My mouth drops open. But that's not all that happens. My nipples harden and a soft wet warmth spills between my legs.

"What?" My voice is a breathless whisper. Dry, papery thin. His mouth twitches but his expression is utterly serious, his large eyes focussed on me.

"Your dress," he says, "I need you to take it off."

"Why?"

"Because I need to see you. Look at you properly, from every angle. It's how I work." He gives an impassive shrug.

I grip hard on the bottle of water as the sudden, desperate, need to pour it over my body and dry mouth overwhelms me.

"But... we... we're not doing a nude piece. That's not what we discussed? I can't do that," I stammer. He wants to look at me naked. From every angle. Jesus, I can't breathe. I need to breathe.

He scratches his head. "I know we aren't doing a nude piece. It's not for that purpose. I just need to see what I'm working with." He says it in a business-like tone. Like how a builder might assess an extension. When I don't respond he runs a hand over his mouth and rolls his eyes.

"Look, if you're prudish about nudity that's fine, some people are." Another shrug. "It's your decision, your body." He takes a step back and cocks his head to one side and looks me over.

Some people are? My back straightens as he casts his almost bored look over me.

"I'm not a prude," I inform him. Am I? I've never felt like one. Even if I am, for some reason I hate the idea of him thinking I am.

He smiles. It drips with condescension. "Okay then."

My nostrils flare. "I'm not."

"So then take off your dress," he shrugs. His stare intensifies. Is he smirking? It looks like it but it's not that obvious. It's hidden behind that bloody beard and those eyes that seem to have their own set of emotions.

A moment later he sighs, bored, shrugging his broad wide shoulders. "Listen, Mrs Alford, I'm an artist, not a pervert. I just want to see what you look like under there so I can decide what the best way to capture you is. You want this to gift to your husband, right? Then trust me, I'm a man — I know what the perfect gift to give a man looks like. And what I have in mind, your husband is going to be very thankful for, trust me."

He has a point. He is a man. Perhaps what he has in mind Oliver would be thankful for. Except would Oliver appreciate the fact that I'd stripped naked in front of him in order for it to happen. No. He wouldn't. I'm certain Oliver would not appreciate that at all.

Yet, the look on Aidan's face. The fact that he thinks he knows who and what I am. The fact that he thinks I'm 'some people' and a prude. Oh, that is not happening.

I take a deep breath and smile nervously, before turning to place the bottle of water delicately on the window ledge next to my bag. As I turn around my heart rate speeds up and my breath begins to gets short, or shorter rather.

I feel around my body and under my arm to where the zip of the dress is, and turn to look him in the eye as I pull it down. Again his eyes change colour, lightening again this time, cracking with tiny bursts of light.  His mouth falls open slightly. That'll teach him not to make presumptions about me. I'll give him a bloody prude.

As I reach down to grip the hem of my dress to pull it upwards, he moves toward me. Quick and sudden.

"Stop! Eloise, I was joking, fuck," he blurts, throwing his hands out to stop me.

I pull back from him like I've been scalded. "Excuse me?"

"I was just kidding. Of course, I don't want you to strip for me. I thought it would be funny. Like an ice breaker." He flashes me a wolfish grin.

I gape at him. "You thought asking me to strip naked in front of you would be funny?"

He purses his lips and shrugs, innocently. "I'm guessing you're not of that opinion?"

Bloody damn right I'm not. I was literally seconds away from taking off my dress. I feel foolish and my cheeks hot from embarrassment.

"Clearly my sense of humour is of a slightly different taste..." I mutter as I pull the zip back up on my dress with quivering hands.

When I look back at him he looks apologetic and remorseful. Like a little boy who's just been told off.

"You were really going to do it?" He sounds stunned.

"Of course, I was. I've stood for an art class before, haven't I? I know what's required. And I'm not a prude," I tell him.

"No, clearly not." His eyes linger on my face a long time before he speaks again. "Well, it could have been worse, I could have waited until you were properly naked before I told you I was kidding." When he smiles again it's a proper smile, all straight white teeth and crinkled eyes and I feel myself soften.

"Yes, you're a real gentleman."

"Wow, never been called that before."

"And I've never been called a prude before."

"Won't happen again. Had no idea you were so overly sensitive," he says. I'm about to object again when he smirks. So, he's deliberately trying to rile me? I smile sweetly at him instead.

