Chapter 2 – Nathan
I've been staring at this burn report for fifteen minutes, and the words are still swimming.
The incident details blur together—structure fire, eastern district, no casualties—but my mind keeps drifting back to the bookstore. To her. Something about Gloria Sullivan has lodged in my consciousness like shrapnel, impossible to extract without causing damage.
"You planning to telepathically file that, Cross?" Bradley drops into the chair across from me, coffee mug in hand. "Or are you actually going to type something?"
I grunt in response. Bradley's been my best friend since we served together overseas, now the station's engineer and my favorite pain in the ass.
"I'm getting to it."
He raises an eyebrow, too perceptive by half. "How was drop-off? Emma get her book?"
"Yeah," I say, neutral. "The bookseller was there early."
Bradley studies me over his mug, and I can feel him connecting dots I'd rather leave scattered. I'm saved by the station alarm blaring to life, red lights flashing across the common room.
"Station 61, respond to structure fire, 342 Foxglove Lane, Heartwood District. Reported kitchen fire with possible extension."
Foxglove Lane. Next door to Moonlight & Manuscripts.
My stomach drops as I'm already moving, muscle memory taking over. Boots, turnout pants, jacket, radio check. The dispatch details filter through my training: kitchen fire at the Morning Brew Café, adjacent structures potentially threatened.
Including the bookstore.
No. Not going there. Not thinking about Gloria potentially in danger. This is the job. Compartmentalize, focus, execute.
Two minutes later, I'm in the rig with Bradley, lights flashing as we barrel down Emberstone Avenue. I stare out at the snow-dusted buildings, mentally calculating response protocols, trying to ignore the twist in my gut.
"Nervous energy today," Bradley comments casually. "Something on your mind?"
I keep my eyes on the passing storefronts. "Just thinking about the structure. Old buildings in Heartwood share walls."
He nods, but the look he gives me says he's not buying it. Bradley's known me too long.
We turn onto Foxglove Lane and I see smoke billowing from the café's back half, patrons gathered on the street. My eyes scan the crowd automatically, a reflex I can't control.
And there she is.
Gloria stands at the edge of the chaos, directing people away from the building, a green cardigan pulled hastily over her sweater. Snow dusts her long blonde hair, and even from here, I can see the determined set of her jaw.
We pull up and deploy with practiced efficiency. Austin's ladder truck arrives seconds later, Logan jumping out with his usual boundless energy despite the situation. The fire's still contained to the kitchen, but smoke is starting to seep through the shared wall into neighboring businesses.
I approach the café owner, a middle-aged woman who's wringing her hands, eyes wide with shock.
"Everyone out?" I ask, already calculating air supply and entry points.
"Yes, yes—it was just me and my assistant plus about eight customers. Everyone's accounted for." Helen points toward the back. "It started in the oven, the shortbread. I don't understand how—"
"Electrical probably," I say, keeping my voice calm and authoritative. It settles people, gives them something solid to hold onto amid chaos. "We'll handle it from here. Did you get anything on you? Smoke inhalation?"
She shakes her head, and I signal to Austin and Logan, already geared up. "Kitchen fire, contained for now. Check for extension through the shared wall."
As they move into position, I turn to continue crowd control and find myself face-to-face with Gloria. Her cheeks are flushed from cold and exertion, concern etched across her features, but she's steady. No panic.
"I evacuated the bookstore," she says without preamble. "Two customers and myself. Everyone's across the street."
Professional. Precise. She doesn't waste words or time seeking reassurance.
"Good call," I tell her. "Smoke damage is the main concern for your side."
She nods, glancing back at her store. "I closed the connecting door and put towels along the bottom. Not sure if that helps."
"It does." I study her more closely, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the way she's keeping her left arm slightly bent. "You okay?"
She brushes hair from her face with her right hand. "Fine. Just making sure everyone's safe. Will the fire spread?"
"Not if we have anything to say about it." The confidence in my voice isn't bravado, it's experience. I've seen worse, handled worse. This is very manageable.
Gloria takes a step back, intending to rejoin the evacuated customers, when I notice it: an angry red mark on her left wrist, already blistering.
"You're burned," I say, reaching for her arm instinctively.
She pulls back slightly, surprised by the motion. "It's nothing. Ember fell when I was getting someone out."
"Let me see." It comes out more commanding than I intended, paramedic mode overriding social niceties.
For a moment she looks like she might refuse, but something in my expression must convince her. She extends her wrist, and I take it, professional assessment warring with awareness of her skin against mine.
The burn is small but angry, second-degree, about the size of a quarter. "This needs treatment."
"After everyone's safe," she counters.
Admirable, but frustrating as hell.
"Everyone is safe," I point out. "And I'm the paramedic here."
A hint of a smile touches her lips. "Are you pulling rank, Mr. Cross?"
The formality catches me off guard, as does the subtle tease in her voice.
"Protocol," I correct her, maintaining my professional tone even as I guide her toward the rig. "And it's Nathan."
She follows without further protest, which tells me the burn hurts more than she's letting on. I open the side compartment where we keep the first aid kit, positioning her under the rig's light.
"How's Emma liking the book?" she asks as I clean the burn with antiseptic wipes.
