Page 9 of Smoke Signals

She doesn’t look up, just nods once, deliberately.

“And we don’t need you to talk…unless you want to,” I add quickly, because even now people forget that part. “You can wave, or sign, or not do anything at all.”

She switches crayons, lines the blue one up next to the red, then finally looks at me. Her gaze is steady, assessing.

I crouch in front of her, resting my elbows on my knees.

“You’re in charge,” I tell her, signing it too. “Always.”

Another nod.

The knock comes right on time.

“I’ll get it,” I say, standing too fast, knocking my elbow into the table, swearing under my breath as Alaska watches with mild concern.

I wipe my hands on my jeans even though they’re clean, take a breath, then open the door.

Stellan fills the doorway, tall and broad and none of it decorative. He’s built like someone who uses his body for work, not for show, shoulders wide beneath his jacket, chest solid without being bulky. His hair is cut short on the sides, longer on top, brushed back like he ran a hand through it and called it good enough. There’s a beard along his jaw, trimmed but not precise, the kind that looks better the longer you stare at it. He looks capable in a way that settles something inside of me, like if something went wrong he’d already be moving before anyone finished panicking.

And my brain, traitorous thing that it is, immediately files that under problem.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and easy. “Hartley, right?”

I nod, suddenly aware of everything about myself—my posture, my hands, the fact that I’m still holding the door like I might slam it shut by accident.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pauses just long enough to take the apartment in without staring, then closes the door behind him carefully.

That’s when I notice the shoulder.

It’s subtle—a slight hitch in the way he shrugs out of his jacket, the way his left side moves just a fraction slower than the right. Not dramatic, not performative, just there if you’re paying attention. Which, being a massage therapist, it’s kind of my job to notice.

“Hi,” he says, dropping his gaze slightly, softening his presence as he looks past me into the kitchen. “You must be Alaska.”

She looks at him. Really looks at him.

He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t wave or crouch or try to be charming. He just stands there, hands loose at his sides, expression open, waiting.

She turns her crayon in her fingers, then gives him a small wave.

“Hi,” he says back. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

Letting.

I gesture awkwardly toward the table. “You can sit if you want. Or not, whatever’s easier.”

He smiles a little, like he finds my rambling endearing rather than annoying.

“I’ll sit,” he says. “If that’s okay with you, Alaska.”

My niece watches him pull out the chair slowly, like he’s speaking with his body. He sits sideways, resting his forearms lightly on the table without reaching toward her things.

“I see you like dinosaurs,” he says, conversational, not expectant.

Alaska blinks, then slides her green crayon toward him. An offering.

He accepts it like it’s something precious.