6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Professional Distance
Sundar
The weekend drags endlessly. I reorganize display cases, arrange new acquisitions, and pretend I’m not counting the hours until Monday. A well-loved guitar needs its strings replaced—simple work that I usually find calming, but tonight my fingers feel clumsy. I’m distracted by the lingering traces of Aubrey’s scent, by the memory of how sharply it had changed on Friday evening.
One moment, she was all warm sunshine and coffee, with that hint of determination that draws me in whether she means to or not. The next… something soured. Hurt bloomed beneath her usual brightness, and the shift had my scales bristling with the need to fix whatever caused such distress.
But what was it?
I’ve replayed our interactions countless times, examining each moment like I would a precious artifact.
There was the morning’s lesson in magical detection, when my treacherous tail betrayed me by seeking her warmth. There was Mrs. Brindlewood’s visit, with her embarrassing stories and knowing looks. Then came the quiet routine of closing time, until…
My tail knocks over a rack of vintage albums, sending them sliding across the floor. The sound echoes through the empty shop, emphasizing the hollow silence that’s been my companion for centuries. A silence that hadn’t bothered me until recently.
I retrieve the fallen records, carefully checking their condition. Most are fine, though a Beatles album cover has acquired a slight bend that would horrify any serious collector. I smooth it carefully, remembering how Aubrey’s eyes had lit up last week when she discovered it in a new acquisition lot.
She had told me she thought it could make a good gift for her father come Christmas time. I had mentally made a note not to sell it for that reason.
Now I catch myself arranging the album where she’ll see it Monday morning, then immediately feel foolish. When did I become this creature who arranges displays hoping to earn a smile? I’m ancient, powerful, a former guardian of sacred relics. I should be above such… such…
Fine. Perhaps I’m not above it. Perhaps I haven’t been “above” anything since the moment she walked into my shop, all nervous determination and freckles.
The admission doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the weekend stretch longer, each hour marked by increasingly ridiculous attempts to keep busy. I organize the jewelry cases by metal content instead of value. I update the electronic inventory system I usually avoid. I even tackle polishing that antique typewriter that likes to add snarky commentary in the margins of whatever’s being written.
None of it helps. My thoughts keep circling back to Friday evening, to that sharp change in her scent. To how quickly she’d left, barely meeting my eyes.
By Sunday night, I’ve worked myself into what Mrs. Brindlewood would definitely call a “state.” My tail won’t stop moving. I’ve reorganized the same display three times. I’ve even caught myself practicing conversations in my head, trying to find the right words to ask what went wrong without seeming… whatever I am right now.
Desperate? Concerned? Ridiculously fixated on a human who probably just had a bad day?
When Monday finally arrives, I’m behind the counter hours early, pretending to review the ledger while actually monitoring every sound from the street. My tongue keeps flicking out to taste the air, seeking her familiar scent. The pages of meticulous records are a blur before my eyes, and I realize I’ve been staring at the same entry for twenty minutes.
At precisely 7:55, I hear her footsteps approaching. My entire body goes still, every scale attuned to her presence. But something’s off.
She enters a moment later, perfectly put together in practical work clothes, her hair neatly tied back. The sight of her makes my tail want to curl—which is precisely the kind of reaction I should be suppressing, given that I’m the one who manipulated this whole situation.
“Good morning,” Aubrey says. Her tone, it’s professional. Distant. As if we’re suddenly operating on purely business terms—which, technically, is exactly what I claimed I wanted when I crafted this arrangement.
Five weeks. I’d offered her five weeks of employment, telling myself it was a practical solution to her financial troubles and my need for assistance. But I know the truth, don’t I?
I’d deliberately set harsh terms on her bracelet’s loan, hoping she’d need to return, hoping to keep her coming back. Then, when the opportunity presented itself, I’d crafted this position, paying well above market rate, just to keep her close.
“Good morning,” I respond, watching as she moves to her workspace. She maintains a careful distance as she passes, just far enough that my tail can’t possibly brush against her by accident. The precision of it makes my scales itch.
I’m not used to feeling guilty. Nagas are negotiators by nature; we take pride in crafting deals that serve our purposes. But watching her now, seeing how she’s drawn this professional veil between us, I wonder if she’s figured out my machinations. If she’s realized I’m no better than any other creature who’s tried to bind her with obligations.
Though at least I’m paying her well for the privilege.
No, the thought sounds hollow even in my own mind.
