He shakes his head at the nickname that Aidan gave him and Charlie’s friends adopted. “Do you want me to come? If not, I can go round to see Dad and Aidan.”

“No, I want you to come,” I say quickly.

“Why?”

I shrug. “It’s easier.”

He turns back to his toast, and I realise two things. One, I’m staring at his perfectly shaped backside, and, two, Sam and Aidan are watching me do it. Sam has a massive smile on his face, and Aidan’s eyebrow is cocked in that wicked way it has.

I shake my head repressively at them. “Oh, thank you,” I say in surprise when Charlie puts a plate of toast in front of me. “Is that Marmite? You hate Marmite.”

“It tastes like gravy jelly, but you like it for some strange reason.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m making Bolognese for dinner. Do you want some?”

I catalogue the blue eyes that are the colour of my favourite pair of jeans, the mouth that’s almost too wide for his face, and all that beautiful hair waving onto his shoulders in shades of butterscotch and toffee. He’s glowing in the sunlit kitchen.

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m out tonight.”

If my usual hook-up partner isn’t around, I’m going on Grindr. Every time I’ve looked at Charlie in the last few days, I get a jolt of awareness, and I need to nip that shit in the bud.

Objectively, I know he’s stunning. Last time we were out at a pub, a bloke walked into the jukebox because he was staring so hard at him. I’ve become accustomed to Charlie’s looks over the years of being his friend, and I need to carry on with that programme. I don’t know whether it’s because we’re living together for the first time or that I haven’t had a shag recently, but something’s changed, and I need to put an end to it. Charlie is staying in my friend box.

* * *

Later that evening, the constant ring of the doorbell alerts me to the fact that something is different about my flat. I don’t usually encourage people to come round here, preferring to meet them out. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is my quiet oasis that I still treasure even four years after moving out of my mum’s house and leaving the bathroom for the three women to fight over. I shudder at the thought of those mornings. Even my old flatmate had been a virtual stranger. A long-haul flight attendant, he was out of the country more than he was in it.

The bell rings again, and I narrow my eyes. Who the fuck is here? I’m meeting my Grindr hook-up at a bar, so it’s definitely not someone for me. I hear laughter and speed up getting dressed, slipping into my skinny black jeans and black T-shirt. After grabbing my old Clutch Cafe motorcycle jacket, I open the door and am immediately assaulted by the most delicious smell of baking.