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‘We match,’ I say, pulling up my boxers.

‘So we do.’ He approaches me and runs his fingers through my wet tendrils before bringing them to his nose and inhaling deeply.

‘I should call my grandmother,’ I say, closing my eyes and absorbing his closeness – his scent, his heat . . . his everything. ‘I don’t want her to worry.’

He releases me and arranges my hair, staring at me thoughtfully.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I apologise.’ He shakes himself from his daydream. ‘I was just thinking how lovely you look in my clothes.’

‘They’re a bit big,’ I point out, glancing down at the material swamping me.

‘They’re perfect on you. Call your grandmother.’

Once I’m done checking in with Nan, my nape is taken lightly and I’m led over to the docking station where his iPhone is kept. He presses a few buttons before leading me from the kitchen without a word. The xx’s ‘Angels’ joins us, soft and hypnotising in the background, seeping quietly through the integrated speakers. We pass Miller’s bedroom and turn left, then he unlocks a door and pushes me gently into a large room.

‘Wow!’ I gasp, stumbling to a stop on the threshold. ‘Oh wow!’

‘Come in.’ He encourages me in and flicks a switch that floods the room with powerful artificial light. I shield my eyes, annoyed my view has been spoiled for a few seconds while my eyes readjust.

Once I’ve stopped squinting, I drop one hand, keeping his boxers up with the other, and stare in complete wonder at my surroundings. I’m in awe. I’m in heaven . . . I’m shocked.

I turn towards him and give him a confused look. ‘This is yours?’

He looks almost embarrassed when his shoulders jump up a little on a mild shrug. ‘This is my home, so I guess so.’

I slowly turn back to the source of my shock and start to take it all in. The walls are covered, they’re propped up on the floor, and they’re stacked on wire racking systems. There are dozens, possibly hundreds, and they are all of my beloved London, whether of architecture or landscapes.

‘You paint?’

He’s up against my back and resting his arms over my shoulders. ‘Do you think you could say something without it sounding like a question?’ He nips at my ear, which would usually make my breath falter, but I still haven’t caught it yet. This can’t be right.

‘You did all of these?’ I wave my arm in the general direction of the whole studio, casting my eyes around again.

‘Another question.’ He bites my cheek this time. ‘This was my habit before I found you.’

‘This isn’t a habit, this is a hobby.’ I look at the paintings on the wall again, thinking that such excellence couldn’t really be classed as a hobby. These belong in a gallery.

‘Well, now you’re my hobby.’

I have a moment of comprehension, and I’m suddenly on the move, breaking free from Miller’s hold and making my way out of his painting studio, heading for the lounge area until I’m standing before one of the oil canvases gracing his wall. This one is of the London Eye, blurred but clear. ‘You did this?’ I’m speaking in sodding questions again. ‘I’m sorry.’

He approaches from my left and stands next to me, observing his own creation. ‘I did.’

‘And that one?’ I point to the opposite wall, where London Bridge is holding court, still keeping the damn boxers up.

‘Yes,’ he confirms, and I’m on the move again, back to his studio. I walk further into the room this time, surrounding myself with Miller’s art.

There are five easels, all holding white canvases with partially finished works. The giant wooden table running the length of the side wall is cluttered with pots of brushes, paints in every colour on God’s earth, and photographs scattered everywhere, some pinned on cork boards among the art. An old squidgy sofa is sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the glass so you can sit and admire the view across the city, which nearly matches the magnificence of the paintings around me. It’s a typical artist’s studio . . . and it completely defies everything that Miller Hart stands for.

It’s expressive, but even more shocking, it’s an awful mess. I feel like I’m in a bit of a trance, an Alice in Wonderland kind of moment, and in a really silly fit of curiosity, I begin assessing everything more closely to try and establish whether there is some sort of method to his arrangement of things in here. It doesn’t look like it; it all looks very random and haphazard, but to be sure, I walk over to the table and pick up a pot of brushes, turning it casually in my hand. Then I put it down aimlessly before turning to see his reaction.

He isn’t twitching, he isn’t looking at the pot of brushes like it could bite, and he hasn’t come over to move it. He’s just considering me with interest, and after absorbing his gaze for a few moments, I break out in a smile. My shock has transformed into happiness because what I’m seeing in this room is a different man. This almost humanises him. Before me, he expressed himself and de-stressed by painting, and it doesn’t matter that he has to be super-duper precise in every other element of his life, because in here, he’s chaotic.

‘I love it,’ I say, taking another slow gaze around the room, not even the beauty of Miller keeping me from it. ‘I just love it.’

‘I knew you would.’

It’s suddenly dark again, except for the glow of London by night pouring in from the window, and he walks slowly over and takes my hand, leading me to the old worn couch in front of the window. He sits and encourages me down beside him.