Molly Byrne discovered at eight fourteen the following morning that there were three categories of workplace silence.
There was ordinary silence, which happened when everyone had headphones on and pretended not to hear Eamonn from traffic eating crisps at a volume that suggested an unresolved childhood battle with packaging.
There was professional silence, which arrived after a guest said something legally interesting on air and every producer in the building began typing like the future of Irish media depended on Ctrl-S.
And then there was the silence that fell when Molly stepped out of the lift at Morning Pulse FM wearing yesterday's mascara, a borrowed trench coat, and the haunted expression of a woman whose mother had already asked whether the engagement party should be casual or "tastefully emotional."
The receptionist looked up first.
Then the intern at the promo desk.
Then two presenters who had once managed to continue gossiping through a fire alarm.
Nobody spoke.
Molly raised one hand. "Before anyone says anything, yes, I am aware."
From behind the glass partition of Studio Two, Denise made direct eye contact and lifted both arms in the universal signal for I tried to stop them but society is collapsing.
Molly kept walking.
The office had been redesigned the previous spring by someone who clearly believed creativity flourished best in rooms without doors. Desks sat in cheerful islands beneath pendant lights. Plants hung from black metal frames. Brand slogans had been painted on exposed brick in optimistic fonts. TELL THE CITY WHO IT IS TODAY, declared the wall opposite the kitchenette.
Today, the city was a gossip with broadband.
Molly made it six paces before Eamonn rolled his chair into her path.
"So," he said, with the careful tone of a man poking a suspected electrical fault with a fork. "Big morning for love."
"Move."
"I just want to say, as your colleague, friend, and emergency source of oat milk, congratulations."
"Move or I will tell payroll you still have the station umbrella from March."
Eamonn rolled back so fast his chair clipped a recycling bin.
"Love you both," he called.
"There is no both."
"That's not what TikTok says."
Molly stopped.
A dangerous thing happened in her stomach. It dropped, then twisted, then made a small internal noise like a spoon falling into a sink.
"TikTok?"
Nobody answered.
This was, in itself, an answer.
Denise emerged from Studio Two with a mug in one hand and Molly's entire public humiliation glowing on her phone in the other. Denise was a senior producer, chaos translator, mother of teenage twins, and the only person Molly knew who could remove a caller from live radio using nothing but warmth and legal caution. She had the face of a woman who had been awake since five and disappointed since birth.
"Office," Denise said.
"You don't have an office."
"I have claimed the podcast cupboard."
"That's where the broken mic stands live."
"Then you'll feel at home."
Molly followed her past the newsroom desk, where three people pretended to examine a traffic map of Leinster with forensic intensity. Someone whispered, "Platform Four," and someone else made a tiny squeaking noise.
"I can hear you," Molly said.
"We support women in transport-adjacent love," the intern said quickly.
"I'm not in love."
"Very early days, obviously."
Denise pushed open the podcast cupboard. It smelled of dust, foam panels, and old ambition. Two folding chairs had been squeezed between a tower of cables and a cardboard cut-out of last year's breakfast host, who smiled at them with the confidence of a man who had left commercial radio for property development.
Molly sat, because standing seemed like a commitment to being fine, and she was absolutely not fine.
Denise shut the door.
For one blessed second, the office noise softened.
Then Denise held up her phone.
On screen, Molly watched herself stand under the Connolly Station departure boards beside Daniel Keane, train conductor, spine like a ruler, eyes like judgement in a navy uniform. She watched the moment again: the sponsor's niece pushing the ring box into her hand, the crowd roaring, Daniel stepping in with terrifying composure, Molly blurting something bright and ridiculous because dead air frightened her more than death, and the two of them becoming engaged in front of commuters, cameras, and a breakfast show audience who apparently had the emotional standards of starving raccoons.
The clip had captions.
WHEN THE COMMUTE GIVES YOU A FIANCÉ 😭🚆💍
Molly closed her eyes.
"Please tell me that's fake."
"The engagement?"
"The crying train emoji."
"Unfortunately authentic."
"How many views?"
Denise looked at the phone as if numbers had personally betrayed them. "Across platforms, or just the one that will make you lose the will to live?"
