“It is entirely about last night,” he says. “You are bringing pudding as penance.”
“I am bringing pudding as context.”
“You are bringing pudding because you are panicking,” Rupert replies. “And because you do not know how to sit with unresolved things.”
I bristle. “That’s not true.”
“You are incapable of casual,” he says serenely. “When you care, you overcorrect.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. Because annoyingly, he is not wrong.
Rupert considers this. “So you fancy her?”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“I didn’t ask that but if we are on that subject—"
I groan. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” he replies. “But that’s not the point.”
“And what is the point?” I ask.
“It’s okay to develop a crush… or more. Even if your crush is the woman you can’t stop arguing with.”
“I’m leaving.” I don’t wait for his answer just head outside.
I am absolutely not delivering the Tiramisu just so I can see Chloe again. Absolutely not.
By the time I finish the Tiramisu, it has acquired a frankly indulgent layer of cocoa powder. Thick enough to be intentional. Thick enough to suggest conviction rather than panic. I stare at it for a moment, then add a little more, because this is clearly not the morning for moderation.
I lid the container, wipe the edges, and grab my keys.
At the corner shop, I buy paper plates and disposable cutlery. The man behind the till rings them through without comment. The lack of commentary feels pointed.
I park across the road from the Carlisle Gazette and sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, engine idling, watching people go in and out with purposeful expressions and coffee cups before starting the motor again. I drive past the building once, telling myself I’m checking parking restrictions. I loop back again, convincing myself I’ve missed the turning. By the third pass, even I am no longer pretending.
Right. Drop and go. No hovering. No explanations.
I pick up the container, tuck the plates under my arm, and head inside.
Reception is bright, functional, and staffed by a woman with a headset and the expression of someone who has already dealt with nonsense today. I set the Tiramisu on the counter carefully.
“Morning,” I say. “I was hoping to leave this for Chloe Ingram from the Gazette.”
She glances at the container. “We don’t accept deliveries at reception.”
“It’s not a delivery,” I say. “It’s personal.”
She doesn’t engage with that. “Anything for staff has to go to the department.”
Relief hits faster than it should. “That’s fine.”
“You’ll need to be escorted,” she adds, already touching her headset.
“Oh, I don’t—”
“Oscar,” she says calmly.
