“Dean’s baby’s sick, kept him up all night,” Shawn announced as he reappeared from the break room, pressing the Red Bull into Dean’s hands and giving his shoulder a supportive pat. “Drink this. You will rise like a phoenix from the ashes, or at least a raccoon that got into the good trash.”
“Or he’ll infect the rest of us. Babies are tiny biological weapons,” Brent said. “Don’t breathe near me. No way you’re getting me sick.”
Sarah elbowed him. “We all know you’d still show up to work if you were bleeding out. Don’t pretend you’re fragile.”
“He is mentally,” Shawn said.
Not dignifying that with a comeback, Brent flipped him off.
Dean groaned again. “Why are we like this?”
“Because we’re underpaid and overexposed to the worst of humanity. We have to find some outlet for that kind of stress,” I said.
A round of knowing nods, followed by a chorus of “Yeah, fair” and “Makes sense” came from everyone.
Shawn clicked his tongue. “That’s what we get for not obtaining big fancy degrees so we can work in STEM.”
“Speak for yourself,” Brent said. “Some of us have degrees that required brains to obtain.”
“Yeah?” Shawn shot back. “Was it in advanced grump studies or applied cynicism?”
That drew the first real laugh out of Brent—a short, low sound that might’ve been mistaken for a cough if you didn’t know him. “Better than your diploma in wasting oxygen.”
“Ouch, you wound me.”
“You wound yourself, every time you open your mouth.”
Dean shook his head. “Jesus, I swear you two bicker like an old married couple.”
“If we were married, I’d have smothered him with a pillow by now,” Brent said.
“Kinky! I’m not opposed, big guy, but at least buy me dinner before the breath play, yeah? Maybe light a candle, whisper something sultry like ‘This is for your own good’ while you straddle me.”
Tough-as-nails, forty-year-old, grumble-for-breakfast Brent sputtered, and a flush—actual pink—crept up his neck.
The rest of the team chalked Shawn’s antics up to him being a natural flirt who lived to rile Brent up for sport, and yeah, that was definitely part of it. But sometimes I wondered if there was more to it. Shawn didn’t cross that line with anyone else. And Brent, for all his huffing and eye-rolling, never shut it down. In no reality would Brent let someone talk to him like that unless, on some deep-buried level, he wanted to hear it.
“Shawn,” Sarah warned. “Leave the man’s blood pressure alone. We can’t afford to lose a senior agent before the staff meeting.”
“I’m fostering a safe, judgment-free exploration of alternative workplace relationship structures. It’s called team building. And for the record, he invited this energy,” Shawn replied.
“Say one more word and I’ll team-build you right into the drywall,” Brent said.
“God, that’s a tone,” Shawn said, fanning himself. “Again, I’m not against it, but if you’re going to start violently pinning meto surfaces, we should at least pick a safe word and negotiate parameters. I’m a responsible play partner.”
“For the love of... would you shut up?” Brent said.
“What? I’m promoting clear communication, boundaries, and consent. All pillars of a thriving partnership.”
“I swear to god, I am five seconds from—”
“Throwing me onto the conference table? If you’re lucky, I might even call you sir,” Shawn said, batting his eyelashes.
Brent made a strangled noise and shoved his chair back. “I’m getting coffee.”
“Grab me one?” Shawn called after him.
“No,” Brent barked.
