Which is worse.
After dinner, the crew drift back into shift mode. Mugs are washed. Chairs scrape. Radios mutter. The evening settles into that waiting rhythm I know now, the one that still feels strange because it is never truly quiet.
Pippa walks me to the side door just after nine.
She has one eye on the station, one ear on everything, and still somehow manages to be entirely aware of me.
“I’ve left the heating on at the flat.”
“You spoil me,” I chuckle.
“A little.”
The answer is so simple and unguarded that I have to smile.
That part still gets me. The little moments when she stops pretending every kind thing she does is accidental. When she lets herself want me comfortable in her space. When she makes room and lets me see it.
I reach for her hand.
She gives it to me.
Only for a few seconds, because she is still on duty and the station is still the station, but her fingers curl around mine with no hesitation.
“I’ll call if we’re delayed,” she says.
“I’ll have breakfast ready either way.”
Her gaze softens. “I know.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says, but her hand stays in mine.
I step closer.
She tips her face up, and I kiss her goodbye. Still station-appropriate. Still brief enough not to turn into a public incident. Nowhere near the way I want to kiss her after a week apart. My free hand settles at her waist for one second, and hers rests against my chest.
When we part, her eyes remain on mine.
“Stay safe,” I say.
“I will.”
Then she squeezes my hand once and turns back into the station.
I step out into the dark.
Pippa’s flat is exactly as it should be.
Quiet. Warm. Slightly cosier than mine ever manages to be. The blue sofa. The striped blanket. The books stacked by the chair. A new plant on the windowsill because I replaced the basil she finally admitted had died under suspicious circumstances.
I put the shopping bags in the kitchen, check the fridge, then spend ten minutes pretending I am not nervous by doing practical things.
I make sure there is bread.
I set the coffee ready.
I put clean towels near the bathroom radiator because she likes them warm after nights.
She admitted it last month, standing in this kitchen with damp hair, wrapped in one of those towels, looking slightly furious with herself and very pleased with me.
