"Eight years. Army. Combat medic." He says it matter-of-factly, without drama or expectation of response. "Got out when Emma was born. Wanted to be present."
I study him across the table, the silver threading his dark hair at the temples, the fine lines around his eyes that speak of both laughter and hardship.
"You've lived a lot of life," I observe, then blush at how that sounds. "I mean—"
"I'm old," he says with a hint of amusement. "It's okay. I know."
"Not old," I counter quickly. "Just... seasoned."
He laughs then, a real laugh that transforms his face, erasing the serious lines and revealing a warmth that catches me off guard. "Seasoned. That's a new one."
"Well-aged? Like fine wine or good cheese?" I tease, relieved the moment hasn't turned awkward.
"Digging yourself deeper, Sullivan."
I like the way he says my last name, not formally, but with a familiarity that feels earned somehow. Like we've known each other longer than a day.
"What I meant," I clarify, smiling despite myself, "is that you've done things. Important things. Saved lives. Raised a daughter. Built a life from scratch after loss." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out how to adult properly."
"You're doing fine," he says, his eyes meeting mine across the table. "Trust me."
For a moment, we just look at each other, the soup forgotten, the snow falling silently outside.
His phone vibrates, breaking the moment. He glances at it. "Emma," he explains, answering. "Hey, sweetheart."
His voice changes when he speaks to her—softer, gentler, filled with a love so palpable it makes my heart squeeze. I busy myself clearing the empty bowls, giving him privacy, but I can't help overhearing his side of the conversation.
"Did you take your medicine? Good... No, not too late. Just be asleep by ten, okay?" He pauses, listening. "I'm actually having dinner with Ms. Sullivan." Another pause. "Yes, from the bookstore."
I glance over, catching his eye as Emma presumably reacts to this information. He gives a small, almost apologetic smile.
"Yes, I'll tell her... I know you do, Em." He chuckles. "Love you too. Call if you need anything."
He sets the phone down, and I return to the table with two small dishes of vanilla ice cream—my standard, no-effort dessert.
"Emma says hello," he tells me. "And that she likes your 'sparkly energy.'"
I laugh, delighted and touched. "Sparkly energy? I'll take it."
"She has a way with words." He accepts the ice cream with a nod of thanks. "Gets that from her mom. Andrea was a writer."
The mention of his late wife doesn't feel heavy or awkward. It's simply part of him, part of their story. I appreciate that he doesn't hide her memory.
"What did she write?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Children's books, actually. Never published, but Emma has them all. Special editions, one of a kind."
The tenderness in his voice makes something inside me melt faster than the ice cream. This man keeps his wife's memory alive through her stories. It's beautiful and heartbreaking.
"Emma's lucky," I say softly. "To have those pieces of her mother."
He nods, understanding the depth behind my simple words. "We both are."
We finish dessert in comfortable silence, the day's events catching up with me in a wave of tiredness. I try to stifle a yawn, but he notices.
"I should let you rest and head back to the station to finish up paper work," he says, standing. "Thank you for dinner."
"Thank you for the company," I reply, following him to the door. "And the medical attention."
