"Cute," he observes casually. "Smart too, from what I saw. Handled the evacuation like a pro."
I snap the case closed with more force than necessary. "Is there a point to this observation, Price?"
He grins, undeterred by my tone. "Just saying she seems nice. Different from your usual type."
"I don't have a type," I growl, moving past him toward the rig. "And I don't have time for this conversation."
"Sure, sure," Logan agrees too easily. "But you might want to wipe that look off your face before you go checking her apartment for 'smoke damage.'" He makes air quotes, earning a glare that would wither most men.
Logan just laughs. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with the entire station."
I ignore him, focusing on the cleanup protocol, the incident report I'll need to file, the equipment checks.
Not on Gloria Sullivan's amber eyes or the feeling of her pulse beneath my fingers.
Not on the way snow looked falling on her hair or how steady she remained in crisis.
Definitely not on the thirty minutes I have before I see her again.
Don't go there, Cross,I tell myself firmly.She's trouble. You're a dad. You have responsibilities.
But as I secure the last piece of equipment, my eyes drift toward the Enchanted Bean, where I can see her through the frosted window, cradling a mug in her hands, her profile illuminated by warm light.
She glances up, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes meet briefly across the snowy street.
I look away first, but the damage is already done.
Chapter 3 – Gloria
I don't cook for men. It's a rule I made after the last guy who assured me he "wasn't looking for anything serious" right before helping himself to my apartment key, my heart, and eventually my roommate. Since then, cooking for myself has become a small act of reclamation. A way of saying: this nurturing is for me.
Yet here I am, stirring homemade tomato soup while my apartment smells faintly of antiseptic from Nathan’s treatment, and my wrist throbs just enough to remind me of the day’s chaos.
A soft knock at the kitchen door makes me turn, wooden spoon in hand.
Nathan fills the doorframe, still in his uniform pants but with a navy department hoodie replacing the more official shirt.
“Smells good,” he says, eyes scanning the kitchen. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
I smile faintly. “It’s simple. Tomato soup.”
"I should go," he says, his posture softened. "Let you get back to your evening."
The words tumble out before I can overthink them: "Stay for dinner."
He pauses, surprised by the invitation.
"I mean, it's already on the stove," I add quickly. "Nothing fancy, but there's plenty."
Nathan hesitates, and I see the calculation behind his eyes.
"Well, Emma's at a sleepover," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "School project with her friend."
I try to ignore the flutter in my chest at the realization he's free for the evening. "Then you definitely need dinner. You've been working all day."
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can see through my casual invitation to the nervous energy beneath. If he can tell that part of me is already regretting breaking my no-cooking-for-men rule while another part is thrilled he might accept.
"If you're sure it's no trouble," he finally says.
