"Yeah," he calls, muffled, from inside the room, "but the boss'd be pretty pissed off if I gave you one before that, so let's just pretend you don't know how to disarm me."

He shows back up with a brushed steel case, and a smaller black plastic one. His grin is relaxed. "Yours," he says, about the black case, setting it on a table, "and mine."

"I wasn't kidding about that drink you know. Orange juice?" He heads over to the refrigerator.