“How long was I out?” I croak.

“Only a couple of minutes,” he says brightly.

How is it that he’s so at ease when I’m not? Oblivious to my strange turmoil, he carries on talking. “I caught you before you went down, so you never banged anything.”

Silence stretches, becoming almost awkward, and a frown appears on his face.

“Thank you,” I say finally, sipping my drink and trying to parse my mood. It seems to be hovering somewhere between gratitude and mortification and maybe nestling into a bit of grumpiness. My mum always described it as being out of sorts, and that’s exactly how I feel right now.

I know Misha has always taken care of me during the turns with no sign of any turmoil and I’ve never felt a jot of embarrassment, even when I pissed myself once. But I’m not sure how I feel to have him taking care of me now that we’re lovers. If I were a cat, my fur would be raised.

I open my mouth to say something to break the silence, but instead I yawn widely. My head is throbbing.

“Why don’t you sleep?” Misha says. His voice is confident and warm, and his expression fond. He pushes my hair back. “You always feel terrible after one of these turns.”

“I need to record it,” I mutter. “For Freda.”

“Will she up your meds?”

“I don’t bloody know,” I snap. Where did that come from? “Sorry,” I mumble, grabbing his hand as he goes to move away. “I just want to be rid of them. I want them to stop like they did last time.”

“But Freda said it would take time to get you stabilised again and this is the first time you’ve had one in a week. That’s good, isn’t it?” he says coaxingly like he’s talking to a seven-year-old.

“I suppose so,” I whisper and close my eyes, the image of me lying naked in front of him while I had a seizure playing in my head. Not exactly sexy. For a split second I think of all the perfect-looking men who’ve patrolled through his life. Immediately, I wince and force my eyes open.

He’s watching me steadily. “Why don’t you stay in bed?” he says softly. “Get some sleep.”

“But the wedding?”

“But nothing. You’re more important than anyone. I want you feeling okay, and you never do after a turn. You can come to the reception later.”

“Not so important that you can think of a song,” I mutter and push the duvet back.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I grumble, unsure who the crosspatch is who’s inhabiting my body at the moment.

He steps back and holds up his hands. “Okay, grumpypants, I’m going to start the shower. We’ll shower together this morning if that’s okay. You still look a bit out of it.”