The shop’s phone rings, shaking me from my thoughts. I crane to see that the caller ID reveals it’s only Mrs. Brindlewood, probably calling about those “definitely not cursed” teacups she’s been eyeing.
“The Golden Scale Pawn Shop,” I answer, my voice carefully neutral. “Sundar speaking.”
“Oh good, you’re still there!” Mrs. Brindlewood’s enthusiasm crackles through the line. “I’ve been thinking about those teacups, and you know what? Life’s too short. Well, not for me specifically, but you know what I mean. I’ll take them! Please set them aside for me, would you?”
I smile despite everything. “They’ll be here whenever you’re ready, Mrs. Brindlewood. Cursed teacups aren’t exactly a bestseller anyhow.”
“Excellent! I’ll pop by tomorrow morning. And Sundar?” Her voice softens. “Sometimes the best treasures are the ones that find us when we’re not looking.”
Before I can respond, she’s hung up, leaving me to wonder if she was talking about teacups at all.
Monday morning. The earlyHouston sun filters through the shop windows, warming my scales as I examine a collection of vintage pocket watches. Nothing magical about these—just well-loved pieces from an era that valued craftsmanship. Simple, honest work that should help settle my mind.
It doesn’t.
My tail keeps shifting restlessly as I polish brass and test mechanisms. A full weekend without her in the shop has left everything feeling hollow. Wrong. Like all the careful order I’ve built here was just marking time until she arrived to breathe life back into things.
When the bell chimes her arrival, my hands become still on the half-opened watch case.
Aubrey hesitates in the doorway, morning light catching in her hair. She’s carrying two bags today—her usual purse and the cardboard box of baseball cards I’d let her take home to catalog earlier last week, before everything changed between us.
“Hi,” she says, and there’s a softness in her voice that is a relief to hear.
“Hello.” I manage to keep my tone steady, despite an underlying nervousness that makes my hood want to rise.
She moves to her desk, setting down her things. “I went through the cards this weekend,” she says, pulling out several protective sleeves. “Found some good ones, including a Mickey Mantle that would be worth listing on an auction site.”
Part of me almost welcomes the normal topic, even as deeper questions burn beneath my scales.
Are we going to discuss what happened? Should we? The memory of her taste, her sounds, the way she trembled beneath my touch—it all threatens to overwhelm my careful control. But she’s offering this safe conversation like a bridge between us, and I’m grateful for it.
“Tell me about the Mantle card,” I say, and her eyes light up as she pulls out a protective sleeve. The enthusiasm in her voice, how she leans forward slightly as she explains the card’s condition and markings—it draws me in despite my best intentions. I move closer, ostensibly to examine the card but really to breathe in her presence.
The proximity is electric. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat, hear the slight hitch in her breathing when my scales brush against her arm. My tail coils tight with the effort of not wrapping around her waist.
“The corners are sharp,” she says, her voice slightly breathless. “And the centering is nearly perfect. I checked online comps, and similar condition cards are listing for—”
The shop bell chimes, and I catch Mrs. Brindlewood’s distinctive scent—dragon smoke and expensive perfume. When I see her, there’s something knowing in her expression, something deliberate.
“Good morning, my dears!” Her half-dragon form fills the doorway, her scaled hands clutching her oversized purse. “I simply couldn’t wait another moment to discuss those teacups. And perhaps a few other matters that require attention?”
The way she emphasizes ‘other matters’ while glancing between Aubrey and me makes my tail lash once in resignation. Of course she knows. She always knows.
Beside me, Aubrey has gone very still. When I risk a glance at her, I catch the slightest quirk of her lips, as if she’s trying not to smile.
“The teacups,” I say, attempting to redirect the conversation before it begins. “Of course. They’re just—”
“Oh, plenty of time for those.” Mrs. Brindlewood settles herself on her favorite chair near the counter. “First, we simply must discuss the absolutely fascinating energy in here this morning. It feels rather like the air before a storm. Or, perhaps… after?” She cocks her head with a knowing smile.
I catch Aubrey’s eye, and something passes between us—a shared moment of fond exasperation mixed with nervous anticipation. Then she straightens, gathering the baseball cards with careful precision.
“I should get these logged into inventory,” she says, but there’s a warmth in her voice that wasn’t there before. “Mrs. Brindlewood, always a pleasure.”
As she passes by my tail, she lets her fingertips brush against my scales—so quickly I might have imagined it, yet the touch burns like fire. My hood flares before I can stop it, and Mrs. Brindlewood’s delighted snicker tells me she missed nothing.
“Now then, Sundar dear,” she says, settling in more comfortably. “About those teacups…”
I watch Aubrey disappear into the back office, knowing with absolute certainty that once we’re alone, I’ll have to address what happened head-on, setting aside all this bashfulness and shy glances.