"Denise."
"Two point seven million."
Molly opened her eyes.
The cardboard breakfast host continued smiling.
"No," Molly said.
"Yes."
"No, because that would imply the entire population of Ireland and several bored people in Australia watched me accept an engagement ring from a man whose surname I learned after the fact."
"You already knew his first name."
"That is not the foundation of a marriage."
"It has carried worse."
Molly pressed both palms to her face. Her skin felt too warm. She had slept for forty-three minutes, perhaps forty-four if the part where she lay awake mentally composing apology emails counted as rest. Her phone had not stopped. Her mother had left six voice notes. Her older sister, Cait, had sent a single message reading: Molly, I love you, but please explain before I tell Mam to stop pricing balloons. Her younger brother had forwarded a meme of a train leaving a station with the caption: Molly's common sense.
And Daniel Keane had sent nothing.
Not that she had expected him to. Not that she cared.
She did, unfortunately, remember the exact shape of his reluctant smile.
That was rude of her brain.
"How bad is RailTogether?" Molly asked.
Denise leaned back against the shelves. "Define bad."
"Bad like furious? Bad like lawsuit? Bad like I need to change my name and become a woman who sells candles in West Cork?"
"The sponsor is thrilled."
Molly lowered her hands. "Sorry?"
"Thrilled. Ecstatic. Using phrases like organic reach and cross-platform romantic uplift, which made me want to walk into the Liffey holding my laptop."
"They liked it?"
"They loved it. The commuter campaign was dying on arrival. You know that. Nobody wants to be emotionally sincere near a ticket machine before eight in the morning. But two strangers accidentally getting engaged beside the Rosslare service? Apparently that's national medicine."
Molly stared at her. "We're not strangers."
Denise gave her a look.
"We had a professional interaction involving cable tape and public disgrace."
"A modern courtship."
"Stop."
"RailTogether want a follow-up."
The words landed in the tiny cupboard like a dropped toolbox.
Molly's mouth dried.
"No."
"I haven't told you what it is."
"I have developed a gift for detecting danger from tone."
"They want you and Daniel to appear at the official campaign briefing this afternoon. Together."
"No."
"They want a short recorded segment."
"Absolutely not."
"A light, funny, human-interest angle."
"Denise, I would rather eat the studio headphones."
"They're foam, mostly."
"Fine. I would rather eat Eamonn's crisps."
Denise winced. "Let's not say things we can't take back."
Molly stood too quickly and knocked her knee against a box of outdated pop filters. Pain sparked up her thigh.
"I cannot go on air and pretend to be engaged to a train conductor. There are rules. There are basic societal rules. You meet someone, you learn if they own a chopping board, you silently judge their shoes, then maybe after six to eight business months you decide whether your mother can know their surname. You do not become public property because a sponsor's niece panicked with a ring box."
"I agree."
"Good."
"But management wants you in the ten o'clock meeting."
"Management can want a lot of things. Management wanted a live goat for the St Patrick's Day outside broadcast."
"They didn't get the goat."
"Because the goat had boundaries."
Denise's expression softened, which was somehow worse than sarcasm. "Mols. Sit down."
Molly did not sit.
"I know this feels awful," Denise said.
"It doesn't feel awful. It feels like I accidentally walked into someone else's wedding and the priest had a microphone."
"You saved the broadcast."
"I caused the emergency."
"No, you handled the emergency. There's a difference."
Molly looked away.
On the other side of the cupboard door, the office moved around them in familiar pulses: phones ringing, kettle clicking, someone laughing too loudly, a presenter testing a jingle for the weather. This building had always calmed her. Since she was twenty-one and doing unpaid shifts she could not afford, radio had given shape to her panic. Timings. Scripts. Segments. Cues. If something went wrong, you filled. If a guest froze, you prompted. If the line dropped, you smiled into the chaos and made it sound intentional.
Molly could survive anything if there was a running order.
Yesterday, there had been no running order for Daniel Keane looking at her in front of a roaring platform and choosing to save her from public collapse.
That was the part her brain kept replaying.
Not the ring.
Not the screaming.
The choice.
