“It’s not about over-the-top gestures to me,” he finally says almost shyly. “It’s all the tiny moments that go to make a real love story. The funny things that go wrong like when one of you forgets your anniversary or does something silly. They all become part of your story. And you add to it with every argument or slammed door that you have. Every birthday or Christmas that you mould into a thing that only the two of you recognise. It’s taking care of each other when you’re throwing up or have a cold, it’s huddling under the duvet together laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It’s holding the other one when they’re frightened, knowing you will do anything to make them feel better again. It’s like being two pebbles on a beach. You start off individual shapes and then the weather and proximity means you rub the rough spots off so in the end you’re smooth with a patina that only echoes one other person.”

He falls silent, going red, and I stare at him with my mouth open. I want that, I realise fiercely. I want that so much and I want it all with him. I need to be with him over the years, watching the grey appearing in his hair, laughing together and living and fighting. I want to be near him. I can’t say that though.

“Well, Zeb,” I say slowly. “It isn’t box office material, that’s for sure.”

He starts to laugh, pulling me down and hugging me, and I push my face into his neck, feeling the soft skin under my lips.

I send my hand over the sleek, tight skin of his hipbones. “Do you really want to get out of bed?” I say finally. “Because I have to say there are a couple of positions we haven’t tried yet, and you’ve obviously ruled out the entirety of Hollywood’s offerings.”

“A couple of positions? There surely can’t be any more. We could rewrite the Kama Sutra.”

“One should always have goals,” I say, mimicking the stuffy voice he’s always used in my appraisals.

He laughs, but at that second his phone beeps again like fucking clockwork. I grumble as he detaches himself, but as soon as he’s grabbed his phone I reattach myself to him like a limpet.

“Who is it?” I ask idly, following with my fingers the trail of black hair that leads from his belly button to his cock where it flares out.

There’s a long silence before he says, “It’s Patrick.”

I come up on my elbow. “What does he want now?”