I drop the towel and head upstairs to Ava, finding determination in each stride. No more stalling. No more hiding. Tell her how you feel and tell her who you are. I can’t go on like this, caught in a mixing pot of happiness and dread, my sanity dictated by which direction the spoon stirs.

I enter the bedroom, my mouth loaded with words, my intention set . . .

And find the bed empty. No Ava. Panic joins my nerves, and I turn on the spot, sensing the emptiness of the room without her in it.

“Ava,” I yell, checking the bathroom. No Ava. I run out of my room, checking every bedroom as I pass, swinging open doors, scanning the space, my dread multiplying with each room I find empty. “Ava?” I take the stairs fast, looking out onto the terrace. Black clouds linger in the distance, a storm on the way.

I fly into the kitchen at breakneck speed.

And I see her, just before I nearly crash into her. “Fucking hell, there you are.” Relief. I seize her and hold on to her like my life depends on it. “You weren’t in bed.”

“I’m in the kitchen,” she murmurs, sounding as thrown as she deserves to be. My heart instantly settles, but I can’t bring myself to release her. Just hold her, and never let her go. “I saw you running,” she goes on. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I feel her writhe in my hold, fighting to break free. I must be hurting her, and that’s the only reason I relent, placing her down gently to take her in, to reassure myself she’s actually here. “I was just in the kitchen,” she says, dazed.

She was just in the kitchen. She hadn’t left.

I collect her and sit her on the worktop, getting as close as I can. I’m worrying her. “Sleep well?” I ask, trying to ease her and settle myself.

“Great.” Her head tilts, and she studies me with a curiosity I’m not comfortable with. “Are you okay?”

I search for the words I found in the gym and on the way to the bedroom only moments ago. No words. I’m blank. So, at a loss, I smile, and she blinks, her confusion multiplying. “I woke up with you in my bed wearing lace.” Though I was in no fit state to appreciate it. “It’s ten thirty on a Sunday morning and you’re in my kitchen”—I force my eyes down her front—“wearing lace. I’m amazing.” And so fucking torn.

Her smile is demure. “You are?”

“Oh, I am.” I kiss her. Try to relocate some fortitude. Restock on bravery. “You’re too beautiful, lady.”

“So are you.”