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We’re given a room at the tippy top of the hotel. The ceiling is arched, so we know we can’t get any higher.

As soon as we walk through the door our eyes go to the bed.

“Is that mattress stuffed with hay?” I ask.

“To think we gave up Versailles for this,” he says, but he chose this place.

His eyes stay on the bed. He doesn’t step any farther into the room, as if realizing what he’s done. We’re going to sleep in that bed together. Sleep, which is so much more intimate than having sex.

I cross to the bed.

“I sleep in my underwear,” I say casually.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

I strip, not lingering. I don’t want sexy; I want the other kind of intimacy.

Jonathan watches me. I have a reasonably nice body. At least I think I do. It doesn’t look like the bodies in movies but it does all the same things. Once I’m down to my underwear, I pull back the covers and climb onto the bed. Jonathan hasn’t moved.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” I ask.

“I don’t really sleep.”

“You said,” I say. “Not ever?”

“I mean, of course I do sleep , but only for a couple hours. Maybe. If I’m lucky.” He takes a step toward me.

“We could just lie here,” I say. “You don’t have to sleep.”

He takes off his jacket—slowly, cautiously. He takes off his shirt. I involuntarily hiss. He’s armed under his undershirt. He sets his gun on the bedside table, then removes a knife from his ankle.

“For protection,” he says.

“Sure.”

“I never use them.” He strokes the blade absently. “It’s just nice to know they’re there.”

“You’re fun,” I say. “Anything else?”

He smirks, playful, dangerous. “Nothing you need to worry about.” It’s another one of his joking-but-not-joking lines. He probably has razor blades sewn into his coat lining. He definitely has lethal drugs somewhere on his person.

He told me he confiscates weapons, but his body is an arsenal. His suitcase was an armory. Sherri was right: He’s definitely lying to me about who he is. I need to stop trying to make excuses for him. I need to stop thinking any part of what is happening between us is real. I need to stop thinking he’s hot. I need to switch off my pussy and treat this like the mindfuck of a hit that it is. I need to be a professional.

Most of all, I need to stop smiling.

I loosen the covers, make a space for him on the bed. “Come on.” I pat the bed, invite him into my web of intimacy.

He climbs into bed. He’s so fucking dense that the mattress sinks, pulling me in his direction. We’re uncomfortably close together. I doubt either of us is going to sleep tonight.

I put my hand on his shoulder. I delicately finger his scar.

“Do you know who shot you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Are they still out there?” Translation: Did you kill them?

He inhales lightly. “I don’t want to talk about all that…”

I pull my hand away. I plan to award emotional intimacy with physical intimacy. I’m hoping he’ll pick up on it subconsciously and tell me everything.

“You know,” I say, “I kinda miss the old you.”

“The old me? We’ve hardly spent twenty-four hours together.” His hand slides along the bed toward mine. I prop my head up with my hand like I don’t notice. No truth, no reward.

“I mean the guy I met on the train. Your false identity. From upstate New York.”

“That wasn’t a false identity .”

“You seem different now.”

“Well, I’m not high. And I don’t have a bullet in my chest.”

“Your defenses are up,” I point out. “Your armor.”

I take a deep breath. I know what I have to do. To get him to share his secrets, I have to share mine.

I sidle toward him. “You know, when you disappeared, I was kind of worried it was because…” My tongue sticks. I can’t even say it.

“Because of your nightmare.” He reaches out and brushes my hair behind my ear. His fingers linger, trace my neck, then my shoulder. I kind of forgot he could touch me, too. I could ask him to stop. I don’t want to.

“I have nightmares all the time,” I say. “I’ll probably have one tonight.”

He draws his finger along my jaw. “It’s okay,” he says. He doesn’t ask me why I have nightmares, because he doesn’t want to create intimacy.

Conversation is just a form of combat. I have to be brave. I have to shoot first.

“When I was a kid, something really terrible happened to me.” We lock eyes. I’m about to tell him my truth. I have to remind myself that my secrets are safe with him. He’s going to be dead soon. I’m going to kill him. “My family was murdered, right in front of me. My mom. My dad.” I can see his body contract. “It was a burglary gone wrong. It was just… chaos ,” I say, remembering.

Part of me wants to walk him through the whole story. I once had this compulsion to try to make people understand. Right after it happened, I would tell all the dirty details to anyone who would listen. I couldn’t stop myself. I thought someone could help me. But after years and years, I realized no one could. No one could ever understand. Then I stopped telling people everything. And eventually, I stopped telling people anything.

Right now, I skip ahead. Past how the burglars got in. Past when I hid in my closet and when I came out. Past the screaming. Past my finding the burglars in my parents’ bedroom while my mom and dad lay dying on the bed, crying and bleeding and clinging to each other. Past one thief going through my mom’s purse and the other taking off her ring. Right up to when I found the gun on the floor.

“At one point, one of the men put his gun down,” I say. “I picked it up. Another man saw me. He reached for it…and I shot him. I shot them both. Another one came in from the bathroom and I shot him, too.” I shiver with the memory. “It was like something out of a movie. Even after it was over, it was like my whole life was something out of a movie. Like it was never real again.”

“God,” he says, and then something truly terrible happens. He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I know exactly what you mean.”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t recoil like other people do. I don’t feel his wall going up. Instead, he looks warm. He looks almost peaceful. Like I haven’t unsettled his waters. He gets it. He gets me .

He pulls me toward him, into his chest, and it’s so strong and cozy. I try to remind myself that this is just work, but the truth hurts. It hurts to share it, and it feels so fucking good just to be held.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. His fingers run through my hair.

I told myself I was doing this for him, but I suspect I was doing it for me, too. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to tell Jonathan because I knew he was dark enough to take it. And as he holds me to his chest I think: Fuck .

This isn’t just a job anymore. I made it something real.