Chapter 9 #2
“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 me to 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.
Shawn turned to the rest of us. “He only storms off when he’s flustered. Adorable, isn’t it?”
Dean snorted. “You’re going to give him a coronary one of these days.”
Sarah shook her head. “Or an identity crisis.”
“Or both,” I said.
“Worth it,” Shawn said. “I consider it a service. Helps him access his emotions. Like therapy, but with fringe benefits.”
“Pretty sure what you’re offering would make any therapist lose their license,” Dean said.
Before anyone could comment further, Brent returned, two coffees in hand, wordlessly placing one in front of Shawn.
Shawn’s teasing expression softened into something sincere and a bit googly-eyed. “Thanks, gorgeous.”
Brent gave a clipped nod. “I poured too much. Didn’t want it to go to waste.”
“Right,” Shawn said. “I’ll let you pretend that’s true, but we both know you like spoiling me.”
Brent leaned into Shawn, voice low. “Don’t get used to it. I only spoil the ones who behave. Next time, you’ll ask for what you want from your knees.”
Shawn’s mouth dropped open before closing then opening again. The king of innuendo, the emperor of quick comebacks, left speechless.
Brent took a long sip of his coffee. “What?” he drawled. “Cat got your tongue, Romeo?”
Shawn made a squeaky noise that did not belong to any grown adult. “I . . . uh . . . knees . . . did you just . . .” He pointed at Brent.
Sarah let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s new.”
“Ever since the baby, my marriage isn’t half as spicy as whatever that was,” Dean said.
“Remind me to keep popcorn on standby for our next meeting,” I said. “This is turning into a spectator sport. Shawn’s been lobbing serves at a brick wall for months, but now the wall has finally hit back.”
“With topspin,” Sarah added, extra emphasis on top.
Dean held out a fist, and she bumped it. “Nice.”
“I try,” she said with a grin.
Shawn finally recovered. “Well, well, well. Someone’s been paying attention during my workshops. That was almost filthy, Brent. I’m so proud of you.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Brent said.
“I hate to break it to you, but we sailed past weird and into erotically charged workplace fanfiction two minutes ago.”
Before Brent could fire back, Paul walked into the conference room, tablet tucked under one arm. Former military like Sarah, he carried the kind of calm, grounded authority that could still a riot with one raised brow. His gaze swept the table, taking in the stunned expressions.
Then his attention landed on Shawn, still wearing the dazed, freshly collared puppy expression.
“Shawn, you good? You look . . . compromised.”
Shawn let out a dreamy sigh, eyes glued to Brent. “Life is full of beautiful, unexpected moments.”
Paul turned to the rest of us. “Is he concussed?”
“Emotionally? Absolutely,” I said.
“Do I want to know?”
Brent grunted. “No.”
Paul considered that. “Excellent. I won’t ask.” He clapped his hands once, reclaiming the room. “Alright, check-in. Scale of one to five what’s your emotional capacity this morning?”
We started every morning this way: a quick, honest read of bandwidth.
Paul actually used it too. Whenever possible he shifted assignments, adjusting expectations, doing everything he could to keep us from burning out.
An act of leadership that made a big difference in this line of work and part of why we all respected the hell out of him.
One by one we gave our numbers. When it came to me, I said, “Two.”
All heads snapped in my direction, surprise on their faces. I rarely dipped below a three. With therapy, my gym routine, and a solid support network, I usually managed myself pretty well, and my current caseload wasn’t even heavy.
“I’m currently supporting a survivor outside our usual intake flow,” I explained. “I’ll be fully present with my assigned clients, but if we can avoid placing new DV cases on my docket this week, I’d appreciate it. This one’s bringing up a lot about Carrie.”
Everyone on the team, including Shawn, knew about Carrie. I’d never hidden my motives for why I’d chosen this line of work, and I figured it was safer for everyone that the team was aware.
“Understood. We’ll adjust your case workload. You’ll do DV consult backup only, and if you take on anything new, I’ll make sure it’s not DV related. Cool?” Paul said.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
We closed the check-in and ran triage for thirty minutes—court dates, safety plans, resource gaps, the usual chessboard. When we adjourned, I caved and pulled out my phone.
Me: This is your new housemate reporting from the field to say good morning. Hope you had a good night’s rest.
Oliver: Morning. “Slept” might be generous. I closed my eyes and pretended to be unconscious. Does that count?
Not surprising sleep had been rough. Pain, a strange bed, and everything he’d just walked away from . . . rest wouldn’t come easy for a while.
Me: Not ideal, but we’ll get there. Sleep is a stubborn mule sometimes. Today’s goal can be to remain horizontal while consuming snacks.
Oliver: Lofty goals. I’ll try not to overexert myself with the intense labor of chewing.
I chuckled. Behind the safety of a text, his snark made more of an appearance. I liked it.
Me: Good plan. Gotta pace yourself. Hydrate between bites. Take stretch breaks if the chewing becomes too strenuous.
Oliver: I’ll be sure to eat at a manageable pace. Wouldn’t want to pull a jaw muscle and set back my recovery.
While I liked the attitude he threw at me, I also knew how hiding behind sarcasm was a defense mechanism.
Me: Real talk for a sec?
Me: How’s the pain this morning? And how ya doing?
Oliver: Feel like I’ve been levelled by an 18-wheeler, but I took the meds you left out. They’re helping.
Me: I’m glad. Thanks for being honest. I know it’s not fun to talk about. I gotta jet to a meeting, but please reach out if you need anything.
Oliver: Thank you, Luke. For everything.