Because he steps back immediately. Because he does not push. Because he understands that here I am not the woman who told him to pay the bill and crossed the road with him in silence.
Here, I am Watch Manager Hart.
And somehow him respecting that makes everything more complicated, not less.
I pick up the folder. “You’ll be with Dan for the first round of checks.”
“Right.”
“He’ll show you the inventory sheet.”
“Good.”
“You like sheets.”
“I like a system.”
“You don’t need to tell me.”
My eyes lock with him and immediately my heart starts beating faster.
His voice lowers by a fraction. “Yes, you doknowme.”
My fingers tighten on the folder.
“Inventory,” I say.
“Inventory,” he agrees.
Then he leaves the room before I can decide whether to murder him or drag him into the nearest storage cupboard.
Neither would be appropriate.
I give myself three seconds.
Then I walk back into the station like a woman who has absolutely not spent the last several hours making decisions she has no idea how to categorise.
The next forty minutes are almost bearable.
Work helps. It always does.
There are checks to review, a minor report to finish, a rota query from next week, and a message from Josh asking whether AJ’s final night is going smoothly, which is so badly timed I stare at my phone for a full five seconds before replying with a thumbs-up and immediately regretting it.
A thumbs-up.
Who am I?
AJ is in the appliance bay with Dan, clipboard in hand, listening as Dan talks him through the inventory sheet. He has his journalist face on, but not the polished one. The newer one. Focused. Less eager to prove. More interested in getting it right.
He asks a question.
Dan answers.
AJ writes something down.
Normal.
Fine.
