She glances up.
Our eyes meet through the glass.
There is no dramatic pause. No music. No sudden loss of oxygen.
There is only her looking at me for half a second longer than she would have five days ago, and me feeling it everywhere.
Rob says something. Pippa answers him, then gestures for him to go ahead. He leaves the office, nodding at me as he passes.
I walk over before I can talk myself out of it.
The office door is open.
“Evening,” I say.
“Evening.”
Her voice is normal.
That is good.
Probably.
I hover in the doorway because after last night the threshold feels more loaded than a doorway has any right to be.
“How are you?” I ask.
The question comes out quieter than I intend.
Pippa’s eyes move over my face.
For one second, I think she will give me the version for everyone else.
Fine.
Sorted.
All good.
Instead she says, “All right.”
It is still not much.
It is not nothing either.
“I’m glad,” I say.
Then, because I cannot help myself, “Actual all right or professionally acceptable all right?”
Her mouth moves.
Not quite a smile.
“Somewhere between the two.”
“I can work with that.”
“You don’t have to work with anything.”
