A clicking of claws sounds out on the floor and then a bundle of fur leaps at me from the shadows. “Clarence,” I whisper. “Were you lying on the bed, you naughty little monster. You know Daddy doesn’t like it.” I laugh. “Just like he doesn’t appreciate me calling him Daddy.”

The dog pants and tries to lick my chin, his little face creased in what looks like a smile. When I encouraged Zeb to get a dog – okay, when I forced Zeb to get a dog – I thought he’d go for a pedigree dog. Something expensive and well groomed. Instead he marched off to the local dogs’ home and came back with something small and unkempt that looked very much like a tiny sheep on spindly legs. God knows what breed Clarence is. There’s some terrier in there and a few other breeds, but he’s a bundle of love and slobber and he adores Zeb beyond reason. Wherever he is, you can be sure to find Clarence. The dog accepts me as an extension of Zeb, but we both know who his master is.

I take off my jacket, slinging it onto the back of the sofa, and wander into the kitchen, followed closely by Clarence who sussed out very early on that I’m a soft touch and will always slip him food. There’s another lamp on in here and a plate on the island with a note propped against it. In Zeb’s neat writing is written I’ve left you some lasagne, love. I want you to eat it or you’ll be ill.

I smile at the prosaic note that still somehow manages to punch me in the heart. I’ve found that Zeb is very much like this in love. He doesn’t overwhelm me with questions and demands. Instead he thinks hard and studies me and always looks after me. And because he’s studied me over the months so intently and lovingly, he somehow gets it right every time.

I’d texted him when I knew I was going to be late without going into detail. But still he’d known that I needed him, and this is his way of showing me that he’s with me always, regardless of physical presence, with my favourite meal that he learnt to cook from my mother.

I heat it up in the microwave, inhaling the delicious scent and feeling my mouth water and the knot in my stomach unravel. I love my job passionately. I think I’m good at it, and I know I’m helping people, but it still takes a toll, and it’s good to be home. I still as the microwave dings. Home. Is this my home?