My fingers hover over the last bullet for a moment, then I resume typing. Outline, not full sentences. I’ll need to dig up the actual policy language later, but for now the skeleton is enough.
When my hands start to shake, I stop.
He notices immediately. “Breathe,” he says softly.
I do. In for four, hold for four, out for six. The pattern he taught me.
The kettle whistles again. He pours more hot water, adds a slice of lemon without asking. The domesticity of it is almost absurd against the backdrop of what I’m drafting, but it helps.
He looks up when I go quiet for too long.
“I have to deal with Blackwell,” I say, rubbing my temple.
“What do you want to say?” he asks gently.
Not what’s safest. Not what keeps the peace. What do I actually want?
I picture the sanctuary—the conversations, the work taking shape in real time, the men who’ve trusted me with their stories. The version of myself that feels most true here.
“I want to stay grounded,” I say at last. “To fight this properly. To choose the path that honors the work—not the one that keeps powerful people comfortable.”
Flavius absorbs that, posture sharpening. “Then tell her only what you choose to tell her. Take your own pace.”
It’s good advice—steadying, clarifying.
A beat of silence. Then I realize there’s something else I need to address, something I should have said already.
“Your testimony,” I say.
He straightens immediately. “I am ready. When you need me.”
I reach for his hand. “Your memory has already helped me build this case. In every conversation we had—you corroborated dates, phrases, the order things happened. That’s all documented now.”
“Good,” he says. “So when they call me to testify—”
“I’m not going to ask you to.”
He goes still. “But I want to help.”
“You already did.” I squeeze his fingers. “And now I need to prove this myself. With my evidence. My documentation. Not because you couldn’t—but because I need to know I can.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then something shifts—understanding, maybe. Or pride.
“This is your arena,” he says quietly. “Not mine.”
“Yes.”
“Then you fight your way.” He lifts our joined hands, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “I stand beside you. Not as a witness.”
The ache in my chest expands. “Thank you. For understanding.”
“I am learning,” he says with a small smile. “What you need is not always what I want to give.”
I lean forward and rest my forehead against his briefly. Just breathing.
When I pull back, another thought hits me, sharp and clarifying.
“I need to tell Laura,” I say.