"Well, now that we've broken the ice..." I sigh. "What now? What exactly is the most perfect gift a woman could give to a man?"

Aidan raises an eyebrow. "Now come on, surely you already know the answer to that?"

I feel a bloom of heat rush to my cheeks and for the next few moments, all manner of sordid images play through my mind. All of them involving Aidan Foley, not Oliver.

I clear my throat and roll my eyes. "You're hilarious. Who knew?"

"I try my best. My humour isn't for everyone," He shrugs.

"Ah... So like your art?"

He laughs then, a full-bodied warm laugh. Oh, what a sound it is. Surprisingly light, childlike even. His whole face laughs, not just his mouth or his eyes, but every available muscle joins in.

When it dissipates a few seconds later his gaze lingers on mine, soft and warm look. Something happens then. Or rather, nothing happens. What I find is that I'm able to stare back at him this time. My eyes don't run from his like they normally do. Perhaps his icebreaker worked after all.

"So," he says.

"So."

"I thought it might be a good idea to show you some more of my work." He moves past me to cross the studio. "I know you didn't enjoy the film, but I'm hoping you'll find something in some of my photos at least partially worthy."

"Oh I'm certain I will," I mutter as I hurry behind him. Over by the far wall is what looks like a giant magazine rack, just beyond which sits a high desk tilted at an angle, and then behind that dozens of shelves with containers of varying shapes, sizes and colours.

I had wanted to go to Nicole's Gallery this morning to see the exhibition but it didn't open until 11:00 am and I didn't want to be late for my first sitting. As he walks in front of me I notice that he has a slightly strange gait. Bouncy almost. He seems to walk on his toes, kind of how a toddler would to try and match a grown man's height. It's kind of adorable and it makes me smile. An adorable laugh and an adorable walk and doesn't like having his picture taken — three things I'd learned about Aidan Foley today.

When we reach the oversized magazine rack he turns to me and catches me smiling at his walk. Unsurprisingly he looks confused, and so I make my face serious and gesture with my eyes towards the thing he's now standing next to.

"So, um, these are some of the photos that never made the show. As well as some prints of other stuff I have at home." He begins flicking through them. "Just have a look through and see if you like anything. If anything about any of them touches something. Similarly, let me know if there's anything you don't like." He steps out of the way, grazing past me as he does.

As his body touches mine, a wave of his calming male scent hits my nose and the heat of his body warms me for a moment from the inside out. All too quickly, he steps past me and out of my body space, sliding up the sleeves on his blue linen shirt and running a hand through his hair. He nods at the photos and shifts on his feet, looking a little nervous maybe.

I step in closer to the large trestle containing Aidan's photos. There are lots, fifty or so, or maybe more, all large and all covered in clear thin cellophane. Most of them are in stark black and white, but the occasional pop of colour leaps out as I sort through them. Normally one bold colour pulling out a particular object from the muted greys and whites of the rest of the photo.

As I flick through them I'm conscious of his stare, conscious of appearing to look bored or unimpressed, yet scared that anything else will look like faked interest. By the second photo, my worry fades because they are extraordinary. The subjects vary, architecture, nature-scapes, human subjects. The first that catches my eye is an urban concrete bridge under a grey ominous sky — the clouds seeming to move as I stare at them, an old bike is half-submerged in the river below and it's this which Aidan has highlighted in bright yellow.

The next is a shot of a slabbed concrete pavement and a metal fence through which the shadow of the sun passes. Next, an image of the seaside with another cloudy sky — the sun peeking through a split in the centre of the clouds. After a few more architectural shots, buildings, alleyways, photos of London and another city I presume to be the Irish one he grew up in (why don't I know which one that is?), we move onto human subjects. All of these are in black and white. An older woman in a flowing skirt and long hair standing in a garden captured through a kitchen window, an old basin style sink visible. Another of a younger woman, pregnant, lying flat on her back and staring up at the ceiling, the curves of her body visible under loose clothes. It pulls at something inside me, something chest level, then lower, churning and twisting.

My entire body starts to fill up with something sad and heavy. As this is happening I focus on the woman — who is she? Is he married? A girlfriend? Is he a father?

When I turn to look at him, I find him staring at me, hard, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, his head leaning slightly to the left. I turn back to the photos and flick to the next one to see the same woman lying flat on her back, this time with the baby by her side and her stomach flat now. Her face is filled with happiness and love and joy. 