“I’ll start with yesterday’s inventory,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes. “Unless you need me for something else?”
The formality in her voice… It isn’t what I wanted. Yes, I arranged to have her here, but not like this—not with all her warmth locked away behind careful courtesy.
“No, that’s… fine.”
She nods and turns away, leaving me to wonder how I managed to negotiate myself into exactly the wrong kind of victory. I’m centuries old, having honed the art of crafting perfect deals, yet somehow I’ve arranged things so that she’s physically closer than ever while feeling impossibly far away.
I try not to make it too obvious as I watch her begin her morning routine. She’s only been here a week, yet already the shop feels wrong without her usual commentary about our stranger items, or her ridiculous theories about which items secretly hate each other.
Now she’s all business, carefully documenting new arrivals without a single comment about their possible vendettas. I want to provoke a reaction—to mention that the typewriter seems depressed by her lack of attention, or that the temperamental tea set misses her terrible puns.
Instead, I maintain my own professional distance. After all, I’m the one who orchestrated this situation. Who am I to complain when she’s simply treating it like the business arrangement I pretended it was?
My tongue flicks out, tasting her lingering hurt on the air, and I wonder if—
That’s when another scent hits my tongue. One that makes my entire body go rigid.
Moments later, the shop’s bell chimes with deliberate delicacy, and the scent is unmistakable now. Sandalwood and lotus, with that underlying bite of venom I remember all too well.
Nalini.
She enters exactly as she always has, each movement a performance. Her scales shimmer silver and gold in the shop’s lighting, like autumn leaves caught in sunlight. Everything about her is precisely as I remember—the way she holds her hood, the elegant curve of her throat, the fluid grace of her tail.
We’d been a striking pair once, or so everyone said. Both of us proud temple guardians, both dedicated to our sacred duties. Both wrong about so many things.
“Sundar,” she says, and even her voice is exactly the same—honey over steel. “How… quaint your little shop has become.”
The word ‘quaint’ drops like poison between us. Years ago, when I’d announced my intention to open this shop, she’d used the same tone. “How quaint,” she’d said then, “that you think dealing with humans will fulfill you.”
I’m aware of Aubrey at her workstation, carefully still but alert. In my peripheral vision, I see her watching us both, taking in details most humans would miss. The way Nalini’s hood spreads in subtle dominance. The careful distance she maintains while still managing to loom. All the little power plays that had once seemed so important in temple politics.
“The shop serves its purpose,” I say neutrally, though my tail wraps around itself. Then, as if we didn’t have decades of history between us, I say, “Were you looking for something specific today?”
Nalini glides deeper into the shop, examining our displays with theatrical disdain. “Oh, I was simply in the area. Taking a break after a long stint at the Bangkok temple.” Her tongue flicks out, tasting the air. “Though I see you’re still doing business with humans. Even seem to have hired one. How… progressive of you.”
I catch Aubrey’s slight shift in posture—not from fear, but rather the quiet alertness of someone cataloging potential threats. It reminds me of how she handles difficult customers, reading the room with an instinct she’s perfected over her years of retail and waitressing work.
“Though I suppose,” Nalini continues, sliding closer to the counter, “ someone has to handle the simpler transactions. Such ordinary tchotchkes are beneath our kind.”
The insult hangs in the air, and I find myself fighting two warring instincts. The first, bred from centuries of temple politics, is to maintain careful neutrality. The second, far more visceral, is to bare my fangs at anyone who would dismiss Aubrey’s contributions so carelessly.
Before I can decide, Aubrey steps forward. There’s something in her posture that catches my attention—not the nervous energy of our first meeting, nor even the careful professionalism she’s maintained all morning.
Instead, she moves with the quiet confidence of someone who has handled far worse than a condescending naga.
“Welcome,” Aubrey says, her voice carrying that particular tone that only career service workers can master—perfectly pleasant while suggesting volumes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I watch, fascinated, as Nalini’s subtle dominance display meets Aubrey’s practiced customer service smile. It’s like watching two entirely different languages of power clash—one ancient and primal, the other forged in the trenches of modern human commerce.
“No,” Nalini says, her tongue flicking out to taste Aubrey’s scent. “We haven’t.”
“I’m Aubrey,” she continues, maintaining eye contact with remarkable steadiness. “Though I couldn’t help but overhear you’re from the Bangkok temple. I’d love to hear your perspective on something.”
