5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Learning Curves
Aubrey
Monday morning feels like the start of a bizarre dream. By Friday, I’m convinced reality has permanently shifted sideways.
The thing is, most of Sundar’s pawn shop operates exactly like any other—we buy, we sell, we haggle over vintage guitars and slightly battered electronics. The register works the same way as the one at my old waitressing job, and the steady stream of customers seeking quick cash for their treasures becomes routine rather quickly.
It’s the other stuff that takes getting used to.
Like how some items need to be handled with dragonhide gloves—apparently rubber just melts. Or how certain displays have to be arranged by lunar phase. Or the way Sundar can taste lies in the air when someone tries to pawn stolen goods—which, let me tell you, makes for some incredibly awkward conversations.
But the biggest adjustment isn’t the magical artifacts or mysterious clientèle.
It’s him.
“The key,” Sundar says, his voice a deep rumble that I swear I can feel in my bones, “is to recognize the difference between genuine magical resonance and simple paranormal residue.”
I try to focus on the ornate hand mirror he’s holding, I really do. I mean, if I’m going to work at a supernatural pawn shop, the information he’s trying to teach me is kinda important.
But his tail keeps accidentally brushing against my ankle as he shifts position, and every once in a while I brush up against a stone-hard bicep.
This is not an ideal learning environment for a single woman trying desperately not to notice how hot her monster boss is, I can tell you that much.
“The genuine article will have a distinct…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Signature.”
“Signature,” I repeat weakly, watching his scaled fingers trace the mirror’s frame. Every movement is precise, deliberate, like he’s handling something infinitely precious. It’s distracting how elegant yet powerful his hands are. “And how exactly do I detect that?”
He moves even closer until his chest nearly touches my back. “Close your eyes.”
I do, though it’s probably a mistake. Without visual distractions, my other senses kick into overdrive. His scent surrounds me, that mysterious mix of old books and exotic spices that makes my head spin. The soft rasp of his scales against the floorboards seems impossibly loud in the quiet shop.
“Now,” he murmurs, and God, his voice should be illegal, “extend your hand. Palm down, just above the surface.”
I comply, trying to ignore how his proximity makes my skin prickle with awareness. My hand hovers over the mirror’s surface, and the air feels different here, charged with something I can’t quite explain.
“What do you feel?”
“Um.” Besides the overwhelming urge to lean back against his chest? “Sort of a… buzzing? Like static electricity, but slower?”
His pleased hum vibrates through me. “Good. That’s genuine enchantment. Now…”
His tail shifts, curling around my ankles in what has to be an unconscious gesture. The smooth scales send a jolt of electricity up my legs that has nothing to do with magical signatures. I’m aware of every point of almost-contact between us—his chest barely brushing my back when he breathes, his hands hovering near mine, his tail’s gentle touch.
“Try this one.” He must be holding something else now, though I keep my eyes firmly shut. “Compare the sensations.”
I move my hand sideways until I feel… nothing. Just empty air and the weight of his attention. The shop’s usual sounds feel distant—the tick of various clocks, the hum of the ancient ceiling fan, the muffled street noise from outside.
“I don’t—” I begin, but then there’s the faintest whisper against my palm. “Oh! It’s like… an echo? Like whatever magic was here is just a memory?”
“Excellent.” The praise in his voice makes me flush with pride. “Yes, the enchantment is long since expired, greatly reducing the value. You’re learning quickly.”
I open my eyes, immediately regretting it as I realize just how intimately he’s curved around me. His tail has definitely migrated higher up my calf, and suddenly brushes against the back of my knee. I jump at the contact, letting out a small squeak.
Sundar jerks back as if burned, his hood flaring wide with what I can only describe as mortification as he looks down at my legs. His tail whips away so fast that it knocks over an empty display stand.
“I apologize,” he says quickly, those golden eyes wide. “My tail sometimes… That is to say, it has a tendency to…” He actually stumbles over his words, and his tongue keeps flicking out, which might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen from a cold-blooded creature. “It occasionally acts of its own accord. Particularly when I’m concentrating on other matters. Again, my apologies.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning. The fearsome naga is flustered . His usual graceful composure has completely cracked, and watching him try to regain it while his tail curls nervously behind him is weirdly endearing.
“It’s fine,” I say with a little laugh. “I’m sure it’s a lot to stay on top of—fifteen feet of tail, that is.”
He lets out a relieved breath, and his tongue finally settles down. “I appreciate your understanding. Now, let us pretend this slip-up never happened, shall we?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, even though I know this is going to fuel my fantasies for nights to come.
Man. I seriously need to get it together.
