We woke late—well, late by Oliver’s standards so, like, nine—although I kept him in bed for another hour or so by octopusing myself around him and refusing to let go until he told me very firmly he needed the bathroom. While he was abluting, and probably remembering to floss and all of those other things we’re supposed to do but don’t, I dug out my phone and called work.

“Coleoptera Research, Protection… Oh no, wait, that’s not right.” Apparently I’d got Alex. “Coleoptera Research, Reunification, and—bother. Coleoptera Rescue, Research, and—”

“It’s me.”

“Me who?”

“Me Luc.”

“I’m sorry, Luc’s not in yet. Alexander Twaddle speaking.”

“No, I know who you are, Alex. I’m Luc. Luc is me.”

“Oh.” I could hear him thinking. “Then why did you say you wanted to speak to Luc?”

“I didn—I’m sorry, I must have misspoken.”

“Don’t worry, it’s easily done, old thing. Only yesterday, I answered the phone with ‘Good afternoon’ and then realised it was only 11:30.”

“Alex,” I said slowly, “wasn’t yesterday Sunday?”

“Gosh. So it was. I thought it was a bit quiet.”

“Anyway.” If I didn’t stop this now, we’d be here all week. “I called to say I’m not feeling so great and I won’t be coming in today.”

He made a sound of genuine sympathy. “How beastly for you. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, just had a rough couple of days.”

“I know the feeling. Last month my valet was sick and I could barely keep it together.”

“I’m trying to be strong.”

“Take all the time you need. A good man is hard to find.”

At this moment, Oliver came out the bathroom, stripped to the waist. “I think,” I said, “I’ll be okay on that front.”

“Glad to hear it. Toodle pip.”

I hung up and tried not stare too gormlessly at Oliver—which was easier than it might have been, since my phone was trying to notify itself into an embolism. Glancing into WhatsApp—the group was quiet, and currently named You Can Luc (But You Better Not Touch)—I got Bridged in the face by private message:

LUC ARE YOU OKAY

WHAT HAPEPEND WITH OLIVER

LUC

LUC ARE YOU OKAY

LUC

LUC

ARE YOU OKAY

IS EVERYTHING OKAY

Oliver’s lips twitched. Given he also knew Bridge, he’d probably also fallen victim to her texting. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come down when you’re ready.”

Yes, I typed, sorry for the silence. It’s all good. We talked about feelings and Miles and shit

OMG ARE YOU KSSIING RIGHT NOW??????

No Bridge. I’m texting you

WELLS TOPI T AND GO KISS OLIVER

ANYWAY G2G BEAUSE GEOPOLITICAL UPHEAVEL HAS LED TO PULP PAPER SHORTAGE IN TWICKENHAM

AND SO NONE OF OUR BOOKS ARE GETTING PRIPNTED

AHHHHHHHHHHH

Good luck with that. Thank you for last night

ANYTIME G2G

Pulling on Oliver’s dressing gown, I headed downstairs. Oliver was eating something scarily healthy-looking from a mason jar, and reading the Financial Times on his iPad. God, he was adorable.

“There’s toast.” He glanced up, looking like some kind of weird and highly specific porno for people who are really into incredibly cut men and funny-coloured newspapers. “Or fruit. Or bircher. I can make porridge if you prefer.”

I was still a bit too emotioned out for that much fibre. So I helped myself to a banana, from a bunch that hung from what appeared to be a bespoke banana hanging place, next to, but not in, the offensively well-stocked fruit bowl.

“What’s with the…?” I pointed. “Do you have a problem with bananas?”

“Not personally. But they release ethylene, which is a ripening agent, and can cause other fruit to go bad.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I’m sorry. Would you rather I’d said that I was concerned about treason in my fruit bowl and strung them from a gibbet pour encourager les autres.”

“You remember that time I pretended I spoke to French to impress you? Well, I still can’t.”

He laughed and pulled me into a kiss—which got me not quite into his lap but very much lap adjacent. “You don’t need to speak French to impress me.”

My heart stuttered. But I still wasn’t used to all of this…intimacy and okayness. “What are you eating?” I blurted out instead. “It looks like spunk with fruit in it.”

“Thank you, Lucien. You always know exactly what to say.”

Sheepishly, I nuzzled into his neck and was thrilled by the discovery of his…whatever the opposite of a five-o’clock shadow is. The prickle of hair under my lips a reminder that I was still here. That we both were. Together.

“It’s bircher,” he went on. “Oats, soaked overnight in almond milk and—as you correctly observe—fruit. But, to the best of my knowledge, no semen, human or otherwise.”

“So it’s cold porridge?”

“A lot lighter and fresher—but substantial enough to keep me going through a court case. Also I can make it at the start of the week and it sees me through until Saturday, which is convenient.”

I was smiling helplessly at him. “Do you put little labels on the jars so you know which is for which day?”

“No.” He gave me a stern look that, somehow, wasn’t stern at all. “Bircher is fungible.”

“Well, if it goes fungible, you probably shouldn’t eat it.”

He laughed, somewhat indulgently. But, hey, I could get used to being indulged—especially by Oliver.

Chapter 34

I’d spent the rest of Monday with Oliver, feeling fragile but content, in a sort of snow-day haze. We’d talked so much the night before that we didn’t have much to say to each other, but that was good somehow. Oliver had mostly sat decorously on his sofa, reading The Song of Achilles, and I’d mostly sprawled over him napping. I hoped I wasn’t going to keep having emotions, because it would get really tiring really fast. Then in the middle of the afternoon, and despite my protests, he’d insisted that we go for a walk, which had turned out to be far nicer than a walk round Clerkenwell had any right to be.