He’ll be fine, I told myself. If anyone knows what he’s doing, it’s Alex.

Behind me, I heard Seb get up and move to the bottom of the stairs. “They’ve gone out?”

“Yeah, they’ve gone on a hunt.” I jogged down the stairs, brushing past Seb as he stood there, and started gathering up the cushions from the floor. “So I guess we can go upstairs to the TV room, where it’s comfier.”

Seb took the cushions from me, tucking them easily under his arm. “Yes, that sounds better.”

Upstairs, we put the cushions back on the sofa and then went into the kitchen to get some Cokes. There was always plenty of stuff like that in the house – half the supplies in the boxes upstairs were things like canned food and drinks; the other half was ammo and combat gear. It was like Juan had been preparing for a siege.

I handed Seb a Coke and then kept the fridge door open a second, peering in. “Do you want anything to eat?”

He made a face as he popped the Coke open. “The food here is very...American,” he said.

I glanced at him over the fridge door. “What? Like what?”

Seb shrugged. “Cheetos, Doritos, stuff like that,” he said, leaning against the counter. I saw the muscles of his chest flex under his T-shirt and looked quickly back into the fridge again. What is wrong with you? I demanded of myself, irritated. You’re in love with Alex – why are you even noticing Seb?

“Doritos are sort of like Mexican food though, aren’t they?” My voice sounded thankfully normal.

Seb laughed, and picked up a bag from the counter. “Willow – they’re orange,” he said, holding them up. “And the Cheetos are also orange. They’re both bright, bright orange.” He shuddered. He had a point, actually.

I laughed too, and felt my tension ease. “Okay, I admit the nacho cheese Doritos probably aren’t very Mexican,” I said, still scanning the fridge. There wasn’t much in there – the guys all ate like horses, so that we didn’t have leftovers very often. “I meant the plain ones, that you eat with salsa.”

“Maybe a little,” Seb conceded, tossing the bag back onto the counter.

I closed the fridge door and grabbed a bag of chocolate-chip cookies from the counter behind him. “Here – everyone likes chocolate-chip cookies,” I said, handing them to him. “Including Mexicans. And there’s no orange in them.”

He grinned. “You promise?”

“Sí, I promise.”

In the TV room, I sat on the sofa. Part of me was hoping Seb would take the armchair, but he sat beside me. Not right beside me, but I was very conscious of him there, just a few feet away. Trying to ignore it, I kicked off my shoes and settled back in the corner of the sofa.