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Lucy heaved herself out of bed and took Dylan’s wrapped presents out of her wardrobe where she’d hidden them, then padded into the sitting room in her slippers.

“Are those for me?” Dylan asked, appearing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the parcels in her hand.

“They are,” Lucy confirmed, placing the presents under the tree, which already had its lights switched on.

“Do you always wake up this late on Christmas?” Dylan said, his voice full of despair.

“I’m thirty-four and child-free, for the next few months anyway,” Lucy countered. “Of course I don’t get up early on Christmas Day.” She looked him up and down. “Dylan, how long have you been awake for?”

“A while,” Dylan admitted. “I woke up at six and tried to get back to sleep, but couldn’t, so I got up.”

“What are you like?” said Lucy, with an affectionate shake of her head.

“A child, apparently,” Dylan said. “Coffee’s ready if you’d like one.”

“Thanks, that would be great.” Lucy followed him into the kitchen.

“Why did you leave? You could have woken me up,” Lucy braved asking him, not at all sure she wanted to hear his response, but unable to stop herself from speaking.

Dylan didn’t look around, but continued preparing coffee. “I wasn’t sure how well I’d handle being chucked out of your bed for a third time,” he replied.

“Oh,” said Lucy. “But . . . I mean . . . we didn’t—”

“No,” he said, with a small smile, “but I still didn’t fancy going through that again, to be honest.”

Lucy didn’t know what to say. Was Dylan genuinely hurt? She hadn’t meant to cause him pain. She’d been selfish though, she realised, only thinking about what she needed in her still vulnerable state.

“I’m sorry,” she said, willing him to turn around and look at her face, so she could see he was all right.

“Don’t be,” he said, his tone lighter. “I’m very glad I could help you last night. And, honestly, I needed that connection too. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He finally turned to face her and flashed her a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Merry Christmas. How are you doing?”

“Good. Thanks.” She’d slept brilliantly being held by Dylan. It seemed her body and mind had quietened, her flight, fight or freeze reflex had been turned off and she’d rested. Feeling safe.

“No cramps or bleeding?”

“Nothing,” she reassured him.

“That’s wonderful,” Dylan declared. “Shall we have our breakfast at the table before we open our presents like the sensible grown-ups we are?”

“Nah,” said Lucy, shaking her head. She felt the tension between them lift and was so glad. “I want my presents.”

“Agreed,” Dylan said, plunging the coffee. He poured it and handed it to her in her Christmas mug. “Maybe some sugar cookies though?”

He opened the oven door to reveal a tray of cookies which were just about ready. “I took the extra dough we froze out of the freezer and defrosted it overnight,” he explained. “They won’t be iced, but I’m not sure I could face icing first thing in the morning anyway.”

“A very sensible decision,” Lucy said.

“I’ll be in with them in a minute,” Dylan said.

She went into the sitting room and opened the curtains to let in the light from the grey, overcast sky. She smiled at the extra presents that had been placed under the tree before she’d got up. She bent down and snuck a peek at one of the labels; it had her name on in Dylan’s unruly script.

“I hope you’re not rattling any of those,” Dylan said, coming into the room with a plate loaded with sugar cookies.

“Me? Never?” Lucy said.

He passed her his hoodie from the sofa. “Pop that on. The bump looks cold.”