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“Well, it’s time to get out of the bath anyway,” I say, attempting lightness. “I don’t think you brought your scuba certificate on this honeymoon.” He grunts, his face unamused. “I’ll get you a towel,” I add quickly.

I move to grab a thick bath towel from the heated rail. I turn to hand it to him and falter, the towel dropping from my hands. His eyes. They’re glowing… red?

“Blue?” he says hoarsely.

No. No, I’m looking directly into his eyes and they’re definitely brown. I sag against the wall. It must have been a trick of the light casting odd colours. I crouch and retrieve the towel.

“You alright?” he asks, his words halting.

“I’m fine,” I say briskly, concealing my worry. He banged his head. Has he concussed himself? I brandish the towel. “Out of the bath, Mr Black. I think you’ve had enough.”

He watches me for a few beats and then nods and stands up. Water sluices over his beautiful body and I frown as he looks down at himself. It’s like he’s gazing at a stranger. He traces his hand down his chest, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

“Okay. You’re worrying me now,” I say. “Did you hit your head hard?”

He looks up. There’s a beat of silence. “No. It just glanced off the rim of the bath,” he says. “It was nothing. I’m just tired.”

“Did you go for a run?”

“Yes.”

“You and your running. You’re an absolute weirdo,” I say affectionately.

He reaches for the towel. I’d been intending to dry him myself. I love doing this—taking care of him the way he takes care of me. Getting to touch him is always a bonus. However, something about his rigid stance dissuades me, and I hand him the towel instead.

He wraps it quickly around his narrow hips and steps out of the bath. “I’ll dry myself,” he says. I nod and he cocks his head. “Alone, if you don’t mind.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

He gestures at the door. “I’d like some privacy if it’s possible.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” he snaps, and I can’t help my instant recoil. His eyes narrow and then he offers a smile. It’s more forced than genuine but it does lighten his face a bit. “I just need a bit of quietness. I feel odd. It’s probably because I didn’t eat before my run.”

“Of course.” I say it again because it didn’t sound positive the first time, “Of course. I’ll leave you to it. Why don’t you get dressed and come downstairs? I’ll start breakfast.”

He nods, but then turns his back, already dismissing me. It stings a bit. I don’t remember leaving the room, but I must have done, because I find myself staring at the door that Levi just closed in my face. I raise my hand and press it against the wood, watching my fingers turn white under the pressure. Then I shake my head and make my way downstairs.

I lose myself in making breakfast and it’s nearly ready when he appears downstairs. He’s wearing jeans and a navy jumper and he’s clutching a leather book. It takes me a few seconds to realise it’s Xander’s diary.

I point my spatula at it. “What are you doing with that?”

He shrugs. “Reading it. What else do you do with a book?”

I narrow my eyes. “Did you happen to wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, Levi?” I say, a warning note in my voice.

There’s a beat of silence. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ve got a bad headache.”

Concern washes away my irritation. “Let me get you some painkillers.”

He nods, and I hasten to his rucksack, pulling out the small med pouch he always carries. It has something for everything, and I call it his Mary Poppins bag. I’d watched the film once when I was little. The DVD belonged to one of my mum’s john’s, and he’d slip the disc into the player for me while he and my mum retired to the bedroom.

I remember being fascinated with Mary’s bag and thinking how it would have been a lot of help to me and Mum, with our constant moving along and leaving our possessions behind. The john had been one of the nice ones. He’d given me his old copy of the Mary Poppins book before we left. I’d consumed it quickly and then spent the whole summer wishing that she’d come and rescue us. The book had got left behind on one of our midnight flits and I’d cried for hours.

I grab the tablets he keeps for my frequent migraines, along with a bottle of water from the fridge, and hand them to him. “Come and sit down. Breakfast is ready.”

His eyes are cool and steady. “I don’t feel like anything to eat.”