I laugh softly and prop myself up on one elbow, studying him for a second. He still looks slightly disoriented, like waking up in the middle of a small farm zoo wasn’t exactly part of his normal routine.
“Welcome to the farm, Cole.”
His eyes shift back to me, something warm flickering there for a second before it disappears behind that calm, steady look he usually keeps locked in place.
“…you live like this every day,” he says again, quieter this time.
I grin.
“Yep.”
I finally wiggle free of Cole’s arm and roll out of bed before Sheriff can scream himself hoarse outside. The floor is cold under my feet, and I stretch my arms over my head with a long yawn as I cross the room, grabbing a pair of leggings from the chair by the dresser. I tug them on, then pull one of my oversized hoodies over my head, the familiar softness settling around me like armor for the morning chaos that’s about to begin.
Behind me the mattress creaks.
“Where’re you going?” Cole’s voice is still thick with sleep.
I shove my hair into a messy ponytail and glance back over my shoulder at him. He’s propped up on one elbow now, watching me with that half-awake, half-alert look like his brain is still deciding if the day has actually started yet.
“Barn chores,” I say around another yawn. “Animals don’t care if I stayed up late.”
He squints toward the window when Sheriff crows again.
“Clearly.”
I grin and head for the door.
By the time I make it downstairs the house is quiet except for the faint scratching of paws moving around the kitchen and the rooster continuing his personal vendetta against sleep outside. I start the coffee maker first, because priorities, then lean against the counter for a second while it begins its slow gurgling process.
The smell hits almost immediately.
Bless.
I’m halfway through pulling on my rubber boots by the back door when I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me.
I glance up.
And there’s Cole.
He’s standing at the bottom of the staircase in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, his hair still sleep-rumpled, the fabric stretched across his shoulders in a way that makes it very difficult to remember how words work for a second.
Jesus.
This man looks good standing in my kitchen.
Like… unfairly good.
Like he belongs in some rugged workwear commercial where they hand him a truck and a chainsaw and call it a day.
I shove my foot the rest of the way into my boot and lean back against the wall, crossing my arms as I look him over with absolutely no shame.
“Whatcha doing there, hoss?”
Cole raises one eyebrow at me.
“You said farm chores.”
The way he says it is so calm and matter-of-fact that it takes me a second to realize what he means.
