I wake up on the sofa again, groaning when my stiff neck resists me turning my head. But then I see Emma standing over me, holding out a steaming mug of coffee. “Can we talk,” she asks.

I bolt upright, shooting out an arm to drape over her shoulders, and remember that we’ve been fighting. I draw my arm back and nod, sinking back onto the sofa. She starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Thatcher.”

“Hey.” I risk putting an arm around her, and I sigh in relief ...