When we eventually break apart, Logan hastily wipes a stray tear from one of his eyes while looking deeply into mine. “I lost my fucking mind, Gemima,” he tells me. “I’ve never felt so sick with fear. I’ve never felt like my whole world was collapsing in on itself. Not even during my wayward years have I ever been so lost as when I thought you were gone. I…I just,” he shakes his head, “I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even explain to the guys on-site what was happening, I just had to get out of there,” he remembers, “and before I knew it I was back at the airport. I didn’t even call my parents to tell them that I was flying home early, I was too busy calling you or the reception desk or Amélie, but nobody picked up.”

“Logan, that’s horrible,” I say quietly. I can’t let myself imagine what it would be like for all of the signs to point to Logan being dead. It’s too terrible a thing to contemplate.

“Getting on that plane was a fucking nightmare; sitting in that confined space having to control myself when all I wanted to do was scream. I left my phone on and halfway back to Paris I got a message from the complex manager confirming the name of the woman who died and the man who shot her. I don’t think the other passengers or the stewards have ever seen a grown man cry before,” he tells me openly, bravely.

“Oh, Logan,” I whimper, and I can’t hold myself back — I kiss him. It’s just lips on lips, but it’s enough of a gesture to communicate my empathy. My heart is pounding hearing his version of events and our kiss does nothing to stem it but only adds to the overload of emotions that I’m feeling.

Gazing at me with his bloodshot eyes, Logan continues, “After the relief ebbed away, I felt so stupid for ever letting myself get so carried away with thinking that it was you, and I felt like an asshole for being happy that someone else was dead rather than you, and I felt so angry that you didn’t answer your phone or call me back. It seemed so obvious to me what had happened, and I couldn’t understand that you had no idea what I was talking about.”

“I promise you, I honestly didn’t know,” I tell him. “I was so distracted, Logan, that it never occurred to me.”

“Why?” he asks me quietly. “Why were you distracted?”

I sigh, and say, “I’ll tell you about my day.”

Logan nods encouragingly.

“I don’t like waking up without you,” I start off, and he smiles a little at my words. “Something felt wrong from the moment I woke up,” I recall. “I tried to ignore these weird feelings I had, I told myself that I was being foolish, and after sending you that last message I must’ve left my phone in the kitchen and left the house. In the elevator I realised I’d left it behind and I was going to go back for it, but,” I shudder where I sit, “then the doors opened and I saw my neighbour tucking what I suspected was a gun into the front of his pants.”

“You were near him?” Logan sounds horrified. “Did he touch you?” he asks, his panic rising rapidly.

“No,” I reassure him quickly, “he didn’t do anything apart from step into the lift and tell me to have a good day when I stepped out of it.”

“What?” he looks as confused as I was by the man’s words.

I shrug. “The weird thing is, that even before I saw him, this cold chill came over me. The hairs on my skin stood up,” I say, looking down at my arms, “and I was instantly reminded of the day that my dad died.”

Logan’s lips form an O of understanding.

I tell him more, “Then when he looked at me I swear I could’ve screamed if I wasn’t so scared. His eyes were just the same as I remember as a four-year-old, Logan, so hollow and empty, and this crazy deja vu kept messing with my mind. I had every intention of staying in the elevator, of going back up to get my phone, but when he stepped inside of it my body just…just moved. I don’t know how,” I muse again, “but instinctively some part of me must’ve known that I had to get away from him,” I conclude with another shrug.

“I can’t believe that he was so close to you,” Logan says, shocked.

“I practically ran to my car and that’s when I heard the gunshot. I drove to work, because subconsciously I must feel safe there.” That insight would make Amélie’s ego soar. “But all the while these memories ran through me about my dad, memories about him talking to me just before he went inside the petrol station, and how I remember seeing him standing inside…these are things that I never knew I knew until this morning,” I tell him poignantly. “I felt so sick, and those feelings of coldness and creepy eeriness only exacerbated that. I threw up when I got to work, then I knew I had to call the police but when I walked out of reception everyone was gathered around my desk to congratulate me…congratulate us,” I amend, “on our engagement.”

“That explains the flowers,” Logan interjects and I nod.

“They gave me a fright when they surprised me and I kind of lost my cool completely,” I admit in something of an understatement. I cringe at the thought of returning to work tomorrow. I should really go around the whole office, thanking them once again for the flowers and proving to them that I’m not as unhinged as I may have appeared to have been today. “Layla and Amélie spent most of the morning with me in a meeting room,” I then say. “That’s why no one answered your phone calls. They stayed while I spoke to the police, and while I broke down in tears about my father.”

“Gemima,” Logan says my name with reverence, the way I’m used to hearing it, and which after today, I will never take for granted again.

Before he can say anymore, I want to finish explaining myself. “Logan, I was going to call you around nine-thirty,” I begin sheepishly — it’s confession time, “but I don’t know your number off by heart. I found it in your project folder and was about to ring again an hour before you showed up but then my mom called — because Amélie had called her — and we ended up speaking for ages, talking through the new memories that I had about my dad,” I explain. “Then you appeared and I was so happy to see you, and then so confused by your anger, because I honestly, honestly, honestly didn’t know why you came back until just now.”

“I should’ve realised how the shooting would affect you given your past, and I’m sorry that I didn’t,” he says quietly, meaningfully.

“And I should’ve called you,” I humbly admit. Even without knowing the conclusion he came to, I still should’ve called him, because I desperately wanted to and because that’s what couples do in situations like this — they connect, they communicate. “I’m sorry I didn’t, Logan. I’m so sorry you had such an awful time.” He must’ve felt terrible; his panic was likely unprecedented and entirely engrossing, and if it had been me who had no choice but patience while waiting to hear more then I would’ve turned certifiable.

“It’s OK, baby. The relief I feel knowing that you’re alright outweighs everything else. That’s all I’ll ever want, for you to be alive and happy, and I took a part of that away from you today. I’m sorry I shouted at you without explaining myself. My head wasn’t working right. I should’ve taken your father more into account; of course you’ve been thinking about him today,” he says sympathetically.

“Apology accepted,” I give him a small smile.

“Likewise,” he nods. “And I’m glad, in hindsight, that you didn’t go back for your phone. You did the right thing in getting out of the elevator, and driving to work, and speaking to your mom,” he assures me.

“I did then steal a muffin that wasn’t mine,” I own up. That wasn’t very right of me.

Logan can’t suppress his laugh. His dimples appear, finally, and it feels like we’ve reached a milestone — now that I see them, I know that everything’s going to be OK. The worst of the storm has passed, I think. I reach out to cup his face in my hands once more, abruptly realising how much I’ve missed him today. I don’t ever want to feel as disconnected from Logan as I have this afternoon; it’s as unnerving to me as those eerie feelings this morning were.