The afternoon lull finds me hiding in the back corner of the shop, pretending to catalog old coins while actually having an existential crisis. Every few minutes, my hand drifts to the spot behind my knee where Sundar’s tail had brushed against me, the phantom sensation of smooth scales making my skin tingle.
“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter to myself as I read the same list item for the fifteenth time, making zero progress.
The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about that moment. The way his tail had curled around my calf, how his chest had almost pressed against my back. How flustered he’d been afterward. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’d been mortified. Probably disgusted that his tail had betrayed him by touching a human.
I mean, look at him. Even now, across the shop, he’s the picture of otherworldly grace. Every movement precise, controlled, those golden eyes focused on the ancient text he’s translating. He’s literally centuries old, a former temple guardian who probably spent years protecting priceless artifacts and communing with gods or whatever it is temple guardians do.
And I’m… well, I’m a mess. A waitress who can barely pay her bills and still gets excited about finding quarters in the couch. The most exotic thing about me is that I can quote every episode of The Good Place.
Sure, maybe his tail has a mind of its own sometimes. But that doesn’t mean he wants anything to do with me. He’s probably touched others by accident plenty of times—I mean, fifteen feet of tail has got to be hard to keep track of, right?
“You’re being ridiculous,” I whisper to myself through the reflection of a particularly shiny coin. “He hired you to work, not to pine after him like some lovesick teenager. Besides, inter-species dating is probably against some ancient naga code or something.”
That’s when the shop’s door bursts open in an explosion of wings and smoke, and my deep thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of what appears to be a were-dragon wearing pearls and a hand-knitted sweater.
“Sundar, darling!” Her voice is pure English charm despite the smoke curling from her nostrils. “I simply had to come see how your new assistant is settling in! And I brought scones.”
I can’t stop staring. She’s at least seven feet tall, covered in iridescent scales that shimmer between green and gold, with elegant horns wrapped in a silk scarf. Despite her impressive bulk and the casual way she breathes smoke, she somehow projects the aura of a society grandmother who’s arrived for afternoon tea.
From his corner, Sundar remains unmoved. “Mrs. Brindlewood. To what do I owe the… pleasure?”
“Oh, don’t you take that tone with me, young man.” She bustles closer, managing to navigate the cramped displays without knocking anything over. When she spots me, her reptilian eyes light up with almost predatory glee. “Ah! You must be Aubrey. Even lovelier than I imagined.”
I feel my cheeks redden. “Oh. Um, thank you?”
“Now dear,” she continues, producing a paper bag that smells absolutely heavenly, “you simply must try these. Dragon-baked scones. The secret is in the flame control. And while you eat, you can tell me how our brooding cobra has been treating you.”
Sundar’s hood flares. “Mrs. Brindlewood, I’m certain you have better things to do than interrogate my employee.”
“Hush.” She puts up a clawed hand. “Can’t I check on the dear girl? Especially after how long you had been watching that door, longing for someone suitable to—”
“ Mrs. Brindlewood. ”
His hood spreads wider, but Mrs. Brindlewood seems entirely unfazed. She settles herself near the counter, wings tucked neatly as she hands me a scone that’s still warm.
“Did he tell you about his time as a temple guardian?” she asks, eyes twinkling. “Oh, you should have seen him back then—all ceremony and tradition, convinced that humans couldn’t possibly understand the sacred nature of his artifacts. He and I had quite lively debates back then.”
I take a bite of the scone to hide my intense interest in this topic. It’s perfectly crisp outside, melting inside, with an exotic fruit mixed in the center that I can’t quite place. Behind Mrs. Brindlewood, Sundar’s tail lashes once.
“That was a different time,” he says stiffly.
“Different time? Darling, he used to wear these elaborate robes,” she tells me, ignoring his increasingly agitated tail movements. “All gold embroidery and silk. Very dramatic. Though I suppose the vest and sash look suits him better these days…”
I try not to obviously imagine Sundar in ornate robes. Try, and fail miserably.
“I was young,” he mutters, but there’s something almost fond in his expression as he pretends to organize a shelf of cursed jewelry.
“Young?” Mrs. Brindlewood laughs. “Darling, you were already ancient by human standards. But oh, the way you’d lecture about proper artifact handling! As if humans hadn’t been making their own magic for millennia.”
I lean forward, desperate to hear more about Sundar’s past, but Mrs. Brindlewood suddenly glances at an ornate pocket watch that definitely wasn’t in her claws a moment ago.
“Oh heavens, is that the time?” She rises in a flutter of wings. “I’m meant to be at my great-great-great-great-granddaughter’s dance recital. Promising young thing—finally mastering her wing discipline while performing ballet. They grow up so fast!”
“But—” I start, then catch myself. “I mean, thank you for the scones.”
