Page 68 of Smoke Signals

Tim nods toward the living room. “Go enjoy some time together. We have some things to finish up here.”

Stellan tugs gently on my hand. “Come on,” he murmurs.

We move into the living room where the lamps are already on, the soft glow spilling across the couch and old coffee table. I sink down onto the couch and lean forward with my elbows on my knees for a second, letting the quiet settle around me.

Stellan drops down beside me.

“You did good today,” he says.

I glance over. “At what?”

“Everything,” he answers simply.

I lean back against the couch cushion and let my head fall against the fabric.

For the first time all day, my mind finally slows enough to catch up with everything that happened. The drive, the house, and meeting his parents. Alaska laughing at the hibachi chef like it was the greatest thing she had ever seen. The moment when she tried to wink and everyone lost it laughing.

A quiet warmth spreads through me that I recognize as relief, because nothing went wrong. No tension. No judgment. No awkward silence.

Just people who welcomed us in like we belonged there.

Stellan nudges my shoulder lightly. “You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he says.

“That’s because I am.”

“About what?”

I glance toward the hallway that leads to Alaska’s room.

“About how weird it is that this feels… normal,” I admit.

“Normal isn’t a bad thing.”

“No,” I say quietly. “It just hasn’t been my normal for a long time.”

He reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh.

“Having a boyfriend?” he asks, brows raised.

I roll my eyes while chuckling. “That’s a hard first time, not a long time and you know it. No, seeing someone, connecting with someone, just…sharing my life, myself, with someone.”

“We’ll take it slow,” he murmurs.

Neither of us says anything for a while, and it isn't uncomfortable.

My throat feels dry suddenly.

“Can I get water?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, pushing up from the couch. “Be right back.”

He disappears down the hallway toward the kitchen while I lean my head back against the cushion again.

A minute passes.

Then another.

I glance toward the hallway.