"Not at all." I gesture to the small table by the window. "Make yourself comfortable. It'll be ready in five minutes."
As he moves toward the table, I become hyperaware of his presence—the controlled way he walks, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the hoodie, how he seems to take up more space than the room should allow. Not because he's imposing, but because he carries himself with such quiet certainty.
I turn back to the stove, adding a pinch of basil to the soup. "So... fires and books. Eventful day."
"For Whitetail Falls, that's practically apocalyptic," he says, and I'm surprised by the hint of humor in his voice.
"Small town life," I agree. "Though I have to say, the emergency response was impressive."
"We don't get many calls, but when we do, everyone shows up." There's pride in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. "The crew's good. Like family."
I ladle soup into two mismatched bowls and bring them to the table with a loaf of sourdough bread I picked up earlier.
"Speaking of family," I say, sitting across from him, "Emma seems wonderful."
His expression softens instantly. "She is. Smart. Too smart sometimes."
"That's the best kind of smart." I tear a piece of bread, suddenly shy. "She's lucky to have you."
Nathan takes a spoonful of soup, and I find myself watching for his reaction. He nods appreciatively. "This is good. Thank you."
"My grandmother's recipe. She believed soup fixed everything."
"I like that theory." He takes another spoonful. "Was she the one who gave you the reading bug?"
The question surprises me, that he's noticed enough to ask, that he's curious about my past.
"Yeah, actually. She raised me after my mom took off. Small house, but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves." The memory warms me. "I learned to read before kindergarten. Books were..." I trail off, searching for words.
"Safety," he supplies quietly.
I look up, caught by the understanding in his eyes. "Yes. Exactly."
The table between us suddenly feels both too wide and not wide enough. I'm aware of how close our hands are, how the steam from the soup rises between us like some visible manifestation of the warmth building in the room.
"What brought you to Whitetail Falls?" he asks, breaking a piece of bread. "Seems like a city bookstore would offer more opportunities."
I trace the rim of my bowl with one finger, considering how much to share. "I needed somewhere new. Somewhere quiet where I could..." I pause, searching for the right words.
"Start over?" he offers.
"Rebuild," I correct gently. "After a relationship crashed and burned, I wanted somewhere that felt... I don't know, authentic. Where people know your name but also give you space to figure things out."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Small towns are good for that. Everyone knows your business, but they also bring casseroles when you're going through hell."
I wonder how many casseroles appeared on his doorstep after he lost his wife.
"Was it hard?" I ask softly. "Moving here with Emma?"
He looks down at his soup, considering the question. I immediately regret asking something so personal.
"Sorry, that's too—"
"No," he interrupts gently. "It's fine." He takes a breath. "It was necessary. After her mom died, the city felt too big, too busy. Emma was five. She needed stability. I needed..." He pauses. "Purpose, I guess. The department here gave me that."
The simple honesty of his answer makes my chest ache. I've spent most of my adult life around boys pretending to be men. Nathan's straightforward vulnerability, wrapped in quiet strength, is disarming.
"How long were you overseas?" I ask, remembering his earlier mention of military service.
