His eyes meet mine.
“I remember.”
There is no joke in it this time.
Good.
Also not good, because my brain has become deeply inconvenient and has started noticing the difference between the times he jokes and the times he does not.
“Right,” I say. “Let’s get moving.”
The first part of the shift is settling in. It always is. Bags away. Food in the fridge. Boots where they should be. Radios to hand. People finding the shape of the night before the night decides what it wants from us.
AJ follows me through the station with his notebook in the side pocket of his jacket rather than in his hand.That is new. He is watching more than writing tonight. Listening. Letting the work happen before trying to turn it into words.
I should not notice that.
I do.
I show him the small things that change after dark. Which lights stay on. Which doors stay closed so the heat does not vanish. Where people tend to sit. How the station looks calm from the outside, even when no one inside it has fully switched off.
“Night shift is strange,” I say as we walk back through the appliance bay. “You prepare to be interrupted and then try not to resent it when you are.”
“Optimistic dread.”
I glance at him.
He gives me an innocent look that is ruined entirely by his mouth.
“That’s not bad,” I say.
“No?”
“No.”
“I’m going to take that as praise.”
“It was almost praise.”
“I’ll treasure it.”
“You should. I ration it carefully.”
“I’d noticed.”
There is something softer in his voice. Not teasing exactly. Or not only teasing.
I look away first.
That annoys me.
We move through to the quieter side of the station. The crew room is dimmer now, television low, chairs angled in a way that makes the room look less like a workplace andmore like a place where people have accepted they might be awake at any hour and have stopped pretending dignity is available.
“Most of us will hang around here,” I say. “Tea, food, reports, trying not to fall asleep with your mouth open.”
“Is that banned?”
“Not banned. Strongly discouraged.”
