Chapter 16
Pippa
By the end of the third night shift, AJ looks like a man who has discovered time is a lie.
He is sitting at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea, hair sticking up on one side, eyes slightly unfocused, expression caught somewhere between determination and spiritual surrender.
It should not be attractive.
Unfortunately, my standards have become unreliable.
“You look terrible,” I say.
His eyes lift to mine.
“Good morning to you too.”
“It’s almost seven.”
“Exactly. An immoral hour.”
“You’re a journalist. I thought you people survived on coffee and deadlines.”
“Coffee, yes. Deadlines, yes. Three consecutive night shifts while trying to understand firefighters as a species? Less so.”
“You wanted authenticity.”
“I wanted a strong feature. I did not understand there would be this much yawning.”
Kev, passing behind him with a bowl of cereal, snorts. “You’ve been here just three nights.”
“I have aged.”
“You’ve become quieter,” Mish says from the counter. “It’s been lovely.”
AJ turns his head slowly. “That was hurtful.”
“That was feedback.”
“I’ll reflect on it after I sleep for fourteen hours.”
“You’ll sleep for five,” Dan says, not looking up from his toast. “Wake up confused, eat something stupid and come back tonight looking worse.”
AJ stares at him. “Is that a prediction or a curse?”
“Experience.”
“Excellent. I love this journey for me.”
I lean against the counter because my legs are tired and because standing too close to him still feels like a bad idea.
A bad idea I keep finding reasons to revisit.
The shift has been quiet. Not completely dead, because the universe never gives us that gift without charging interest, but quiet enough that we only had two minor call-outs and neither of them left anyone crying in an office.
So that is progress.
Tonight is ending in pale morning light, stale tea and the particular exhaustion that comes from making your body stay alert while the world insists you should be asleep.
One more night.
Then AJ goes back to Carlisle.
That thought has been sitting in the corner of my mind since about three a.m., pretending not to be important.
And yet it is.
Which is deeply inconvenient.
“Right,” I say, pushing away from the counter. “Handover in ten. Nobody frighten the day shift before I’ve had the chance to look professional.”
Kev gestures at me with his breakfast. “We are always professional.”
Mish looks at his bowl. “You’re eating cereal with a fork.”
AJ gives a tired laugh into his mug, and I make the mistake of looking at him as he does it.
His smile is slower when he is this tired.
Softer.
Less protected by all that quickness.
I look away first.
“Ten minutes,” I say again, and head towards the office.
I am halfway down the corridor before I hear footsteps behind me.
I know it is him before he speaks.
“Pippa?”
I stop near the office door and turn.
AJ is a few feet away, mug still in one hand, expression suddenly a little more careful than it was in the kitchen.
The corridor is quiet around us. Not private in any dramatic sense. There are people moving elsewhere, doors open, voices carrying faintly from the kitchen. But we are out of the line of fire.
Out of the audience.
“Yes?”
“I was going to grab breakfast after handover,” he says. “Before I attempt to sleep through daylight like a confused vampire.”
“That sounds sensible.”
“And I wondered if you’d let me buy you some.”
He does not do the polished thing. No easy grin for the room. No charming tilt of his head designed to turn the question into something I can laugh away.
There is humour there, because he is still AJ, and apparently removing that would require medical intervention.
But there is no pressure.
No performance.
Just him, tired and careful, asking me when nobody else can make it into a joke before I decide what I want.
“Breakfast,” I say.
“Yes.”
“To say thank you?”
“That was the official version I prepared.”
“And the unofficial version?”
His eyes hold mine.
“I’d like to spend an hour with you somewhere that doesn’t have radios, alarms or Kev’s opinions about toast.”
That should be too much.
It is not.
It is exactly enough.
I fold my arms, partly because I need something to do with them. “You understand I can buy my own breakfast.”
“I never doubted it.”
“And this is not an interview.”
“No.”
“Or research.”
“No.”
“Or some manipulative journalist thing where you lure me in with carbohydrates.”
He considers this. “I can’t promise there won’t be carbohydrates.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“But the manipulation will be minimal.”
“Minimal?”
“I’m exhausted. It’s the best I can offer.”
I smile.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second.
Barely that.
Enough.
“Fine,” I say.
His gaze comes back to mine.
“Fine as in yes?”
“Fine as in I’ll let you buy me breakfast.”
“Excellent.”
“But I choose where.”
“Obviously.”
“And if you write down anything I say, I’ll stab you with a fork.”
“I will leave my notebook in the car.”
“Phone?”
