“Cole, you don’t have to?—”
“Stop talking.”
I set her by the fire, take her cold fingers in mine, and rub them.
“You always this stubborn?” I ask.
“Only when I feel useless.”
“You’re not useless. You’re ignoring common sense.”
“I was outside for two minutes.”
“Long enough.” I let go of her. “Stay. Here.”
I grab a towel from the bathroom and come back. Her hair’s damp from the dripping snow off the roof. I drape the towel over her head and dry the wet strands.
She goes still. “What are you doing?”
“You’re wet. Wet means cold.”
“I can do it myself.”
“I’m doing it.”
I work in sections. Squeeze, blot, move. Her hair’s soft between my fingers, curling slightly as it dries. It smells like my soap. Cedar and a hint of spice. Cinnamon. Vanilla. A scent that’s her.
My movements are slow. I force myself to keep going.
When her hair’s dry enough, I pull the towel away. She looks up at me, eyes wide and cheeks flushed pink from the fire.
I step back. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is quiet. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now stay put.”
“I will.”
“Say it again so I believe you.”
Her mouth quirks. “I’ll stay put, Cole.”
“Good.”
I move to the kitchen and pour two mugs of coffee. Hand her one.
She wraps both palms around the cup like yesterday. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?”
“Taking care of people.”
I grunt. “I’m good at keeping people alive. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Yeah. There is.
