Chapter 3 – Gloria
I don't cook for men. It's a rule I made after the last guy who assured me he "wasn't looking for anything serious" right before helping himself to my apartment key, my heart, and eventually my roommate.
Since then, cooking for myself has become a small act of reclamation.
A way of saying: this nurturing is for me.
Yet here I am, stirring homemade tomato soup while my apartment smells faintly of antiseptic from Nathan’s treatment, and my wrist throbs just enough to remind me of the day’s chaos.
A soft knock at the kitchen door makes me turn, wooden spoon in hand.
Nathan fills the doorframe, still in his uniform pants but with a navy department hoodie replacing the more official shirt.
“Smells good,” he says, eyes scanning the kitchen. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
I smile faintly. “It’s simple. Tomato soup.”
"I should go," he says, his posture softened. "Let you get back to your evening."
The words tumble out before I can overthink them: "Stay for dinner."
He pauses, surprised by the invitation.
"I mean, it's already on the stove," I add quickly. "Nothing fancy, but there's plenty."
Nathan hesitates, and I see the calculation behind his eyes.
"Well, Emma's at a sleepover," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "School project with her friend."
I try to ignore the flutter in my chest at the realization he's free for the evening. "Then you definitely need dinner. You've been working all day."
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can see through my casual invitation to the nervous energy beneath. If he can tell that part of me is already regretting breaking my no-cooking-for-men rule while another part is thrilled he might accept.
"If you're sure it's no trouble," he finally says.
"Not at all." I gesture to the small table by the window. "Make yourself comfortable. It'll be ready in five minutes."
As he moves toward the table, I become hyperaware of his presence—the controlled way he walks, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the hoodie, how he seems to take up more space than the room should allow. Not because he's imposing, but because he carries himself with such quiet certainty.
I turn back to the stove, adding a pinch of basil to the soup. "So... fires and books. Eventful day."
"For Whitetail Falls, that's practically apocalyptic," he says, and I'm surprised by the hint of humor in his voice.
"Small town life," I agree. "Though I have to say, the emergency response was impressive."
"We don't get many calls, but when we do, everyone shows up." There's pride in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. "The crew's good. Like family."
I ladle soup into two mismatched bowls and bring them to the table with a loaf of sourdough bread I picked up earlier.
"Speaking of family," I say, sitting across from him, "Emma seems wonderful."
His expression softens instantly. "She is. Smart. Too smart sometimes."
"That's the best kind of smart." I tear a piece of bread, suddenly shy. "She's lucky to have you."
Nathan takes a spoonful of soup, and I find myself watching for his reaction. He nods appreciatively. "This is good. Thank you."
"My grandmother's recipe. She believed soup fixed everything."
"I like that theory." He takes another spoonful. "Was she the one who gave you the reading bug?"
The question surprises me, that he's noticed enough to ask, that he's curious about my past.
"Yeah, actually. She raised me after my mom took off. Small house, but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves." The memory warms me. "I learned to read before kindergarten. Books were..." I trail off, searching for words.
"Safety," he supplies quietly.
I look up, caught by the understanding in his eyes. "Yes. Exactly."
The table between us suddenly feels both too wide and not wide enough. I'm aware of how close our hands are, how the steam from the soup rises between us like some visible manifestation of the warmth building in the room.
"What brought you to Whitetail Falls?" he asks, breaking a piece of bread. "Seems like a city bookstore would offer more opportunities."
I trace the rim of my bowl with one finger, considering how much to share. "I needed somewhere new. Somewhere quiet where I could..." I pause, searching for the right words.
"Start over?" he offers.
"Rebuild," I correct gently. "After a relationship crashed and burned, I wanted somewhere that felt... I don't know, authentic. Where people know your name but also give you space to figure things out."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Small towns are good for that. Everyone knows your business, but they also bring casseroles when you're going through hell."
I wonder how many casseroles appeared on his doorstep after he lost his wife.
"Was it hard?" I ask softly. "Moving here with Emma?"
He looks down at his soup, considering the question. I immediately regret asking something so personal.
"Sorry, that's too—"
"No," he interrupts gently. "It's fine." He takes a breath. "It was necessary. After her mom died, the city felt too big, too busy. Emma was five. She needed stability. I needed..." He pauses. "Purpose, I guess. The department here gave me that."
The simple honesty of his answer makes my chest ache. I've spent most of my adult life around boys pretending to be men. Nathan's straightforward vulnerability, wrapped in quiet strength, is disarming.
