I walk Sophia back to her cabin. The path is familiar now, but it feels different with her beside me in the dark, close enough that our arms brush with every other step.
At her door, we stop. The porch light casts long shadows, and somewhere a night bird calls.
“Thank you,” she says softly, “for the terrible dancing. For… all of it.”
My smile is slow and warm. “Was my pleasure, little scholar.”
I lean in, and for a moment I think about kissing her the way I did in the stable—hungry, urgent, with my hands in her hair. But something about tonight feels different. Softer. Like we’re building something that doesn’t need to rush.
Instead, I press my lips to her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat that feels like a promise.
“Sleep well,” I murmur against her skin.
Then I step back, hands sliding away from her waist with obvious reluctance.
I watch her slip inside, listen for the click of the lock.
We’re taking this slow. Drawing it out. Letting the anticipation build.
And somehow, that makes it even better.
Chapter Fourteen
Sophia
The morning after the party, the first thing I notice is the quiet.
Not around me—inside me.
A steadiness I haven’t felt in a long time. My room still smells faintly of bonfire smoke and whatever detergent the Sanctuary uses on the linens, but underneath that, my brain keeps replaying the feeling of Flavius’s hands at my waist as we stumbled through that terrible, perfect dance.
Dancing has never come naturally to me—too many moving parts, too many demands on timing and coordination. But last night, pressed against him, the counting quieted for once. I didn’t have to track the beat. I just had to follow the way his body moved with mine.
We were off-beat and awkward.
But we were off-beat and awkward together.
The memory still leaves me almost giddy.
My laptop chimes with new email notifications, pulling me out of it.
I should get up, shower, and start my day. Instead, still wrapped in the soft contentment of last night, I pull the computer onto my lap and open my inbox.
My inbox is full—reminders, administrative notices, a cheerful update from Dr. Blackwell about her upcoming conference presentation. I archive the routine stuff and make a mental note to respond to Blackwell later, after I’ve had coffee.
I pull up my research files instead, wanting to review my progress before diving into email.
The framework draft fills the screen; the analysis I’ve been building piece by piece. The insights emerged from months of careful work—Thrax’s descriptions of arena politics, Cassius’s combat psychology, the literacy sessions with Flavius where healing methodology took shape alongside language acquisition. Gladiators reading crowds. Regulating their own emotions under extreme pressure. Performance not as artifice, but as survival.
I should send Blackwell an update. She’s been supportive throughout this fellowship, and the framework is progressing well.
I open a new email.
Dear Dr. Blackwell,
I’ve continued developing the cognitive framework we discussed. The work with Thrax, Cassius, and the other gladiators has been incredibly productive. I’m attaching the current draft—I’d appreciate your thoughts when you have a chance to review.
Best,Sophia
