Drawing the curtains, I toe off my trainers and strip out of my shirt. My hand drifts up to my neck, the memory of him plays havoc on my senses. My hand lowers to my chest and over my breasts, and I still my palm when I realise what I am doing. I’m pretending. I huff out, flustered and ashamed, and head into the bathroom.

Pushing my bedroom door open, I pat the towel over my damp face. Digging through my drawers, I pull out my pyjama shorts and vest, and change into them. Looking at my bed, I suspiciously glance towards Maxwell’s room. Slowly walking down the hallway, I...