His expression is blank when he turns round, and much as I try to search his face, I get nothing because he’s locked down tight.

“Jesse,” I say, hating the begging note in my voice but unable to hide it. “I’m–”

“There’s really no need to say sorry again,” he says coldly. “I knew this was going to happen.” He gives a humourless laugh that really doesn’t suit him. “Maybe I should start predicting the outcome of the World Cup, seeing as I’ve been gifted with foresight. I’m much better than an octopus.”

It’s his first display of emotion since that lovely smile when he woke up. I watch a muscle tic wildly in his jaw, belying his flippant words as he drags a white T-shirt over his head and disappears into the bathroom. I get up from the bed, still clutching the ridiculous sheet to myself.

“Can we just…” I manage to get out before he shuts the door in my face. To add to the cold feel of the room I hear the lock turn.

“Jesse,” I say softly, banging my head against the door, wishing I could do it hard enough to smash some sense into my head. My brain is whirling with confusion. “I’m so sorry. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. You’re so wonderful. You’re funny and beautiful and brave and so full of life. There is no way as an adult that I should in good conscience damage that. And I will damage it. I’ll hurt you, because I’m too closed off.” I think of all the things Patrick had thrown at me. “I’m cold and obsessed with order and way too regimented for someone as full of life as you.”

The door opens, and I sway before regaining my balance.

“That’s the trouble, Zeb,” he says icily. “You’re talking to me like an adult to a child. I’m twenty-four. I’m an adult too, but I’ll never be one in your eyes because you categorised me three years ago and filed me in the wrong fucking place. But you’re too stubborn to admit that you made a mistake, so here I am. Still on your shelf with the wrong label.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” he scoffs.

“But I was rude,” I persist diligently. “I just panicked.”

He laughs, and there is none of the usual rich humour about it. It sounds horrible. “Why the fuck would you panic, Zeb? We slept together. That’s it. Panic should be reserved for running away from tornados or erupting volcanos. Not sleeping with the office joke who will be forgotten as soon as he leaves.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” I say angrily as he marches towards the door, grabbing an amber-coloured jacket as he goes. “No, you wait a fucking minute. You’re not going to be forgotten like that and who the fuck ever called you the office joke? Wait, where are you going?”