"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 minelarger, 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—"
