And where you wanted to be, lady. I stroke down her cheek, unable to keep my hands off her. “It was always going to happen, Ava.” I pluck my toothbrush out of the holder and load it with paste, leaning past her to wet it under the tap. “Open,” I say, and her lips part as she watches me, happy to let me take care of her. She’s learning. I’m ignoring the possibility that she simply hasn’t the energy to challenge me.

I meticulously brush her teeth, wondering what’s running through her clouded mind as she watches me. Is she remembering her confession? Has it come back to her? Should I remind her? Questions circle as I work the brush, but I stop when I feel her palm lay over my cheek, my eyes falling to hers. She’s staring at me with such intensity, it almost has me demanding an answer to some of my questions. But I don’t. Let it come back to her naturally. Don’t push her. So instead, I turn my mouth into her hand, my eyes on hers, and kiss it tenderly. If that kiss doesn’t tell her how I feel, then she’s more hungover than I thought. “Spit,” I whisper, and she pulls her hand away, leaning over the sink.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, thoughtfully, sitting back up.

“It’s just as much for my benefit as it is for yours.” I finally claim her mouth, kissing her deeply but softly. Fuck, I’ve missed her. So much. “You’re rubbish at hangovers. Is there anything I can do to make it better?” There is only one right answer to my question, and if she doesn’t get it, I’ll happily, very happily, show her. I tug her down and reach around, grabbing her arse, giving her a little hint.

“Have you got a gun?”

I laugh loudly. Yes, I know how that feels too. “That bad, huh?”

She frowns, annoyed by my amusement. “Yes; why is it so funny?”

“It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m going to make it all better now.” Her eyes light up, and I smile on the inside as I reach behind her and unfasten the clasp of her bra, pulling it down her arms. I toss it into the nearby wash basket, watching as her nipples harden invitingly before my eyes. My mouth homes in, tasting each one in turn. Jesus, I’m home. I have to wrestle with the urgency inside to claim her hard, slowing myself down. She doesn’t help my cause when her fingers slip into my hair and grip, her tongue circling mine perfectly. “You’re addictive,” I say, speaking my thoughts. I crave her more than I’ve craved alcohol, need her more than I need alcohol. “We’re going to make friends properly now.”

She exhales shakily. “Are we not friends?”