“No, let me get this out before I turn it into a joke and make both of us suffer.”
Her mouth closes.
I step closer.
Not close enough to touch.
This is not that moment. Not yet.
“I was going to leave,” I say.
“I noticed.”
“I got to the car.”
“Efficient.”
“Put my bag in.”
“Very organised.”
“Got in.”
“Congratulations.”
“Pippa.”
The teasing fades from her face.
I breathe in.
Station air. Coffee. Rubber. The faint smell of toast from the kitchen.
And beneath it all, Pippa.
Clean skin. Soap. Warm cotton.
Two weeks ago, I did not know this smell.
Now I think I could find her blindfolded.
“I don’t want that to be the end,” I say.
She says nothing.
Of course she says nothing.
She is Pippa, and silence is one of the many tools she uses better than I use most words.
So I keep going.
“I don’t want to walk out of here, write the article, send it through the proper channels and pretend that’s all this was.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“That was the assignment,” she says.
“Yes.”
