Chapter 4 – Nathan
The station is quiet tonight. Not silent, but settled into that late-night rhythm when the world narrows to just this building, these men, this moment.
In the kitchen, Paul sits at the table reviewing reports, his reading glasses perched low on his nose.
Austin and Logan sprawl on the worn leather couch in the common area, arguing over some action movie playing at low volume.
Bradley sits at the workbench, methodically cleaning equipment with that focused precision that made him invaluable in combat and makes him irreplaceable here.
Normal. Routine. The rhythm of station life that's anchored me since moving to Whitetail Falls.
So why can't I focus?
I stare at the incident report on my tablet, the details of today's café fire blurring. Instead of flames and smoke, I see blonde curls and amber eyes. Instead of remembering protocols followed, I remember the feel of Gloria's wrist beneath my fingers, her pulse steady despite the pain.
"Earth to Cross," Paul says, not looking up from his paperwork. "You planning to finish that report tonight?"
I straighten, refocusing. "Working on it."
"Working on daydreaming is more like it," Austin calls from the couch. At twenty-eight, he's the youngest crew member, still more puppy than wolf. "Thinking about the bookstore lady?"
I shoot him a warning look that bounces right off his grin.
Bradley glances up from his work, eyes meeting mine with silent understanding. He knows me well enough to see through the irritation to the discomfort beneath.
"Leave him alone," he tells the others mildly. "Some of us prefer privacy."
Austin holds up his hands in surrender, but the knowing look on his face tells me this conversation isn't over, just postponed.
Paul closes his folder, removing his reading glasses. "All of you, find something useful to do. Wood, those hoses need checking. Rivers, Price, inventory the medical supplies." His voice carries the easy authority of someone used to being obeyed.
As they disperse, he catches my eye. "Everything good, Cross?"
"Fine," I answer automatically.
He studies me for a moment, the way he does when he's deciding whether to push. "Emma okay at her sleepover?"
"She's good. Called earlier."
Paul nods, collecting his papers. "Night's quiet. Catch some sleep if you can."
It's not advice, it's an order wrapped in concern. Paul knows what it's like to carry responsibility, he understands the weight.
"Will do," I promise, though sleep seems unlikely.
When he's gone, I finish the report in quick, efficient sentences, facts without elaboration. Professional. Detached. Everything I'm not feeling.
The station feels suddenly confining, the walls too close. I need air.
Outside, the night wraps around me like a cold, clean blanket. The snow has stopped, leaving Whitetail Falls transformed beneath a clear, star-filled sky. My breath forms clouds in the frigid air as I walk to the edge of the apparatus bay, hands in my pockets.
Across town, lights still glow in scattered windows, the Enchanted Bean closing up, the Copper Kettle Tavern doing last call, and a few homes where people like me find sleep elusive.
Is Gloria awake? Is her wrist bothering her?
I shake my head, frustrated with myself. I've known this woman for one day. Less. And here I am, standing in below-freezing temperature, thinking about her like some lovesick teenager.
Forty years old. Combat veteran. Widower. Father. And completely undone by a bookseller with golden curls and a stubborn streak.
The problem is, it's been so long since I felt this, this awareness, this pull toward another person. Andrea’s been gone ten years, and while I've dated occasionally, it's always been careful.
Contained. Practical attempts at companionship that inevitably fizzled when my responsibilities as a father and first responder took precedence.
But with Gloria, there was nothing careful about the way my pulse jumped when she smiled, nothing contained about the thoughts that crossed my mind when she said "Yes, sir" in that gently mocking tone.
She's too young for me. A whole lifetime of difference. She should be with someone her age, someone without the baggage of a military past and widowhood, someone who doesn't have an eleven-year-old daughter to consider.
The radio at my hip crackles to life, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Station 61, respond to medical, possible fainting episode at Moonlight & Manuscripts Bookstore, 304 Foxglove Lane. Female, mid-twenties, conscious, reporting dizziness."
My heart slams against my ribs as I turn back toward the station, already moving. "Dispatch, Medic 61 responding. ETA three minutes."
Bradley appears in the doorway, concern etched on his face. "Gloria?"
"Don't know," I say, grabbing my jacket and medical bag. "I'll take the SUV."
He nods, no teasing now. "Call if you need backup."
Three minutes later, I pull up in front of the darkened bookstore, emergency lights casting red-blue patterns across the snowy street. The store itself is closed, but a light glows from the side entrance—the stairs to Gloria's apartment.
I grab my bag and approach quickly, professional instincts overriding personal feelings. The door at the bottom of the stairs stands open.
"Paramedics," I call, though it feels absurdly formal given our dinner just hours ago.
"Up here," comes Gloria's voice, sounding embarrassed rather than distressed.
I take the stairs two at a time, pulse steadying somewhat at the strength in her voice.
At the top, I find her sitting on the floor near her kitchen, back against the wall, looking pale but alert.
Her hair falls in wild disarray around her face, and she's wearing plaid pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt with "Reading is Sexy" printed across the chest.
"This is humiliating," she says by way of greeting.
Relief courses through me, followed immediately by concern as I kneel beside her, setting down my bag. "What happened?"
"Nothing dramatic," she sighs, pushing hair from her face. "I got up to clean the kitchen and got dizzy. My neighbor heard me knock something over and insisted on calling 911."
