He lets out a guttural groan of longing. ‘That sounds perfect. On your twelve-inch CRT TV. In black and white.’

I stretch out the fingers that are linked with his and use them to whack his leg. ‘It’s not black and white.’

He lets out a low, contented laugh. ‘How can you tell with all the lines and static you get?’

I nudge his leg with my knee. ‘The TV isn’t my priority. I need to read books about Christmas tree farming, not watch TV.’

‘It’s good you have books, but you can ask me anything. I’ll always be happy to help, no matter what. It’s nice to feel needed.’ He rolls his head along the back of the bench until he’s looking up at me and his hair flops over his face. ‘Even if you only want me for my Christmas tree knowledge. I know when I’m being taken advantage of.’

I know he was taken advantage of before, no matter how much he blames himself for it, and there’s something underneath his playful tone of voice, a hurt that still hasn’t gone away, a silent plea that his knowledge isn’t the only thing I want him for.

I disentangle my fingers from his and reach up to tuck his hair back from where it’s fallen across his face. He lets out a breath and closes his eyes again, and my fingers go from tucking the same bit of hair back over and over again, to stroking across his earlobe, and trailing down the side of his face, my thumb brushing his stubble. I let the backs of my fingers dust across his cheeks, draw a line down his nose, my little finger tracing the outline of his lips, grazing across his piercing, and he shivers, but it’s definitely not in a bad way.

His lips part as he lets out a breath, his tongue wetting them, shifting the piercing, making it press against the skin of my fingers as I dance them across the curve of his upper lip again and again.

‘Please kiss me.’ His voice is barely a breath. I feel the words against my skin rather than hear them. It’s the most raw, vulnerable, unguarded thing anyone has ever said to me, and it makes my chest ache with longing.