The question catches me off guard—not the typical small talk during treatment. "Already halfway through the book, she tells me."
Gloria's smile widens, genuine despite the pain she must be feeling. "Fast reader. Like her dad?"
"When I have time," I admit, applying burn ointment to her wrist. Her skin is soft under my fingers, and I'm suddenly hyper-aware of how gentle I'm being.
I focus on the medical facts. "Second-degree, but small. Should heal clean if you keep it covered and use antibiotic cream."
She watches my hands as I work, the emergency lights painting her face in alternating red and shadow. "You've done this a lot."
"Too many times to count." I reach for a non-adhesive pad and sterile gauze. "Overseas and here."
"Military?"
I nod, wrapping her wrist slowly. "Army. Combat medic."
"That explains it," she says.
"Explains what?"
"The way you move. Calm in the chaos."
I look up from her wrist and meet her eyes. They're warm amber in the emergency lights, observant and unafraid.
"I have," I say simply.
She doesn't look away. Doesn't fill the silence with platitudes or questions. Just holds my gaze, acknowledging the weight behind those two words. It's rare, that kind of understanding from someone who hasn't been there.
I secure the bandage and reluctantly release her wrist. "Keep it clean. Change the dressing tomorrow."
"Thank you," she says, flexing her fingers experimentally.
"Just doing my job." The response is automatic, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they're not entirely true. The care I took with her wrist, the relief I felt seeing her safe… that went beyond professional obligation.
"Well, your job is important." She wraps her cardigan tighter against the cold, snow continuing to fall around us in soft, silent flakes. "And you're good at it."
Before I can respond, Austin approaches, grinning despite the soot on his face. "Kitchen's toast, but we stopped it before it breached the wall. Bookstore should be fine, ma'am, though you might want to air it out. Smoke has a way of sneaking in."
"Thank you," Gloria tells him, genuine gratitude in her voice. "I appreciate you all responding so quickly."
Austin's eyes dart between us, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. "No problem. That's what we're here for." He gives me a look that promises future interrogation. "Chief says we're good to start clearing equipment."
I nod, and he retreats, but not before throwing a casual "Nice to meet you, ma'am" over his shoulder.
"You should get inside somewhere warm," I tell Gloria, acutely aware that we're still standing very close, the emergency rig providing a small pocket of privacy amid the controlled chaos.
She looks back toward her store, hesitant. "I should check for damage."
"Not yet. Let us verify the structure first." I check my watch. "Give it thirty minutes. Go to the Enchanted Bean and warm up."
"Is that an official order?" There's that teasing note again, slipping past her usual guard.
"Medical recommendation," I correct, fighting an unexpected urge to smile. "The cold isn't good for burns."
She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Thirty minutes. Then I'm checking my store."
"I'll drive you home after," I say before I can think better of it. "You shouldn't be alone with that burn tonight. In case of infection."
It's transparent, and we both know it. The burn is minor. She'd be fine.
Gloria tilts her head slightly. "I live just beside the bookstore."
"Then I'll drive you there." I hold her gaze, allowing myself one honest moment. "I'd feel better knowing you got home safe."
Something softens in her expression, vulnerability replacing her practical exterior for just a second. "I can walk. It's right there." She points to the bookstore's side entrance. "But thank you."
I nod, accepting her independence. "At least let me check the apartment before you settle in. Make sure there's no smoke damage."
She considers this, weighing my concern against her self-reliance. "Okay," she finally agrees. "That would be helpful."
Logan calls from near the café, and duty pulls me back. "Thirty minutes," I remind her. "Bean first, then home."
"Yes, sir," she says, with just enough playful mockery to make heat rise unexpectedly to my neck.
As she walks away, snow swirling around her green cardigan, I fight the urge to watch her go. Instead, I turn back to the scene, to the job, to reality.
"So that's the bookstore lady," Logan says, appearing at my side with remarkable stealth for someone his size.
I focus on packing up the medical kit. "Ms. Sullivan. Yes."
"Cute," he observes casually. "Smart too, from what I saw. Handled the evacuation like a pro."
I snap the case closed with more force than necessary. "Is there a point to this observation, Price?"
He grins, undeterred by my tone. "Just saying she seems nice. Different from your usual type."
"I don't have a type," I growl, moving past him toward the rig. "And I don't have time for this conversation."
"Sure, sure," Logan agrees too easily. "But you might want to wipe that look off your face before you go checking her apartment for 'smoke damage.'" He makes air quotes, earning a glare that would wither most men.
Logan just laughs. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with the entire station."
I ignore him, focusing on the cleanup protocol, the incident report I'll need to file, the equipment checks.
Not on Gloria Sullivan's amber eyes or the feeling of her pulse beneath my fingers.
Not on the way snow looked falling on her hair or how steady she remained in crisis.
Definitely not on the thirty minutes I have before I see her again.
Don't go there, Cross, I tell myself firmly. She's trouble. You're a dad. You have responsibilities.
But as I secure the last piece of equipment, my eyes drift toward the Enchanted Bean, where I can see her through the frosted window, cradling a mug in her hands, her profile illuminated by warm light.
She glances up, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes meet briefly across the snowy street.
I look away first, but the damage is already done.