Page 211 of How to Fan the Flames

“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?”