“That’s actually a pretty good life philosophy.”
“Survival usually is.”
The window gives way suddenly, sliding open with a satisfying whoosh. Cool evening air flows into the room, and I sigh with relief.
“Frame’s warped.” He frowns as he runs his fingers along the edge with obvious frustration. Reaching into his toolbox, he pulls out a small rectangular block of something yellow and starts rubbing it up and down the inside runner of the window frame. My initial confusion morphs into understanding as the scent of beeswax hits my nose and the memory of my father using the end of a wax candle on the sticking window frames at home comes to my mind.
“Did you have beeswax in your time?” I ask as he finishes coating both sides of the window as high up as the window will open.
“Yes. It was used for candles, statues, making things slide better and to keep water from soaking into cloth.”
“Waterproofing.” I provide the word, and he repeats it under his breath several times.
“It should open smooth now.” The way he says it makes me think of bodies instead of windows—things sliding together, heat and friction finding a perfect fit. My breath catches, and I have to look away.
I can see it bothers him that it’s not perfect. He can’t leave good enough alone—not when he can make it right.
“Well, that breeze is delightful. You’re a miracle worker.”
“Hardly. Just stubborn.” He tests the window again, making sure it slides both ways. “Should work now. If it sticks again, frame needs more work.”
“I’ll call you first instead of waiting for maintenance.”
Something in his expression shifts—pleased, maybe? Like he’s genuinely happy I’d think to ask him for help.
“Looks good as new,” I say, testing the slide to make sure I can work it easily, and it isn’t just his massive arms making it look effortless.
Quintus nods, putting the tools back into his box. “It should hold.”
I hesitate, then blurt, “Do you ever miss it? Your old world?”
His head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly as he thinks. “Not the blood, or the chains. But…” He pauses, gaze drifting past me as if seeing something beyond the room. “The sound of the crowd. The way thousands of voices became one. That kind of noise—it gets inside you.”
It’s as though I can hear the roar of the crowd in my head, and I might have some concept of why he misses that of all things. “I wonder if it was just noise, Quintus. If it still lives in you, maybe it was… proof you mattered.”
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and searching, like I’ve brushed against a truth no one else has thought to offer. The silence stretches, charged, until he finally murmurs, “Most people only want the stories. You ask about what it meant.”
Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I busy myself with brushing paint fragments into a dustpan. “I guess I wanted to know the man, not just the legend.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe even gratitude—and he doesn’t look away. He straightens a fraction, shoulders squaring, as if deciding something. He takes one quiet step closer—close enough that I catch the clean scent of beeswax and hay—and waits until I lift my eyes to his.
“Then see me.”
The words slam into me with the force of a physical touch. Not a suggestion, not a plea—an invitation edged with command. My pulse lurches, heat curling low in my belly as if he’s stripped me bare with nothing more than three quiet syllables. For a breathless second, all I can think about is how it would feel to be pinned beneath that intensity, to have no choice but to look—really look—and never look away.
And that thought terrifies me as much as it thrills me.
I give a nervous little laugh. “Careful. Say things like that, and you’ll ruin my concentration. I’m still reeling from your window wizardry.”
But my voice comes out too high, too thin, and I can’t quite meet his eyes. Because the truth is, part of me already sees him—beyond the legend, beyond the scars—and it scares me half to death how much I want to keep looking.
As he packs up his tools, the lamplight reveals more than I’m ready for. The silver at his temples isn’t premature age—it’s the mark of a man who’s endured things that would have broken most. The lines around his eyes speak of battles fought and distances measured, but also of laughter I haven’t yet earned. His mouth is wide, expressive, a mouth made to command, to smile, to kiss.
He’s handsome. Not in the obvious way Flavius is, all youth and easy brilliance. Quintus is handsome the way a perfectly forged blade is beautiful—every line precise, every angle meant to last.
“Thank you,” I say as he heads for the door. “Really. I was starting to think I’d suffocate in here.”
“Sleep well,” he says, and the warmth in it is so unguarded I believe him. He hefts his toolkit, shoulders the doorway, and is gone. The soft click of the latch leaves the room feeling too big—emptied out except for the echo of his deep voice, the heat he left behind, and the memory of scarred hands turning resistance into glide.
