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There’s a woman on the stoop. She’s around seventy and very tiny, with a shoulder-length gray ponytail and the pink cheeks of a typical English rose.

She’s wearing a tidy black blazer with skinny jeans.

You are just wondering who lost their well-dressed Granny when she looks you up and down with an unnervingly confident mien.

“Hello, there. I imagine that you must be Kaius,” she says, her accent clipped and melodic.

“The one and only,” you reply. “Can I help you?”

She laughs.

“Goodness, Mister Grayson was right. Your drawl really is lovely.”

“My…?”

She lets herself in, ducking right under your arm with the advantage of being almost a foot and a half shorter than you.

“He described you, you know. Tremendously tall, brown skin, big muscles, lovely Southern drawl. You’re quite distinctive, I must say. And even more handsome than your picture.”

You shut the door in bemusement. With tremendous self-possession, the woman slides her flats off and goes to pat Apollo.

“Am I… am I supposed to know who you are?” you ask helplessly .

The woman laughs again. Perhaps giggles is more like it. It’s girlish and sweet.

“Lord, where are my manners?” She extends her hand. “Muriel Thompson-Wright. You were supposed to get a text from your beau that I was on my way, but perhaps it didn’t get to you before I did?”

You groan internally, realizing at that very second that you left your phone upstairs when you dropped off your bags.

“No worries!” Muriel says cheerfully. “I’ve been working with Ms. Mukherjee. Fine lady, she is. She sent me to see about you and make sure you settled in just fine.”

“Oh, are you Ster’s London PA?” you ask. “You really didn’t need to worry about me.”

Muriel pats you on the shoulder. She has to reach up to do it.

“No, sweet boy,” she says patiently. “I’m your London assistant. Not a PA, so much. More of a… liaison.”

You know that you have to look confused.

“Maeve hired you for me?” you repeat.

“Yes indeed!” She pulls an iPhone from her rectangular back purse. It’s got a green case covered in red apples. “I have prepared an extensive amount of resources for your holiday.”

Feeling like a parrot, you hear yourself echo her again. “Resources?”

“I was told you’ll need access to a gymnasium to exercise, a trainer, and a good nutritionist to keep your diet in check.

There’s a GP if you happen to need one, too.

I have lists of eateries that would appeal to your tastes, coffee shops that might interest you, and several local grocers you could visit if you’ve a yen for cooking.

You will see when you check your email that I’ve sourced a number of products that Mister Grayson says you prefer.

Some energy drinks, fresh fruit, and breakfast cereal, just off the top of my head, I’ve prepared a number of daily itineraries for sightseeing both locally and further abroad, depending on the weather and your preferred activity level.

These are only the days that you are without Mister Grayson, of course. ”

Muriel pauses to take a breath.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate all that, ma’am,” you say hesitantly. “Because I do. I really do. It’s just… you did so much work. And I have Siri, you know? I could have gotten myself around.”

“Mister Reinhart!” For the first time in your conversation, Muriel looks less-than-pleasant. Actually, she looks affronted. “I assure you that I am more useful than Siri.”

“Okay,” you say with a shrug. “I apologize.”

“What would you like to do first? I personally ensured the kitchen was amply stocked, but I have sent you some takeaway menus for dinner. Would you fancy something for tea to tide you over until then?”

You quirk your lip. “Honestly, I’m not a big tea drinker. Other than that, I didn’t know what I had in mind. Maybe taking a walk and looking around?”

She shakes her head. “Not drinking tea, Mister Reinhart, although most Brits do that. I simply wondered if you wanted a snack.”

Nobody has offered you a snack since you were in the first grade.

It’s not an unappealing idea, despite feeling irrationally like you are being condescended to, but you ate a big lunch on the plane.

Sterling’s flight attendants spoil you rotten when you fly, and they fixed you a giant heap of pasta primavera.

When you tell Muriel this, she deflates visibly.

“You could come for the walk with me,” you suggest.

“Excuse me?”

“The walk I was going to take.” You made a circular gesture with your hand. “You could, um, show me the sights? We could walk by some of those places you mentioned? You could be like my guide. That is…” you hasten to add, “if you aren’t busy or anything.”