His eyes had flicked from the cameras to her face. He had seen the panic under her grin. Then, for reasons known only to himself and possibly St Jude, he had stepped closer and said, "She hasn't had coffee yet. I advise patience," as if fake engagements happened routinely on the seven thirty commuter service.
Molly hated that she owed him.
She hated more that she wanted to know why he had done it.
"Where is he?" she asked.
Denise became suspiciously still.
"Denise."
"He may be coming here."
"Here as in the building?"
"Here as in currently at reception."
Molly stared.
The cupboard door opened.
The intern appeared, pale with the religious terror of a person delivering news to a woman in crisis.
"Sorry. Daniel Keane is here. He says he has a briefing with Ms O'Sullivan. Also he brought tape."
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Denise smiled.
"Better tape?"
Molly pointed at her. "Don't."
"I'm not saying anything."
"Your face is writing fan fiction."
"My face has range."
Molly stepped out of the cupboard and into the open office, where every head immediately developed a sudden and passionate interest in something else.
Daniel Keane stood at reception with his cap tucked under one arm and a roll of silver gaffer tape in the other hand.
Of course he did.
He looked unfairly rested. There were men who could survive public humiliation with charm, men who could lean into viral attention with a wink, and men who would arrive the next morning with a small smile and sunglasses as if destiny had booked them a press tour. Daniel was none of these. He looked pressed, showered, and mildly inconvenienced by the existence of emotions. His navy uniform sat perfectly. His dark hair was damp from rain. A faint shadow marked his jaw, which Molly noticed only because she was gathering evidence for future resentment.
His eyes found her across the office.
The room changed temperature.
Not dramatically. Molly was not ridiculous.
But several people definitely stopped typing.
Daniel walked toward her.
The office watched with the shameful devotion of people who had abandoned all standards.
"Molly," he said.
"Daniel."
He held out the tape.
She looked at it.
"You brought a prop?"
"You needed better tape."
"That was a joke."
"Was it?"
"Mostly."
"Then consider this mostly helpful."
A laugh escaped someone near the traffic desk and was immediately disguised as a cough.
Molly took the tape because leaving it between them felt strangely intimate, which was unacceptable behaviour for adhesive.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome."
There was a pause. It should have been short. It grew legs.
Daniel's gaze moved over her face, not intrusively, but with the focused attention of a man checking a departure board for delays. "You didn't sleep."
"That's a bold opener."
"Accurate, though."
"I slept."
"How long?"
"Enough to sustain legal consciousness."
"That isn't sleep. That's a court defence."
Molly narrowed her eyes. "Do train conductors receive special training in being quietly annoying?"
"Only the advanced course."
Behind them, someone made a noise that might have been a gasp.
Molly turned. "Do none of you have employment?"
The office exploded into fake productivity.
Denise appeared beside them with the serenity of a woman enjoying circumstances far too much. "Daniel, thanks for coming in. Conference room is this way. Molly, management asked for you too."
"I know."
"Lovely. Then we can all behave like adults."
"I make no promises," Molly said.
Daniel glanced at her. "Noted."
The conference room had glass walls, which was ideal if the objective was to make Molly feel like a goldfish accused of emotional fraud. Around the table sat Denise, Aisling from promotions, Kevin from legal, two RailTogether executives, a brand consultant wearing trainers worth more than Molly's rent, and Lorraine O'Sullivan, station director, whose haircut had survived recessions, rebrands, and three breakfast hosts with opinions.
Lorraine began without greeting.
"Molly. Daniel. Thank you. Yesterday was unexpected."
"That's one word," Molly said.
Kevin from legal inhaled through his nose.
Lorraine ignored him. "It was also the most successful campaign launch this station has had in eighteen months."
The brand consultant beamed. "People are calling it the Platform Four Proposal."
"People should read books," Molly muttered.
Daniel's mouth twitched.
Aisling slid printed pages across the table. "We've pulled engagement metrics. The clip is outperforming the sponsored prize, the commuter confession line, and the musician who sang at Pearse yesterday."
"He was off-key," Daniel said.
Everyone looked at him.
He folded his hands. "He was."
Molly bit the inside of her cheek.
