Mostly, I’d been teasing, and I’d thought he was to begin with, but somewhere down the line we’d snagged on the brambles of an old argument. “I’m sorry about the plate,” I said. “I’d genuinely kind of…stopped seeing it. But I haven’t done it again. And, you know, you can always say: ‘Luc, pick up your shit.’ Or rather”—I did my best Oliver, which was nowhere near as good as the real thing—“‘Lucien, please rationalise your paraphernalia.’”

His lips twitched. “I do not sound like that.”

“You sound a bit like that. Also, I’m still upset you said I never shower.”

“I didn’t say you never showered. I just pointed out that sometimes you skip a day.”

“Everybody skips a day,” I insisted. “It’s healthy. For natural oils and things. And it’s not like I smell—oh my God, do I smell? You’d tell me if I smelled, right? Except you didn’t tell me about that plate.”

He undid the top button of his shirt. “Yes, I’d tell you if you smelled, which you don’t. I was trying to make a lighthearted reference to the fact that you’re sometimes adorably…” That wasn’t good pause. “Uninterested in routine.”

“Who’s interested in routine? It’s routine. The clue is in the name.” I splashed water in his direction, which made him dance his shoes out of the way. “Also, are you just going to stand there criticising my personal habits while I have a bath?”

That made him pinken slightly. “Of course not. I’ll…I’ll leave you to it.”

“I more sort of meant you could join me if you want to.”

He hesitated, with that anxious, half-hopeful look in his eyes he sometimes got around dessert.

“This thing is huge,” I added. “How many huge-bath opportunities are we going to get in our lives?”

“Probably several, if we wanted them?”

“Come on, Oliver. I’m lonely and…y’know…wet.”

“Lucien, I—”

“It’ll save water,” I interrupted. “Ethics demand that you get in the bath with me.”

“It’s just…” He hesitated again. “On the subject of routines, I haven’t been to the gym recently and, well, the lighting in here is quite harsh.”