Page 19 of Smoke Signals

My pulse picks up. I tell myself it’s nothing, that bodies react to touch, that this is just physiology. But my hands know the difference between work and something else.

“Is this okay?” I ask too quickly.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s good.”

I shift closer so I can change my angle, sliding my left hand to brace at the top of his chest while my right thumb works deeper into the muscle. My forearm brushes his collarbone as I lean in, light and unintentional. It’s barely contact, but my stomach tightens anyway, sudden and sharp. I catch myself leaning closer than necessary, the space between us thinning until it feels fragile.

“Sorry,” I say, already stepping away. “I should stop. I think I, yeah. I should stop.”

He turns in the chair, movement slow and uncertain. His eyes flick to where my hands were, then back to me, searching.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Really.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I add, words tripping over each other. “It’s just, I don’t usually work on people I know. I mean, clients I know. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says gently.

Alaska looks up then; she looks at both of us, then goes back to her coloring, satisfied enough.

Stellan stands, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “Feels better,” he says. “Thank you.”

I nod, unable to trust my voice. I busy myself by folding the towel, my hands steadier when they have a task.

When he leaves, he doesn’t rush it.

He thanks Alaska, waits while she signs goodbye, and gives her the same calm smile he does every week. At the door he hesitates, like he’s considering saying something else and decides against it. Our eyes meet, and neither of us looks away. Not right away. Not until Alaska shifts in her chair and the moment loosens on its own.

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut and the apartment doesn’t settle the way it usually does. The air feels tight, like something’s still moving even though he isn’t here anymore.

Alaska signs finished, slides off her chair, and wraps herself around my leg. I rest my hand on her head. She then pads down the hall toward her room and I follow, help her into pajamas, and tuck her in.

When I finally leave her room, I sit on the couch and stare down at my hands.They look the same. There’s no rule I can point to and say I broke that. No line I can redraw and promise myself I won’t cross again.

I know where it happened. I felt it.

And the worst part is that it didn’t feel wrong.

9

STELLAN

Physical therapy starts the same way it always does. Shoulder rolled slowly until the joint warms enough to stop protesting every movement.

I focus on my breathing instead; in through my nose, out through my mouth, slow enough that my body remembers I’m not on a call, not racing a clock.

“Let’s see that external rotation again,” my therapist says.

I pull. Hold. Release.

The burn blooms and fades. Not pain exactly, more like resistance. My shoulder doesn’t want to move forward yet. It wants more time.

She watches closely, eyes sharp, the way mine get when I’m assessing a scene.

“That’s better,” she says, making a note. “You’ve built back a lot of stability.”

I nod, jaw tight, waiting.