The uneasiness in my stomach starts to fester and grow so I flick again. The baby is about four now, it's a boy, with soft curls and large eyes like Aidan's, the mother — blonde and pretty — holds his chubby little hand as she points up at the sky at something. I look at this for as long as possible and then flick the page again and my breath catches entirely. It's a little boy on his own this time. Not the same little boy from the previous photo but they have some of the same features. Eyes and Curls. In fact, the more I stare at it I realise that it's the same little boy from the video installation.

This photo looks different from the others though I'm not certain why. It's older maybe, but the paper isn't aged so I'm not sure. The little boy is sitting on a patterned eighties-looking sofa staring at the camera with large eyes round with sadness. He has a little black suit on, shorts and white socks, and his hands are clasped tightly in his lap. He looks terrified. He looks sad and alone and terrified.

In a flash, the ball of uneasiness seems to erupt inside me and the nausea comes over me like a tidal wave. It floods up my throat and I have to physically swallow to keep it from pouring over Aidan's photos. As my hand comes up to my mouth I turn to him, his expression going from soft and curious to concerned and confused in a nanosecond.

"Bathroom?" My voice sounds wretched and gravelly.

He moves toward me "Over here," he says, putting a warm hand on the low of my back to guides me to the back of the room. I feel the vomit bubbling at the back of my throat, choking me with its warm bitterness.

"I'll be fine, I just need... Where is it? Through here?" I point ahead and move away from him towards the open door which I close firmly behind me. Then I lower myself to the toilet on weak legs, lift the lid, and empty out my breakfast into the bowl. Great heaving wretches which feel like they're turning me inside out.

The tears are another unwelcome addition. Squeezing out the sides of my eyes and rolling slowly down my cheeks in solidarity with the vomit. As soon as my stomach settles and my breathing slows I sit up, flush the toilet, and sit down on the closed lid. Did this mean I couldn't even look at photos of children without throwing up? What about real live children? Are they ok? I can't avoid my niece and nephew forever.

The light blue, male-sized shape behind the frosted glass panel moves. His knock a moment later is soft and gentle.

"Eloise, are you ok? Do you need anything?" His tone is so soft and so full of concern it makes me want to say 'yes I do. I want you to put your arms around me and hold me tight.' "Eloise?"

What on earth am I supposed to say? Your photo made me feel ill and empty. The little boy made me feel guilty and heartbroken. Are you married? Do you have a child?

"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine. It's just a little bug I'm trying to get rid of. I thought it was gone." I roll my eyes and drop my head back against the tiles. Lying bitch.

Aidan doesn't answer immediately, he just leans his body against the door and lets out a loud sigh which I hear easily through the thin glass. I see him scratch his hand over his mouth too.

"Why didn't you say you were ill? We could have postponed this. There's no rush."

Standing, I run the cold tap a few moments and splash some water over my face and in my mouth, then pinch my cheeks a few times and over as I stare at myself in the small circular mirror.  I widen my eyes for a long moment before relaxing them again to their normal shape. When I pull open the door he looks wary and concerned, his eyes searching my face for something. I really hope I don't have sick on my face.

"I'm not ill. It's just the remnants of a little bug I had last week. Really, I'm absolutely fine to do this today. And there is a rush. We only have a few weeks remember?"

He narrows his eyes. "Yeah, but if you're not feeling 100% it's going to be torture for you. We can rearrange. There's still plenty of time." His tone is authoritative. Bossy. Yet I want to smile at his words. 100%. When the hell am I ever 100%? I hadn't been 100% for a long time.

"Aidan, I assure you. I'm fine." I try a smile. "I want to do this. And now having seen your work I want to do this even more."

His expression relaxes and the corner of his mouth tilts up. "Honestly, I've had a lot of different reactions to my work, but no one has ever thrown up looking at it before. Least not that I know of."

"Well, you know me. I do feel art in a very visceral way," I smile. He grins a perfect white-toothed grin at me.

"Ok, well as long as you're sure you feel up to it?"

"I'm sure."

He nods once. "Okay. then let's get started."

Aidan asks me to sit back by the window where I was earlier and tells me to drink half my bottle of water, no less, and then get comfortable. Sketching is always his first approach, he tells me. It's his least favourite but the easiest way to get to grips with a subject, to learn its form, 'commit it to memory.' He smiles as he says this which makes me think I'm missing something.

