He flushes, and I immediately relent. For some reason, when he’s uncomfortable, it makes me the same. I’ve given up trying to rationalise why.

He rallies and busies himself in my kitchen. “Go and shower,” he tells me. “I’ll nip Endof out for a pee, and then I’ll make your drink.”

Unable to think of a reason not to obey him, I do as I’m told and head off to have a shower.

When I come back into my lounge, I find him standing a wary distance back from the window, looking out on the view. Night has fallen and the wraparound balcony is dark, the patio furniture shadowed humps. His face is introspective, the usual vitality missing, and I can see how tired he is. Endof barks and whisks over, wagging his tail and letting Laurie know that I’m here.

He turns and immediately smiles, masking his expression. I frown.

“Feeling better?” he says. “I’ve got rid of Endof’s basket.” His lip twitches. “It was spread rather comprehensively over the flat.”

“Endof is a dog of big statements,” I inform him.

He smiles. “Like his daddy.”

“Laurie,” I warn.

He laughs out loud. “Come on. I’ll make your milk.”

“And one for yourself.”

He raises one eyebrow in question, so I elaborate. “If you’re experimenting on me, I demand to see you drink one first.” His eyes narrow, and I assume an innocent expression. “It’s only sensible. You could be drugging me to have your way with me.”

“I’ve already had my way with you, and it didn’t take any drugs.”

“That is because I am manifestly easy,” I inform him.

For some reason, my statement tickles him. He’s still laughing as he heats milk on the coffee machine. It makes a noise like a steam roller.

I settle myself at the breakfast bar and watch him. He looks at home, but then I’ve come to realise that this is a defining characteristic of his. He’s supremely and quietly confident. Warm and comfortable. Nothing stumps him.

He pours the milk into two mugs and slides one in front of me. “Silky milk,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“We used to call it that when we were kids. It’s the whisking. It makes it feel silky.”

“Do you know what does feel silky?” He raises an eyebrow. “An espresso martini,” I offer.

He dismisses that with an airy wave of his hand and hunts in the cupboard before exclaiming in triumph and withdrawing the tin of biscuits. “Homemade ginger biscuits,” he says. “Lovely.”

He sits himself down at the counter next to me and removes a biscuit before leaning over and dipping it in my milk.

“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to keep the humour from my voice.