He hands me a paper bag containing a fresh loaf of pumpkin and hazelnut tear-off bread, which he knows is my favourite. He’s been feeding me often, probably too often. No takeaways deliver this far out in the countryside, but I’m not even missing them because he usually pops over in the evenings with Gizmo and something Glenna’s made.

It doesn’t even seem weird to be having a picnic in November. It’s cold, but my feet are warm in layers of fluffy socks inside my boots, and my coat is snuggly, and I think there’s some sort of heat-by-osmosis science behind sitting so close to someone as hot as Noel. This beautiful big tree protects us from the drizzle, the moss is soft underneath us, and the world around us is peaceful as we eat in comfortable silence, smiling every time we look up and catch each other’s eyes.

He leans back when he’s done and I can feel the heaviness of his body as he relaxes against the tree trunk again. I expected him to jump up and carry on with cutting, but he’s clearly happy to sit here a bit longer.

I settle back too. My hair is in a loose plait that’s gradually fallen down over the course of the morning, and I can feel it catching on the peeling bark at my back. I lean forward and drag it over my shoulder. My hair is straight and super thick, it doesn’t allow bands to hold it for long before they slip out and I’m used to having to put it back up multiple times a day.

I can feel his eyes on me as I pull the band off the bottom of the plait and fingercomb it, splaying it across my shoulder. Before I have a chance to get any further, his hand comes up and tangles in it, the backs of his fingers unintentionally brushing against my chest.

‘Love your hair,’ he says quietly, sounding completely entranced. He leans his head down to rest on my shoulder and his relaxation spreads through me as well, and I slouch against the tree with him leaning against me.

His fingers keep stroking through the lengths of my hair, and it’s so weird, so innocent – he’s completely unguarded and vulnerable. I’ve never seen him like this before.

‘Love yours,’ I find the courage to whisper back. It takes everything I have not to press my lips to his forehead. Instead, I tilt my head until it rests against his, and the only sound is the rustle of needles blowing in the breeze in the nearest Christmas trees.