Tom walks between them. He tilts his head back to study the inky sky. Its smattering of stars, glittering like diamonds against a jeweller’s velvet roll, captures his fascination.

‘They’re as bright as fireworks,’ he says, his chin thrust upwards, his little mouth slack with awe.

‘They’re better than fireworks, Tom,’ Jack says, lifting the boy into his arms. ‘Fireworks are fleeting – there one minute and gone the next.’

‘But stars are everlasting … they don’t disappear in the blink of an eye,’ Gwen adds with a gentle smile.

‘And even when you can’t see them …’ Jack continues quietly, ‘you can take comfort from the fact they’re still there … burning bright.’ He looks at Gwen. ‘Burning as bright as they ever have.’

Gwen kisses Tom goodnight and leaves Jack to read him another chapter of his book. She hovers on the landing listening, smiling as his voice changes to reflect the characters, grinning broadly as she hears Tom giggle.

She does not retreat to the sitting room but waits for him in the kitchen. She intends to leave nothing to chance this time. Taking a small pan from the shelf in the pantry, she brings down the cocoa tin from the cupboard, then listens out for Jack’s careful descent, readying herself for his entrance.

‘I’m making cocoa – will you join me for a cup?’ She keeps her voice light and the offer casual as she pours the milk into the pan.

‘Aye … that’d be nice.’ He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. His eyes never leave her as she moves about the kitchen, placing the saucepan on the hotplate before retrieving mugs from the dresser.

She is acutely conscious of his presence as she spoons the powder into the mugs. She snatches back the pan as the milk begins to froth. Only the sound of it rushing into the mugs and the catch of the stirring teaspoon breaks the silence.

He steps down into the kitchen to take his mug from her, their fingers brushing. Her skin continues to tingle long after the exchange has been made.

They stand, Gwen resting against the drainer, Jack against the dresser, nursing their mugs, sipping periodically. The silent tension provokes a strange hysteria in Gwen and she cannot keep her smile at bay.

‘What?’ Jack’s own lips tweak in response. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. Really.’ She tries to master her foolish nerves but, before she succeeds, her memory tugs. ‘Oh! I forgot the bloody chickens!’

Jack puts down his mug. ‘Come on, I’ll help you get them in.’

They pull on their boots, choosing to brave the bite of the night air rather than waste time with jackets. The wind is whipping up and the stars are smothered now by bulky grey clouds. The moon teases them with its flirtatious appearances as it dips coyly in and out of cover.