[ Got him. Not as complicated as Max made it out to be, was it? He manages not to grin like a diabolical cartoon villain, to his credit, as he rises from his spot on the edge of the table, loosely hanging onto Irving's fingers with his own. He takes the opportunity to look around, for his sake more than the navy man's; there are other patrons here, but not too many, and nobody he knows. Fine. ]

They've got rooms upstairs. A closed door and a bed should be enough, yes?

[ Jack's sure he's got his hooks in deep enough that he can turn around and find the stairs without Irving bolting for the door, but he keeps that gentle point of contact anyway, leading him up the stairs and to an unoccupied room at the end of the hallway, about as private as can be without going back to Jack's apartment. Which, despite the softer touch the other man very obviously needs, isn't happening. ]

Nobody will know. Except for the waitress.