Unsure what to say, I reply with a noncommittal ‘Ha, thanks.’ I smile, but immediately feel quite conscious of my smile being too toothy, so pare it back as much as I can whilst still trying to look natural and half shrug. I’m hoping the shrug says, Yeah. I have nice teeth. And nice … other assets (?) ‘Shall we eat the chicken before it gets cold?’

‘Sounds good to me. I’m starving.’

We sit down to eat. Because of the multi-purpose room I don’t have that many seating options, and I certainly don’t have a dining table, so we do a terrible impersonation of the Romans: we lounge. It’s pretty weird, so I concentrate on the food.

‘Oh my God. Chicken is so good. How and why is chicken so good?’

‘Why do girls love chicken nuggets so much? What is it?’

‘Maybe because if we’re really careful we can pretend they’re healthy? And also, they taste bloody delicious.’

I realize I’m eating as if I have never been fed before. Cutlery has been left abandoned on the coffee table, ketchup is smeared all over my plate (and probably my face) and my fingers are covered with grease. I possibly should have prioritized a light snack instead of tidying my bathroom cupboard.

‘Thank you so much for the chicken. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.’ It’s not a wonton, but it does taste delicious.

I look up and see Colin staring at me.

‘I hope I don’t sound creepy when I say this, but you look fuckin’ hot eating that.’

I look behind me to make sure. He’s definitely talking about me.

Oh lord.

I swallow the chunk of chicken I have bitten off before it’s really ready to be swallowed.

A mini cough escapes and I say, ‘Thanks. You must be mad. Or drunk.’

‘I’m not sober, but I’m not that drunk.’

Which is something only drunk people say. Christ, he’s hot.

‘I got a lot of shit from the boys for texting you in the pub. They kept bugging me, wanting to know who I was messaging. I told them it was none of their business.’

‘Well, I’m glad you messaged me back.’ I think. I think I’m glad he’s here. I think I’m glad I’m doing this.

My thoughts are interrupted by him taking away my plate. ‘My mum always taught me to clear up.’

Watching him tidy up feels uncomfortably domesticated, and I don’t know what to do. Luckily it’s only two plates and one fork (not used by me), and as soon as he’s done I wish there was more. I know what to do even less now than I did before.

He’s staring at me.

Is this meant to be alluring? Am I meant to find this sexy?

He’s taking off his top. I’m glued to the spot, more out of awkwardness than anything else. I don’t find this sexy. Part of me finds it creepy, and the larger part wants to burst out laughing. I hope he doesn’t expect me to undress here.