It was an unseasonably warm May night. Still in the cut-offs and t-shirt she had worn all day, nineteen-year-old Merrin ran up the coastal path that led to Reunion Point, a spit of land around the headland where waves crashed below and gulls nested on the steep cliff face. She inhaled the salt-tinged breeze of this little corner of the wild Cornish coast with its caves and rocky shorelines, before coming to a sudden halt.

The sight of him was enough to do that to her: stop her in her tracks. His broad back hunched inside a navy linen shirt and his freckled arms drawn around his knees. He sat on the cliff edge looking out across the water, flanked by gnarled trees and tumbled-down, rough-hewn rocks, rounded pebbles, bottle-green seaweed and scattered shells. The sun, still fierce at dusk, had for the last fortnight lifted its beautiful golden head to warm the bones of the folk who lived here along the higgledy-piggledy harbourside precariously perched on the rocks, and in the fishing village of Port Charles, where the pub, shop, primary school and church sat facing the sea, sitting firm and proud in the same spots for over two hundred years, give or take a few inches.

Slipping off her trainers, Merrin let them dangle from her fingers as she took a moment, pushing her toes into the spongy grass beneath her feet.

‘Hey, you,’ he whispered softly, as she dropped by his side and crossed her legs. The flat of her foot lay comfortingly against his thigh. He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers, and there they sat, letting their breath assume a similar satisfied rhythm and quietly staring out over the wild water, where the broad sails of boats littered the horizon.

‘That’s better.’ He raised her hand and kissed it. It didn’t matter what the day held for her; knowing this moment of reunion was only ever hours away made anything bearable. Even a day of hard work at her cleaning job.

‘I only saw you this morning.’ She leant in with her cheek now resting on his shoulder. He turned so his chin lay on the top of her head. So many perfect ways they fitted together.

‘I know. It’s ridiculous.’ He kissed her scalp. ‘I want to see you every minute of every day. And when I’m not with you, I’m thinking about you.’

‘Really?’ She wrinkled her nose, shamelessly fishing for compliments. ‘Don’t you worry I’ll drive you mad?’

‘“Love is . . . a madness most discreet.” William Shakespeare said that.’

‘Did he?’ She laughed. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

‘So it’s a lost cause, I’m afraid, and far too late to worry about.’