Cole yanked the keys out fiercely, throwing them at the couch and missing by at least a good foot. "I don't need help," he snapped. "My wrists are fine, okay? I'm not getting anything looked at because I don't need it." Rounding on her, he saw too late that she was blocking the doorway. For a brief second the ugly temptation to just slam the door shut anyway reared its head, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, so instead he just shook his head in frustration and turned away. If she wanted to pretend like everything was fine and he hadn't been seconds away from gutting her with a goddamn knife, then that was her choice.
He made his way into the kitchen, searching for a way to keep his hands from shaking and his mind from racing. He didn't want to deal with anything right now: the memories, Jacob, the feeling of slipping a knife in flesh and taking a life - none of it. He was pushing her away because he loved her, because it was best for her and he wasn't safe - why couldn't she see that?