Even though she’s still asleep, the intimacy of the moment floors me. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale her smell. How can it be? I ask myself. How can I be so smitten with this woman? At the end-of-season party for the show, to which I invited Jason, he gave me a book called The Brain in Love and said, “For on the plane.” I didn’t even bring it. It’s gathering dust in my house in Sydney, because I didn’t want to read the scientific explanation of what is happening to me—to my brain. Even though right now, I’d like to consult it to find out why it feels so much like the most exquisite insanity imaginable.

Then Camille turns around in my embrace, her warm, naked body sliding against mine, and I no longer care about the theories of falling in love. It’s all practicalities for me now that we’ve been reunited.

“What time is it?” she asks, her accent so thick I can barely make out the words.

“Time to kiss me good morning.” I peck her on the tip of the nose.

“We should really discuss the jet lag protocol,” she mumbles. “You kept me up all night and my body is accustomed to this time zone. Don’t be so cruel just because you’re wide awake.” A small smile is already breaking on her face.

I push myself up a little to see the alarm clock on her side of the bed. “It’s eight thirty, darling. Hardly the middle of the night.”

“It’s Sunday,” she grumbles, then perks up for a split second. “It is Sunday, isn’t it?”

“It is.” I can’t help but smile. “Relax.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” She scoots closer to me, puts her head on my chest, and exhales deeply.

“What would you like me to do? What does the jet lag protocol dictate?”

“Just lie here with me.” Camille lets herself sink into me a little deeper. She really isn’t a morning person. I knew from our weekend Skype calls where she would barely be awake at ten, but it’s endearing to witness it in the flesh.

I wrap an arm around her and stroke her hair with the other and, as instructed, just lie there. I have nowhere to be. All my desires are fulfilled. There’s no need for me to move while she’s sleeping on my chest. I’m here. We’re together.

Then I hear a meow outside the door. Iris was not happy that we closed it last night.

“Ignore her,” Camille says.

Iris starts scratching the door.

“She’s very insistent.”

“She’ll go away.” Camille does not appear ready to tend to her cat. “Just be quiet and she’ll think we’ve gone back to sleep.”