You’re just sitting in a park with him, on a cold day, because your boyfriend said that it was warm enough to go on a walk. That was a lie. It’s freezing, but he’s enjoying it. You’re all wrapped up in many layers of wool and thick fabric, having nicked one of his coats to wear over your own. Andrew walks beside you, his glasses perched on his reddening nose.

Your eye falls to his hand, in the pocket of his coat, so you pull it out. Inspecting lean fingers and blushed knuckles, the joints of his hand being rushed with blood, going a beautiful rosy colour.

Andrew: “it’s cold, give us back me hand, i want’ta put it back in my pocket.”

He says, while making no attempt to pull his hand back from you.