Chapter 6 – Nathan
I wake slowly, awareness returning in layers. Unfamiliar bed. Different light. The weight of someone pressed against my side.
Gloria.
Her head rests on my chest, blonde curls spilling across my skin, one arm flung across my stomach. She breathes deeply, still asleep, her face relaxed in a way it never quite is when she's awake. At rest, she looks even younger, the slight furrow that lives between her brows smoothed away.
Morning light filters through partially drawn curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
Snow must have continued through the night, the quality of light has that particular brightness that comes from sun on fresh powder.
I can see a patch of blue sky through the window, promising a clear day after the storm.
I should feel out of place here, in a stranger's bed, in a life I stumbled into just yesterday. Instead, I feel a curious sense of rightness, of peace I haven't known in years.
It doesn't make sense. None of this does. I don't do impulsive. I don't fall into bed with women I barely know. I don't feel this immediate connection, this bone-deep recognition of something essential.
Yet here I am, watching the morning light play across Gloria's skin, memorizing the constellation of freckles on her shoulder, reluctant to move despite the pins and needles in my arm where she lies on it.
My phone vibrates softly from the floor where my jeans landed last night. I ease away slowly, trying not to wake her, and retrieve it.
A text from Lily's mom: Emma having a blast. Pancake breakfast happening. OK if she stays until noon?
I type back a quick affirmative, relieved. It gives me time to be here, in this moment, without rushing back to responsibility.
When I turn back to the bed, Gloria is watching me through half-lidded eyes, her hair a wild tangle around her face.
"Morning," she says, voice husky with sleep.
"Morning." I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly unsure of the protocol here. Do I get dressed and leave? Make coffee? Pretend last night was casual when it felt anything but?
She seems to sense my uncertainty, because she reaches out, fingers brushing my back. "Everything okay?"
"Emma's staying at her friend's until noon," I tell her, answering a question she didn't ask.
Her lips curve into a smile. "Good for Emma," she says, stretching languidly. "That means coffee is a possibility."
Something in me relaxes at her easy manner, the lack of morning-after awkwardness I'd half expected. "I can make some," I offer.
"Counter next to the sink," she says, sitting up and gathering her hair into a messy knot on top of her head. "I'll be right there."
I pull on my jeans and head to the small kitchen, orienting myself quickly. The coffeemaker is old but serviceable, the beans in an unmarked jar that smells rich and slightly chocolatey when I open it.
As I measure and pour, I'm aware of Gloria moving around in the bedroom, water running briefly in the bathroom.
By the time the coffee is brewing, filling the apartment with its aroma, she emerges wearing an oversized sweater that falls to mid-thigh, her legs bare underneath. She's washed her face, and there's a softness to her, a morning vulnerability that makes my chest tighten.
"Smells amazing," she says, padding to the kitchen on bare feet. She reaches past me for mugs hanging on hooks, her arm brushing mine in a casual intimacy that feels earned, despite our short acquaintance.
"Sleep okay?" I ask, watching as she pulls milk from the refrigerator.
"Better than I have in months," she admits, glancing up at me with a small smile. "You?"
"Same." It's true, no restless half-waking, no dreams of sand and blood and sirens. Just deep, peaceful sleep with her warmth beside me.
We move around each other in the small kitchen with surprising ease, as if we've done this dance before. She knows where everything is, and I adapt to the space, anticipating her movements, passing cream before she asks for it.
When the coffee is ready, she pours two mugs, adding a splash of cream to hers, leaving mine black after a questioning glance that I answer with a nod. We take our coffee to the small table by the window, settling into chairs angled toward each other, knees almost touching.
Outside, Whitetail Falls is transformed.
Fresh snow blankets everything, pristine and glittering in the morning sun.
The few early risers moving along the street leave tracks that disappear around corners, like stories half-told.
From this window, we can see the spire of the town hall, the string of lanterns from the fall festival, the smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals against the blue sky.
"Beautiful," Gloria murmurs, following my gaze out the window. "First real snow always feels magical."