Muriel brightens instantly, her toothy smile falling back into place. “I would be honored, Mister Reinhart!” she says, slipping her arm through yours.

“Call me ‘Kai.’”

***

By the end of your second week in Europe, you have learned a few things.

Sterling does keep odd hours and have offbeat habits.

There are days that he is in bed, asleep, by 7 PM with the curtains tightly closed to block out the sun that hasn’t set yet, and other days that you halfway awaken to the sensation of him crawling under the covers beside you at four in the morning.

His schedule is unpredictable, to say the least, and there are times that he gets caught up in paperwork sent over from some member of his massive team or has to draft a song that’s been bouncing around his head all day, and he loses track of time.

He goes on long stretches of vocal rest and insists on texting you even when you are side-by-side.

Before shows, he does extensive singing warm-ups that are frankly hilarious, though you would never laugh.

Unlike you, he drinks his weight in tea, both hot and iced, no sugar or cream.

He has to pee constantly, which he earnestly tells you is a good sign, because it means that he’s hydrated.

Sterling checks the weather compulsively in the days leading up to shows, despite the fact that he happily performs in the pouring rain.

He logs his temperature, weight, and blood pressure every morning as soon as he gets out of bed.

(You think your boyfriend might be a bit of a hypochondriac.) Along with his dietary restrictions before performing, he also goes on internet and social media fasts before shows so that his mind is clear and positive when he’s on stage.

He keeps a dream journal on his side of the bed.

As you make these discoveries, Sterling is hesitant at first. With each revelation, you get the sense that he is waiting for you to react badly.

To say that’s weird , or roll your eyes.

Maybe even comment negatively. You know that he’s on edge, however, and despite the fact that you would never judge anything he did that was legal and hurt nobody, you go the extra mile to stay silent.

To roll with the punches. To offer to hold his designer man-bag when he uses the bathroom for the fifteenth time that afternoon, and to make him another pot of Earl Grey.

You buy your own dream journal at a boutique in Mayfair, a fussy notebook that costs ￡26, even though you forget your dreams as soon as you wake up .

It takes about ten days of this careful treatment, of the two of you existing on tenterhooks, but he starts to relax, and, eventually, you do as well.

You are in the VIP tent for two of his three shows in London, and you fly the hour-and-a-half with him to Paris each night of that second weekend as well.

Everything is going amazingly… great. Artemis starts to warm up to you, and accepts treats and cuddles about fifty percent of the time.

You have a British personal trainer that beats your ass in the gym five days a week, just as efficiently and effectively as your American NFA trainer at home.

Muriel is a delight, and, while you doubt it was part of her original job description, she becomes your sightseeing buddy for your days by yourself.

You have to slow down to a snail’s pace for her to jog beside you in the park, but she’s a game companion.

Besides, she knows all the best places to grub in London, the little holes-in-the-wall with homemade beef pasties and fresh fish-and-chips served in newspaper to soak up the grease.

You introduce her to Kendrick Lamar; she introduces you to malt vinegar on french fries.

As for Sterling, well, that is the best part of all.

You’ve never spent this much time in his company, even accounting for all the times that he is rehearsing, doing business stuff, or otherwise occupied.

You guys spend a lot of time in bed: cuddling, eating meals that one of you cooked— you are better with meats, and Ster excels at baking and veggies—and, of course, having tons and tons of sex.

You fuck on the old rattan bed, which is stronger than it looks, on the kitchen counter while Sterling’s scones are in the oven, on the bottle-green overstuffed couch in the living room, and, on one thrilling occasion, you blow him on the terrace when his body is below the level of the balustrade and the risk of being seen is so minuscule as to be almost nonexistent.

For your part, you keep pretty damn busy.

When you aren’t being a kept man, flying around to Sterling’s shows or holding his purse, you are working out.

Taking conference calls at funny hours, since you are anywhere from six- to nine hours ahead of the States.

In the middle of April, your brand deal with Kefi is announced, and you join a livestream that starts at 7 PM, West Coast Time.

It’s four in the morning for you, which requires waking up at three, dumping two shots of espresso down your throat, and squeezing Visine into your eyes to make sure you look clearer and better-rested than you actually are.