The Clerkenwell apartment becomes ours on a Friday.
Keys handed over at nine am, a brief handshake with the letting agent who has the cheerful efficiency of a man who sells people their futures every day and has not lost enthusiasm for it, and then Rhys and I are standing in the empty space with the keys in our hands and the London morning coming through the east and west windows simultaneously and doing that thing with the light that made us both stop the first time we saw it.
Still doing it.
Still right.
"Well," I say.
"Well," he says.
I walk to the kitchen counter and run my hand along it, the long one that faces the room, and I think about Sunday mornings and music from someone's phone and I feel something so settled and complete it almost frightens me.
Almost.
