“This is harder than I thought it would be.” My voice is rough, betraying exactly how much I want what I’m denying us.
“Doing right thing often is,” he says quietly. Then, softer, “But I am glad you did it. Glad you think I am worth doing this the right way.”
“You are,” I say simply. “You’re so worth it.”
I make it to the door before I turn back one more time.
He’s still sitting there, watching me with an expression that makes my heart ache—want and respect and affection, all tangled together.
And his hands are gripping the edge of the table as if he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
“Flavius?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t change your mind,” I say. “About the raincheck.”
His smile is pure sunshine, bright and unguarded and absolutely devastating. “Not possible, little scholar. Not in this life or the next one.”
I slip out into the hallway before I can do something foolish like go back and kiss him anyway.
My hands are shaking. My heart is racing. My lips are tingling from kisses that haven’t happened yet, and every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me for walking away from him.
But I did the right thing.
And in three days—maybe less—I can go back and claim what we’re both aching for.
I have work to do.
Chapter Twelve
Sophia
The next three days pass in a blur of restructuring.
I send a carefully worded email to Dr. Blackwell, explaining a refinement in my methodological approach with one of my primary sources. I don’t mention Flavius by name—just describe shifting from intensive interviews to collaborative documentation work.
Her response arrives within hours: “Interesting approach, Sophia. The collaborative angle could work, though I’d encourage you to keep mining that particular source for his performance insights—those are the real treasure. The crowd psychology, the theatrical elements, the performer’s perspective on spectacle. That’s what will make your work stand out. Don’t let the collaboration distract from extraction where it counts.”
I stare at the email for a long moment, something uneasy churning in my stomach. Then, I close my laptop and continue working.
I update my fellowship documentation, noting the shift in my work with Flavius from subject interviews to literacy instruction and healing methodology collaboration. I deepen my research sessions with Thrax, Cassius, Lucius, and the others—gladiators I’ve been interviewing all along, but whose perspectives now move to the forefront of my work.
The material is good. Better than good. My research doesn’t suffer from the change; if anything, it deepens as their different perspectives become more prominent.
But I’d be lying if I said my mind was fully on the work.
Because twice a day, I still meet with Flavius in Conference Room B. But now, instead of me asking questions while he dredges up painful memories for my academic benefit, we sit side by side. I teach him letters, sounds, the building blocks of English literacy. He teaches me pressure points, breathing techniques, and the healing knowledge he’s carried since childhood.
Equal exchange. True collaboration.
And every session crackles with the awareness of what we’re waiting for.
Every time our hands brush passing papers, I feel it like a shock. Every time he leans close to see what I’ve written, I catch hisscent and have to fight not to turn my head, not to close that last inch between us. Every time he looks at me with those green eyes, I see the same want I’m feeling reflected back at me.
He never pushes. Never asks when I’ll be ready. But sometimes I catch him staring at my mouth when he thinks I’m not looking. Sometimes his hand lingers on mine a fraction too long when he’s showing me a pressure point. Sometimes the air between us gets so charged I can barely breathe.
On the morning of the third day, during our literacy session, he successfully reads an entire paragraph from a children’s book without help. His finger traces under each word, and his accent makes “The cat sat on the mat” sound somehow both charming and determined.
