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Part two is here! Thank you SO MUCH to all of you who've been enjoying the story so far and have left comments (I've been reading them all!) - it's the absolute best feeling to see how much people like this book. I genuinely can't believe this has already almost hit 20,000 reads. Hope you enjoy this next part, too!

"So this is..."

"Weird?"

"Just a bit. And..."

"Awkward?"

"Absolutely."

We share a nervous laugh, Danny looking relieved that I'm on the same page as him, and not totally loving every second of being shut up in my flat with him.

Actually, he's...

He's kind of getting on my nerves.

I must be getting on his, too, though, and that's exactly why we're sat at my dining table, mapping out our schedules for the week and a chore rota.

Danny had wanted to come to stay the weekend, and the idea that I soon might not be able to see him for weeks, or even months, had been scary enough that I'd caved as soon as he suggested it.

And, hey, can you blame me? Our relationship is still so new. What if he forgot all about me? What if the easy conversation and cute dates didn't translate into drinks over Zoom and texts? What if Danny lost interest? What if I lost interest? He was so perfect that we'd even already met each other's parents... but if we were stuck not able to see each other for who knew how long, that could all change like that.

So obviously he should come over and of course we should spend the weekend together.

And really, the first couple of days were fine.

Scratch that: they were blissful. They were everything they should have been. We played Monopoly and watched some John Hughes movies on Netflix and baked banana bread together.

Even after we saw the note about having to stay inside for the week, our cosy little bubble didn't burst. It was the weekend, Danny had only been there a day, and everything felt kind of normal. It was fun, and cute, and who wouldn't want to spend extra time with their new boyfriend? We'd spent most of Sunday cuddled up in bed, not getting up until well into the afternoon.

Like I said: blissful.

It was all exactly the way it should be, spending a couple of days with a new boyfriend.

It started going downhill when we put in an order for some food. I'd gone onto Hello Fresh, which Danny thought was, quote –

"...straight-up batshit crazy, Isla. Just go on Asda or something. You can order all the same stuff but so much cheaper."

"But this is so much easier. Everything's, like, just ready."

Since moving out of my parents', I'd realised pretty quickly I'd end up living on takeaways and Pot Noodle. I was never into cooking, and always avoided it where I could help it. Plus, I've never considered myself a good cook. At best, I'm mediocre. My culinary expertise extends to and ends at smoothies.

I tried explaining to Danny that spending money on Hello Fresh meant I was a little more motivated to cook, and it also made it so much easier, but he'd rolled his eyes, taken the laptop off my lap, closed the tab, and started looking for a supermarket with delivery slots available. At best, I had maybe three days' worth of food in the cupboards – unless we were going to live off Ben and Jerry's and custard creams.

I got the distinct impression that the food delivery argument would be the first of many.

"Well, you're cooking dinner," I tell him now, picking up the pencil and scribbling his name down in the timetable we're making. "Since you're so good at it. I'll do the dishes."

"What, every night?"

"You cook for yourself every night already."

"Sometimes I split it with the guys. But that's not the point. And besides, I thought you'd planned out what we were eating all week when you did the food order."

"Well, yeah, but... I mean, obviously." Danny's thick, dark eyebrows start to pull together in a scowl, so I say, "Okay. I'll do it Wednesday."

"We could do it together," he suggests then, smiling and reaching for my hand. He does that thing where he traces light little circles on my palm; he's done it for as long as we've been dating, and I soften a little.

It's a nice compromise, and I appreciate it, but...

"Trust me, you don't want my help in the kitchen."

I've seen Danny cook. Our first date, a few weeks ago, he invited me over and cooked me an entire three-course meal. He even made soup from scratch. I'd sat on the kitchen counter sipping wine, the two of us chatting non-stop while he made spaghetti carbonara, as at ease in the kitchen as I was on a tennis court. Like he belonged there.

I remember watching him chop onion so quickly, almost carelessly, that I'd thought he'd cut himself. It would've taken me ten minutes to do what he'd done in seconds.

Danny sighs, but doesn't argue.

"Okay, well, if I'm cooking dinner, why don't you just do your workout then?"

I stare at him, all too aware of the indignant look on my face I can't seem to get rid of.

"Well, because... I do it in the morning before work?"

"It's just a week. Couldn't you switch it up?"

I'm about to object that I can't just switch it up, because I go for a run after work, but... well, I can't do that now, either. Total lockdown. Nobody in the building is even allowed out for a walk... which means, I'm not running anywhere after work. Or, sadly, heading out to the tennis court to practice a couple of times a week.

Sensing I'm not on board, Danny goes on with a gentle, upbeat tone, "Hear me out. I'm just thinking, I won't need to get up until eight o'clock for work. And you don't work regular hours anyway. So why would you get up at six in the morning, which will probably wake me up, too, when you could do your workout at the end of the day, when I'm cooking dinner?"

I hate how much sense that makes.

But, hey, he compromised on agreeing to stick to my usual plan of doing a little housework each day, rather than doing it all in one go once a week, and he's going to do most of the cooking, so...

(And, you know, I really don't want to get into a fight over it.)

"Okay," I mumble, scribbling out the lines that say '6am – 7am: ISLA WORKOUT'. "And for the record, I work flexible hours. It's not like I work after lunch and late into the evening every day, or something."

I'm also working reduced hours right now – the company I work for didn't want to furlough anybody, but while they get used to the office being closed and adjust to the new way of the world, they cut everyone to twenty-five hours a week, until they figure things out. (I figure it could be that way for a while: they're a sports company, and it's not like there's a lot of that going on right now... Although our yoga mats have been selling like hot cakes, but I still think that's mostly due to them getting a nice little review in Cosmopolitan recently.)

Danny, on the other hand, seems to be busier than ever, in his job at the local council. Which was his argument for me doing all the housework-style chores this week. I'd protested against that on principle, but you know, he had a point: my five hours a day versus his nine or ten didn't really hold up in that debate.

We hash out a couple more things – like, the fact that Danny likes to listen to audiobooks before bed, and I like to keep the window open at night, that he hates the idea of watching TV while eating dinner, and that I don't iron my laundry unless I have a big meeting at work.

It's all the kind of stuff we don't notice, spending just a night or two with each other.

And we've only been dating for a month or so. That's barely any time at all.

Danny belches, and gets up to make another coffee.

It's been three days of lockdown.

Something tells me our blissful honeymoon period might already be over.