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 cansee 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."
