Not properly alone. There are people close enough to appear at any second. Doors open. Voices nearby. A station shifting into day mode around us.
But close enough for the air between us to become inconvenient.
“So,” she says.
A terrible start.
I adore it.
“So,” I say back.
Her mouth almost moves.
“You survived two weeks.”
“Barely.”
“You’re standing.”
“Through force of will.”
“And tea.”
“And tea.”
Her gaze drops to my bag, then back to my face.
“You’ve got everything?”
No.
Obviously not.
My bag has my notebook, my laptop, my chargers, three pens, a leaflet about home fire safety, a list of equipment terms Mish corrected and the packet of mints I bought on day one because I briefly believed fresh breath might save my career.
It does not have the thing I need.
That thing is standing in front of me with a folder under her arm, looking at me like this goodbye is supposed to be manageable.
“Yes,” I say, because I am apparently a coward with a satchel.
“Good.”
“Good.”
The word is unbearable.
We stare at each other.
This is where something should happen. Not a dramatic something. Not a kiss. Not here. Not with half the station within earshot and every single professional line already frayed enough to become a safety hazard.
But something.
Something better than good.
Pippa shifts the folder under her arm. “Thank you for taking it seriously.”
There.
