“Food won’t be long,” Martha says, and gives me one last look that says she has seen everything, invented half of it and will be telling nobody only because she prefers knowing things to sharing them too quickly.
Then she leaves us in the warm hum of the back room, with the front bakery noise softened behind us and AJ sitting across from me like this is normal.
It is not normal.
That is the problem.
AJ wraps one hand around his coffee. “So this is your post-night-shift ritual.”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounded defensive.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was a little defensive.”
“I come here because it is convenient and the food is good.”
“And because they know your order.”
“That is part of convenience.”
“And because you have a favourite table.”
I look at him. “Are you always this observant?”
“Yes.”
“Annoying.”
“Also yes.”
His smile is easy, but there is something under it now. A thread of awareness that has been there since the office. Since he put his arms around me. Since I realised that being held by him did not feel like weakness.
The waitress brings our food before I can do anything reckless with that thought.
Mine is exactly what I need: avocado smash on thick toast, bacon crisp enough to matter, and a poached eggsitting on top like a small, perfect promise. AJ gets scrambled eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and toast, which Martha has apparently judged appropriate for him without consultation.
He looks down at his plate. “I’ve been assigned breakfast.”
“You asked for a recommendation.”
“I feel assessed.”
“You probably were.”
“Did I pass?”
“You got mushrooms, not porridge. That’s a positive sign.”
“Good to know.”
For a few minutes, we just eat.
That may be the best part.
No radio. No crew. No alarm waiting inside the walls. No one needing me to decide anything except whether I want more coffee.
