Chapter 11
Eleven
Cleo
He snores.
See, I shouldn’t know that he snores. I shouldn’t know that he mutters in his sleep. I shouldn’t know what his touch feels like.
But now I know.
And I have no idea how to feel about it.
Naturally, rather than actively dealing with this, I continue reading my book as if nothing has changed. I was once told I have an avoidant attachment style. I’m starting to think that may be true.
I turn the page, attempting to focus on the story, ignoring his quiet breathing and warm, soft skin entirely.
Sure, I’m no stranger to physical contact, but that doesn’t mean I’m keen on it. A touch is a touch, nothing more. I’m practically numb to it. Although this is arguably more innocent than the sensual interactions I’ve had before, it’s torturous.
I should’ve kicked him out of my office when he was still upright.
What was I thinking? Inviting him to sit with me? Has my sanity gotten that far away from me now? Why do I continue to compromise my standards for this man?
Suddenly, he buries his head deeper into my waist and wraps his arm—somehow even more sculpted than I expected—around me tighter, pulling me against him.
My body jerks away instinctually at first, but then involuntarily leans into his.
It’s more comfortable leaning into him than the armrest at the moment, that’s all.
I continue reading, absorbing the story as much as possible, when my eyes grow heavy. I rub them and press on. I’ve grown used to the weariness.
No matter what I do or where I go, I never seem to get a solid night’s sleep.
Sleeping in my haven is a pain; the afterlife is supposed to be peaceful, but at night, it’s anything but.
When I can’t fall asleep there, I often walk to my office.
The loveseat isn’t nearly as comfortable as my bed, and the pillow is worn out, but it’s better suited for someone like me.
I’m exhausted. So damn exhausted.
I thought angels weren’t supposed to tire this easily, but I’m an anomaly, I guess. I’m sure that watching all my troublesome Guardians has worn me out over the years. I smile to myself before remembering.
They aren’t your Guardians anymore.
You have no one.
It’s what you deserve.
I abruptly close the book and rub my temples in response to the voice taunting me from within.
It’s true, though—this is what I deserve.
Being a Watcher was fulfilling for a while, but that fulfillment was never meant to last. I was the catalyst for my own demise.
A nose nuzzles into my side, and I allow myself to sneak a glimpse down at him.
His full lips are parted, breath hot and steady on my waist. His long, dark eyelashes nearly touch his cheeks, and up this close, I can see a faded mole near his nose.
A thick lock of tousled light brown—almost blond—hair falls on his forehead, just above his full eyebrows.
His face, completed with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, appears calm.
Fine. I’ll admit it. He is objectively a striking man.
He’s even sort of… beautiful, in a way.
But he’s maddening.
My eyes linger on his resting face a tad longer than necessary before my lids lightly flutter shut, giving into the siren-like call of sleep.
Then, and only then, do I let my body fold into his fully, choosing to ignore the way my arm drapes around his back and how my body molds into his so well.
Something jagged pushes into my side, abruptly waking me. I drowsily blink open my eyes, slowly noting a bright beam of sunlight pouring in through my window, which shines on my desk and books.
Great. I overslept.
However, I did manage to sleep through the rest of the night—a miracle in itself.
My hand inches over to my side to identify the culprit stabbing me, gasping sharply upon detecting its edges.
Kai jolts awake after I gasp, placing his arm over me defensively, quickly glancing in all directions.
“What is it?” he asks, maintaining a protective stance. Goodness, he must have grown too used to guarding his sister. I push his arm off me.
“My book.” I yank it out from underneath my side, holding it up and inspecting it, sitting entirely upright.
The hardcover book is undoubtedly unsalvageable.
Spine, cracked. Pages, torn. Cover, bent.
This might be my breaking point.
I keep my book collection in immaculate shape, meticulously inspecting it every month for any signs of wear and tear—hoping they’ll never reach the same state as those in the archives.
I’ve collected novels from the library for years. Anytime Guardians bring back new books, I scour the stock, selecting only a handful of romance and fantasy novels for my own collection.
I’d been saving this particular reread for a bad time, and this week was, well, you know, arguably one of the worst I’ve had since setting foot into Eloras.
How could I be so careless?
“Here, let me take a look at it.” He reaches for it, eyeing me.
“It’s no use. It’s ruined,” I mutter, staring off. “You know, maybe it’s symbolic. It’s a metaphor for my afterlife.”
He looks at the book closely, handling it gently in his large hands. “Yep, it’s ruined. Guess you won’t be needing it anymore, huh?”
He says this like it’s no big deal, and to someone like him, losing a book means nothing. For me, though, it’s yet another thing to let go of. My dad is the person who introduced me to this book. My shoulders slump just a bit. “Guess not.”
“Here, I can take it off your hands,” he says, tucking it into his side and rising from the couch. “Time for work.”
