“No.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
“And if you write me badly, I’ll end you.”
“That feels fair.”
“It isn’t a metaphor.”
“I assumed.”
Her mouth softens despite herself.
“And no turning me into the reason you make career decisions you later resent,” she says.
That one lands deep.
I let it.
Then I say, “No.”
She studies me.
“I mean that,” I say. “I’m not asking you to become an excuse. I’m asking you to be a reason I tell myself the truth about what I want.”
Her eyes soften.
“That was annoyingly good.”
“I’ve had two weeks of professional development.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Right.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The station breathes around us. Doors. Voices. The kettle. The appliance bay. Everything practical and ordinary and alive.
Pippa looks at me as if I am both a problem and the thing she cannot quite bring herself to put down.
“All right,” she says.
My heart stops.
“All right?”
“One chance.”
I stare at her.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You would.”
