“Misha,” Charlie says warningly and Harry grabs him, one hand lowering and squeezing his arse.

Like he’s checking it to see if it’s ripe, I think sourly.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Harry says. “It’s just Misha being funny.” He kisses Charlie’s neck.

“That’s me,” I say coolly, suppressing my frown. “So funny.”

I bite into my cake to break up the awkwardness and then groan under my breath at the taste and take another quick bite. When I look up, everyone is watching me.

“Do you want us to give you some privacy?” Zeb asks dryly, and I raise my middle finger at him.

Charlie switches his attention to the TV. “Yay,” he says happily. “It’s bread week.”

“Whatever,” Harry says with a chortle, pulling Charlie down to sit on his lap.

Charlie immediately looks rather awkward, and I narrow my eyes. Trouble in paradise? Good.

Harry squeezes his arse. “Good job you’re pretty, babe, because your TV choices aren’t exactly highbrow.”

Charlie immediately looks embarrassed, and rage stirs inside me at Harry. Patronising wanker. “What the fuck is highbrow?” I ponder. “Unless it’s a receding hairline, in which case Charlie has no worries with all that hair of his.”

Harry holds up one hand. “Whoa. No need to go on the defensive. I was just teasing, wasn’t I, babe? Charlie knows how much I love his brain. He’s the full package.” He cups Charlie’s groin, and Charlie immediately wriggles away, glaring at Harry.

I watch them, aware of the frown on my face. Charlie glances up and our gazes clash. His eyes are a stormy blue, and I immediately look away in case he decides to chastise me for sticking up for him.

The space around us provides plenty of distractions. The lounge is so drastically different from the way it looked last week. Then it had been black leather and clean lines. Now the exposed brick walls are covered in the bookshelves we’d bought this afternoon, filled by the colourful spines of Charlie’s books. The orange velvet sofa looks warm and bright against the wide wooden planks of the floor, and even the white walls look warmer somehow.

Charlie’s jacket is slung over the leather chair in the corner, and his shoes have been kicked off under the window. Usually, I’d go ballistic about any mess, but somehow it seems right. Like a home, I realise. There’s even a candle burning on the small table next to me. I roll my eyes. One day the world will run out of matches to light Charlie’s candles, such is his obsession with them. This one smells sweet like honey and reminds me of the way his bedrooms have always smelt no matter where he lived.

Rupert nudges me. “You’re deep in thought. Don’t you want to hear what Paul Hollywood has to say?”

“I’d rather eat my own tonsils.”