Trey squats before a cheery fire, poking at embers. Beside him is a pot of steaming water and a long glass cylinder full of dark liquid.

Relief washes over his features when he sees me. “I found a coffee press,” he says. “Want some?”

“Dear god, yes.”

“You slept all night. I was getting worried.” As he pours me a mugful, I can’t help but notice his arms. He wears jeans and a gray tank top now, and he looks every inch the scholarship quarterback, with rounded deltoids and corded forearms. Without his duster coat, he’s not bulky at all, but rather lean and elegant. Even simple movements like filling up a coffee mug are done with an efficiency of motion that puts me in mind of a hunting cat.

He hands me the mug, saying, “I fed Emmaline and took her outside to do her business.”

“Thank you.” I take a sip—it’s divine—and stare into the dark steaming liquid. “You also bandaged my shoulder.” My face flushes a little. He must have pulled back the sleeve of my hoodie to do that. Weird that I slept through it.

“Paige, we need to talk about what happened at the hospital.”

My cheeks warm even more. “I really lost it out there, didn’t I? I’m so sorry—”

“Stop it.”

I snap my gaze to his. “What?”

“You keep saying you’re sorry. Stop apologizing.”

“But I can hardly stay on my feet. I’m slowing you d—”

“You’re an athlete. A leader on the battlefield, like me. I get it. But you almost died, and no one recovers from that overnight. So relax already. Focus on getting healthy.”

I take another sip and weigh his words.

“My freshman year of high school,” he says, “I decided I wanted to move up to varsity. Once I got the idea in my head, I became obsessed. I trained really hard. Came home after practice and went for an extra run. I did a hundred pushups every morning. On weekends, I went to the park with Teena and made her come after me for the sack while I practiced my footwork.”

“But you burned out?” I guess.

“Badly. Got stress fractures in my right shin and pulled my shoulder. I was benched for the rest of the year.”

“So you’re saying take it easy before I make things worse.”

“Yep.”

My mom would have agreed with him. She was always worried that I was doing too much, never cutting myself a break. Working out her own guilt, Paul told me once in confidence. For turning me into a mini-adult before I’d really had a chance to be a kid. “Okay, Coach, you win.” I take another sip. “Thanks for helping me.”

He shrugs. “You’re my best friend in the whole world.”