His to Watch
. . .
Tatianna
The Roman gold bracelet feels like it's breathing under my careful touch.
Delicate, alive with history. Two thousand years of secrets whispering beneath my latex gloves as I catalog the intricate eagle design, noting every dent and scrape that survived the centuries.
This is what I live for—quiet moments with artifacts that don't expect me to speak up or make eye contact.
But even lost in my work, I can feel him watching me.
The hulking shadow in the corner that never seems to blink.
Jerald. Security staff. Six-foot-six of silent, brooding muscle who makes the hair on my neck rise every single night.
I carefully place the bracelet back in its acid-free storage box, making meticulous notes in my digital catalog.
The museum is empty except for night staff, just how I prefer it.
No tourists pressing fingerprints against display cases.
No children shrieking about mummies. Just me, ancient treasures, and him—always him—watching from the shadows.
"Depth is approximately three-point-two centimeters," I whisper to my recorder, gently measuring the circumference of a clay oil lamp. "Minor erosion on the spout consistent with repeated use. Carbon residue suggests—" The soft click of boots against marble makes me pause.
He's moving. Circling to another vantage point, probably.
I don't need to look up to track his massive frame.
My body has developed a sixth sense for his presence, like prey instinctively aware of a predator.
Not that he's ever threatened me. Not once in the eight months I've worked here has he spoken a single word to me. But he watches. Always watches.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious about the messy bun I pulled together this morning. Why do I care? It's ridiculous. He's just doing his job, patrolling the exhibits. The fact that he seems to patrol wherever I happen to be working is…coincidence. Has to be.
My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the next artifact—a bone comb with remarkably preserved teeth. I drop my eyes back to my work, but my awareness stays fixed on his movements. Heavy footsteps. The slight creak of his leather utility belt. The rhythmic jingle of keys at his waist.
Why can't I just ignore him like I do everyone else?
"Focus, Tatianna," I mutter to myself, measuring the comb's dimensions with delicate calipers.
The ancient civilizations wing is my sanctuary—filled with silent witnesses to humanity's greatest triumphs and darkest moments.
Every piece tells a story more fascinating than any human interaction I've had in my twenty-three years.
A flash of lightning illuminates the high windows, briefly throwing the massive silhouette of Jerald against the far wall. The storm they predicted is getting worse. Another crash of thunder, closer this time, makes me flinch.
I glance at my watch—11:22 PM. My shift ended twenty minutes ago, but I lost track of time cataloging the new acquisitions from the Herculaneum dig.
Dr. Winters will be pleased with my progress.
Maybe he'll even let me help prepare the exhibition notes instead of just handling the inventory.
My chest warms at the thought of recognition, of someone appreciating my careful attention to historical details that others might miss.
I begin packing up, sliding artifacts into their protective casings with practiced movements. Each item disappears into its designated space like a child being tucked in for the night. Safe. Protected.
Like how I feel when he's nearby, despite myself.
I peek over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Jerald's broad back as he stands at the entryway to the wing.
His uniform shirt stretches tight across shoulders that could easily span a doorway.
Even from here, I can see how his close-cropped dark hair hugs his scalp, how his neck—thick as a tree trunk—disappears into the collar of his shirt.
The museum's too-small security uniform makes him look even more massive, like he's one deep breath away from bursting through the seams.
Thunder crashes directly overhead, making the glass cases vibrate. The storm must be right on top of us now.
I stand and smooth my pencil skirt, gathering my tablet and notes. My sensible flats tap softly against the polished floor as I head toward the staff exit, trying to look more confident than I feel as I approach Jerald's imposing figure.
"G-good night," I manage to squeak as I pass him, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. I never know if I should acknowledge him or not. Eight months, and we've established no protocol for these moments.
He doesn't answer. He never does. Just tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes tracking my movement like I'm an exhibit that might try to escape. I catch a glimpse of his hands—enormous, with scars across the knuckles—clasped behind his back in a stance that screams military background.
I'm halfway down the corridor to the staff room when the lightning strikes. Not nearby, but directly on the building, from the sound of it. The explosion of thunder is instantaneous and deafening.
For one second, everything is blindingly bright.
Then, darkness. Complete. Absolute.
"Oh!" I gasp, freezing in place as the emergency generators kick in, bathing the hallway in dim red light. A mechanical whirring sound fills the building, followed by a series of heavy metallic clicks that echo through the corridors.
"No, no, no..." I rush toward the staff exit, heart hammering. The clicks are the automatic locks—the museum's security system responding to power failure by sealing all exits. It's standard procedure to protect the priceless collections from theft during outages.
I reach the door and push the bar. Nothing. I try again, harder this time, panic rising in my throat. The electronic pad beside the door is dead, its green light extinguished.
A shrill alarm blares through the building, then cuts off abruptly.
The emergency system announcer's voice, flat and pre-recorded, echoes through the halls: "Attention.
Emergency lockdown protocol has been initiated.
All personnel should remain calm and proceed to designated safety areas.
Security staff will provide further instructions when the system is restored. "
"This isn't happening," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool metal of the door. Another failed exit strategy means I'm trapped here until morning at least, possibly longer if the storm has caused significant damage.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise before I hear his footsteps. My body sensing his approach before my ears confirm it. Slow, measured steps coming closer. My heart races as I turn around slowly.
Jerald emerges from the shadows, his massive frame made even more intimidating in the blood-red emergency lighting. For the first time since I've known him, he's looking directly at me—not from a distance, not from the corner of his eye—but straight on, his gaze penetrating and unblinking.