Lorraine tapped the papers. "RailTogether's leadership team sees an opportunity to pivot the campaign toward connection. Less abstract civic messaging. More human story."
"Human story," Molly repeated.
"Yes."
"You mean us."
"The public believes you are engaged."
"The public believes many things. The public believed my cousin when he said he could DJ a funeral."
The legal man finally spoke. "To clarify, nobody is asking either of you to make false legal statements."
"That's comforting, Kevin. I was worried we'd accidentally acquire a mortgage."
Daniel looked down at the table.
Molly could tell he was trying not to laugh.
This was not helpful.
One of the RailTogether executives, a woman named Sadhbh with perfect glasses, leaned forward. "We're not interested in exploiting anyone's private life. But the response has been overwhelmingly positive. Commuters are sharing stories, tagging partners, even posting about people they met on trains years ago. It's become bigger than the clip."
"That's beautiful," Molly said. "And unrelated to my actual life."
"Understood," Sadhbh said. "But from a public communications perspective, this is rare. Public transport is usually discussed in terms of delays, complaints, fares, and infrastructure failure. Yesterday, people were talking about trains as places where lives intersect. That's not nothing."
Molly hated that this was a good point.
She also hated that Daniel was listening carefully, expression unreadable.
The second RailTogether executive, Mark, cleared his throat. "We'd like to propose a contained follow-up arc. Two weeks. Three short pieces. No private intrusion. No claims about wedding plans. Just the story of two commuters who met during the campaign."
"We didn't meet during the campaign," Daniel said.
Everyone turned to him again.
His voice stayed calm. "We met because a cable hazard near Platform Four nearly took out an elderly man with a suitcase. Molly shouted at me before introducing herself."
"I did not shout."
"You projected."
"It's radio. We project."
"You called me Captain Clipboard."
Aisling's pen froze above her notebook.
Molly sat back. "In my defence, you were holding a clipboard with authoritarian energy."
"It was a passenger assistance manifest."
"See? Horrifying."
Denise coughed into her mug.
Lorraine stared at them for three seconds, then looked at Aisling. "Write that down."
"No," Molly and Daniel said together.
The room went still again.
The brand consultant whispered, "Chemistry."
Molly pointed at him. "Absolutely not."
Daniel's jaw flexed.
Lorraine held up a hand. "Enough. Here's the position. We can issue a correction saying yesterday's proposal was a misunderstanding caused by a campaign stunt gone wrong. That protects both of you, but it kills the campaign, embarrasses the sponsor, and makes the station look manipulative."
"It was a misunderstanding caused by a campaign stunt gone wrong," Molly said.
"Yes," Lorraine said. "Or we can tell the truth selectively. You were both caught in a chaotic moment. The public responded. You agree to appear in three controlled campaign pieces about commuter connection while making no explicit statements about an engagement. After two weeks, interest moves on."
Molly stared at her. "That is not truth. That is truth wearing a false moustache."
"It is communications."
"Communications is where truth goes to learn jazz hands."
Daniel leaned slightly toward her. "That one was good."
"Don't encourage me."
Lorraine's gaze sharpened. "Molly, your job is not in danger. Let me be clear about that."
Molly's chest loosened so abruptly she nearly disliked Lorraine less.
"But," Lorraine continued, because all relief came with a management surcharge, "this campaign matters. We need a win. You know what the last quarter looked like. You know how thin the advertising pipeline is. RailTogether is not a minor sponsor."
There it was.
The thing no one liked saying plainly.
Morning Pulse FM was cheerful on air and anxious in the boardroom. Advertising had softened. Streaming had eaten the middle. Every campaign had to justify its spend. Every department had learned to smile while counting chairs.
Molly thought of Denise staying late to cut packages herself. Eamonn taking extra traffic shifts. The intern pretending unpaid enthusiasm was a career plan.
She thought of her rent.
Her mother's voice note asking if Daniel's people were "good people," which in Wexford meant everything from moral character to whether they returned borrowed casserole dishes.
She thought of Daniel beside her yesterday, choosing to help a woman he did not know because the alternative was watching her drown in public.
Across the table, Daniel said, "What happens to Molly if I decline?"
Molly looked at him.
