“All of it. Especially when I said it wasn’t the same. Because it was.” He stared at the pavement, or possibly my bare feet. “I was shaken and upset and I pulled away, and then I was too ashamed to pull back.”

That sounded too familiar for me to be able to condemn it, even though I really wanted to. “I understand. I’m hurt, and I’m mad as hell, but I do understand.”

“I wish I hadn’t hurt you.”

“Me too but”—I shrugged—“here we are.”

There was a long silence. Oliver looked kind of uncertain and tormented, but I still wasn’t inclined to be particularly helpful.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, finally.

“Mean what?”

“Everything you said.”

I was starting to realise he did that a lot—asking you to repeat expressions of affection like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard you right. “Yes, Oliver. I meant it. That’s why I said it.”

“You think I have an eating disorder?”

He’d better not have come all this way and woken me up and exposed me to the very real possibility that Priya wouldn’t let me back in my flat to talk about my perception of his mental health. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not a medical professional. But you’re so committed to being healthy it sometimes seems unhealthy.”

“You’ve also noticed I’m very controlling. Perhaps it’s just a symptom of my being generally uptight.”

“Is this really what you want to talk about now?”

“No,” he admitted, frowning. “I’m being cowardly again. What I really wanted to ask is…did you mean it when you said you…you know.”

“When I said”—for someone who didn’t like talking about feelings and shit, the words came easily for once—“I loved you?”

He nodded, somewhat abashed.

“Of course I fucking love you. That’s why I turned up on your doorstep and made a complete idiot of myself. Again.”

“Um.” Oliver shuffled. “I’d hope it’s obvious, but in case it’s not…I’m on your doorstep now. And I’m also feeling rather foolish.”

“You’re not the one in your underwear.” He was looking incredibly lost, and I…I was such a fucking sap I couldn’t stand it. “Oliver,” I said, “do you have something you want to tell me?”

“So many things, I hardly know where to begin.”

“How about you start with the one I clearly need to hear?”

“Then”—he gave me this amazing look, all dignity and vulnerability mushed up together—“I’m in love with you, Lucien. But it seems hardly adequate.”

I’d always figured it was, y’know, ILY that was the important bit. Except any prick could say that and a bunch of them already had. Only Oliver would follow it up with “but it seems hardly adequate.” In spite of myself, I smiled. “You’ve forgotten my incredibly low standards.”

“I’ve still got a lot to figure out in this regard,” he murmured, “but you’ve helped me realise that, very often, standards are bullshit.”

Okay. That was even better than “but it hardly seems adequate.”

I kissed him. Or he kissed me. I couldn’t tell who’d started it. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that we were kissing. I missed you kisses. And I want you kisses. And we’re better together kisses. And kisses that felt like sorry. And kisses that felt like promises. And kisses that could be tomorrow and the next day and the next.

Afterwards the sky was bright with new sunlight, pristine and blue and endless. And we sat on my doorstep, knees and shoulders touching, while Shepherd’s Bush stirred sleepily around us.

“I should probably tell you,” Oliver told me, “that I’ve thought a lot about what you said. About me and my parents and…how I live my life.”

I gave him a slightly worried look. “Don’t overdo it. I’m not sure I handled any of that at all well.”

“I’m not sure there’s a good way to handle it. But I trust you, and that gave me perspective. Of course, I’m still not sure what to do with that perspective, but it helps.”

“Well, if it takes you less than twenty-eight years, you’re doing better than me.”

“It’s not a competition. And actually”—he gave a soft, slightly bitter laugh—“it’s looking like twenty-eight years is about right.”

“Family’s hard. But you know you’ve got me, right? Um, not as a replacement. But, like, a bonus.”

“You’re more than a bonus, Lucien. You’re integral.”

Oh, be still my beating heart. And I wasn’t even being sarcastic.

He stirred nervously at my side. “I’m conscious this could be rather burdensome to hear, but you remain the thing I have most chosen for myself. The thing that’s most exclusively mine. The one that brings me the deepest joy.”

“Ooof…” The old me would have run a fucking mile. “I’m not sure I feel burdened. I feel…amazed I could be that for you. But I’m up for it.”

“I’ve been attracted to you for a long time. Ever since I saw you at that awful party, and you seemed so impossibly free. Although I do think it was rather pathetic of me to agree to be your fake boyfriend.”

“Hey,” I pointed out, “I asked you to be my fake boyfriend. That’s way more pathetic.”

“In any case, I wasn’t prepared for the truth of you.”

I squirmed, sort of delighted, but also incredibly embarrassed. Because I was still not good with feelings and Oliver apparently had a lot of them. And I guess so did I. “Right back atcha, kid.”

“Don’t diminish this, Lucien. You’ve done things for me that nobody’s ever done before.”

“What, you mean—run to Durham for no reason?”

“Seen me. Stood up for me. Fought to keep me.”

Through Oliver’s eyes, I was starting to sound like a pretty cool person. “Fucking hell. You do not do anything by halves, do you?”

The corners of his lips turned up. “In case you haven’t noticed, neither do you.”

I tucked my head against his shoulder, and he put an arm around me. “You know, I’m not super sure how we actually boyfriend.”

“I suppose we behave much as we did when we were fake boyfriending. It seemed to work for us.”