I tell her yes, because explaining that I was betrayed by my own legs while trying to reach toast feels too intimate before nine in the morning.
I arrive at the station anyway, because I am a professional.
Also, because I am certain Pippa would sense weakness from three streets away.
I am barely out of my car when she pulls in.
For one useful second, I forget about my legs.
She gets out of her car with a kit bag over one shoulder and a travel mug in one hand, wearing a green summer dress that moves around her knees in the light morning breeze. Nothing dramatic. Nothing designed to ruin me. Just soft green fabric, bare arms, practical sandals, and her short dark hair still a little sleep-messy in a way that suggests she has not yet put the day’s armour on.
Then she sees me.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
Her gaze flicks over me, quick but accurate. “How are you feeling?”
“Excellent.”
She waits.
It is surprisingly effective.
“Fine,” I amend. “Mostly fine.”
“Mostly?”
“My thighs have developed strong opinions about stairs.”
“That bad?”
“I made it down to breakfast without calling emergency services.”
“Good. Saves paperwork.”
“That’s exactly the compassion I was hoping for.”
Her mouth does something almost like a smile.
“Drink water today,” she says.
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
“And don’t try to prove anything.”
“I never do.”
She looks at me.
“I rarely do.”
She keeps looking.
“I will do my best not to do that today.”
“Better.”
