Page 37 of Under Southern Stars
“Just wondering.” I catch Madison’s eye. She’s grinning, making shooing motions. “Be safe out there.”
“Always am. Well, mostly.”
After we hang up, Madison’s practically bouncing. “You’re going to see him tonight.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Mom. Your face says everything.” She slides out of the booth. “Chloe’s mom is picking me up here in ten minutes anyway. You should go home and change into something cute.”
“Madison—”
“Something that says ‘I’m incredibly attracted to your heroic acts.’”
Forty minutes later, I’m standing outside Station 2 holding a bag of takeout from the good Thai place and wondering what the hell I’m doing. It’s 8:47 PM. I’m a charge nurse at Metro General. I don’t bring food to paramedics like some kind of…
The bay door opens. Rodriguez appears, grinning. “Well, well. Special delivery?”
“I thought you guys might be hungry.” I hold up the bag lamely. “Tough shift.”
“Uh-huh.” His grin widens. “Kiwi’s in the day room. Through there, second door on the right. I’ll be…literally anywhere else.”
The station smells like diesel and disinfectant and coffee. I follow Rodriguez’s directions, finding a small break room with mismatched furniture and a TV playing quietly.
Jack’s on a battered couch, head tipped back, eyes closed. His uniform shirt is indeed torn at the shoulder, revealing a nasty bruise underneath. He looks exhausted and heroic and absolutely beautiful.
“Hey,” I say softly.
His eyes open, focusing on me with surprise that shifts quickly to something warmer. “Sophia? What are you—”
“Brought dinner.” I hold up the bag. “Figured you earned it today.”
He sits up straighter, wincing slightly. “You saw the news?”
“Everyone saw the news. You’re probably trending.” I sit beside him, careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. “That was an incredibly stupid thing to do.”
“Had to. The mom was losing consciousness. Kids were screaming.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t wait for the heavy rescue guys.”
“I know.” I unpack the food, noting how he favors his left arm. “Let me see that shoulder.”
“It’s fine—”
“Jack.” I use my charge nurse voice. “Let me see.”
He sighs but pulls the torn fabric aside. The bruise is spectacular—deep purple blooming across his shoulder and down his chest. I probe it gently, feeling for breaks or separations.
“Just bruising,” I conclude. “But you should ice it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s smiling now. “This is good. You taking care of me.”
“Someone has to.” I hand him pad Thai. “Since you clearly have no self-preservation instincts.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The station is quiet—no calls, just the distant sound of someone watching TV in another room.
“So,” he says finally. “This is unexpected.”
“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”
“Good. Definitely good.” He sets down his spoon and fork. “I was sitting here thinking about you. About how you just…understood. When the call came.”
