‘Both,’ he says, holding them up in the air, grinning.

She grabs at one, and he lets her.

They walk.

He can feel the swing of her arm pulling at his. He can feel the sweat starting between their palms.

‘Did you meet the queen?’ he asks, light-headed.

She shakes her head.

‘Did you buy me a jacket with gold buttons?’ he asks.

She shakes her head.

‘Fuck you!’ he says, delightedly.

She laughs.

At some point they arrive. It isn’t anywhere in particular. They sit. They sit so they touch. Her thigh touches his and he holds her hand with both of his.

He tries not to move. They are just out of the wind, and the air is slow, peaty, warm.

He turns his head towards her, feather-light and full to the brim. He rests his forehead on her cheek. She smells of soap, and underneath it, sweat. His head moves, pushing in. His nose presses under the curve of her jaw. Bees hum over the purple flowers, and he feels the prickle of the heather at his back, under his thighs.

The feel of her skin against his. He could sink into her.

The world holds still.

A sharper buzz startles him. A thought drops.

Should I kiss you?

He knows he should. He knows this is the moment. He turns his head and kisses her, and she kisses him, and she tastes the sweetness of the air inside him, and she opens her mouth wide, and he does too, balancing carefully on the moment so as not to let it spill.

Rose breaks off when he starts crying. She lifts a hand to her lips. She can feel the wetness of his saliva, and a salty trace of his snot.

The only other person she’s kissed was in London, and this didn’t happen.

Dillon has bowed his head and curled away from her. She puts a hand to his shoulder, but stops before touching it.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

His back heaves. He lets out a snort.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks again. She wonders what you do. She sits back, wraps her arms round her knees, and watches.

Beyond him a crow rises over the moor, rising on the lift of the quickening breeze.

His breath catches and a sob rips out, and then he stands, and walks two steps and stops. His shoulders are rolled forward, his arms hanging loose but away from the body, like he is soaked in something vile and doesn’t want to touch himself.

‘Dillon?’

He’s facing away from her, but he can’t stay still. His body is turning one way and then another, like he’s trapped. He’s making an odd sound. Eventually it bursts out in a high-pitched yelp of rage, and he kicks at the heather in front of him, and the pollen rises. He makes the noise again, and then he shouts.

‘Fuck!’