After staring at me a long time, looking past me out of the window, up at the sun, then around the room, he takes a few steps back and brings his focus completely to me. As he does this, a frown comes over his face. He tilts his head but the frown stays put. I'm just about to ask him what I'm doing wrong when he mutters something that sounds like ".....even possible? Fucking unbelievable..." before turning to cross to the other side of the studio.

He returns with a large sketchpad, a chewed looking pencil between his teeth and takes a seat in the frame of the large multi-paned window adjacent to me. He balances the sketchpad casually on his crossed legs and tells me to relax. When I give him a look and tell him I've done this before, his large eyes intensify on me.

"Yes. I remember," he says. So he turns his intensity level up when he's working? His broad shoulders are slightly curved in, his eyes narrow and focussed, and his bare feet crossed over each other in a sort of meditating, yoga-like pose.

Despite the fact that I've done it before, this felt very different. Before, when I'd posed, I'd been in a class full of complete strangers whose names I didn't know and whose faces I'd barely registered. Mainly I'd stand there and play over the plot detail and outline for whatever short story I was writing that week. I had perfected the art of existing in two places at once. Physically I was there in that classroom that smelled of paint and ageing wooden furniture, but mentally I was always somewhere else. Yes, this is very different. Because this time I don't want to be anywhere else. This time I want to feel his eyes on me. Eyes that are at this moment learning every inch of my face and body.

What did he think of it? Did he see it as more than an artist sees a subject? Did he see it as a man sees a woman? I hoped so, but at the same time, it seemed unlikely. As he said, he was an artist, not a pervert.

"Read your book if you want," he says.

"Don't you need me to stay still?"

"I have a pretty... persistent memory. I don't need your position to remain the same for hours on end. I don't really work like that. Art works better if it's sort of organic. If you let it evolve." He looks back down. "Like I said, get comfortable and forget I'm here,"

Now that was funny. As bloody if. Reading did sound like a good idea though and so I reach down into the front of my bag and take out the battered copy of 'The Handmaids Tale' and settle back a little against the brick wall of the window frame. Offred and Nick are having sex, and with Aidan's eyes on me while I read, the scene takes on a whole new level of eroticism.

"What's the book?" He says, not looking up from his sketch.

"It's Margaret Atwood. The Handmaids Tale."

He nods slowly, "Any good?"

"It's amazing. She's amazing. An exquisite writer," I tell him. I sigh dreamily at the prose as I often do.   Margaret Atwood's writing to me has always been the epitome of class. If I could write a single sentence with as much class as her then I'd die a happy woman. I read 'The Handmaids Tale' and 'Alias Grace' at least once every 18 months. As though if I read it often enough I could absorb some of her skill by osmosis.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"What makes someone an exquisite writer?" He flicks his eyes up at me then.

Well... being called Margaret Atwood helps." I smile at him, which he returns. His smile was so soothing to look at. I feel it settle my still rolling stomach and relax my body. "But mainly it's down to prose style, her simple use of language. The ability to construct beautiful images with words so that your imagination feels like its being massaged. Not being too showy helps too." God what if he thinks I think I'm an exquisite writer? Which I absolutely do not. "I mean that's just my opinion. Everyone likes different things at the end of the day."

"Yeah, I guess they do."

"Do you read?"I ask him. He offers me a raised eyebrow and I smile. "You know what I mean."

"Not as much as I should, no." He sounds embarrassed, or disappointed in himself.

"Me neither actually.  I mean a lot of my time is spent writing — though I haven't been doing much of that lately either — and it leaves me so little time to read. Which is counterproductive since the best advice for writers is to read, read, read." I'm rambling again. Why do I ramble so much around him?

"Well, I'll stop talking now and let you read read read," he smiles and gestures with his head for me to do just that.

Soon, I lose myself in the world of Gilead, brought to life with wonderfully delicious prose that I can only dream about being able to achieve. I only notice how long it's been when the shadow from the large window almost reaches the far end of the room and the sun drops down behind the buildings opposite affecting the light on the page in front of me. When I glance at Aidan he's frowning at his sketchpad like it's insulted him.  I should probably tell him it isn't his fault — I wasn't a very good model back then and it seems I'm no better now.

