Page 120 of Celestial Combat

I walked past her into the elevator, pretending the pounding behind my ribs wasn’t proof it meanteverything.

It was warmer in the gallery, compared to the cold November wind outside. The air smelled like fresh paint, wine, and rich people pretending to understand metaphors. Kali weaved through the early crowd with the kind of grace that made people look twice and pretend they didn’t. I stayed a few paces behind her, eyes scanning the exits, the corners, the faces.

When she finally slowed near a black-and-white installation of street portraits, I stepped closer. Not too close.

“You don’t have to keep trailing me like a dog.”

“I’m your shadow, remember?” I replied, voice low. “Plus. I thought we weren’t talking.”

She finally glanced at me, arching a brow. “Didn’t realize you missed my voice.”

I smirked. “Always.”

The silence stretched between us, held together by tension and fluorescent light.

“You clean up well,” She said suddenly, casually, eyes still on the art. “You don’t look like the usual guys in bulletproof vests.”

I looked at her, studying the way her lips curved just enough to give her away.

“Careful.”

Her gaze met mine, sharp and amused. “Of what?”

“Flirting with your bodyguard.”

She took a step away then, deeper into the gallery – her perfume lingering just long enough to follow me into my next thought.

The gallery buzzed with soft conversation and curated jazz humming low through hidden speakers. The walls were clean, white, and aggressively minimalist, like they were trying too hard not to distract from the chaos framed on them. Wine glasses clinked gently. Someone nearby laughed too loud, the sound slicing through the ambient murmur.

Kali had already run into her artist friend. They hugged, chatted for a minute, and I stayed behind – close enough to intervene, far enough to keep the illusion of space.

I didn’t expect the next guy.

He emerged from the crowd like he’d been waiting for her. Tall, soft around the edges, paint-stained jeans paired with a turtleneck that screamedI peaked in art school.

“Kali, you made it! You look…Holy.”

She smiled. “Theo! Hi.”

They shook hands. And he didn’t let go.

Still holding onto her hand, he tilted his head like he was studying her, not the work hung around them. “I’m honestly worried people will spend more time looking at you in that dress than my art.”

My jaw clenched.

She laughed once, short and sweet, but there was steel in her posture. I saw the moment he went too far – his grip tightening just a little, his eyes dropping where they shouldn’t have. He lifted her hand toward his lips.

But she pulled back before he could kiss it. Clean. Effortless.

“I’m going to have a look at the art,” she said, already turning away.

She walked off, heels echoing against the polished floors, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.

Theo watched her go. And then he turned to me.

He didn’t ask who I was; it was pretty obvious I was the bodyguard.

He leaned in slightly, voice too casual. “She’s feisty, huh?” He chuckled. “I like girls who play hard to get.”

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