Lorraine's expression did not change. "Nothing punitive."
"That's not an answer."
"Daniel," Molly said.
He did not look away from Lorraine. "She works here. I don't. That creates pressure. So I'm asking what happens to her if this campaign collapses."
Nobody spoke.
Kevin from legal examined his pen as if it contained scripture.
Lorraine said, carefully, "There would be reputational fallout. Not disciplinary action."
"For her."
"For the station."
"Which reaches her."
Molly felt something shift under her ribs.
It was inconveniently close to gratitude.
"I can answer for myself," she said, because gratitude was one thing and being rescued twice in twenty-four hours was quite another.
Daniel turned to her. "I know."
The quiet way he said it disarmed her more thoroughly than any defence would have.
Lorraine leaned back. "Nobody wants either of you trapped. The proposal is voluntary. But I need an answer by noon."
"It's nine," Molly said.
"Good. Plenty of time to consider becoming beloved."
"I don't want to be beloved. Beloved people have to moisturise consistently."
Sadhbh, the RailTogether executive, smiled despite herself. "We can build protections into the agreement. No home addresses. No family filming. No wedding language without approval. No physical affection staged or requested. Final review on all edited clips."
Daniel's eyes moved to Molly. "No ring shots."
Molly blinked.
"What?"
"Yesterday, the ring wasn't yours. It would make it worse."
She remembered the tiny silver band, the sponsor's niece's horrified expression, the way Molly had shoved it onto her finger because dead air had yawned open in front of her and the crowd had decided hunger looked like romance.
"No ring shots," she agreed.
Aisling wrote quickly.
"No calling me your fiancée," Molly added.
"Agreed," Daniel said.
"No slow-motion train platform nonsense."
The brand consultant looked wounded.
"Agreed," Daniel said again.
"No questions about how we knew."
"Because we didn't."
"Exactly."
Lorraine folded her hands. "So you're considering it?"
Molly hated meetings. They were traps with biscuits.
"I am considering nothing until I've had coffee and a private conversation with the man the internet thinks I'm marrying."
Daniel nodded once. "Reasonable."
"Don't sound surprised."
"I was relieved."
Denise stood. "Podcast cupboard is free."
"We are not having a defining romantic conversation beside broken mic stands," Molly said.
"Kitchen, then," Denise said. "Public enough to prevent murder. Private enough for denial."
The kitchen was smaller than the conference room and far more honest. It contained a fridge with passive-aggressive labels, three mismatched mugs, a kettle that screamed, and a notice asking staff not to microwave fish, which Eamonn had interpreted as a legal challenge.
Molly filled the kettle because her hands needed employment.
Daniel stood near the door, not crowding her, cap tucked neatly under his arm.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Rain tapped the window. Below, taxis crawled along the quay. Dublin looked grey, damp, and smug about having witnessed everything.
Molly switched on the kettle.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
"Neither do you."
"That's not completely true."
"I noticed."
She turned. "Why are you here? Really. You could have let them issue a correction. You could have gone back to your very organised life with your manifests and your better tape."
"My life isn't that organised."
"You brought tape to a radio station before nine in the morning."
"That was courtesy, not evidence."
"It was evidence with adhesive."
He looked at the kettle. "I came because yesterday looked like it could become ugly for you. I wanted to know what they were asking before anyone decided on your behalf."
Molly's throat tightened in a way she did not enjoy.
"That's annoyingly decent."
"Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm not."
The kettle clicked off.
Molly poured water into two mugs, then realised she did not know how he took coffee. This was the kind of detail engaged people knew. Real engaged people. People with shared calendars and opinions about duvet tog ratings. People who had survived each other's families and minor illnesses.
"Coffee?"
"Black. No sugar."
"Of course."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you look like you alphabetise spices."
"I don't."
"But you want to."
"Paprika moves around."
She laughed before she could stop herself.
It came out tired and surprised.
Daniel's face changed, only a little. Softer around the eyes. As if he had not expected to make her laugh and was taking it seriously now that he had.
Molly turned back to the mugs before her face did anything traitorous.
"I should apologise," she said. "For yesterday. Properly. I dragged you into a mess."
"You didn't drag me."
