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I imagine her storming out. The idea of that happening makes me feel sick.

I imagine her staying. The idea terrifies me.

So, instead of trying to force the words, I focus on the music playing. I try not to get distracted by the scent of her perfume, the slight heat from her body that I notice when I change the gears, and the occasional soft sigh she gives.

By the time I pull my car onto my driveway, I swear the tension within me is stretched so thin that I’m running the risk of snapping. Delilah unclips her seatbelt and takes a deep breath before she gets out of the car. She follows me down the driveway, giving a small gasp as she takes in the view of my house. It isn’t like the house is over the top, but if she lives above her shop, there’s a huge difference. I walk down the tree-lined driveway towards the large front door of the house. I unlock the door and push it open, gesturing for her to go inside first.

As she steps into the hallway, the lights flicker on automatically. I come in behind her and shut the door, but I don’t lock it.

“Grand tour?” I ask.

“Maybe later,” she replies.

She kicks off her shoes, and I copy her motions. She waits for me to make a move, so I head in the direction of the kitchen. We walk through the small sitting area attached to it, and I can see her taking a good look around. I try to imagine it through her eyes. Does she look at the kitchen units and think they’re a boring choice, or does she appreciate the sleek design? Does she look at the seating area, with the comfortable sofa and armchair positioned facing the large television that hangs on the wall, and imagine what it would be like to curl up to watch TV while dinner cooks? Does she look at me and think I belong here, or does she think I’ve had everything land at my feet? Does she look around this space and compare it to the one where we first met?

“Coffee?” I ask.

“Have you got any wine?” she asks in return. It surprises me. Not because I’ve never seen her drink alcohol before, but because I thought she’d want us both to remain sober so I can drive her home the second she wants to leave.

“Grab something that takes your fancy from the wine cooler,” I suggest. I gesture towards where the wine is stored and try not to cringe at the way I sound like a pompous twat. I turn away from her so I can grab some wineglasses from the cabinet.

She doesn’t mock me about the wine cooler, nor does she comment on the variety of wine I have in there. It’s mostly for entertaining. I like to be prepared for guests arriving unannounced.

“Is this one okay?” she asks. She hands me a bottle of white wine, and I get the impression that she doesn’t actually care about it.

“Good choice,” I say.

“Lucky grab,” she counters.

I take the wine from her and grab the corkscrew so I can open the bottle. I pour us both a relatively generous glass.

“Do you want something to eat?” I ask.

“I ate with Verity and Maddie. Madeline,” she corrects. She clears her throat. “If you’re hungry, go ahead and eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“So, is this where you usually chill out?” She gestures towards the seating area.

“I haven’t lived here long. I moved when filming started. I tend to sit in the living room, though. Do you want to sit in here, or shall I show you the living room?”

She takes a step back, so I take that as a gesture to show her the living room. I walk to the other side of the house with her following me. When I throw the living room door open, she gives a small huff of laughter.

“Jesus, this is like the size of my flat,” she exclaims.

“Yeah, I know it’s not really proportional. I think the previous owners had some walls knocked through to create a really big room,” I explain.

She steps into the room properly and looks around, taking in the cherry flooring, the two large suede armchairs that are positioned together on one side of the room, and the equally large suede sofa in front of the bifold doors that open onto the back garden. As she walks around the room, she skims her hand over the wood-burning stove that sits on top of the marble hearth. She raises her hand and runs her fingertips over the mantle.

“Very nice,” she comments.

“Making sure there’s no dust?” I jest.

“Well, I’d hate to think your cleaners were letting you down.”

“I told you, I clean myself.” I chuckle.

She walks across the room towards the suede sofa and sinks into it, crossing one leg over the other, her foot tapping away. She leans back on the sofa, her wineglass in one hand.