‘Nice sweatshirt.’ Hugh nods at the unravelled hem I’d been picking at earlier. Self-conscious, I tug the sleeves further down towards my hands. We’re sitting next to each other now, both gazing out at the sea towards the sunrise. We’ve spent the last couple minutes in companionable silence, watching as gulls swooped into the water. Every so often I steal a glance at him out of my peripherals, and one time I catch him looking back at me. We both look away as fast as we can, focusing on the turquoise horizon. He’s squinting, but his eyes are a clear bright blue this morning with golden flecks around his irises. He’s a little sunburned around his cheeks and on the slope of his nose. He looks even more like Prince Eric in profile than he did yesterday. The sun is about two feet above the water now, and Hugh says he started to hear rumblings of movement in the cabin while he was making tea.

‘Is this something Americans do? Wear extra-large clothes?’

‘Well, it’s actually not mine.’ I blush, although I can’t pinpoint whether it’s the implication that I’m wearing men’s clothes or Hugh’s gaze that makes me uncomfortable.

‘Oh.’ His eyes widen. ‘I see.’ He coughs awkwardly and recovers his normal expression. We sit in silence for another minute before he says, ‘I have to say it’s impressive that you found someone who can put up with your snoring.’

‘What!’ I exclaim, heat creeping up my neck. ‘I don’t snore!’ Snoring is better than moaning in my sleep, I think. At least I didn’t do that.

Hugh’s lips twitch. I can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep a smile at bay. ‘If you say so,’ he says.

‘Also, I’m not . . .’ I stammer. ‘I haven’t found . . .’ I trail off again, not wanting to admit to snoring. ‘I thought we were in a truce,’ I complain, half whining.

‘You’re right,’ Hugh says, hands up in mock surrender. ‘You don’t snore. Truce.’ He winks. ‘So, tell me about the owner of the sweatshirt. If it’s not yours, is it someone special’s?’ Now, it’s his turn to blush at his own naked curiosity, and he fixes his gaze onto his half-empty cup of tea.

I stifle a laugh. ‘Well . . .’ I hesitate. ‘It’s my ex-boyfriend’s,’ I begin. I’m continuously surprised at how easily ‘ex’ rolls off my tongue. ‘We actually broke up pretty recently . . . it wasn’t great.’ I roll my shoulders back and take a deep breath. It suddenly feels like every word I choose is heavy with importance. ‘He was right for me at the beginning. He was – he is – patient and safe. He’s reliable. I needed that in college, and right afterwards, when I didn’t know what I wanted to be doing. But I know myself better now and . . . well . . .’