Professional. Precise. She doesn't waste words or time seeking reassurance.
"Good call," I tell her. "Smoke damage is the main concern for your side."
She nods, glancing back at her store. "I closed the connecting door and put towels along the bottom. Not sure if that helps."
"It does." I study her more closely, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the way she's keeping her left arm slightly bent. "You okay?"
She brushes hair from her face with her right hand. "Fine. Just making sure everyone's safe. Will the fire spread?"
"Not if we have anything to say about it." The confidence in my voice isn't bravado, it's experience. I've seen worse, handled worse. This is very manageable.
Gloria takes a step back, intending to rejoin the evacuated customers, when I notice it: an angry red mark on her left wrist, already blistering.
"You're burned," I say, reaching for her arm instinctively.
She pulls back slightly, surprised by the motion. "It's nothing. Ember fell when I was getting someone out."
"Let me see." It comes out more commanding than I intended, paramedic mode overriding social niceties.
For a moment she looks like she might refuse, but something in my expression must convince her. She extends her wrist, and I take it, professional assessment warring with awareness of her skin against mine.
The burn is small but angry, second-degree, about the size of a quarter. "This needs treatment."
"After everyone's safe," she counters.
Admirable, but frustrating as hell.
"Everyone is safe," I point out. "And I'm the paramedic here."
A hint of a smile touches her lips. "Are you pulling rank, Mr. Cross?"
The formality catches me off guard, as does the subtle tease in her voice.
"Protocol," I correct her, maintaining my professional tone even as I guide her toward the rig. "And it's Nathan."
She follows without further protest, which tells me the burn hurts more than she's letting on. I open the side compartment where we keep the first aid kit, positioning her under the rig's light.
"How's Emma liking the book?" she asks as I clean the burn with antiseptic wipes.
The question catches me off guard—not the typical small talk during treatment. "Already halfway through the book, she tells me."
Gloria's smile widens, genuine despite the pain she must be feeling. "Fast reader. Like her dad?"
"When I have time," I admit, applying burn ointment to her wrist. Her skin is soft under my fingers, and I'm suddenly hyper-aware of how gentle I'm being.
I focus on the medical facts. "Second-degree, but small. Should heal clean if you keep it covered and use antibiotic cream."
She watches my hands as I work, the emergency lights painting her face in alternating red and shadow. "You've done this a lot."
"Too many times to count." I reach for a non-adhesive pad and sterile gauze. "Overseas and here."
"Military?"
I nod, wrapping her wrist slowly. "Army. Combat medic."
"That explains it," she says.
"Explains what?"