"How long were you overseas?" I ask, remembering his earlier mention of military service.
"Eight years. Army. Combat medic." He says it matter-of-factly, without drama or expectation of response. "Got out when Emma was born. Wanted to be present."
I study him across the table, the silver threading his dark hair at the temples, the fine lines around his eyes that speak of both laughter and hardship.
"You've lived a lot of life," I observe, then blush at how that sounds. "I mean—"
"I'm old," he says with a hint of amusement. "It's okay. I know."
"Not old," I counter quickly. "Just... seasoned."
He laughs then, a real laugh that transforms his face, erasing the serious lines and revealing a warmth that catches me off guard. "Seasoned. That's a new one."
"Well-aged? Like fine wine or good cheese?" I tease, relieved the moment hasn't turned awkward.
"Digging yourself deeper, Sullivan."
I like the way he says my last name, not formally, but with a familiarity that feels earned somehow. Like we've known each other longer than a day.
"What I meant," I clarify, smiling despite myself, "is that you've done things. Important things. Saved lives. Raised a daughter. Built a life from scratch after loss." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out how to adult properly."
"You're doing fine," he says, his eyes meeting mine across the table. "Trust me."
For a moment, we just look at each other, the soup forgotten, the snow falling silently outside.
His phone vibrates, breaking the moment. He glances at it. "Emma," he explains, answering. "Hey, sweetheart."
His voice changes when he speaks to her—softer, gentler, filled with a love so palpable it makes my heart squeeze. I busy myself clearing the empty bowls, giving him privacy, but I can't help overhearing his side of the conversation.
"Did you take your medicine? Good... No, not too late. Just be asleep by ten, okay?" He pauses, listening. "I'm actually having dinner with Ms. Sullivan." Another pause. "Yes, from the bookstore."
I glance over, catching his eye as Emma presumably reacts to this information. He gives a small, almost apologetic smile.
"Yes, I'll tell her... I know you do, Em." He chuckles. "Love you too. Call if you need anything."
He sets the phone down, and I return to the table with two small dishes of vanilla ice cream—my standard, no-effort dessert.
"Emma says hello," he tells me. "And that she likes your 'sparkly energy.'"
I laugh, delighted and touched. "Sparkly energy? I'll take it."
"She has a way with words." He accepts the ice cream with a nod of thanks. "Gets that from her mom. Andrea was a writer."
The mention of his late wife doesn't feel heavy or awkward. It's simply part of him, part of their story. I appreciate that he doesn't hide her memory.
"What did she write?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Children's books, actually. Never published, but Emma has them all. Special editions, one of a kind."
The tenderness in his voice makes something inside me melt faster than the ice cream. This man keeps his wife's memory alive through her stories. It's beautiful and heartbreaking.
"Emma's lucky," I say softly. "To have those pieces of her mother."
He nods, understanding the depth behind my simple words. "We both are."
We finish dessert in comfortable silence, the day's events catching up with me in a wave of tiredness. I try to stifle a yawn, but he notices.
"I should let you rest and head back to the station to finish up paper work," he says, standing. "Thank you for dinner."
"Thank you for the company," I reply, following him to the door. "And the medical attention."
He glances at my bandaged wrist. "How does it feel?"
"Better," I admit. "Your professional advice worked wonders."
His lips quirk in that almost-smile. "Good. Keep it clean."
"Yes, sir," I say, unable to resist the small tease.
Something flashes in his eyes, a momentary darkening that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"Thank you again," he says, his voice slightly lower. "For sharing your evening."
"Anytime," I answer, meaning it more than I should.
He hesitates for a breath, like there's something more he wants to say or do. For a wild moment, I think he might kiss me, the air between us charged with possibility.
Instead, he steps back, restraint written in every line of his body. "Goodnight, Gloria."
"Goodnight, Nathan."
I watch him walk out, his movements measured and controlled, before closing my door and leaning against it, heart racing.
The apartment feels different somehow, emptier yet full of echoes. His presence lingers in the chairs we sat in, the bowls now in my sink, the conversation still hanging in the air.
"This is trouble," I whisper to myself, pressing a hand to my flushed cheek.
Because the truth is, I didn't just break my no-cooking rule tonight. I broke my defenses. Let someone in, literally and figuratively. And not just anyone, a widowed father fourteen years older with a life full of responsibilities and experiences I can barely comprehend.