“Any time, dear.” She winks at me, then stage-whispers, “And don’t let his stern act fool you. Under all those scales beats a heart of gold.” With that, she sweeps toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll chat more next time. I have centuries of stories to share!”
Once she’s gone, Sundar’s hood slowly relaxes, though his tail still twitches. “You shouldn’t put too much stock in Mrs. Brindlewood’s tales. Age has made her prone to embellishment.”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t help smiling. “That’s why you let her come by whenever she wants, bringing baked goods and telling embarrassing stories about you? Because she’s senile?”
“I merely respect my elders.”
“Right. Of course.” I bite back a grin. “Very practical of you.”
He mutters something that might be a curse in an ancient language before slithering away to the back office, but I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to hide his endearment toward the old dragon.
The shop’s closing ritual has become comfortingly familiar after just a week. While Sundar balances the register, I organize receipts and ledgers, trying not to stare at how the late amber light gleams on the iridescent scales of his tail.
I’m sorting through today’s transactions when something catches my eye. The silver locket Mrs. Martinez brought in earlier—it’s here in the ledger, marked with a loan for two hundred fifty dollars. I could have sworn Sundar whispered to me it wasn’t worth much more than that. And he’s waived interest for the first month.
“The loan on the locket today,” I begin cautiously. “You loaned her almost the full value of it. Did you mean to do that?”
His hood flares slightly, the faintest ripple of irritation. “You think I’ve made a mistake?”
“No, it’s not that.” I point at the ledger. “It’s just—you overvalued her locket, didn’t you?”
His eyes flick to the page, cool and unreadable. “The terms are fair.”
A cryptic answer if I’ve ever heard one. Something nags at me, and curiosity wins out over better judgment. I flip back through other entries, scanning the careful handwriting marking out Sundar’s transactions.
There’s Mr. Chen’s entry—a loan for his vintage Leica camera, far more generous than its noted final value. No interest has been charged either, even after multiple late payments. Another page shows Mr. Patterson’s loan for his family’s war medals, with a note in Sundar’s precise script: Extended redemption period—no interest. Any other pawnbroker would have melted those medals down for the gold content by now. Yet Sundar kept them for months, waiting patiently.
The more entries I read, the tighter my throat feels. A pattern begins to take shape. Over and over again, the same quiet generosity is repeated. A widow in need, a struggling parent, a veteran out of work. Bigger loans than the items justified. Waived interest. Extended timelines. Even repairs to items labeled as “routine maintenance” and never charged.
I glance up at Sundar, who’s still focused on his careful balancing of the register. His exterior is cold and controlled, like always. But in the ledgers, he’s written out a story of compassion—one he hides as if he’s embarrassed by it, even while it must have cost him tens of thousands in lost profits.
And then, a chilling thought strikes me, sharper than the edge of a pawned hunting knife.
Why didn’t he treat me the same way?
I flip back to my own transaction, fingers trembling slightly. There it is: my bracelet’s entry, documented in his elegant script. Full market value noted. Higher than usual interest rate. No special considerations, no quiet mercy.
He’s lost thousands helping others, but with me…
My chest feels tight as unwanted conclusions start forming.
Maybe this explains everything. His tail might act interested sometimes, but clearly he sees me differently than his other customers. Less deserving of mercy. Or maybe he just doesn’t…
I stare at the numbers until they blur, trying to squash down the hurt that’s building. It’s stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t owe me anything. It’s his business, his choice who to help. And yet…
“Is everything all right?” His voice startles me from my thoughts. When I look up, he’s watching me with those impossibly golden eyes, his hood slightly flared in what might be concern—or maybe it’s just plain old impatience at my inefficiency. “You seem troubled.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, closing the ledger before he can see which pages I’ve been studying. My voice comes out harder than intended. “Just tired. Long week.”
His head sways as he studies me, his tongue flicking out. He seems like he wants to press—wants to challenge just how “fine” I really am, but then he simply nods. “Of course. Would you like to head home? I can finish up from here.”
“Yeah.” I grab my purse off the workbench, needing to escape before I say something stupid. Something like ‘Why am I different?’ or ‘Why don’t I deserve your kindness too?’
“Have a pleasant weekend, Aubrey,” he says softly as I head for the door.
“Sure,” I mutter, not looking back. “I’ll try.”
The haunted music box in the corner starts playing what sounds suspiciously like a sad love song as I leave. And for once, Sundar doesn’t silence it.
The night air hits my face, thick with Houston humidity, but I barely notice. I’m too busy trying to convince myself that the ache in my chest is just disappointment in my own stupid fantasies, not actual heartbreak.
After all, you can’t lose what was never yours to begin with.