“Most people don’t understand what you survived.” Her voice is fierce, protective. Dangerous to my pulse. “Creating a defense mechanism like that under pressure? That takes remarkable intelligence and emotional strength.”
Her belief in me is new. Rare. Precious.
“You really think is… valuable? What I do?”
“I think it’s extraordinary.” Her gaze warms. “And it needs to be documented. Understood. Not dismissed.”
The silence between us is alive. I register every breath she takes.
When did this become… more?
She clears her throat. “I want to show you something.”
She saves her notes. Her excitement returns in a bright, focused burst—the scholar coming forward again. “I’m sending my latest framework to Dr. Blackwell tonight. She’s been asking about methodology—how we’re combining your experiential knowledge with historical texts. I think she wants to co-present some of this.”
Her smile is excited. Proud.
“This research is going places, Flavius. Real places.”
I swallow. Her pride makes me warm all over.
“I found a Roman account of a fighter who ‘brought laughter even to the moment of death.’ I think it might describe exactly what you’re talking about.”
She angles her laptop so I can see. Our shoulders touch. Electric. Her flowery scent wraps around me.
I pause.
Just for a breath.
The arena taught me how fast want can turn into mistake, how easily heat becomes something you cannot undo. This closeness must be chosen, not momentum.
“I’ll read it aloud,” she says softly.
Her mouth draws my attention before the text does—the way her lips shape words, the small movement of her throat when she swallows. I pull my gaze back to the page. I want to be the kind of man who listens to her words, not just watches her mouth.
She leans closer. Closer.
“That… that could be fight I know,” I manage, my voice rough. “We learn to make dying look like choice, not failure.”
She looks up. We’re suddenly very close—heat shimmering between us.
“Exactly,” she breathes. “He thought it was natural. Not something you had to learn to survive.”
The moment stretches—charged, unmistakable.
She pulls back, cheeks flushed. A careful retreat—professional, appropriate. But her hands tremble just slightly. Good. I am not alone in this wanting.
“I think we should shift to reading,” she says, voice a little unsteady. “Something concrete.”
“Yes,” I say. But what I want is not letters. “Want learn new words.”
She opens the book, steadying herself, and we work on longer words—hand, sand, fight. Her closeness distracts me more than any wound ever did.
“Fight,” I say. “F-I-G-H-T.”
“Perfect!”
Her smile is bright enough to chase shadows away.
