“Who decided?” I shift my weight, guiding her gently. “Some Roman with too much money? A musician who thinks people should move same way?” I shake my head. “Foolishness.”
Her lips curve. “You’re making this up.”
“Yes.” I grin. “But if we are terrible, as you say, we will at least be terrible together.”
We move. Not well. My gladiator’s grace fails completely when faced with this unfamiliar pattern. I’m used to terrain that gives feedback—sand, stone, the resistance of a body I’m throwing to the ground. Grass and music and a woman I don’t want to step on are different.
We bump into one another. Twice. We step on each other’s toes. Once, she trips over nothing at all and only my quick grip on her waist keeps her from stumbling outright.
She laughs every time. Not the polite, embarrassed sound I’ve heard her make with visiting scholars, but something free and warm that lights up her whole face.
“This is so bad,” she says, breathless.
“Is perfect,” I counter.
“Objectively false.”
“Objectively,” I repeat solemnly, “I am having the best time I have had at a party in… ever.”
Her laughter softens, then fades. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and for a moment the whole world narrows to the feel of her in my arms, the faint scent of her lavender shampoo, the tiny frown line between her brows that appears when she’s concentrating.
“I’ve never liked dancing,” she admits quietly. “Too many variables. Too much… exposure.”
“You are doing it anyway,” I point out. “That is courage.”
She swallows. “It helps that you’re here.”
My chest pulls tight, like a wound being stitched closed from the inside.
The song stretches around us. People fade into background motion: Maya twirling one of the volunteers; Laura slow-dancing with Varro near the lantern-lit fountain; Quintus nodding along to the beat as he adjusts the playlist, his woman Nicole at his side. The sanctuary feels like a heartbeat around us.
Sophia’s body gradually eases. Her shoulders drop. The hand on my shoulder stops gripping and simply rests. Her head tips just a fraction closer, as if her body is reaching before her mind gives permission.
“Fortuna’s Night,” she says after a while, voice softer than the music. “I didn’t realize… how important this is for all of you.”
“It’s important to Laura,” I say. “Important to the others who remember the ice. To the crew who did not wake.”
I pause.
“And to those of us still learning what it means not to die when fate says we should have.”
She is quiet for a long time, then, “I’m glad I’m here for it.”
We don’t kiss—not here, not in front of everyone, even though I want to. Even though the memory of her against the stable wall is so fresh I can still feel her hands in my hair. But her foreheadbrushes my chest briefly as we turn, and the touch carries the weight of everything we’re not doing in public. The promise of what we will some day do in private.
My body remembers hers with startling clarity. But here, now, this softer intimacy feels like its own kind of gift.
By the time the song ends, several people have very clearly noticed us.
Maya catches my eye over Sophia’s shoulder and gives me two thumbs-up so exaggerated I nearly choke. I look away before Sophia notices. Thrax lifts his cup in my direction, smugness radiating off him in waves. Even Lucius gives me a small, knowing nod before returning to his conversation.
Sophia and I step apart slowly, as if neither of us quite trusts our legs.
“Water,” Sophia says abruptly. “Or I’ll fall over.”
“Thirst will undo you faster than battle,” I agree gravely.
She laughs again, shoulders loosening once more, and we make our way to the drink table. The music shifts back to something louder, more chaotic. Kids are now trying to imitate Thrax’s attempts at some kind of modern line dance. It’s… alarming.
