He remembered careening out of the bed and to the toilet, losing everything in his stomach (not much, as it turned out). Remembered the feeling of almost world ending guilt as he'd leaned his head on the toilet seat, knowing that his best mate was back in London, probably dreaming about the woman currently in his fucking bed. Remembered thinking, despite it all, that he'd give just about anything to do it again. Had, in fact, given up several pieces of himself in order to do it, and her, over and over again. For months, years even, he told himself it was the fire of it, the raging inferno that lit up when he was inside her that kept him coming back for more. And more. Had convinced himself, was still convinced, that it was love.