Her eyebrow lifts. “Does it?”
“I mean, traditionally.”
“Traditionally?”
I wince. “I can hear myself.”
“Can you?”
“Yes. I’d like to withdraw from the cultural commentary section of this conversation.”
“Wise.”
“I don’t have a firefighter kink, Pippa.”
“No?”
“No.” My voice softens, because the humour is useful, but it is not the thing. Not really. “I have a you thing.”
Her expression shifts.
The frown goes first.
Then the carefulness changes shape into something I am almost afraid to name.
I do not move.
Not because I do not want to.
Because this part has to be hers.
She looks at me for a long time, and I can almost see her gathering the facts. The article. The apology. The station. Margaret. Arthur. The office. Breakfast. Her flat. Carlisle. The future, unclear and inconvenient and certainly not something either of us scheduled.
“This is a bad idea,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You’re not supposed to agree immediately.”
“I’m trying not to lie to you.”
That stills her.
Good.
Because the humour is useful, but it cannot be the only thing holding us up.
She folds her arms, and I can see the wall coming back brick by brick. “You live two hours away.”
“Yes.”
“You have a job.”
“So do you.”
“My shifts are ridiculous.”
“I’ve observed.”
