I don’t hesitate to go and sit there, surprised to find the moss is dry underneath me, the deformed branches and patches of greenery above giving it protection from the drizzle. The trunk is so thick that two of us can easily sit against one side, and Noel wriggles back until he’s leaning on it completely. He lets out a long sigh and tension drains from his body as he relaxes. His eyes drift closed and he inhales and exhales for a few long moments, and my eyes are drawn to him. The way he drops his head back to lean against the trunk, tiny droplets of drizzle coat his dark hair, and the straggly bits blow in the gentle wind, making my desire to tuck them back stronger than ever. I settle back against the trunk, the moss and bark combining to make a surprisingly comfortable seat, and try to follow his lead. I concentrate on my breathing, trying to keep it slow and steady despite the fact that now we’re sitting so close, his aftershave has taken over my senses again. Even the damp green scent of the moss is not as strong as the spicy juniper and patchouli, and the temptation to press my nose into his neck is definitely one better left unexplored.

‘Look up,’ he murmurs.

I tilt my head back and from this angle, I can see that the patches of greenery growing in the knotted old branches have elongated lined leaves with rounded ends and are covered in smooth white berries. ‘Is this a mistletoe tree?’

‘No. Mistletoe doesn’t …’ He shakes his head fondly. ‘Oh, you have so much to learn. Mistletoe doesn’t grow in trees of its own. It’s a parasite that leeches off the nutrients of other trees. This big old thing hasn’t got the energy to produce apples anymore, so the mistletoe grows in it instead. It’s pretty rare in Scotland, but it’s widespread further south.’

‘Wow,’ I mumble, stunned by his knowledge and feeling a bit fluttery at sitting in this beautiful place with this beautiful man who has somehow shared this with me. There’s a sense of magic in the air, a feeling that fairies might flit past our toes at any moment, and I can tell how special this is to Noel.

‘The ancient druids believed mistletoe grew from heaven because it doesn’t have any roots.’ He’s so relaxed that his voice is almost slurring. His hands are limp in his lap, and I wish I could pluck up the courage to trail my fingers down his arm until my hand touches his, but I can’t.

‘Thank you for showing me this,’ I whisper, because speaking normally will break whatever spell we’re under and we’re definitely under some kind of spell because there’s no way I’m really contemplating holding his hand or that he’d contemplate letting me.