“In my pocket.”
“Recorder?”
“At the B&B.”
“Good.”
Behind us, Kev’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Has anyone seen my spoon?”
“Have you tried the cutlery drawer, you absolute mystery?” Mish laughs.
AJ’s mouth curves.
“Romance is alive,” he murmurs.
I give him a look. “Breakfast.”
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
He laughs, and something in me warms to it in a way I have stopped pretending is harmless.
Handover happens in the usual blur of tired faces, practical notes and day shift pretending not to look too pleased that they are arriving as we are leaving. I keep my voice steady, cover what needs covering, answer the questions, and do not look at AJ more than necessary.
Which is still more than I should.
Afterwards, the station loosens around us.
I catch AJ’s eye once.
Only once.
Then I pick up my jacket and keys from the office and head for the side door.
No announcement.
No discussion.
No giving anyone time to turn breakfast into a spectator sport.
By the time I reach my car, AJ is crossing the yard towards his.
Close enough that I know he understood.
Far enough away that it could almost look accidental.
Clever man.
Outside, the morning is pale and cool, the kind of early light that makes Fellside look gentler than it is. The tarmac is still damp, the hills washed soft beneath the grey sky, and somewhere beyond the station a dog barks at nothing.
AJ pauses beside his car and looks across at me.
“Are we sneaking away?”
“No.”
“That felt like sneaking.”
“It was efficient departure.”
“Right.”
I unlock my car. “The bakery is in the square. You can follow me.”
His mouth curves. “That sounds dangerously like a plan.”
“It’s a route.”
“Of course.”
“And don’t make it obvious.”
“Pippa, we’re both getting into separate cars and driving to buy breakfast after a night shift. I’m not sure how seductive you think this looks.”
I let my expression answer that.
He opens his car door, still smiling.
“Right. Very subtle. Understood.”
The Cherry Pie Bakery is already open by the time we reach the square, windows steamed at the edges, light spilling warm across the pavement.
The front of the shop is all glass cabinets and abundance: pastries stacked in neat rows, sausage rolls still glossy from the oven, cherry tarts, fat scones, loaves of bread lined up as if they have achieved something.
“This,” I say, “is the best place in Fellside.”
AJ looks through the window with appropriate reverence. “That is a bold claim.”
“It’s an accurate claim.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am very certain about baked goods.”
“A vital leadership quality.”
“Exactly.”
The bell above the door jingles when we step inside, and warmth wraps around us immediately. Coffee. Fresh bread. Bacon. Butter. Something sweet and cherry-filled cooling on a rack behind the counter.
Martha looks up from arranging croissants in the display.
Her eyes land on me.
Then AJ.
Then me again, with considerably more interest.
Her eyebrows do a very small, very unnecessary thing.
“Morning, Pippa.”
“Martha.”
“Usual?”
“Please.”
Her gaze shifts to AJ. “And for your friend?”
“What do you recommend?” he asks.
Martha brightens, because she lives for nothing more than being handed control of someone’s breakfast.
“Depends how brave you are.”
“I have spent the week with firefighters. My standards for bravery have been adjusted.”
I should not enjoy the way he says that.
Martha points towards the archway at the back of the shop. “Go through. I’ll bring coffee over.”
AJ follows me past the counter, through the warm chaos of people buying bread and takeaway coffees, and into the restaurant at the back.
It opens out more than anyone expects from the front: low beams, stone walls, old wooden tables, the steady clatter of cutlery, morning light coming in through the rear windows.
There are walkers in waterproofs at one table, two women sharing toast and gossip at another, and an older man reading the paper with the focus of someone who intends to make one pot of tea last an hour.
It is busy enough not to feel exposed.
I take my usual table near the back wall because habit is habit.
AJ sits opposite me and looks around.
“This place is bigger than it looks.”
“Best places usually are.”
“You really do come here a lot.”
“It’s convenient.”
“How convenient?”
I nod towards the front of the bakery, then beyond it. “Across the road. Flat above the old bookshop.”
He turns slightly, as if he can see through the front shop, the display window and the street all at once.
“You live directly opposite this?”
“Yes.”
“That is dangerous.”
“It’s convenient.”
“It is dangerous convenience.”
“I have self-control.”
He looks at me.
I raise an eyebrow.
He smiles. “I’m saying nothing.”
“Wise.”
Martha brings the coffee herself, which is unnecessary and entirely because she is nosy. Mine is black and strong enough to taste like it has opinions. AJ adds milk to his, because apparently he is not completely reckless.