I reach for her wrist, automatically checking her pulse. Strong but rapid. Her skin is cool to the touch.
"Low blood sugar," I tell her, professional voice masking the ridiculous mix of concern and tenderness surging through me. "When did you last eat before our dinner?"
She thinks for a moment. "Breakfast? Maybe?"
I give her a look that makes her shrink slightly.
"The fire happened during my lunch break," she explains defensively. "Then there was the whole evacuation thing, and my wrist, and..."
"And you're running on empty," I finish for her, reaching into my bag for a glucose meter. "Hand, please."
She extends her finger, wincing slightly at the small prick. I check the reading and nod. "Low. Not dangerous, but enough to make you dizzy. Any other symptoms? Headache? Nausea?"
"Just embarrassment at having Whitetail Falls' finest paramedic making house calls twice in one day," she says, attempting a smile.
I don't return it, still too rattled by the dispatch call, by finding her on the floor. "This isn't a joke, Gloria. You need to eat regularly, especially after trauma."
Her smile fades at my tone. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to anyone... noticing."
The simple confession hits harder than it should—the implication that she's accustomed to handling everything alone, that basic self-care sometimes slips through the cracks because there's no one to remind her.
I soften my approach, reaching into my bag for a juice box kept for diabetic patients. "Drink this. Then I'm driving you to get food."
"It's almost midnight," she points out, taking the apple juice. "Nothing's open."
"I have food at my place."
The words hang between us, unexpected and charged. I didn't plan them, they simply emerged from some protective instinct I can't suppress.
Gloria's eyes widen slightly. "That's really not necessary. I can make something here."
"You need protein and complex carbs. Something substantial." I pack up my supplies, decision made. "And I need to monitor you to make sure your levels stabilize."
She sips the juice, studying me over the small box. "Is that your professional opinion, Paramedic Cross?"
"Yes," I say firmly, refusing to acknowledge the spark her light teasing ignites. "It is."
She considers this, then nods slowly. "Okay. But only because I'm too dizzy to argue properly."
"Smart decision." I offer my hand and help her to her feet, steadying her when she wavers slightly.
"Let me change," she says, gesturing to her pajamas.
"You're fine." I grab her coat from a hook by the door. "It's the middle of the night, and you're just going from here to my house and back. No one will see."
She accepts the coat with a small, tired smile. "Always practical."
"Military training," I reply, guiding her gently toward the stairs. "And parenthood."
The drive to my house is quiet, the streets of Whitetail Falls deserted at this hour.
Gloria leans her head against the passenger window, eyes half-closed as streetlights slide over her face in rhythmic patterns of gold and shadow.
The juice has brought some color back to her cheeks, but she still looks drained.
"Thank you," she says softly after a while. "For coming. For caring."
I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. "It's my job."
"No," she murmurs, glancing at me. "This part isn't. The midnight drive. The concern. That's... extra."
I don't have a good response, because she's right. This goes beyond professional obligation. Beyond neighborly concern.
This is something I haven't felt in years. The fierce, immediate need to protect, to care, to be there.
"Rest," I tell her instead. "We're almost there."
She nods, eyes drifting closed again.
Too young. Too new. Too complicated. The warnings cycle through my mind even as I find myself glancing at her again, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her lashes.
I'm in trouble.
In the span of a single day, Gloria Sullivan has somehow bypassed all my barriers, all my rational objections. She's slipped beneath my skin, into my thoughts, making me feel things I've kept dormant for years.
We arrive at my house, a modest two-story at the edge of town, lights off except for the porch I left on for Emma's return tomorrow. I park and turn to wake Gloria, only to find her already watching me, eyes soft with something I can't name.
"You're thinking too loudly," she says quietly.
I almost smile. "Habit."
"What are you thinking about?"
The honest answer stays locked behind my teeth. Instead, I say, "Food. You need protein."
She studies me for a moment, like she knows there's more, but doesn't push. "Lead the way, then."
As we walk to the front door, snow crunching beneath our feet, I'm hyperaware of her beside me, of the careful distance I maintain, of the warmth I feel despite the cold night air, of the way this simple act of bringing her to my home feels significant.
"Nice house," she comments as I unlock the door.
"It works for us," I reply, flipping on lights, revealing the lived-in comfort of a home shared with a pre-teen: Emma's boots by the door, her science project on the dining table, books stacked on every surface.
Gloria takes it all in, a small smile playing on her lips. "It feels like you. Solid. Practical. But with touches of magic."
I follow her gaze to Emma's dragon drawings pinned to the refrigerator, the fairy lights strung around her bedroom door upstairs, visible from the entryway.
"That's all Emma," I say, leading Gloria to the kitchen. "She's the magic. I'm just the solid part."
Gloria shakes her head slightly. "I think there's more magic in you than you admit, Nathan Cross."
I turn to the refrigerator, needing the distance, the normality of practical tasks. "Sit. I'll make you something to eat."
She obeys, settling at the kitchen island, watching me with curious eyes as I move efficiently around my kitchen. This, at least, is familiar territory. Taking care of someone, meeting basic needs, solving practical problems.
It's the other hunger, the one that has nothing to do with food, that I don't know how to address.