Page 51 of Smoke Signals

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.

20

STELLAN

The alarm clock goes off before sunrise, the sound dragging me out of sleep even though I’ve already been drifting near the surface for a while, awareness creeping in slowly as my brain remembers what today is. For a second I lie there staring at the ceiling, watching the faint gray light press through the blinds, and my body feels caught between anticipation and something that almost passes for nerves.

It’s been months since I woke up for a shift.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and roll my shoulder carefully before standing. The joint pulls tight but holds, the dull reminder of injury present without stopping me, and I take that as a win. Coffee brews while I pull on my shirt, the smell filling the house, grounding and familiar, but my thoughts drift somewhere else anyway.