Draught

As she rounded the crest of the hill the first tentative fingers of dawn were tearing through the clouds. He was like orchestras, she decided, to her solo violin. He was like warm, fresh bread to her mouthful of sweetness.
There was a delicious pleasure in her spine, as the chill wind swept her coat aside and prickled her skin into goosebumps.

After her second helping, her mother leaned over and said "Stop". It was obviously meant with a love, and it was said with a smile.
Under the pretence of clearing pans she snuck a third plate of pasta in the kitchen.