"Emma says the same thing," I tell her, sipping my coffee. "Wakes up at dawn every year for the first snow, just to be the first one to make footprints."
Gloria smiles. "There's something special about being the first one to leave a mark."
She looks at me over her mug, and I know we're not just talking about snow anymore. Something shifted between us last night, barriers falling, connections forming that defy rational timelines.
I should be cautious, remind myself that we barely know each other, that my life is complicated, that she's fourteen years younger with a future full of possibilities I've already moved past.
But I find myself wanting to know everything about her. To understand what makes her eyes light up, what keeps her awake at night, what dreams brought her to this small town and this quiet life among books.
"You're thinking too loudly again," she says softly.
I smile, caught. "Bad habit."
"Share?" She reaches across the small distance between us, her fingers lightly touching the back of my hand.
I turn my palm up, taking her hand in mine, studying the contrast of her smaller fingers, artistic and nimble, and mine larger, rougher from years of work. "Just... trying to understand how this happened so fast."
"This?"
"You. Me. Whatever is happening here." I meet her eyes, seeing my own confusion mirrored there, but also absence of regret.
"Does it need an explanation?" she asks, thumb tracing patterns on my palm. "Or just acceptance?"
The question is genuine, philosophical rather than defensive. It's one of the things that draws me to her, this thoughtful intelligence beneath the warm exterior.
"I'm not good at acceptance without understanding," I admit. "Military training. Paramedic protocols. Everything has a process, a reason."
She nods, considering this. "And what's your differential diagnosis for us, Paramedic Cross?"
The teasing note in her voice makes me smile despite myself. "Acute onset of mutual attraction complicated by age discrepancy and rapid progression."
"Sounds serious," she says, eyes crinkling at the corners. "What's the treatment plan?"
I look at our joined hands, feeling the steady pulse in her wrist beneath my fingers. "That's the part I'm working on."
Her smile fades, replaced by something more vulnerable. "Are you sorry? About last night?"
"No," I say immediately, squeezing her hand. "Not even slightly. That's what's confusing me."
She tilts her head, waiting for me to continue.
"I don't do impulsive," I explain, struggling to articulate feelings I'm still processing. "Everything in my life since Andrea died, and since Emma was born, really, has been carefully considered, planned, intentional."
"And I'm not in the plan," Gloria says softly, understanding.
"No one was," I admit. "That's the point. I wasn't looking. Wasn't open to this. Then suddenly there you were, in your bookstore with Emma, and something just... clicked. Like recognizing something I didn't know I was missing."
Her eyes widen slightly at the admission. "I felt it too," she whispers. "That recognition. It scared me a little."
"Me too," I acknowledge, finding relief in the shared confession. "Still does."
She sets down her coffee mug, both hands now holding mine. "Because of the age difference? Or Emma? Or something else?"
"All of it. None of it." I shake my head, frustrated with my inability to explain properly. "I'm forty, Gloria. I've been married, had a child, buried a wife, served in combat zones. My life is..."
"Complicated?" she supplies when I trail off.
"Established," I correct. "Set in its ways. And you're—"
"If you say 'young' in that patronizing tone, I might throw this coffee at you," she warns, but her eyes are gentle.
I can't help but smile. "You are young. Compared to me. But that's not what I was going to say." I pause, choosing my words. "You're free. Untethered. Your life is just beginning in so many ways."
Gloria considers this, her fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my hand, my wrist, the sensitive skin of my inner forearm.
"Maybe that's exactly why this works," she says finally.
"You ground me. I... what? Remind you there's still adventure?
That life isn't just responsibility and routine? "
The insight strikes me as remarkably perceptive. "Maybe," I concede.
"Or maybe," she continues, "we're overthinking this. Maybe sometimes people just fit, regardless of age or circumstance. Maybe the universe occasionally gets it right the first time."
There's something so honest, so unguarded in her expression that it breaks through my remaining hesitation. I reach out, cupping her cheek in my palm, feeling her lean into the touch.