My hood flares slightly as she moves to one of our more valuable displays, her movements deliberate and precise. There’s something calculating in her tone that even has me unsure where she’s going with this.
“We recently acquired some artifacts that appear to be from an old Thai temple complex.” She gestures to a set of ceremonial bells I’ve been meaning to authenticate. “Of course, with so many forgeries on the market these days, it’s hard to be certain without an expert opinion.”
It’s a masterful trap—Nalini must either admit she lacks the expertise to authenticate them, or break her aloof act to engage with the items. Either way, her carefully crafted superiority takes a hit.
Nalini is silent for a moment, before snickering. “And you assume I would waste my time with such verification?”
“Oh, not at all,” Aubrey says, her tone still perfectly pleasant. “I just thought, given your position at the temple, you’d have unique insight into their historical significance. Especially now that humans are so interested in magical artifacts—it must be challenging, deciding what knowledge to share with the public.”
I barely suppress a pleased hiss. She’s neatly cornered Nalini between her own prejudices: either engage with a human professionally, or admit she lacks the authority she’s trying to project.
Nalini’s tongue flicks once, dismissively. “The bells are genuine temple artifacts, though hardly significant ones.” She turns to me with a practiced smile. “Really, Sundar darling, it’s sweet that you’re letting your little human pet take on such responsibilities. Though perhaps she’d be better suited to cataloging something less precious?” Her gaze sweeps the shop before landing on our trading card display. “Like those cards with the silly creatures on them.”
“Oh, you mean the Pokémon cards?” Aubrey’s voice brightens with genuine enthusiasm. “Funny you should mention those. Our first edition shadowless Charizard is actually worth more than that Ming dynasty protection scroll we got last week. Wild, right?”
Nalini’s hood flares with horror, and finally her carefully constructed mask cracks. “I cannot.” She practically spits the words. “Simply cannot.” With a dramatic sweep of her tail, she heads for the door, pausing only to add, “Sundar, do contact me when you’re ready to return to more… elevated pursuits. Until then, I have better things to do.”
The bell chimes her exit, and blessed silence falls. After a moment, Aubrey turns to me with a slight grin. “So… I’m guessing that’s what a naga Karen looks like?”
I suppress an amused chuckle. “That is one way of describing her.”
But then Aubrey’s expression sobers. “You two had history together, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Though it ended poorly.”
“I gathered.” She studies me for a moment. “Sorry if I overstepped with the artifact thing. I just couldn’t stand how she was treating you.”
“How she was treating me ?” My hood flares in surprise. “Aubrey, she was deliberately insulting you .”
“Please. I once worked retail during Black Friday. It takes more than a snippy snake to rattle me.” Then Aubrey winces and adds, “Sorry, no offense to present company.”
“None taken. And… I’m impressed. Most humans would have been intimidated by her display.”
“Yeah, well.” Aubrey turns back to her work, that careful distance returning to her voice. “Like I said, I’ve handled worse.”
The rest of the day passes in that same strange tension—her competence highlighted by how deliberately she maintains space between us. When she leaves in the evening, she’s quick to say, “Good night,” before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and I reorganized the filing system, because we can’t exactly move the records to a spreadsheet without making sense of the chaos first.”
“A spreadsheet?”
“Yeah. I mean, we really need to start digitizing this stuff. But we’ll worry about that later. See you tomorrow.”
It’s only after she’s gone that I retreat to my office and discover… everything has changed. The admittedly chaotic filing system I’ve maintained for decades has been completely reorganized, with color-coded tabs and neat labels replacing my haphazard organization. Sticky notes in her familiar messy scrawl explain the new system, complete with little drawings in the corners—a star here, a crooked smiley face there.
I pick up one note, something tightening in my chest as I read: “Cross-referenced everything by attribute and decade acquired, because why make life harder than it needs to be? Also, the filing cabinet definitely tried to eat me, but we came to an understanding. -A”
My tail curls around my chair as I examine more notes, each one revealing how much thought she’s put into making my work easier. She’s created a system that blends magical classification with modern efficiency, somehow managing to respect both the artifacts’ nature and the practical needs of running a business.
The care she’s taken with my records… it strikes something deeper than mere appreciation. How long have I been doing everything alone? Convincing myself it was better this way? Safer?
My tail lashes once, decisively. I need to figure out what went wrong between us. And more importantly, I need to fix it.
The question is… how?