Now he just looks lost. “I do not understand.”
I take a breath, trying to find words that will make sense. “You’re my research subject. I’m the one with power in this situation—academic power, institutional power. If we… if I kiss you while that’s still true, it’s not ethical. You might feel like you have to say yes because I’m the scholar and you’re—” I gesture helplessly. “Or you might tell me things you shouldn’t, because we’re involved. Or I might start asking for answers I have no right to because—”
“You think I cannot say no to you?” He sounds hurt now, and I hate that I put that in his voice.
“I think the situation is complicated,” I say carefully. “I have authority you don’t have in this world. Academic credentials, institutional backing, control over how your story gets told. And I never want you to feel pressured or exploited or used because of that imbalance. Even if that’s not my intention, even if we both want this, the power differential makes consent… murky.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, processing. I can see him working through it, his brilliant mind grappling with concepts that didn’t exist in his original time.
“You are stopping yourself,” he says slowly. “Even though you want this. Because it is right thing to do.”
“Yes. I want to be able to touch you without worrying that I’m exploiting you. I want you to be able to say no—or yes—without any shadow of power hanging over that choice.”
Something shifts in his expression. The hurt fades, replaced by something that might be understanding. Might even be respect.
“What will you do?” he asks quietly.
The solution unfolds in my mind with surprising clarity, as if it’s been waiting there all along.
“I’ll stop interviewing you,” I say. “For my research. As you know, I’ve been working with the other gladiators too—Thrax on combat hierarchy and social dynamics in the barracks, Cassius on training techniques and weapon pairings, and Lucius on religious practices. But with you, it’s been… different. Deeper. More personal.” I swallow. “You’ve already given me more than enough material about arena life, about performance, about the crowd dynamics. I have hours of recordings and pages of notes. I don’t need to keep extracting from you.”
His eyes never leave my face.
“But I’ll still help you,” I continue, the words coming faster now. “With literacy. With learning to read and write English. That’s me teaching you, not the other way around. And documenting your healing methods—that’s collaboration, not exploitation.We’d be equals in that work. Partners. Building something together instead of me just… taking from you.”
“And then?” His voice is careful, but I can hear the hope underneath it, barely restrained.
“And then, once the power dynamic is fixed…” I meet his gaze and let him see everything I’m feeling. Let him see the want that’s still burning through me, the hunger I’m barely keeping in check. “Then I’d like to take a raincheck on that kiss.”
He frowns, unfamiliar with the idiom. “Raincheck? What is this?”
Despite everything—the tension, the wanting, the ethical crisis I just had—I almost laugh. “It’s an American expression. It means… I’m promising to come back for it. Like a ticket you can use later. I’m not saying no, I’m sayingnot yet. Once things are different. Once we’re on equal ground.”
Understanding dawns, and his slow smile transforms his face. “You will come back.”
“I willabsolutelycome back,” I confirm. “And when I do, I’m going to kiss you until we’re both dizzy with it.”
His breath catches. “Sophia—”
“But not yet,” I say firmly, as much to myself as to him. “Not until I make this right.”
“For kiss.”
“For the kiss.” My cheeks heat, but I hold his gaze. “If you still want to, once I’ve fixed things.”
He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, and runs a hand through his red hair. “Sophia. I will want to kiss you tomorrow. Next week. Next month. A year from now. This does not change. You could make me wait until—” He searches for something absurd enough. “Until I can read entire book in English, and I would still want to kiss you after.”
The certainty in his voice does something to my chest—a sharp ache wrapped around impossible warmth. Like my heart is trying to expand beyond the space my ribs allow.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay. So I’ll… I’ll restructure my research. I’ll make the changes. And then…”
“And then you will come find me,” he finishes, and there’s something in his voice that wasn’t there before. Pride, maybe. Or something deeper. “And I will be waiting.”
We sit here for another moment, hands still connected, the air between us still charged with everything we’re not doing yet. Everything we will do, once this is right.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles—just once, a fleeting touch—and the contact sends heat spiraling through me. I want to climb into his lap, forgetting every ethics class I’ve ever taken. I want to find out if he kisses as thoroughly as he does everything else.
Instead, I force myself to pull back. To let go of his hands, though it feels like tearing away from gravity. To close my laptop and gather my papers with shaking fingers.
