“I said, ‘Good thing I am not just a research subject anymore, yes? I am… a friend you help with reading, who tells stories, who listens when parents are difficult.’”
My gaze sharpens, meant to leave no doubt. “And you said, ‘Yes. Friend.’”
Her lips part. “That’s… exactly right.”
For a moment, she doesn’t move. Her throat works once, a small swallow, and a faint flush warms her neck. She remembers saying it. She hears what I am really asking.
I did not choose that line by accident, and she knows it. I can see the moment the meaning hits her—the hitch in her breath, the way her gaze flicks to my mouth before she pulls it back to mine.
For most people,friendis a way to keep distance. A word that sets a boundary and calls it kindness.
She hears it and looks… surprised. Unsure. Soft.
Something hungry flickers through her expression before she hides it behind a quick blink.
And Goddess help me—I feel it. Right in the place Rome carved hollow and left empty.
Maybe she does not know what to do with what’s between us. Maybe she is trying not to look at it.
But in that tiny flush, in that half-breath, in the way she saysexactly rightlike the words scrape something inside her, I see the truth she didn’t mean to show.
Her gaze darts away. She gathers herself, pulling up walls and reaching for the safety of questions and research. A retreat, but not a rejection. Just… fear. And maybe wanting.
She looks down at her notes, really looks this time—at the rough sketch of the arena, the arrows she’s drawn to map crowdmovement, two words she’s underlined three times. Her fingers tighten around the pen, then loosen.
She exhales slowly. “That must have been incredibly difficult emotionally,” she says. “Being responsible for someone else’s survival while still fighting for your own.”
I see it now—the way she’s offered me a question instead of a feeling. A way back to safer ground. I pushed, just a little, and she answered by drawing a line made of care, not rejection. I take it. This is not a moment to ask for more.
“Was…” I pause, searching for words. Our hands rest close—hers soft, mine scarred and calloused. “Was hardest part. Killing someone is bad. But making sure they live? Much harder. Because then you care.”
“Did that happen often?”
“With new fighters, yes. Someone had to teach. Arena is bad classroom.”
Old memories surface, but her gaze pulls me back—focused, intent, listening.
“Was my job, maybe. I was good at reading people. Good at making crowd happy.” A truth I rarely admit. A truth the Jester would hide behind a joke. But not now.
Her fingers tap—that thinking rhythm of hers. I shift my hand closer without meaning to.
“Your job because you were skilled at it, or because someone assigned it?”
“Because I…” The truth sticks, but she waits, patient. “Because I learn early that crowd loves fighter who makes them smile. Even when he does terrible things.”
Her expression softens. She lays her hand over mine—brief, warm, steady. Her touch anchors me in a way nothing else ever has.
“You developed a persona that let you survive psychologically as well as physically.”
Persona. Mask.
“Yes. Was like… wearing mask. Mask keep real me safe while body does what must be done.” I do not tell her the mask still lives in me. But I think she already sees pieces of it.
“That’s incredibly smart, Flavius. And incredibly strong.”
The way she says my name—soft, warm—makes something shift in my chest.
“Smart?” I gesture at myself. “Most people think I am just… gladiator who makes jokes.”
