I blink at the sight of the tortoiseshell glasses he has on and his air of quiet determination. It’s such a radical sea change from the way he normally appears in my office, dripping laughter like water after a refreshing shower.

He curses slightly and taps crossly on the keyboard. Something makes his head shoot up, and he stares at me for a long second, his face cloudy with concentration. Then it clears, and he smiles delightedly. I shift awkwardly. He always looks at me like that, as if he’s discovered something wonderful that pleases him tremendously.

“Zeb,” he says happily. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.” It’s more of a question than I’d like because at three in the morning I was awakened by the fact that I was tucked up tight behind him, my cock snuggled happily in the crease of his arse and my arm slung over his narrow waist. I’d shot straight over the other side of the bed so fast I’m sure I left scorch marks on the cotton. It had taken me ages to get to sleep again. Luckily, he hadn’t woken.

“Come and sit down,” he urges, kicking out a chair for me. “I ordered some breakfast. There are croissants and pastries in the basket and a pot of tea here for you. It should still be warm.”

“I usually just have muesli,” I say doubtfully, and he groans.

“That does not surprise me.”

“I thought you might have gone downstairs,” I murmur, taking a plate and the croissant he hands me.

He grimaces. “No, I thought it would be much more pleasant sitting up here away from everyone.”

The croissant is soft and warm in my hand, and I’m suddenly starving. I don’t normally eat much in the morning as my stomach twists and hurts until I’ve got some work done and off my mind. But it seems different today, sitting on the sunlit balcony with him smiling at me. I spread damson jam over the pastry and look at him as he pours me a cup of tea. I’d love to know how he knows how I take it.

I pull myself back to the conversation. “It’s clay pigeon shooting today,” I say through a mouthful of food. “God, this is lovely.”

He looks absurdly pleased and starts to spread jam on another croissant. “Here,” he says.

“Oh, I shouldn’t.”

He shrugs. “Not sure why not.”

“Well, they’re a bit fattening.”

He looks me up and down. “You’re in fantastic shape,” he says in a low voice. “I think you can spare the time to spoil yourself.”

I’m absurdly pleased and immediately seek to divert the conversation. “What are you doing?” I ask, nodding at the computer.

“Oh, it’s my last paper.” He stares at the laptop. “Once I’ve finished this, I’m done.”

“Done with what?”

“My degree.”