The path passes under the first of the trees. They follow. Rose’s arms are white gashes in the deep green forest. Her hair bounces as she walks.

The path bends up, away from the river. The sound of the water changes, muffled through layers of leaves. The path bends around the hollow of rocks. Against one rock is a semicircle of stones, filled with dull grey ash and stranded fragments of burnt sticks. The path narrows. Rose walks in front. He can see the effort in her, the way her spine moves, her whole body tilting and bending as her long legs stride. She is close. He can see the way her T-shirt shifts against the tight muscle of her thin back, the dampness at her armpits and in a growing line between her shoulder blades. The smell of the forest is rich and bitter, hot leaves, rising dust at their feet, sweat reeking from the neck of his T-shirt as he bends forward.

It’s a challenge, now. A challenge to not say a thing.

The path rises. The trees are spacing out. He can see between them to the edge of the moors. The wind licks in, cool and fresh, and the sun falls brighter between the trees. The bracken is lurid where it catches the light. They come to a wall, and a stile, and they pause, and for the first time in half an hour they look at each other.

Her face is red. Her hair straggles back. Her eyes glitter.

He smiles, a sudden crack of pleasure, and she smiles too, and they know it, they definitely know it, that this is real.

They cross the stile. They walk over the wide moor. The heather is purple, an impossible colour. The wind is hot and raw, the sun harsh on the skin. The path is double tracked now, and as they walk, Rose grabs Dillon’s hand.

Her fingers are dry and warm and strong. Their arms stretch between them and their legs raise pollen in dusty clouds from the heather.

‘Hang on,’ Dillon says.

His words fall strangely. He blinks like he’s waking from something.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

He feels incapable of speech. Like he’s been silent for so long he’s forgotten. The word ‘sorry’ sits lumpish between them.

The sun is hot. He lets go of her hand.

‘I need a slash.’

He walks away. His feet spring high. He feels light. There’s no shelter, so he stops after twenty metres or so. He pisses onto the heather.

He can feel her behind him. He imagines turning round and she’s gone. The thought sends a chill down his spine, half terror, half relief.

He squints into the sun.

‘Having fun?’ she shouts.

Her voice is loud and loose and happy. He shakes the last drops out, grinning.

She stands waiting as he walks back. It seems a long way.

‘Which hand did you use?’ she says.