Brougham was propped up against the couch, motionless and eyes closed. I shuffled forward and gave his upper arm a small squeeze. “Hey, you awake?”

He opened his eyes with a start and nodded.

“I have something for you to sleep in.”

Unfocused eyes took in Sparkly Sweater, and he nodded with a renewed determination. “Thank you.” His words were already resembling English more than at the party. He started unbuttoning his shirt, and I rocked back on my haunches, hopeful that maybe I wouldn’t have to intervene after all. Unfortunately, he got three buttons down and gave up, pulling the shirt over his head instead, where he got promptly stuck.

“Help,” he said in a pitiful voice, as I assisted him to shimmy the shirt over his face and off his arms. I did my very best not to look at the smooth muscles of his arms, or the unblemished, soft skin of his bare chest, or the small folds that creased across his belly button as he hunched forward. Or the light patch of fuzz near said belly button. Or the sharp jutting of his collarbone.

Apparently, an attempt did not equal success.

I fixed my eyes firmly on his face and helped him pull the sweater on. This must be what it was like to dress a toddler. If the toddler was almost six feet tall.

Sparkly Sweater was definitely too short in the arms, but it did the job. Also, I’d never seen him in anything that wasn’t high quality and curated—yes, including his casual pajamas look at the mixer—so the overall effect was a little ridiculous.

He started on his fly button with sloppy fingers, and, to my intense relief, managed to figure it out and pull his pants off without the need for my assistance, leaving him in Sparkly Sweater and boxer briefs. “Ow,” he said dully, flexing his right hand. I noticed for the first time it was red and puffy.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Mmph mmm.”

Oh, that cleared things up.

By this point he was out of breath at the sheer enormity of the tasks given to him, and he wilted while Ainsley came in with some blankets and pillows for a makeshift bed. Brougham allowed us to help him onto the couch, and, a few layers of blankets later, he was safely cocooned.

Then Brougham rolled over to lie all but unconscious on his back. Ainsley shook her head at this and grabbed some of the throw cushions from the armchairs.

“What are you doing?” I asked as she wedged them in between Brougham and the couch, pulling Brougham onto his side.

She directed her reply at Brougham, not me. “You’re not to sleep on your back tonight,” she said, slowly and clearly. “Stay on your side. The bucket’s going to be here. Okay?”

Brougham made a noise of acknowledgment, but didn’t open his eyes.