"The clip suggests otherwise."
"The clip is edited by strangers who think crying emojis are punctuation."
"Still. I'm sorry."
He accepted the mug. Their fingers did not touch, because life was not quite that obvious, thank God.
"Apology accepted," he said. "I'm sorry too."
"For what?"
"Not stopping it sooner."
Molly frowned. "You stopped it from becoming worse."
"There were other ways."
"Were there?"
He looked at her over the rim of his mug. "Probably. I thought of none."
That was, irritatingly, charming.
Not showy. Not flirtatious. Just honest.
Molly had a weakness for honest. It was deeply impractical.
"So," she said, businesslike because someone had to be, "two weeks. Three pieces. We never say engaged. We never discuss wedding plans. We never pretend more than we have to. Then we let the internet find a dog who can say hello or a toddler who hates broccoli and we return to normal."
"Is normal available?"
"On back order, apparently."
"And your family?"
Molly groaned. "My family is a separate transport disaster."
"They saw it?"
"My mother saw it, shared it to her book club chat, then called me to ask whether you were Catholic."
Daniel coughed into his coffee.
"Don't worry," Molly said. "That was before she asked if your mother had good hips."
"My mother would enjoy that question."
"That is not reassuring."
"She's from Kerry. Reassurance is considered wasteful."
Molly smiled despite herself. "Mine is from Wexford. Concern is a full-time sport."
A silence opened, less awkward than the ones before it.
Then Daniel said, "I have conditions too."
"Good. Boundaries. Sexy in a spreadsheet sort of way."
His eyebrow lifted.
"Sorry," Molly said. "Sleep deprivation."
"I won't lie to my mother."
That sobered her.
"Of course."
"She'll see it. People will send it to her. If I do this, I need to be able to tell her it's a campaign arrangement and that you're not being harmed by it."
Something in his voice made Molly stop joking.
"You can tell her that."
"Will it be true?"
Molly looked down at her coffee.
That was the problem with decent people. They left no room for theatrical avoidance.
"I don't know," she said. "But I think not doing it might harm more people than doing it carefully. And I hate that sentence, because it sounds like something Lorraine would put in a strategy deck."
"It does."
"Thank you."
"But I understand."
The kitchen door swung open and Eamonn entered holding an empty mug, saw them, froze, and attempted to reverse so quickly he bumped into the bin.
"Nope," he said. "Didn't see love."
"Eamonn," Molly said.
"Didn't see anything. Didn't hear boundaries. Didn't notice the tape."
Daniel looked at the roll on the counter. "The tape is difficult to miss."
Eamonn pointed at him. "I like him."
"Out," Molly said.
He fled.
Molly covered her face with one hand.
"This is my workplace."
"It's lively."
"It's a municipal zoo with better microphones."
Daniel set down his mug. "We can say no."
The offer was quiet.
No pressure. No performance. Just an exit, placed between them like a door.
Molly imagined taking it. Lorraine's tight smile. RailTogether's withdrawal. Denise staying late again. The office pretending not to blame her. Her own mother calling every day because the correction would make the whole thing look worse, not better. Daniel returning to his platforms. The clip lingering online anyway, stripped of context, turning sour.
Then she imagined doing it. Two weeks of controlled chaos. Three pieces. Public embarrassment repackaged as civic romance. Daniel Keane standing beside her with his navy uniform and inconvenient ethics. Molly Byrne trying not to become the kind of woman who noticed when a man remembered she needed better tape.
Neither option was clean.
But one option let her hold the steering wheel.
"No," she said. "We do it. Carefully. Contractually. With a kill switch."
"A kill switch?"
"If either of us says it's too much, we stop. No argument. No guilt. No management jazz hands."
Daniel considered this. "Agreed."
"And if anyone asks how long we've known each other, we say—"
"Long enough to know better."
Molly stared at him.
"What?" he asked.
"That was good."
"Was it?"
"Don't look pleased. It ruins the brand."
A small smile touched his mouth. "What brand?"
"Severe railway competence."
"I'll protect it."
She offered her hand.
He looked at it, then at her.
For a heartbeat, Molly regretted everything in advance.
Then Daniel shook her hand.
