He takes in the scene in a single glance. The knife. The blood. My posture. His eyes aren’t distant or unreadable now—they’re sharp, focused, all business. His gaze flicks over my face, my shoulders, down my arm, checking fast for anything else that might be wrong.
“Hey,” he says, calm and even. “Let me see.”
I flinch when he moves closer, bumping the knife farther into the sink as I grab a towel and press it to my hand.
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, forcing lightness into my voice. “Just a cut. I think we’ll have to skip snacks for a bit.”
My hand is already throbbing, heat spreading up my finger, but I keep my tone steady.
Cole doesn’t comment. He turns slightly toward Liam.
“Liam, I need you to head back to the house,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “Make yourself lunch. Make some for Sofia too.”
“But Dad—”
“I know,” Cole interrupts softly. “You’re helping by doing this. Go on.”
Liam hesitates, then steps closer to me, patting my arm carefully before heading out. Cole watches him go, waits until the door closes, then turns back to me.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s take a look. Pull the towel away.”
“I should keep pressure on it—”
“You did,” he replies. “You did the right thing.”
He reaches into the lower cabinet and pulls out a well-stocked first aid kit. The kind that’s been used before. He snaps on gloves without rushing, then gently takes the towel from my hand.
The cut is clean. Still bleeding, but controlled.
“This will sting,” he warns, steady. “Try not to pull away.”
I nod, breath tight.
He rinses the wound under cool water, adjusts the angle without jarring me. His hands are sure, efficient, careful in a way that tells me this isn’t new territory for him. When he works soap gently over the cut, I hiss despite myself.
His eyes lift to my face instantly.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”
The pain fades to a dull ache as he dries my hand carefully, then examines the slice with quiet concentration.
“No need for stitches,” he says. “You got lucky.”
There’s no panic in him. No hesitation. No discomfort with the blood.
Only focus.
I should be paying attention to the bandage, to the instructions he’s giving me, but it’s hard to look away from his face. From the way his voice stays low and steady. From the way he handles me like this—competent, gentle, fully present.
This isn’t the guarded man who barely speaks to me.
This is someone else entirely.
“How are you so… okay with this?” I ask softly. Saying nothing suddenly feels wrong.
“I’ve seen worse,” he replies without looking up. Then, after a beat, “In the military.”
The words catch me off guard.
