Page 43 of Dozer

"They're out. Channel's clean, rebuilt from scratch, better than it was before somebody broke it."

"How long before they try again?"

"Longer than it'll take us to finish what we're here for, probably." I stretch, spine popping in three places that have definitely been sitting hunched over a keyboard for longer than is medically advisable. "I'm good, but I'm not going to pretend I've made us permanently unhackable. Just currently unhackable. There's a difference."

"You keep saying that."

"There usually is." I close the laptop halfway, then stop myself. "People skip that part because it's less satisfying than absolutes. Everything is either safe or dangerous, good or bad, guilty or innocent. Real life is almost never that clean."

He looks at me. Really looks at me.

"What?" I ask him.

"Nothing."

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" He asks.

"The thing where you're impressed and you'd rather set yourself on fire than say so."

"I'm not impressed." He denies.

"You're extremely impressed."

"I'm mildly impressed." At least that’s something coming from him.

"Mildly," I repeat, because apparently two syllables have just become the most entertaining thing I've heard all day. His mouth shifts. Barely. I grin. "Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm just going to treasure this moment."

"Don't." He demands, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at me.

"Too late."

He gives me a look that should probably make me stop. It doesn't.

I close the laptop and slide it into the bag. "You know, for a man who supposedly doesn't talk much, you're becoming remarkably entertaining."

"I talk when there's something worth saying."

"That was almost charming."

"It wasn't meant to be."

"Those are usually the dangerous ones."

He shakes his head and turns toward the door. "We should move."

There it is. Dozer for I don't know what to do with whatever just happened between us, and the safest available option is logistics. I'm getting increasingly fluent in that particular language the longer we spend trapped together in cars, motel rooms, rest stops, parking lots, and now back rooms that smell like old coffee and somebody else's poorly patched security architecture.

"Copy that," I say, standing and grabbing my bag. I don't push it. Some wins you take quietly and let sit, the way you'd handle evidence too fragile to examine too roughly before it's ready.

Mildly impressed.

From him, I suspect, that's practically a love letter.