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They can.

I apparently can’t.

At 1:47, my phone buzzes beside my laptop.

Ken: You coming?

I stare at the message longer than necessary.

Me: Working.

Ken: On Sunday?

Me: Some of us have normal jobs.

Ken: Pretty sure normal jobs don’t require Sundays.

Me: Pretty sure normal jobs don’t involve getting hit for fun.

Ken: Yeah, but normal jobs don’t allow you to hit back.

I laugh loudly enough that Steve looks over his monitor.

“Something funny?”

“Nope.”

Technically, that’s a lie. I put my phone facedown.

At 4:38, it buzzes again.

Ken: We won.

Me: I have the internet.

Ken: What? No congratulations?

Me: Did you score?

The typing bubble appears.

Ken: Assist.

Me: Shocking.

Ken: Smartass.

I smile through the next reader report.

That becomes our thing. Not the flirting, because we aren’t flirting. We’re just texting. There is a difference. Probably. Maybe.

When the team leaves for Atlanta, Bishop sends me a picture of Mercer asleep on the plane, mouth open.

Me: Blackmail?

Ken: Leadership.

I send him a picture of Darcy sprawled on his side on the pillow on his side of the couch.