He places his hand on her waist and now they’re dancing, a sped-up version of a waltz that’s completely at odds with the song blaring tinnily out of his phone speakers. Inspired, she takes his hand and spins into him then back away, a bastardised version of the classic ballroom move. Then the pair break apart and give themselves completely to the music; fists pumping in the air, elaborate sways and finger clicks, plus something that could be generously described as the electric slide. It’s daggy, but as a couple they’re now at least seven months past self-consciousness. She jumps up, shaking her mop of dark hair back and forth, then takes a step backwards—forgetting about the half-unpacked box until she finds herself in it, sneakered feet waggling ridiculously in the air.

‘You know, I always used to think the line was “call me out”,’ she says as he peers down at her.