The warmth of his touch loosens something deep inside me. But I’m aware—keenly aware—this is dangerous territory. This isn’t romantic, but it is intimate in a way I’m not used to navigating.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” I swallow. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”
“Is not weakness.” A faint, almost-smile. “Mind becomes full. Body reacts. Is normal. Philos said this too. Said some people feel others’ pain like it is their own. He called it… gift and burden both.”
The gentleness in his voice tugs at me. I lock down the reaction immediately.
“You don’t have to help like this,” I tell him, dipping my chin toward our linked hands.
His expression flickers—pride? Or surprise that his care matters? “I want to help.” Then more cautiously: “But only how you want.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it more deeply than I intend. “For trusting me with that story. For telling me about Philos. And for… this.”
He looks away for a moment—almost as though he’s pulling something back behind the performer’s surface before it shows too clearly.
He exhales. “It helps me too. To speak of things that hurt. To use what Philos taught me. Makes his knowledge… not wasted.”
We sit like this for another moment—hands still joined, the worst of the overload past. When he finally releases my hands, my palms feel warm, my fingers loose, my mind steadier.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You did not interrupt,” he says simply. “You listened. That is rare thing.”
His words are spare, unqualified. They land with more weight than reassurance ever could.
“Would you… maybe teach me some of that?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral. “The pressure points. The regulation methods that Philos taught you. It would be valuable to document. To preserve.”
He brightens. “Would be good,” he agrees. “Healing knowledge is old. Philos learned from tribes, from other healers in barracks. Should not be lost. You help put into words. Make it useful for others.”
There’s that tug again—connection, yes, but also academic intrigue, and the promise of collaboration that feels bigger than either of us alone.
“Perhaps we could integrate it into the sanctuary’s trauma-support program,” I think aloud. “Document it rigorously. Validate it. Honor where it came from.”
He nods, pleased. “Yes. Make Philos’s gift useful. He would like that.”
Useful.He says it like it matters, like being taken seriously—like honoring the man who helped him—is… rare for him.
“Same time Thursday?” I ask.
“Yes.” A pause. “And Sophia? Next time you feel overwhelmed… you can tell me sooner. No need to carry alone.”
It’s not flirtation. It’s care. And somehow, that’s more disarming.
As I gather my materials, I feel myself moving differently—more grounded, more regulated. I pull out my phone and draft a quick email to Dr. Blackwell:
Breakthrough today documenting somatic regulation strategies used among gladiators. Potential connections to trauma-informed practice. Requesting guidance on framing these within a cross-disciplinary methodology.
I hover before sending—Blackwell always pushes for rigor, but her feedback has a way of subtly reshaping my framing, sometimes more than I intend.
Still, this is important work.
Send.
When I glance back at Flavius, he’s adjusting the chair he used—lining it up perfectly with the table. A small, careful gesture. A way of restoring order after revealing more than he intended.
I’m struck again by the duality in him. The performer. The man beneath.
