The beeping stopped, and Oliver recovered his documents before giving me a belated honey-I’m-home kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

It was never fine. But over the course of our relationship I’d watched Oliver gamely chomp his way through roasted squash that was practically mulch, spinach soup that was practically jam, and more watery stews than I could keep track of.

In the end I served up a kind of vegetable gruel with bits of either burned or raw crust floating in it like incredibly shit dumplings. Oliver seasoned his liberally and tucked in.

“Are you okay?” he asked once he’d managed to swallow a particularly tricky lump of chard. “This is fine, but from the mess”—he indicated the carnage that still filled the kitchen—“it seems like you were more than normally distracted.”

I took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be a big deal. I wasn’t going to let this be a big deal. “It’s Miles.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise seeing him shook you up that much.”

“No, I mean, it’s Miles again. Like, he came to see me.”

Between his training as a professional barrister, a lifetime of nodding and smiling for his judgmental parents, and two years of pretending to like my cooking, Oliver had one hell of a poker face, but I thought I saw a flattering hint of jealousy creep into his eyes. “When?”

“Today. At work.”

Oliver frowned. “That seems inappropriate.”

“Yeah, Miles has never been big on appropriate.” To be fair, neither had I.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to say, ‘I made a terrible mistake, run away with me,’ and I said, ‘Of course I will, big boy.’ I’m packing my bags this evening.”

Oliver put down his fork and gave me a stern look. “Lucien.”

“He wanted to invite me to his wedding.”

“Ah.” For a moment he was quiet. “Do you want to go?”

I was a bit surprised he’d even asked. “Of course not. It would be fucking weird.”

“Well then.” He reached across the table and took my hand. I thought it was meant to be affectionate, but he probably also wanted an excuse to stop eating the pie. “That seems to be a problem with a very simple solution.”

“It’s just…” Fuck. He’d done that thing where he was all supportive of my choices to make me confront the fact that I wasn’t actually sure about them. “I keep wondering if it might be good for me maybe?”

His thumb traced gently across my knuckles like we had all the time in the world and nothing mattered more than this conversation right now. “Good in what way?”