“You see how this connects to what we were discussing?”
I look at the letters, then at her. She’s close enough that I could tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear. I clench my hands instead.
“Is word for what I did? In arena?”
“It’s the word, yes. But was it fighting—or something else?”
Her question lands deep.
“Was… acting,” I say. “Was keeping boy alive. Was making people happy while looking like fighting.”
Her smile warms my whole body. Not soft like pity—warm like understanding. Like respect.
Her fingers settle on my forearm. Gentle, but not a mistake. Not a flinch. A choice. Her touch anchors me. Warms me.
“More words?” I ask, voice low.
We continue, but the air has changed—charged with something beyond learning. Every brush of fingers, every lean toward the page, sparks something deep.
“That’s excellent progress,” she says, breath warm against my cheek.
“Is because I want learn. And because…” I hesitate, then say the truth. “Because you make me feel I can learn. That is not too late.”
“You’re smart, Flavius.” She says it like an oath.
Packing up is slow. Neither of us wants this moment to end.
“Sophia?”
“Yes?”
Her name tastes warm in my mouth.
“Thank you. For letters. For listening. For… seeing me. Not just Jester.”
Her smile softens. “Thank you for trusting me.”
“Is good trade,” I say. “I bring stories. You bring letters.”
“Exactly.”
At the door, she pauses. Looks back at me with something bright in her eyes.
“Same time next session?” she asks. “We’ll get back on our schedule.”
“Yes,” I say. “I be here.”
When she leaves, her warmth lingers.
Dangerous. Scholar and subject should not feel this.
But they do.
And I already know I will count the minutes until the next session—not for letters.
For Sophia.
Chapter Nine
