If Abi was a more humble person herself, she'd be inclined to deny his genius but there was a part of her ego that took pride in being Hemingway's inspiration. If not to write about her, then just to write in general. She'd read so much of his work that it felt like a second way of communicating between them; behind the letters they wrote each other was a deeper love than either could portray.
"Could you, though?" she asked, her cheeks turning pink at the apples, "Could you write a sentence about me, about us? Because I don't know if it's possible to word how much you mean to me, I'm curious if you are the same way."
Her skin goosebumped as a chill passed through the room and she reluctantly had to extricate herself from him to get a blanket to cover them up so she didn't freeze. But she soon settled back and leant over him to snuggle up more. "Who would ever thought I'd be snuggled up with Ernest Hemingway. My brain still can't process that. Doubt it ever will."