“No, sorry.” I make a mental note to get some for her. A big bottle, so when she’s showering every day here, she won’t run out. On a sigh, I find some strength to pull myself up and claim the bottle. “I want to do it.” I want to look after her. Feed her. Wash her. Do all the things to the point she forgets how to do them herself and has to depend on me.

She gives up the task easily, and I turn her away, smoothing some shampoo through the length of her hair and making sure I do a good job of massaging it in, smiling when she hums happily, her head falling back on her shoulders. My height gives me the perfect view of her face, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. She looks like she could be walking on air, and I know I feel like I am. For the most part, anyway.

I take her shoulders and move her under the spray.

And my peace goes up in smoke, my shocked eyes nailed to her arse. Or the big fucking bruises covering it. “What the fuck are they?” Lord above, what happened?

She looks over her shoulder, copping a load of my wide eyes, and frowns, turning to find out what’s got my feathers all ruffled. “What?”

I grab her when I lose sight of them and turn her back “Them!”

She frowns over her shoulder. “I fell over in the back of Margo.”

“What?”

“I was holding up the cake in the back of Margo,” she says on a condescending sigh. “I got chucked about a bit.”

Yes, I knew she was holding up a fucking cake, but I didn’t know this was the extent of the damage. “A bit?” She looks like she’s been struck repeatedly with a fucking hammer. My face screws up as I dip and gently stroke the fading bruises. What was she thinking? Her irresponsibility and neglect for herself is leading to one thing: me wrapping her up in cotton wool, and something tells me Ava won’t like that. Well, she’d better start fucking looking after herself. It’s not beyond me. I’ll bubble wrap her if I have to. What if a car had of ploughed into the van? I flinch harshly, blinking back the memories that thought spikes. She wouldn’t have stood a chance. “Ava, you look like you’ve been used as a rugby ball.”

She laughs. It makes me want to sew her mouth shut. This is about as funny as John’s temper. “It doesn’t hurt,” she says, blasé.

It doesn’t hurt? I beg to differ. I’m in fucking agony. “No more cake propping.” I’ll be having a word with her friend. “I mean it.”

“You’re overreacting.”