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“Apparently.”

Our eyes meet. I look away first. I place the photo back on the table.

“Thanks.”

Paul’s expression smooths.

“You’re welcome.”

The conversation has gotten too delicate. I hate delicate.

Paul clears his throat. “We come here every year for our birthdays.”

The shift is weird enough that I almost miss the sentence.

“Birthdays? Both?”

“Yes.” He folds his hands, then unfolds them. “Mine is next week.”

“Happy birthday.”

Paul blinks, like he didn’t expect manners from the trashy guy living in the kid room.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Paul looks down at the table. “His was next month. We stay—” He stops. His mouth tightens. “Stayed. We stayed for the full month.”

A little word breaking its ankle in the middle of a sentence. I feel it more than I want to.

“So this was your trip,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And I’m in the way.”

He exhales. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, but it’s true.”

Paul’s face does that thing again, where the polite answer arrives and then dies before reaching his mouth.

Finally, he says, “It’s complicated.”

“Tell me about it.” I meet his gaze. “I won’t get in your way. I’m not here to ruin your birthday trip. Or whatever this is. I’m not gonna throw parties or move furniture or sleep in your room.”

His eyes flick toward the hallway.

“Your room,” I clarify. “The big one.”

Paul looks back at me. “I’m having a difficult day.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

“Fair. And same.” Then I let the rest of the truth out before I can dress it up. “I’ll stay out of your way, but I can’t leave. Not yet.”

Paul looks down at his hands, then he nods. “I understand.”