I consider making more tea, but the thought of boiling a kettle feels like a commitment I am not emotionally prepared for. Instead, I step outside into the yard.
The cold hits me straight in the face.
Fuck, yes.
That is the point.
I breathe it in and let it scrape some of the tiredness off the inside of my skull. The rain has stopped, but everything is still wet. The tarmac glistens under the lights. Somewhere beyond the station, Fellside is quiet in the particular way small villages are quiet at night, with darkness pressed up against every lit window.
I walk a few steps away from the door and look up.
No stars.
Just cloud, low and heavy.
Typical.
I hear the door open behind me.
“Trying to freeze yourself awake?” Pippa asks.
I turn.
She is standing in the doorway with a jacket hooked over one arm and two mugs carefully balanced in her hands.
For a second, I cannot think of anything clever to say.
This is becoming a problem.
She crosses the yard and holds out the jacket.
“Put this on.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a sweatshirt in the middle of the night in a wet yard.”
“I was aiming for tough love.”
“Waking up is fine. Hypothermia is inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient?”
“Paperwork.”
“Of course.”
I take the jacket because I am not stupid, despite some evidence to the contrary. It is warm from inside and smells faintly of station laundry and smoke that has soaked into the fabric over years rather than hours.
She hands me the mug too.
“Tea.”
“You brought me tea?”
“Don’t make it sound like a declaration.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
