I blink at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit,” he repeats calmly, nodding toward one of the kitchen chairs.
“I’m fine.”
He stares at me.
I stare back.
Then Hank chooses that exact moment to lean harder against my legs, nearly knocking me sideways.
“Traitor,” I mutter to the dog.
Cole reaches out and takes my arm before I can wobble any further.
“Chair,” he says again.
This time I don’t argue.
Mostly because the room is starting to feel a little spinny, which I absolutely refuse to admit out loud.
I sit down at the kitchen table with a quiet sigh while Cole walks into the kitchen like he already lives here. He starts opening drawers without asking, scanning through them like he’s looking for something specific.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking for a towel.”
“You could’ve just asked.”
“I could’ve,” he says, pulling open another drawer.
A second later he finds what he’s looking for and grabs a clean kitchen towel. Then he moves to the freezer, opens it, and pulls out a bag of frozen corn.
I watch him the whole time.
“You’re very bossy in other people’s houses,” I tell him.
“You’re very reckless in other people’s crime scenes,” he replies.
Fair.
He wraps the towel around the bag of corn and walks back over to me.
“Hold still.”
I open my mouth to protest.
Then he gently presses the cold pack against my cheek.
The shock of the cold makes me suck in a breath.
“Jesus.”
“Keep it there.”
The ice dulls the throbbing almost immediately, and I let out a quiet breath while leaning back slightly in the chair.