His tone is far too chipper for my liking, especially considering we’re gearing up to work together on a Saturday.
Another perk of being a Watcher was working only weekdays and then only when my tethers alerted me on weekends, so I often had a fair amount of time off on weekends.
The library, however, surprisingly requires its staff every single damn day.
If we need a day off, Hadley will grant it—this is the Middle Realm, not a prison. Otherwise, though, we work daily.
He strides to the door, reaching for the knob.
“You go on ahead. I’ll be late today,” I say, despite not having moved an inch. He turns to look at me.
“About last night…” He scratches his head and sighs. “I got carried away with the alcomist stuff. I shouldn’t have ambushed your night in. That wasn’t fair of me. Honestly, I hardly even remember what happened last night.”
Good. I’m elated he doesn’t remember.
“Don’t worry about it. I expected as much.” I grin sweetly, and his brows furrow.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Believe what you may, but stumbling into your office drunk out of my mind was not on my bingo card,” he grunts. I don’t quite understand the bingo reference, but I choose to ignore it, shrugging nonchalantly. “Your indifference drives me wild, Cleo.”
Cleo. That’s the first time he’s called me by my name since we met.
Something in my chest awakens at the sound of my name coming from his lips.
“And your impulsiveness drives me wild, but here we are,” I say, rising from the couch and crossing the room toward my large cabinet, opening its doors to pull out a set of loose-fitting athleisure from one of the shelves.
“Here we are,” he says, his eyes flashing to the cabinet. He quirks his chin at it. “So, does every Watcher have a portable closet in their office?”
I quickly shut its doors, realizing I’ve shown him far more than I intended.
“It’s not a closet, it’s a cabinet. I just store some backup clothes in the rare case that nights like last night occur. If you’ll excuse me, I need to change.”
He nods his head once, opening the door and finally leaving with my battered book in the crook of his arm.
I exhale a sigh of relief and change into my stretchwear set.
I may be late, but I refuse to skip daily stretches.
I’m not a fitness fanatic—I can’t remember the last time I even ran for enjoyment, if ever.
However, I do take stretching seriously.
I find stretching my body daily is a solid way to reset after particularly stressful times.
It’s a habit I formed in my life before death.
Sports haven’t ever come naturally for me.
During my youth, back in the ’70s, I tried several—volleyball, softball, tennis.
I gave them my all and never failed to come up short in any of them.
The truth of the matter is, I lacked hand-eye coordination, grew flustered when the ball landed in my hands, and had the tendency to fumble embarrassingly often.
I trusted in the process, though, hoping I’d eventually discover the sport I was destined to play.
As the years passed, I pushed myself through the humiliation, deciding that my tennis skills, although minimal, were enough to get me through.
As I grew older and entered my teenage years, my range of passions widened.
I took an interest in the arts, growing especially fond of music.
During high school, I enrolled in social dance classes and used every excuse I could to go out dancing with friends.
As time passed, I chose to spend extra time refining the dance moves I’d learned from the comfort of my home, using my younger brother’s latest Panasonic stereo.
My siblings got onto me for hogging the radio, but I couldn’t help it—dancing to music called to me in a way no other physical activity had up until that point.
Nimble and light on my feet, I gained a fair amount of attention for my dancing—both welcome and unwelcome attention.
I don’t care much for the spotlight, but the feeling of dancing under a disco ball surrounded by other free-spirited dancers and some of my closest friends was out of this world.
I didn’t care about how many eyes were on me, because in those moments, nothing mattered more than the harmonies of the music.
Many didn’t classify dance as a sport at that time, but I unapologetically treated it like one. Eventually, I dropped out of tennis and chose to make dancing my preferred sport.
I mean, have you ever danced for three hours straight? No one can deny it’s a workout, and if they do, they’re full of it. Hearing that dance is considered a sport in the land below nowadays makes me so ridiculously happy.
It’s been a long time since I gave myself to music in the way I once did.
I’ve attended a few parties since joining Eloras, but music hasn’t brought me the same sense of belonging as it did before.
I still prioritize stretching the same way as I did back then, though.
I’ve stretched nearly every day for several years.
At this point, I don’t stretch to perfect my body. My physical body is in the best state it’s ever been, thanks to you know, dying. I stretch to find relief.
After the morning I’ve had, relief is much needed.
I pull out my cloud matt—a weightless matt that feels like a layer of cotton—from under my desk, placing it parallel to my couch on the floor.
Stepping onto it, my toes curl into the airy fluff, molding into it.
I close my eyes and begin a consolidated stretch routine for today, starting with the basics—touching my toes.
My wings make it all too easy to topple over, so I focus on maintaining balance, pushing them outward and stretching them wide as I bend. I could tuck them away, which would make my stretches notably easier, but I don’t mind the challenge.
In fact, I welcome it.