Page 72 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

“This.” His voice rose.

She got up and hobbled into the kitchen.

Hudson stood back from the open fridge door. “This isn’t a kitchen. This is where food comes to die.” His phone was in his hand, thumb moving across the screen as if he was building an operational plan from the wreckage of her dairy shelf.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a list.”

“For my refrigerator?”

“For the crime scene inside your refrigerator.”

The open fridge offered its evidence without shame: two beers, mustard, a takeout container, half a tub of yogurt that had surrendered sometime last week, an apple with a soft spot.

Hudson looked at her.

She looked at the fridge. “It’s been a busy week.”

“That yogurt is older than my case file.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m willing to testify.”

She wanted to laugh but felt too tired to hold herself upright.

His gaze moved over her face, then lower, to where her hands were trembling. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m cold.”

“No, you’re crashing.”

“I’m standing in front of an open refrigerator in November.”

He shut the door and turned fully toward her. “Warm bath. Shallow water. Door stays unlocked.”

“Is that an order?”

“Recommendation.”

“Sounds like an order.”

“Professional recommendation.”

“I am not⁠—”

“Sarah.”

Marshal voice met Sheriff voice. His won.

“Fine,” she said. “But only because you’re annoying.”

“I’ll take it.” He moved ahead of her and picked up the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around her shoulders, careful not to jar her.

His hands stayed there a second, light at the edges of the fleece. Sarah didn’t move. She allowed herself those two quiet seconds.

Hudson stepped back without a word.