"I like you, Gloria Sullivan," I say quietly. "More than makes sense given the timeline. And I'm not sure what happens next, but I know I'm not ready for this to end."
She turns her face slightly, pressing a kiss to my palm. "Then let's not let it end," she says simply. "Let's just see where it goes. Day by day."
The easy certainty in her voice loosens something tight in my chest. I lean forward, bridging the small distance between us, and kiss her softly. She tastes of coffee and possibility, her lips warm and responsive beneath mine. When we break apart, she's smiling.
"Hungry?" she asks. "I make decent pancakes. Though probably not as good as Lily's mom's, according to Emma's current experience."
"Pancakes sound perfect," I tell her, reluctant to release her hand but knowing I should help. "What can I do?"
"Coffee refills first," she decides, standing and pulling me with her to the kitchen. "Then you can be on mixing duty while I find the griddle."
We work together again with that same effortless coordination, me measuring flour and milk while she cracks eggs and hunts for vanilla. The domesticity of it should feel premature, awkward given our brief acquaintance, but instead it feels natural. Easy. Right.
"Emma will love this place," I say without thinking as Gloria flips the first pancake, revealing a perfect golden-brown surface.
She glances at me, surprise and pleasure flickering across her face. "You think?"
"I know it," I affirm, realizing I'm already envisioning future mornings, Emma chattering about books while Gloria flips pancakes and I make coffee. The image doesn't scare me like it should. "The apartment, the bookstore. You."
Color rises in her cheeks at the last word. "I'd like that," she says softly. "To meet her properly, I mean. Not just as the bookstore lady."
"She already thinks you're amazing," I tell her, pouring more batter onto the griddle. "The dragon expert who makes her dad smile."
Gloria's eyes meet mine, warmth and mischief dancing in them. "Do I? Make you smile?"
As if to prove her point, I feel my lips curve upward. "Apparently."
She looks inordinately pleased with herself, turning back to the pancakes with a satisfied nod. "Good. You have a nice smile. Should use it more often."
We eat at the small table by the window, watching as Whitetail Falls comes gradually to life beneath us. More people move along the streets now, heading to Sunday services or the Enchanted Bean for coffee.
"What does your day look like?" Gloria asks, gathering our empty plates. "After you pick up Emma?"
"Nothing scheduled," I tell her, helping clear the table. "Usually we do homework review, maybe watch a movie. Low-key Sundays."
She nods, loading dishes into the sink. "That sounds nice."
"What about you?"
"Bookstore's closed on Sundays," she says, running water over the plates. "I usually read, maybe call my grandmother. Sometimes I bake if I'm feeling ambitious."
I move beside her at the sink, taking the dish towel she offers. As I dry the plates she washes, I find myself reluctant to leave this small bubble of domesticity, this glimpse of a different life.
"We could do something," I suggest, trying to sound casual. "All three of us. After I get Emma. If you want."
Gloria hands me a dripping mug, her eyes bright. "I'd like that. What did you have in mind?"
I consider our options. "There's a walking trail around Miller's Pond. Still pretty with the snow. We could bring hot chocolate, watch the ducks."
"Sounds perfect," she says, and the simplicity of her acceptance, the lack of pressure or expectation, cements something in my chest, a certainty I haven't felt in years.
When the dishes are done, I know I should get dressed, prepare to pick up Emma, return to my regular life. But Gloria turns to me, slipping her arms around my waist, and I find myself holding her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, memorizing the way she fits against me.
"Thank you," she murmurs against my chest.
"For what?"
She looks up, chin resting on my sternum. "For staying. For pancakes. For inviting me into your Sunday."
I brush a stray curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Thank you for making me want to."
Her smile is soft, a little shy despite the intimacy we shared last night. "This is going to work, isn't it? Whatever this is between us."
It's a question, but also a statement, an acknowledgment of potential. I think of all the complications, all the reasons to be cautious, all the differences between us. Then I look at her face, open and hopeful and somehow already essential, and find only one answer possible.
"Yes," I say, voice steady with newfound certainty. "I think it is."