Surrendering to the Night Watchman's Touch

The museum after closing always felt like a different country—shadows pooling thicker between the display cases, the air conditioning ticking like a slow pulse, marble floors throwing back every footstep. Simone stayed late again, the way she had for three weeks straight, clipboard forgotten on the pedestal beside a case of Yoruba bronzes. Twenty-eight, white, blonde hair twisted up in a messy knot that kept slipping, she wore a thin cream blouse that clung where the heat of the building had already made her sweat, and a black pencil skirt that hugged the curve of her ass. She told herself she was cataloging. She knew she was waiting.

Omar’s boots announced him before the flashlight beam swept the far end of the wing. Thirty-two, Black, six-three and built like the kind of man who could pin a woman to a wall without breaking a sweat, he moved with the easy power of someone who’d done this route a thousand times. The uniform shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders; the radio on his hip crackled once, then went quiet. He stopped when he saw her, just like he always did.

“Still here, Ms. Simone,” he said, voice low and rough, the way it got after midnight. The beam dropped to the floor between them. “You got a home, or you planning to move into the storage vaults?”

She turned, letting the light catch the open collar of her blouse, the swell of her breasts. Heat already pooled low in her belly. Weeks of this—lingering stares when he passed her office, the way his gaze dragged down her legs whenever she crossed them in the staff lounge, the accidental brush of his hand against her lower back that first time he steadied her on the ladder. She had started staying later on purpose. Started wearing thinner blouses. Started positioning herself right in the path of his rounds.

“Cataloging,” she answered, though the clipboard was blank. Her voice came out softer than she meant. “These pieces need better notes before the loan. You know how it is.”