn’t choose wrong. You chose what you thought was best.”
The road curves through a quiet neighborhood, trees older and taller, houses set back just enough to feel private. He slows, turns onto a residential street, pulls to the curb, and I check the back seat to see if Alaska's still asleep so I don't have to look at the house yet.
White siding, wide porch, big front windows catching afternoon light. It looks solid, lived in, the kind of place built for noise and holidays and people staying longer than planned.
Before I can say anything, the front door opens.
Two people step out onto the porch.
The man is broad shouldered and tall, wearing a faded T-shirt stretched comfortably across his chest, hair thinning at the top, beard trimmed short.
The woman beside him has long hair pulled back loosely, glasses catching the sunlight, her smile already wide before we even step out of the car.
She has the kind of warmth that reaches her eyes first, hands clasped together like she’s been waiting at the door longer than she planned to admit.
Stellan exhales beside me, almost nervous.
“That’s them,” he says quietly.