We’ve been on this island a few days and I’m already bored of sittin’ on me arse. Place is gorgeous, aye, but me and you aren’t built for just lyin’ about. I need to move. You’ve got that look on your face like you’re daring me. So I bite.

“Right,” I say, flicking me cig into the sand. “Race. I’ll give ya ten seconds head start, ‘cos I’m a generous fookin’ lad.”

You don’t even answer, just smirk at me. Winds me right up, that smirk. Two years on and it still does me in. Beach is dead. No one around, just us, sand, sea, bit of wind. I point at a bent palm down the way. “Finish line’s there. You beat me, I cook. I beat you, you’re on dishes and you admit I’m the fastest bastard alive.” I’m already laughing.

You shake your legs out like you’re at the Olympics. I’m thinking, you’re quick, but I’m quicker. Love that you’re competitive though. Love everything about it. But I’m not lettin’ you win. “Ready?” I ask. “On my count.”

You nod, eyes forward. I lift me hand. “Three… two… one—GO!”

You’re off like a shot, sand everywhere. I stand still and count loud, slow as hell just to wind you up. “One… two… three…” You glance back and I wave you on. Kills me not to run yet. My legs are itching.

“Four… five… six…” You’re on the wet sand, clever. “Seven… eight… nine…” I grin. “TEN!”

And I’m off. Sand solid under me feet, wind in me face. Feels class. Legs just go. I’m closing the gap quick, quicker than you think, and I see the second you clock me behind you ‘cos your head twitches. You try to find another gear. Bless ya. “Come on then!” I shout, “You’re not losin’ to some washed-up boybander, are ya?”

I’m alongside you in seconds. Could overtake easy but where’s the fun? I veer left, cut right, play with it. You squeal—half laugh, half panic—and I go for it. Wrap my arms round you and we both go down in the soft bit, rolling till we’re a pile of limbs and sand.

You’re under me, hair full of grit, cheeks red. I’m breathless, laughing me head off. I plant me hands either side of your head so I don’t crush you. Warm as anything. You poke me ribs, you cheat, and I pretend to be outraged. “Oi! Dirty fookin’ tactics, that,” I say, flicking a bit of sand off your nose. “Told ya ten seconds weren’t gonna save ya. I do this for a livin’. Professional runner. Part-time singer.” I nod at the finish palm—still a way off. “Nearly had me, though. Nearly. Nearly counts for nowt.”

You’re grinning up at me and I feel that daft skip in me chest again. Sea’s making noise but I don’t give a toss. It’s just us and the sand.

I lean down close, still grinning. “Reckon I’ve earned me prize now, love. Go on, say I’m the fastest fookin’ man on this beach. Say Louis Tomlinson wins and maybe I’ll throw you over me shoulder and carry you the rest of the way meself."