I groan. This is like those times when you get home and you’re parched and also dying for a pee, and it’s impossible to know which to tackle first. They all sound amazing, but the thought of falling into Brendan’s wonderful, clean bed while I’m this crusty is too revolting. I’ll feel amazing if I have a good wash.

‘A shower would be amazing.’

He jerks his head. ‘This way.’

I follow him through a set of double doors into a master suite that’s all slick neutrals and fresh flowers. The bed is untouched, his bag still sitting on it. They must have checked in and headed straight to the hospital. Beyond that is a glorious white marble bathroom with a tub I could happily drift off in and a shower cubicle the size of a football pitch.

He heads straight for it and opens the glass door, cranking on the shower so that a torrent of water bursts instantly to life. I glance around the bathroom, second-guessing myself. Now that I’m away from the hospital and in this place of luxurious stillness, I’ve hit a brick wall. I don’t even know if I have the strength to wash my hair. Everything feels like so much effort. Maybe I should just go to bed first, crustiness be damned.

‘Hey,’ Brendan says, coming towards me. ‘You okay? You’re white as a sheet.’

I nod. ‘Just tired. I’m fine.’ Saying the words takes so much effort. I sway slightly on the spot, and he grabs my biceps.

‘Woah. You’re on your last legs, aren’t you? Okay, look. I know I’m probably not your favourite person at the moment, given my little stunt last week, and I won’t try anything funny, I promise… but let me take care of you, please. You can lean against me while I wash you, at least.’

The thing is, I trust this version of Brendan. I trust most versions of him. There’s no swagger today. He’s here, and that speaks volumes. I don’t know if it’s guilt or a misplaced sense of duty, but I know in this moment he has my back.

That, and I’m not sure I can make it through a shower in one piece without some help.

‘Okay,’ I say, and he nods.

‘Okay. Good. Here. Sit here.’

He settles me on the toilet seat as he strips off his clothing, tugging on the back of his t-shirt and pulling it over his head before losing his shoes and socks and shoving down his jeans and boxer briefs. It’s a testament to how exhausted I am that I can’t muster up more of a reaction than vague appreciation, even when he walks towards me in all his naked glory.

‘Your turn, love. Up you get.’