After lowering Misha onto the huge leather sectional, I race to the cupboard to grab a spare pillow and the old eiderdown that used to be my poorly blanket when I was a kid. My mum made it, and it’s covered in bluebells and smells of lavender. It makes me happy to think that I’m keeping Misha warm with it.

We cover him up, and then Aidan ruffles his hair affectionately. “Misha, sweetie. I adore you always and think of you as another son. But if you throw up on my new sofa, that adoration is going to take a very painful turn. Do you understand?”

Misha pats his cheek. “Love you, Daddy Aidan.”

“And my work is done.” Aidan straightens up. “You going to be okay with him on your own?” he asks me.

“Of course I will.”

“Okay.” He grabs his suit jacket. “I’m off to the reception. Sam’s waiting, and weddings always make him feel romantic, if you know what I mean.” He winks at me.

I gag. “Far too much information.”

He laughs and bids me goodnight, and within seconds I hear the front door slam.

I bend over Misha. His hair is a wavy mess, his mouth is open, and he smells like a whisky distillery, but at this moment he’s impossibly dear to me.

“You’re a bit of a twat at times, but I really, really love you,” I say fiercely, kissing him on the cheek. My answer is a soft snore.

I put the wastepaper basket next to him within easy retching distance along with some paracetamol and a glass of water, and then settle back on the other side of the sofa. I bunch the cushions behind my head and pull a couple of woollen throws over me from the back of the sofa. Switching the television on low, I settle in for a long night.

I come awake, slowly aware of someone stroking my hair. I open my eyes blearily and look up at Misha, who is bending over me. His shirt is gone as are his socks and shoes. All he’s wearing are his suit trousers, and they hang low on his narrow hips giving me a glimpse of sharp hipbones and the start of his V line. He’s golden all over in the low lamplight.

“Are you alright?” I ask, coming up on my elbows and staring at him.

“I feel like shit,” he mutters. “But hopefully the tablets will kick in before my brain explodes.” He hesitates and then gestures at my nest of throws. “Can I get in there, then?” he says abruptly.

I startle. “Of course you can.”

I raise the covers and edge up on the cushions. Thankfully there’s plenty of room, and it’s insanely comfortable. He settles next to me. His body is warm against mine, and for a few awkward minutes, we lie in silence.