‘It’s okay, I can do it. I’ve been up for hours and got a lot of my piece done already. And you’re right, TJ will be fine. But I’ll need to drop them early—I can’t miss the editorial meeting or Dawn will kill me.’

Dean tips his head quizzically but looks relieved. ‘You sure, Ol? I don’t want to muck up your morning.’ He starts eating.

‘It’s okay. I just won’t wash my hair. It’s no big deal.’

‘Your hair looks perfect.’ His eyes linger on her cleavage. ‘Seriously, you’re a lifesaver. You can take them to before care, so you should still get to the office by eight if you leave in the next thirty.’

She mentally adds the inconvenient detour to her morning schedule.

‘Hang on, you’ve been up for hours?’ He looks at her with concern. ‘You couldn’t sleep again?’

She glances at Amy, who is now pushing her food around her plate.

‘Just insomnia,’ Oli mutters, quelling a flash of resentment. Dean has no trouble sleeping despite the horror that must sometimes try to push into his thoughts. She once hoped they might share it, the clutch trauma can have in the early hours of the morning. But so far there haven’t been any bonding opportunities in the middle of the night. He sleeps like the dead.

‘You should take those pills I got you,’ he says.

She shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

He shrugs back, then starts eating.

She loves the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, almost hiding the cluster of tiny moles behind his left earlobe. For the first time, she notices a few strands are grey.

‘You work too hard,’ he says in between mouthfuls, ‘and you know you don’t have to—not anymore. You should think seriously about going freelance. Write that book you used to talk about.’

She riffles through rubber bands and takeaway menus in the junk drawer, looking for a pen. She senses his eyes on her, but she doesn’t want to have this conversation again. Ever since she moved in three months earlier, he’s been like a dog with a bone about her working less, encouraging her to slow down. And even though writing for pleasure has an appeal, the ease with which he can grant her lifelong wish feels wrong. He’s older than her and earns a lot more money. Plus, the girls’ future is more than taken care of.

‘Bingo.’ She locates one of her black felt-tips; they always go missing in this house.

‘Are you still going to make that appointment?’ he asks, voice low and gruff.

‘I think so,’ she replies breezily, ‘but I haven’t booked it in yet.’

His expression is impossible to read. ‘We should talk about this, Oli. Properly.’ He glances at the girls and sighs. ‘It’s a big deal and …’

‘And what?’