The Control Tower – Part 2: Handover

At six, the sky over Dublin Bay turned from black to pearl.

Handover was fifteen minutes away. The day shift was already stirring in the corridor, kettles on, voices low. Niamh logged the last call, checked the strips and stretched her aching shoulders.

"Come outside," said Conor.

"We're not allowed."

"There's a balcony. Nobody uses it."

He pushed open a heavy door at the end of the room, and they stepped out into cold, wet, tingling air. The runway lay below them, wet and shining. Beyond it, the bay glowed pink, the Wicklow hills blue in the distance. The first plane of the morning rolled along the taxiway, lights blinking.

"I've never seen it from here," said Niamh.

"Every shift, I come out for one minute."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's mine," said Conor. "And then I thought you might like it."

She leaned on the rail beside him. His coat sleeve brushed hers. A gull screamed overhead and fell away.

"Can I ask you something?" said Niamh.

"Yes."

"If I broke the rule, would you report me?"

"I'd ask which rule."

"The sticky note."

"Ah." He turned to face her, his eyes warm in the dawn light. "I'd say it was long overdue."

Her heart thumped. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Conor. "And if you say stop, you must tell the day shift we've been eating their biscuits."

"That's blackmail."

"It is."

She kissed him, quickly and then slowly, a hand curling in his loosened tie. He kissed her back with careful tenderness, tasting of tea and custard cream. The first jet thundered into the sky behind them, and neither of them even flinched.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Niamh. "Very green."

The sticky note is still on the console, with a single line added in different handwriting: Feelings permitted. On the balcony only.

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