“I’ll do my best to remain elegant.”
“I’m sure that’ll last until about one in the morning.”
He smiles. “You have a lot of confidence in my stamina.”
I should have a quick answer for that.
Something dry.
Something clean.
Something that does not make me think about stamina in a room with the lights down and his shirt absent.
Instead, I pause for half a second too long.
His smile changes.
I clear my throat. “Through here.”
I push open the door to the rest room before he can enjoy himself any more than he already is.
He steps in behind me.
The room is basic. It always looks slightly apologetic when someone sees it for the first time. A few makeshift beds. Fold-out frames. Thin mattresses. Clean blankets stacked on a shelf. Nothing luxurious. Nothing dramatic. Just a practical answer to the fact that bodies are not machines, even when the job sometimes expects them to be.
AJ looks around.
“It’s not glamorous,” I say.
“I wasn’t expecting glamour.”
“No?”
“I was expecting practical.” He looks at the beds, then at the folded blankets. “That seems to be the theme.”
“It has to be.”
“I’m learning that.”
There it is again. That carefulness. The absence of performance.
Four days ago, I would have expected him to say something clever enough to make sure the moment stayed light. Tonight, he just stands there and lets the room be what it is.
It makes me want to tell him more.
That is the dangerous thing.
“We rest if we can,” I say. “Some nights, we don’t. Some nights, twenty minutes here or there. Some nights, you lie down and your body knows it should sleep, but your head keeps listening for the alarm.”
He nods.
“Does that happen to you?” he asks.
The question is quiet.
I could give him a professional answer. Something clipped and neat about experience and routine.
Instead, I give him a true one.
