We’re running. Our clothes are soaked, and our shoes are full of water. But after those hot, dry weeks in India, there is a sweet relief in England’s insistent rains. As we climb a grassy slope, I tug hard at Ethan’s drenched sweater, causing him to lose his footing and slip backwards onto his bum. I laugh and dart past him, but he manages to get hold of my ankle just in time. And then I’m next to him, splayed out on the grass, laughing wildly. Up ahead we see some shelter in the form of an abandoned wartime pill box, sitting up on the crest of the hill. We get up and move towards it. Ethan gets there first and immediately starts clambering up into one of its loopholes. I hesitate, but he’s already inside beckoning me to join him. Once we’re both inside we sit and catch our breath. We’re so wet that shelter seems almost pointless, though there is some respite from the continual lashings of wind. I look into Ethan’s eyes. Are they really green, as he always claims, or just subtle mixtures of yellows and blues? I lean in to inspect closer, but he reaches out with his lips to intercept me. We’re shivering and kissing and kissing and shivering. And forgetting. Forgetting everything that isn’t this moment. Forgetting the lonely past and the threat of more loneliness to come. Forgetting that he’ll be going away soon.