"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.
