Page 50 of Smoke Signals

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.