"How does it look?" I ask, grimacing. He doesn't seem to hear me, or at least that's what I think. Then a few moments later he shakes his head, curses quietly and slams the sketchpad facedown next to him and looks at me.

"Like an eight-year-old drew it," he says, standing. Did that mean we were done? Could I stand?

"A talented eight-year-old?" I smile.

"An eight-year-old who should be playing football instead of drawing." His tone is derisory. I'm certain it isn't that bad. Something tells me self-derogatory is one of Aidan's most powerful traits. He walks towards me and stops, staring down at me through those large blue/grey eyes. "How's your stomach? You hungry?"

"My stomach's fine. I guess I'm a little peckish... What time is it?"

"About three I'd guess. I need to eat something. Drink something. Let's go downstairs." He wanders away from me towards the spiral staircase.

I'm sure part of the reason he hates the sketch so much is because he's grumpy, and he's grumpy because he's hungry. Men do tend to get grumpy when they haven't eaten.

I dump my book and climb down off the window ledge to follow him downstairs and through the living area to the kitchen where he goes straight for the fridge. I take a seat on the high bar stool where I sat when I came in and watch him begin pulling things out of the fridge — a small white pouch of something, some cherry tomatoes or varying colours, something green and leafy. Then he moves to pull open a cupboard above his head and lifts out what looks like a loaf of bread, before opening a drawer to retrieve a large bread knife.

He turns to face me. "You want a drink? A beer? I'm gonna have one but I have wine or... hang on..." he walks back to the fridge and pulls it open again, "...milk, orange juice, diet coke, tomato juice and... water."

"A beer sounds nice," I nod.

He pulls out two green bottles and levers off the cap off with a smooth flick of his wrist before sliding the green bottle across to me, our hands grazing as he does. A spark of something lights in his eyes but then he blinks and it's gone.  He walks around the breakfast bar then and out of the kitchen, disappearing somewhere behind me. A moment later I know why when soft music begins to fill the loft. It sounds familiar, modern and folky and pleasant to the ears.  He appears again and goes back to making us a very late lunch. To distract myself from watching him, I inspect the bottle — it's Peroni — reading the label with little interest. When I gulp it down it soaks deliciously into my throat and quenches a deep thirst I hadn't been aware of until right now.

"What do you think of this place?" He asks me, his back still turned as he chops away at what looks like a white ball of soft Mozzarella.

I glance around the loft. "Um, it's very big. Must be a total pain to clean," I reply as I sip my beer. He turns around, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"This place, it's so big. How do you keep it so tidy?" Perhaps he's just a tidy neat man like Oliver? Though something tells me he probably only has a beard because he's too lazy to shave. There was a definite hint of the bohemian about Aidan Foley.

Aidan smiles, his eyes lighting up. "I meant New York. What do you think of New York."

"Oh." What an idiot. Why the hell would he be asking what I thought of his apartment? Why the hell am I calling it an apartment? Damn you, Oliver. "Um, well, New York is also very big. Probably even harder to clean than this place." I smile.

"Yeah, fuck having that job," he chuckles, turning back to the food prep. He was now slicing the bread with the large silver knife.

"I'm not sure how I feel about it though. This city. I liked it much better when I was just visiting. Living in it is entirely different from being a tourist in it." I'm trying my hardest not to be too negative about it, tempering how I really feel in case he thinks I'm a whining bitch. Which I most likely am.

"I know exactly what you mean," he agrees. "I miss London. Even the shitty bits. The shitty bits of here aren't as good at being shitty as London." He walks towards me and places a knife and fork down in front of me on the wooden breakfast bar.

"I didn't know you lived in London." Did that mean we'd potentially crossed paths on a busy London street once? Why does the thought of that make me feel odd?

A flicker of something passes across his face before he nods, "Yeah, for a good few years now. It's more of a home than Belfast ever was, to be honest," He says frankly. "You're not from London though, are you?"

I shake my head. "No. I grew up just outside Cirencester. My parents have a farm there. But I moved to London for Uni and never looked back. I love it." As I tell him this I get an image of the front door our house in Hampstead and feel a pang of jealousy for the annoying couple living in it right now. I bloody hate them right now.

He's stopped dead, staring at me in something like awe. "You grew up on a farm?"

"Yes." He stares at me a long time. Too long. "What? Why is that so hard to imagine?" I frown.  Finally, he shakes his head and slides a large plate across the breakfast bar before moving around the breakfast bar to take a seat next to me.

