If Ava looks over, she’ll ask how I am in that way that sounds casual but absolutely isn’t. And I would blurt out what happened and she will want to know what’s next. And I don’t have the answer to that.
If AJ notices, he’ll joke. Not cruelly. Not even carelessly. Just… lightly. And that would be worse. Because this doesn’t feel light. And I don’t want to hear it turned into something throwaway before I’ve even worked out what it is myself.
So I don’t look up.
I type. I answer emails. I reread the same paragraph twice because my attention keeps drifting.
It’s absurd.
I am a forty-five year old woman. I have had relationships. I have been disappointed… plenty of them. I know how this usually goes. That’s why I made the decision that I don’t want more of this.
I should not be sitting at my desk feeling like something has lodged itself under my ribs and refused to leave.
And yet.
There’s a warmth there that won’t shift. Not giddy. Not dramatic. Something steadier. Something that feels less like falling and more like standing still and realising the ground under you might actually hold.
That’s the frightening part.
This isn’t a crush. This isn’t chemistry for the sake of it. This feels quieter than that. More serious. Like something that would deserve to be handled with care if it were ever allowed out into the open.
I tell myself to stop.
I remind myself that this is real life, not optimism with better lighting.
And still my thoughts keep circling back to one small, dangerous idea.
What if we could be the real thing?
I keep typing, as if productivity might drown it out.
It doesn’t.
It feels like something I might, carefully, allow myself to hope for.
Even if I don’t say that out loud yet.
The phone on my desk lights up.
“Chloe. Can you come to my office please.”
Marie-Louise’s voice is calm. Too calm. The sort of calm that suggests someone else has already lost theirs on her behalf.
My stomach drops.
I save the document I’m pretending to work on and stand, smoothing my jumper like that might somehow help. The walk down the corridor feels longer than usual, my head already filling in worst-case scenarios with unhelpful enthusiasm.
Her door is shut.
That never bodes well.
“Sit,” Marie-Louise says, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk when I enter.
I do.
She doesn’t sit down. She stays standing, arms folded, jaw tight.
“The Cumbria Times have been in touch,” she says. “They’re running a piece tomorrow.”