His palm was warm. Firm. Ordinary.
Naturally, her pulse behaved like a moron.
"Two weeks," she said.
"Three pieces," he said.
"No engagement language."
"No ring shots."
"Kill switch."
"Better tape."
She pulled her hand back before her skin could write a press release.
"Fine," she said. "Let's go become a communications problem."
They returned to the conference room side by side.
Everyone tried and failed not to look relieved.
Lorraine's eyes flicked between them. "Well?"
Molly sat down. Daniel sat beside her, close enough to look allied, far enough to prove sanity still existed.
"We have conditions," Molly said.
Aisling lifted her pen.
Molly listed them. Daniel added the mother clause. Kevin turned pale at "kill switch" until Denise translated it into contractual termination language. The RailTogether team agreed with surprising speed, which made Molly suspicious, but not enough to stop. The brand consultant mourned the slow-motion platform idea in silence.
By ten twenty-eight, they had the bones of a controlled follow-up campaign.
By ten forty-one, they had a working title: Long Enough to Know Better.
By ten forty-three, Molly had rejected it on grounds of sounding like a marriage counselling podcast.
By eleven twelve, they settled on Platform Four Stories, which was boring enough to be safe and safe enough to survive legal.
By eleven nineteen, Molly's phone buzzed again.
She glanced down.
Mam: Your aunt Breda says he has kind eyes. Are ye registered anywhere yet or is that vulgar now?
Molly made a sound.
Daniel leaned slightly closer. "Problem?"
She tilted the screen toward him.
He read it.
His face did not change, which was impressive, but his ears went faintly red.
"Kind eyes," Molly said.
"I'm sure they're functional."
"Don't be modest. Aunt Breda has spoken."
"Should I be worried about Aunt Breda?"
"Everyone should be worried about Aunt Breda. She once ended a parish council argument by unplugging the tea urn."
Daniel nodded gravely. "Powerful woman."
Molly looked at him then, really looked, and the room went a little quieter around the edges.
This was the danger, she realised.
Not the campaign. Not the internet. Not even her mother's book club chat planning floral arrangements around a lie.
The danger was that Daniel Keane did not seem like a man enjoying the performance.
He seemed like a man who, once he gave his word, meant to stand inside the mess properly.
Molly knew how to handle shallow charm. She knew how to handle flirts, chancers, smooth talkers, men who liked the idea of chaos when someone else cleaned it up. She did not know what to do with a man who remembered boundaries, asked who would carry consequences, and brought tape because she had once needed it.
That was not chemistry.
That was worse.
That was evidence.
Lorraine closed her folder. "Excellent. We'll record the first segment tomorrow morning at Connolly. Platform Four, naturally."
"Naturally," Molly said, because apparently the universe had a theme and no shame.
Daniel checked his watch. "I have to be back on shift by twelve."
"Of course," Sadhbh said. "Thank you, Daniel. Truly."
He stood. Molly stood too, because sitting made her feel oddly abandoned, which was absurd and therefore ignored.
At the conference room door, Daniel paused.
"Molly."
"Yes?"
"Try to sleep tonight."
"Try not to go viral again."
"I'll do my best."
"Weak promise."
"Honest one."
Then he left, moving through the office with quiet, contained purpose while every person pretended not to track his exit.
Molly watched him go.
Denise appeared beside her.
"Don't," Molly said.
"I haven't said anything."
"Your eyebrows are composing a trilogy."
"They see market potential."
"I hate everyone here."
"No, you don't."
Molly looked down at the roll of tape still in her hand.
Somehow, through the meeting, she had not let go of it.
Denise noticed.
Of course she did.
Molly put the tape on the table with great dignity.
"It's office supplies," she said.
"Naturally."
"Essential equipment."
"For a producer."
"Exactly."
Denise sipped her coffee. "Very normal to hold essential equipment like it's a promise."
Molly turned toward the kitchen. "I'm getting more coffee."
"Black, no sugar?"
Molly stopped.
Behind her, the office went dangerously quiet again.
She closed her eyes.
"Denise."
"Yes, love?"
"I'm going to need you to never say that again."
"Of course."
A beat.
"Until tomorrow."