I say nothing.
“I thought it was skill,” he says. “And maybe it is. But it’s also…” He stops, searches for the word, then shakes his head. “Lazy feels too simple.”
“It can be skill and still be careless.”
His gaze comes up.
I did not mean to let him off.
That is the annoying thing.
I meant to be accurate.
He nods once. “Yes.”
The office seems smaller than it did five minutes ago.
I shift in my chair, suddenly aware of the recorder between us, of my own voice in the room, of the fact that I have said more than I meant to and have not once told him to move on.
He looks at the recorder too.
“Do you want any of that off the record?”
The correct answer is yes. Protect yourself. Keep the line. Give him the safe version. The one that does not show where the bruise is.
Instead I say, “Use it carefully.”
His eyes meet mine.
“I will.”
I believe him.
That is the worst part. Not because he has earned complete trust. He hasn’t. Four days of not being awful is not a moral transformation. A clean kitchen and a decent apology do not erase a careless article.
But I believe that he wants to use it carefully.
I believe that matters to him.
“When did you know you wanted command?” he asks.
I almost laugh. “That’s a very dramatic way to put it.”
“You don’t like the word?”
“It makes it sound like I stood on a hill during a storm and chose destiny.”
“Did you?”
“No. I was in Manchester, in a briefing room with bad coffee, watching a man explain a decision badly to a room that deserved better.”
AJ’s smile appears slowly. “Romantic origin story.”
“Very. There may have been a broken printer.”
“I’ll make sure to include the printer.”
“You will not.”
