Something flickered in his eyes, recognition maybe. “I know that feeling.”
They drank in silence for a moment, steam rising between them.
“Do you like what you do?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, your job.”
“Being a museum archivist? Yes, I love it.” She hesitated, expecting him to dismiss it, but his head tilted with genuine interest.
“What drew you to that?”
She smiled faintly. “I like the quiet. The detail. Knowing that every scrap of paper, every artefact, has a place, a history, a story to tell. It feels like…guarding a memory. Like making sure the past isn’t lost.”
His eyes held hers, and for a moment, she swore his breath caught. “That makes sense,” he said softly. “Guarding a memory. That’s…important.”
The intensity of his gaze made her throat dry. She forced a small laugh, breaking the moment. “What about you? Besides breaking into people’s bank accounts and hacking satellites, I mean.”
One corner of his mouth tugged. “That’s classified.”
“Of course it is.” She sipped her tea, grinning into the rim. “You’re not very good at small talk, are you?”
“I’m better with facts.”
“Go on, then.”
He looked at her seriously for a beat, then deadpanned, “Did you know the longest-lived artefact in the British Museum is a stone tool estimated to be almost two million years old?”
She blinked, then laughed, startled and delighted. “That’s actually relevant. You’ve improved.”
Colour touched his ears. “I try.”
The laugh lingered between them, softer now. It surprised her how easy it felt. How safe.
And somewhere beneath it, unspoken but steady, was the truth she hadn’t admitted aloud: instead of making her attraction fizzle, his cracks, his shadows, his humanity, only pulled her deeper.
The laugh lingered between them, softer now. It surprised her how easy it felt. How safe.
He set his empty cup down carefully on the table. For a moment, neither of them moved. The quiet stretched, not awkward, but fragile, as though any word might shatter it.
Clara rose, smoothing her hands over her pyjama bottoms, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the small room, of how close he was. “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
His brow furrowed slightly. “For what?”
“For not treating my work like it’s boring. For…listening.”
Something shifted in his eyes, gentling. “It matters to you. That means it matters.”
The words warmed her more than the tea.
She hesitated, then offered him a small smile. “Goodnight, Watchdog.”
He stood too, towering over her, though his movements were careful, restrained. His gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering there.
“Goodnight, Clara,” he said, her name rolling low and deliberate, like he was testing the weight of it.
The air seemed to hum between them as he left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
Clara exhaled, pressing her hands to her warm cheeks. She told herself it was exhaustion. She told herself it was nonsense.
But the truth whispered in the quiet: she had never felt safer saying goodnight to anyone.
