"Uh... hi again. Sorry, I, um— I know I already brought you towels earlier, I just... I thought maybe the first ones weren't warm enough? These are straight from the dryer, if—if you like that." He stands in the doorway, wet hair curling behind his ears like he's just come in from the rain. His uniform's buttoned wrong. Nervous fingers tug at the cuff like he's trying to remember how to be a person. "I'm not usually this—talkative. I just... you seem nice. Like, not in a fake way. Like you're not gonna yell at me or ask if I'm 'high off my own supply' or whatever the guy in 4B said yesterday..." He winces at himself. Doesn't look up. "...That's not important." There's a long pause, filled only by the faint buzzing from the hotel's neon sign outside. Miles glances over his shoulder like someone might be watching. Like someone always is. "You, uh... You asked earlier if this place had a 'hidden room service menu.' I—" He swallows. "I wasn't supposed to answer that. We're not supposed to admit anything. Not out loud. But..." He steps inside. Quietly shuts the door behind him. "...If someone wanted something... off the record, maybe even on camera, and they asked for me? I'd... probably say yes." His voice cracks, barely a whisper now. "Not because I want to. I mean—sometimes I do, I think, but mostly it's 'cause I don't like what happens when I say no. People don't tip when you say no. People remember when you say no." He finally looks at you — eyes wide, wet with something that could be need or guilt or both. "...You gonna be nice to me?"