“Yes.”
She sets down her mug and turns towards it, not wary exactly. Attentive.
“What is it?”
I stand and pick up the brochure, then sit back down and place it on the table between us.
“A cottage,” she says.
“Yes.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
“In Fellside?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, she says nothing.
“I viewed it this week,” I say. “Twice.”
She looks down at the brochure, but does not open it yet.
“You found a place.”
“I did.”
“And you liked it.”
“I loved it.”
Her face softens at that. Not much. Enough.
“AJ.”
“I know it’s soon,” I say. “And I know it’s a big conversation. I’m not asking for an answer this morning. I’m not even asking for a decision. I just need to tell you what I’m thinking before I talk myself into pretending I’m being sensible by not saying it.”
She nods slowly.
“All right.”
Two simple words.
I rest my hand beside the brochure. “You know that Marie Louise wants me doing more human interest features. This means I can work from home half the week now. Some weeks more.”
“Yeah, that was a good call from her,” she says gently. “You sound different when you talk about those pieces.”
“I feel different.”
She looks at me then.
“I spent years chasing the next thing because I thought that was how I’d know I mattered. Bigger stories. Faster stories. National stories. But these pieces…” I look for the right words, and for once I do not rush them. “They feel like the kind of work I actually want to do. I still care about journalism. I still care about doing it well. But I don’t think I need to build my life around being somewhere else to prove that.”
Her expression is soft now.
Open in that quiet, careful way that still feels precious because I know what it costs her to be seen.
“And Fellside?” she asks.
