Then she steps back.
And I let her.
Because I am sensible. Because this is her workplace. Because I am leaving. Because there is an article to write and a career to consider and a whole complicated set of reasons why turning the corridor of Fellside Fire Station into an emotional incident would be inconvenient for everyone involved.
I walk away.
This is a terrible idea.
Yet I keep walking.
Out through the station, past the kitchen where Kev is accusing someone of stealing the good mug. Past the appliance bay where the engine sits clean and ready. Past the entrance where I first stood, too much confidence and not nearly enough understanding.
Outside, the morning is bright after the rain. The sky has cleared into a pale, ridiculous blue, the hills sharp in the distance, the station behind me already getting on with itself.
That offends me slightly.
I do not know what I expected. Perhaps the building could have looked more emotionally invested. A flicker of lights. A creak of door. Something.
Instead, a van goes past.
Life, apparently, continues.
I reach my car and unlock it.
The boot opens.
I put my bag in.
Then I stand there with one hand on the boot lid, staring at the contents like they might explain me to myself.
Notebook. Laptop. Jacket. Running shoes I have barely used because Pippa has destroyed any illusions I had about my fitness needing additional activity. A half-empty packet of mints. A spare shirt I should probably wash before it becomes sentient.
This is fine.
This is normal.
Assignment ends. Reporter leaves. Article gets written. People return to their lives.
Pippa returns to hers.
I return to mine.
I close the boot.
Get into the driver’s seat.
Shut the door.
The car is very quiet.
Too quiet.
I put the key in the ignition and then stop with my hand still on it.
Because there it is.
The thing I have been pretending not to know since I woke up with Pippa warm beside me and the light on her shoulder.
