He shrugs. “They’re good for the moment,” he says quickly, as though he’s feeling superstitious. “I could have another tomorrow.”

“You could,” I say calmly. “And we’d deal. Same as usual.”

“Same as usual,” he echoes and hugs me again.

I force my fucking mad brain away from its immediate preoccupation with how his long body feels against me and how happy his scent makes me. He smells of vanilla, and it’s warm and rich. His hair brushes silkily against my face, and to my horror, I feel my dick twitch. No. No fucking way.

I jerk backwards and stumble on his case. My arms windmill as I struggle to keep my balance.

“Are you alright, Misha?” he asks as he braces me.

“Don’t think I can’t hear the laughter in your voice,” I say darkly, and he bursts into peals of laughter. I try to frown, but I’m so fucking happy to hear that merry sound again that I just grin at him like a fucking muppet.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You just looked so funny.” He snorts and starts to laugh again.

I sigh long-sufferingly. “Oh, just carry on laughing, twatface.” He gets himself under control, and I smile at him. “I’m so glad to see you.”

The honesty is stark in my voice. It speaks of how much I’ve missed him and how lonely I’ve felt.

He immediately nods in complete understanding. “I felt like I’d had my arm chopped off,” he says softly.

We smile at each other, and then I make hasty steps to undercut the mushiness. “Glad it wasn’t your right arm. You’ll need that for all the wanking you’ll be doing now you’re a single man.” He stares at me, and a thought stuns me. “Unless you met someone down there?”

The idea makes me reel. I’m struck by an image of him moving to Norfolk and marrying a farmer and spending his days spinning straw. I then realise that I’ve inadvertently made him into Rumpelstiltskin due to a complete absence of knowledge as to what farmers actually fucking do.

“No bloke,” he says, his dimple popping suddenly. “But maybe that’ll change now.”

“Why?” I whisper, thrown by how glad I am that he’s not met anyone. The idea has never bothered me before. He’s a serial monogamist, always looking for the one, while I’m the reverse and always looking for the anyone right now.

“Didn’t you say that you’d find me a bloke?” He grins. “Now that’s something I’d pay to see. You as a matchmaker.”

“Did I say that?” My stomach sinks like I’m standing in a lift.

He looks at me as if he’s finally realised that I’m steadily losing my mind. “I was joking, Misha,” he says.