"A farm... fucking hell," he says, amazed.

"You do know what a farm is, don't you? I mean, is that why you're having so much difficulty with the concept?"

He chuckles. "I'm from Ireland, not the moon. We had farms there. I was just certain people like you didn't grow up on farms." He gives me a long sideways glance.

"People like me?" What the hell did that mean?

"Yeah, you know. Like you..." He gives me the kind of look that women dream about men they find attractive giving them. It dries my mouth up and causes a swell of breathlessness to rise from my chest to my throat.

I clear my throat and look down at the food. "Well... that's comforting. I think," I say quietly.  Reaching for my beer I take a long welcome sip, all the while his eyes rest heavy on me. 

"Sorry, I should have asked if there was anything you couldn't eat," he says, breaking the silence. "You don't have an aversion to anything?"

"No, and this looks delicious, thank you." He's made a large platter of sliced mozzarella, tomatoes and basil leaves. All drizzled with a rich dark balsamic glaze. There's a bread basket just beside it containing brown seeded bread drizzled with oil. I'm veritably impressed.

"Well, tuck in then," he says as he reaches over to grab a piece of bread. We eat in a strangely comfortable silence for a few moments, just the sound of his chewing and the noise of my occasional 'yum' every time I put a piece of something else into my mouth. When I look around to him, he's watching me again. That familiar, soft warm look in his large blue-grey eyes. I wonder if he's still learning my form here. Committing it to his 'persistent memory.'

"You're still not over the farmer's daughter thing, are you? Still trying to picture me in gingham milking a cow?"

He snorts a laugh and wipes his mouth with the back of his smooth, veined left hand. "Actually yes, exactly that."

"So what about you? I'm guessing your upbringing was devastatingly predictable?" I say, chewing happily on a chunk of balsamic drenched tomato. Aidan's expression darkens immediately, his eyes narrowing, his mouth hardening before he drops his gaze from mine entirely to look at his hands.

"I fucking wish," he says.

The air in the room seems to have gotten colder and heavier. Christ, what did I just say? Why do I always say the wrong thing when it comes to this man?

"I'm sorry, Aidan, I didn't mean to be facetious, or pry."

He takes a few gulps of his beer and shakes his head, dismissive. "You weren't being either. We were having a conversation. It's just that I can't do that like a normal person. Don't worry about it," he says this but it feels like I just hit something potentially explosive and I don't want to ask him anything else for fear of hitting another landmine.

"Ok." I take a sip of my beer and sit up, suddenly absent of my appetite. "I loved your photos by the way. Before the you-know-what episode. I just realised that I never said it upstairs. They're beautiful. You're exceptionally talented."

He smiles, genuine and warm again. My heart lifts. "Thank you."

"So why didn't they make the show?"

He shrugs. "Some aren't good enough. Some are personal and I didn't really want to share them with people."

"And I'm not 'people'?" I ask.

He turns his head to me, shaking it softly. "I don't think my sister would mind you seeing some photos of her looking like she'd eaten a whole person. Those are her words, not mine."

Something inside me warms and blooms. Relief. "That was your sister? The woman with the child?"

"Yeah, she's as bad as me when it comes to having photos taken. Fuck knows how I convinced her to sit for me." He picks out another bit of cheese from the plate and pops it neatly into his mouth. He was a clean, polished eater — another thing I'd learned about him today — surprising since he is currently eating with his fingers alone. Is there anything those hands and fingers couldn't do? My mind begins to wander dangerously so I look away from them.

"Well, you are very persuasive," I nod.

"I am?"

I nod again as I look back at him, "Yes, you are."

"I'll remember that." His gaze intensifies and it takes every modicum of my inner strength not to look away from it, from him. He is beautiful. Indescribably so. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Would this thing be easier if I didn't like looking at him so much? Or harder? What even is this thing? His beauty makes me feel weak and strong, guilty and afraid, hot and wild all at the same time. And being here in his company is so utterly distant from every other grey guilt-laden aspect of my life that it makes me feel like an entirely different person when I'm with him.

No, not a different person, just a different version of myself. Maybe even a better version. A happier, less morose version at least. This loft, his face, his eyes, his hands — it's as though they all exist in another space-time dimension from the reality I had been struggling with for so long now.

All in all, it was a very dangerous, very appealing, thought.