Epilogue #3
“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.
“Fellside feels like somewhere I keep wanting to come back to.”
I take a breath.
“You and I talked about moving halfway.”
“We did.”
“And it made sense on paper.”
“But?”
“But you’d be farther from the station. Farther from Amanda and Nour and the kids. Farther from the life you chose. And after twelve-hour night shifts, I hate the thought of you driving any farther than you have to.”
Her eyes drop briefly.
When she looks back, there is no irritation there.
Only something vulnerable and almost disbelieving.
“You thought about all that?”
“Of course I did.”
Her fingers touch the edge of the brochure.
“I don’t want you making yourself smaller for me,” she says.
It is quiet.
Not defensive.
Just honest.
“I’m not.” I lean forward slightly. “That’s what I need you to understand. This doesn’t feel smaller. It feels like I’ve stopped mistaking movement for progress.”
She takes that in.
I let her.
“I want to buy it,” I say. “For me, because I want to be here more. Because this place has become part of my life too. But I’d like it to become ours, if that’s something you could want.
Not immediately. Not with pressure. Not with me turning up here waving a brochure like some maniac with stamp duty.
Just… eventually. In whatever way works for us. ”
Pippa looks down at the brochure.
Then she opens it.
Her fingers move over the pictures.
“It’s pretty,” she says.
That surprises me.
I think I expected practical first. Roof, windows, commute, survey, damp. All of which matter, obviously. But she says pretty, and something inside me loosens.
“It is.”
“Small.”
“Yes.”
“Garden needs work.”
“Quite a lot.”
She turns the page slowly.
“The kitchen is tiny.”
“Very.”
“That could be nice,” she says.
My breath catches in a way I cannot quite hide.
She glances up and sees it.
“I mean, annoying,” she adds gently. “But nice.”
“Both can be true.”
“Bathroom?”
“Terrible tiles.”
She looks at the photo and winces. “Oh.”
“I did warn you.”
“You undersold it.”
“Out of fear.”
She keeps looking through the brochure. Slower now. Not examining only. Imagining.
I can see the moment it happens. The tiny shift from property to possibility.
“How close to the station?” she asks.
“Five minutes’ walk.”
Then she looks back at the first photo.
For a long moment, she says nothing.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter.
“I like that you saw me in it.”
I go still.
She does not look up.
“You saw my life. The station. Amanda. The kids. Nights. All of it.” Her thumb rests on the edge of the paper. “You didn’t ask what I’d give up. You thought about what I’d get to keep.”
“Yes,” I say, because anything more might come out badly.
She looks up then.
Tired. Soft. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with easy things.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to say yes to moving in,” she says.
“I’m not asking for that.”
“But I want to see it with you.”
My chest aches.
“That’s enough.”
“It might be more than enough,” she says.
The words are careful.
Measured.
But she does not look away.
And somehow that undoes me more than if she had thrown herself at me.
“I love you.” The words slip out before I can catch them.
The room goes quiet.
Not empty.
Quiet.
Like everything has moved closer to hear what happens next.
Pippa looks at me, one hand still resting on the brochure, the other wrapped loosely around her mug.
For one second, I think I have ruined the softness. Pushed too much. Asked too much after a night shift and a cottage and six months of something we have both treated carefully because careful felt safer.
Then her face changes.
Relief.
“Oh,” she says.
I let out a breath that is almost a laugh. “Oh?”
She looks down, and when she looks back at me, her eyes are shining.
“I was going to say it after I’d slept.”
For a second, I cannot move.
Then the words catch up.
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“You had a plan?”
“I had a plan.”
“To tell me you love me?”
“Yes.”
She gives me a small, tired smile. “Probably over dinner. Or on a walk. Somewhere less… bacon-adjacent.”
I laugh then.
Softly. Helplessly.
“Sorry.”
“You should be. I had a whole dignified approach.”
“I’m devastated to have robbed you of it.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” I admit. “I’m really not.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
No hesitation.
No armour.
Just her fingers sliding between mine as if they have belonged there longer than either of us has been brave enough to say.
“I love you too,” she says.
I take her face in both hands.
She leans into my touch.
Not guarded. Not braced. Just there.
“You love me,” I say, because I am not above needing to hear it twice.
Her smile is tired and luminous. “I love you.”
I kiss her.
Her hands slide around my waist, and she leans into me as if the decision has already been made somewhere beneath the words. As if all we are doing now is catching up.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine.
“The cottage is not a yes yet,” she says. “But it’s not a no.”
“I'm happy with that.”
“We’ll look at it together.”
“Yes.”
“And discuss money properly.”
“Absolutely.”
“And those bathroom tiles will not survive.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Her smile softens.
“Show me the rest after I’ve slept.”
“Bed first?”
“Bed first.”
“Shower?”
She looks at me for a moment.
“Later.”
There is a vulnerability in the word. A quiet request she will not dress up as one.
I understand.
So I nod, switch off the coffee machine, fold the brochure closed and leave it on the table.
The cottage can wait.
The future can sit there for a few hours with its terrible tiles and hopeful garden.
Pippa takes my hand and lets me lead her down the hall.
At the bedroom door, she pauses and looks back towards the kitchen.
“What?” I ask.
“The cottage really is five minutes from the station?”
“Yes.”
“And the garden gets sun?”
“Some. According to Martin, the estate agent.”
“Good.”
“It needs work.”
“So do most worthwhile things.”
I look at her.
She looks back, tired and brave and mine in all the ways that matter.
“I love you,” she says again, quieter this time.
My chest aches with it.
“I love you too.”
Then I pull back the covers, and Pippa Hart, who can stand steady in front of a crew, command a fireground and face the worst parts of other people’s lives without flinching, climbs into bed and lets me tuck the duvet around her.
Five minutes later, she is asleep with one hand curled loosely in my shirt.
I lie beside her, watching morning light move across the wall, thinking about a stone cottage with terrible tiles, a garden full of moss and a life I almost drove away from once because I was too afraid to want it out loud.
Not this time.
This time, I stay.
Thank you for reading How to Fan the Flames.