Jonathan Sims

He knows better than to assume that Martin is entirely convinced. Some truths take longer to internalize than others — if they can be fully internalized at all — and John is intimately familiar with the subtle gradations between acquiescence and acceptance. But this is enough for now: air cleared, tensions eased, the prospect of a cuppa that no longer feels fraught.

"Please," John replies, not without feeling. Martin's embrace has banished some of the chill, but none of the damp, and a hot beverage and some fresh clothes sound perfect. He leans in to press a kiss to Martin's temple, murmuring, "I'll be right back." Then, he gently extricates himself and heads for the bedroom, The Bishop trotting alongside and making the occasional bid to rub up against his shin.

It only takes him a minute or so to exchange his trousers for some dry joggers and his button-up for one of his loose jumpers (longer than it would have if he didn't need to navigate around a very insistent cat), and he wanders back out with The Bishop in his arms, feeling a great deal more comfortable. "All right?" he asks, pausing at the edge of the kitchen to see how Martin's getting on.