Tomorrow, and the next day, I’ll flesh it out. I’ll pull policies, compile evidence, cross-reference dates with mercilessprecision. I’ll become a problem for people who are used to junior researchers staying quiet.
On Monday, I’ll send it.
Today, I eat breakfast with a 2,000-year-old gladiator who believes me without question and is learning to stand beside me instead of in front.
Today, I let that be enough.
I ease behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and whisper too softly for him to hear, “I choose you, Flavius. Every time, I choose you.”
Chapter Twenty
Flavius
It’s been three days since Sophia drafted the complaint. Three days of gathering evidence, cross-checking dates, and building her case until it was unbreakable.
Three days of watching her become something sharper than she was.
Now it is Monday morning, and she has been working since dawn—steady, focused, fierce in a way that steadies something fierce and warm in my chest.
When she woke earlier, I pretended to sleep so she could move in the quiet she needs. She dressed, made tea, opened her laptop, and did what she told me she would. She polished the complaint.
I wanted to help. I wanted to take the fight from her hands. Old instinct—arena instinct.
But that is not what she needs from me.
So I made breakfast that she barely touched. Brought her water when her mug ran dry. Stayed within arm’s reach without stepping in front of her.
Now she leans back, rubbing the base of her neck, staring at the screen as though it contains both her past and her future. I cannot read the words, but I know the shape of her work—the way her shoulders set when something is finished.
“It’s ready,” she murmurs.
I swallow the urge to sayI’ll send it for you.Instead, I say, “Then you decide when to send.”
She nods—no hesitation, no tremor.
Her hand hovers over the send button for a breath, then presses it with steady fingers. Her shoulders lift, then settle, as if she’s braced for an impact that never comes.
A long exhale follows. “It’s done,” she says. Not triumphant, but steady. Grounded.
Her shoulders lower, the chaotic weight inside her finally finding direction.
I want to pull her into my arms. I want to stand between her and anything that would strike again.
But she asked me not to rescue her.
So I stay beside her instead.
“You pushed the wheel today,” I say.
She glances up. “The wheel?”
“Fortuna’s wheel in the garden. Today you turned it. You chose.”
Her eyes soften with something warm and private. Yes. She understands.
Her phone buzzes. She checks it, then exhales sharply.
“An auto-response from the ethics office,” she says, voice thin but steady. “They’ve received it. It’s been logged and assigned a case number.”
