I blow my nose again and scrub my hands over my face, telling myself that I need to tell him it’s fine and say goodbye, but a really really microscopically tiny part of me doesn’t want him to go yet. Before I’ve figured out how to say anything, he moves out of the window and the car door is pulled open from the outside, and he crouches down beside me.

The movement surprises me and I look at him without thinking. He looks even better tonight than he did earlier. He’s got the same well-fitting jeans on, black welly-boots halfway up his calves, a long waterproof coat with wooden toggles closing it diagonally across his chest, and his dark hair is sticking out from under an oversized bobble hat, looking windswept and touchable.

He nods towards the radio, where ‘Fairytale of New York is coming out of the dashboard. ‘I’ve never been a fan of this song but is it really that bad?’

I reach over and switch it off.

‘You can leave it on. It’s never too early for Christmas music.’

‘Finally, someone who understands,’ I say, so surprised by someone who agrees with my stance on festive music in October that I forget about crying for a moment. ‘I told my friend I’d dusted off the Christmas playlist for driving up here and she nearly disowned me because it’s too early.’

‘It’s nearly the middle of the month. That makes it practically Christmas. If mince pies are in the shops, it’s fine to play Christmas music.’

I can’t take my eyes off that lip piercing again as he grins.

‘So,’ he starts, pressing one hand against the doorframe to balance himself, ‘my mum came in earlier, rubbed my ears and said “that was from Leah.” Would you happen to know anything about that?’

An unexpected laugh bursts out at the crystal-clear mental image. ‘Oh, for god’s sake, I said Gizmo, not you.’

‘Yeah, he probably would’ve appreciated an ear rub more than I did.’

‘Has she got problems with her hearing?’

‘Aye, but it’s undiagnosed because doctors can’t do much about “selective” hearing.’

‘I think all parents have that. My mum was the same …’ I trail off and swallow past the lump in my throat. I’ve just about got the tears under control, I can’t start crying again.

There’s a charged silence. I know he’s picked up the ‘was’ in that sentence, and I can almost hear him deciding on the best thing to say.

‘At least you didn’t tell her to give me a Bonio.’

That makes me laugh again but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my head.

‘Go on then,’ he says eventually. ‘Apart from having no water, no electricity, no heat, and no food, why are you outside crying in the car?’