I turn.
Flavius is surrounded by a cluster of early day-tourists, wooden gladius in hand. He’s demonstrating something—some exaggerated “arena dodge” maneuver that involves a dramatic roll, a fake yelp, and clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded by a foam sword.
The kidshowl. A teenage girl stares at his arms like she’s discovered religion.
It should make me laugh. Instead, it makes my heart tug in a way I’m still learning how to decode.
This is the version of him the world gets: big, bright, safe. The Jester. The distraction he learned to weaponize.
But now I’ve seen the other version too. The one who fought Cassius with lethal precision yesterday morning. The one who told me about Marcellus with a voice scraped raw. The one who shook apart in my arms at dawn this morning.
He glances up.
His gaze finds mine from across the room.
The shift is microscopic: the grin remains, the posture stays, but his gaze drops the performance for one breath.
Then… he winks. Not the theatrical wink he reserves for children. A small, private one.
Heat curls low in my belly.
I look away fast because if I don’t, I’m going to walk over there, climb him like a tree, and we will both be sent packing before lunch.
A tray thumps onto the table beside me.
“Morning, Doc,” Thrax says, sliding into the seat diagonally across from me with the reckless cheer of a man who has never once doubted the world will rearrange itself around his needs. “You look steadier. Good. People think focus comes from rest. Sometimes it comes from the right kind of war.”
I choke on my tea. “I… slept well?”
“Sure,” he says, grinning like a devil. “Let’s call it that.”
Varro arrives a moment later with his own tray and a waffle that looks aggressively symmetrical.
His gaze flicks to me. Then to Flavius. Then back to me.
He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression softens. Approves. It feels absurdly like being knighted by a quiet mountain.
“Morning,” he rumbles.
“Good morning,” I manage.
They fall into easy conversation—Thrax complaining about tourists who ask if gladiators wore deodorant (they did not), and Varro adding, in his quiet, matter-of-fact way, “Oil. Strigil. Cold water. We weren’t animals.”
Thrax snorts. “Speak for yourself, mountain man.”
The corner of Varro’s mouth lifts—barely—but it feels like witnessing a solar event.
Underneath the noise, my body does the familiar calculations—volume levels, sensory loads, table proximity—but none of it overwhelms.
The chaos feels like weather today, not a threat.
When the meal ends and the crowd thins, I take the long way back toward my cabin.
Past the stables. Past the Roman garden gate (closed, quiet, waiting). Past yesterday’s training yard, where sand still holds faint grooves of footwork patterns burned into my memory.
I walk more slowly than necessary. Not stalling. Letting things settle where they want to live.
Back in my cabin, the quiet meets me like a held breath. I pull my laptop toward me. The complaint folder waits—already filed, already submitted. But the interview is coming. They’ll want me to walk them through it verbally, defend every choice, and explain every piece of evidence.
