“Yes, but I’m trying to be attractive.”
“It’s touch and go.”
“Wounded.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then Pippa looks down the corridor towards the kitchen, where voices carry and someone laughs, and when she looks back at me, the decision is already there.
Not reckless.
Not careless.
Hers.
She steps closer, catches the front of my jacket in one hand and pulls me down to her.
The kiss is not long.
It can’t be.
Not here, not with doors open and the day shift somewhere nearby and every sensible boundary still standing around us with a clipboard and a raised eyebrow.
But her mouth is warm and certain on mine, and for one brief, impossible moment, the whole station seems to fall away.
No article.
No car waiting outside.
No Carlisle.
Just Pippa’s hand curled in my jacket and the quiet, devastating fact that she has chosen this too.
When she lets me go, I forget every word I have ever been paid to use.
Her thumb smooths once over the fabric she has wrinkled.
“There,” she says, a little breathless. “Now you can go.”
I stare at her. “Can I?”
“You should.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Her mouth twitches.
From the kitchen, Josh calls, “Pip? You seen the good biscuits?”
Pippa closes her eyes.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I do not laugh.
“Go,” she says.
