Charlie shifts again and turns over, throwing one long arm over me. He nestles his face into my shoulder and gives a sleepy sound of contentment. My stomach dips in a fashion that’s become familiar to me since I started this with him. It happens when he smiles at me, his blue eyes shining with happiness, when he cuddles up on the sofa with me, when he makes me toast and kisses the crumbs from my lips. It happens all the bloody time. At first I thought I was coming down with something. I even took some Rennie. Unfortunately, I knew even then that this was just the side effect of being Charlie Burroughs’ boyfriend.

Boyfriend. I huff and rake my hand down my face, still being careful not to wake him. I try the word out again. I am the boyfriend of Charlie Burroughs. The man who I thought of as a friend for so long is now the man I look for first in the morning and last thing at night. He’s the person I think of and smile like a twat over during the day. He’s the source of my absentmindedness during work and my intense focus when we’re together.

We’d decided on the first night of being together that, if we were going to do this properly, then we would have to keep our separate bedrooms. We would need to date, he said earnestly. And try to keep some things separate, because otherwise we’d end up breaking up. Space was imperative, according to him.

I’d nodded and agreed and left him at his door with a passionate kiss. I’d also smiled when the knock on my bedroom door came an hour later, sitting up and pulling the duvet back so he could slide into bed with me. He never went back to his own room.

I kiss his forehead, inhaling the scent of pears from his shampoo. It’s always fruity. He changes it every week, and it seems to be entirely dependent on what fruit is his favourite at the time. His silky hair is spread over my chest and tickling my chin. I don’t know what to do with all these feelings. I had my first sexual encounter when I was fifteen. I never looked back, and I never got involved. Until now.