I want him to see that I saw.
That I understand at least some of what he carries. That I am still here.
Something in his shoulders loosens.
He says something to Cassius I don’t catch. Cassius follows his line of sight, spots me, and raises one hand in a brief, acknowledging gesture. Then he heads toward the water station, leaving Flavius alone in the center of the yard.
Flavius walks toward me.
He doesn’t hurry. Each step eats up distance with the same grounded power I just watched in the sparring match. His breathing is still harsh, but it’s evening out. Sweat darkens his hairline and beads on his chest.
Part of my brain catalogs details mechanically—heart rate elevated but steady, no visible bruising, gait even. The rest of me is just… watching.
He stops on the other side of the fence, close enough that I could reach through the slats and touch him if I wanted to.
God, do I want to.
He comes toward me and my breath catches—not fear, just the sudden awareness of him. Yesterday he was teasing me about my hands and kissing my palm. This morning he’s covered in sweat and breathing hard and looking at me like he can see straight through my skin.
I grip the rail harder.
“Sophia,” he says.
My name sounds different when he’s like this. Rougher. Less filtered. Like it comes from somewhere deep in his chest instead of from the polite surface voice he uses for tourists.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say. My voice comes out softer than I meant it to.
His mouth curves, the beginning of a smile, but it doesn’t reach up into a full performance. “You did not,” he says. “We were almost finished.”
I swallow. “I’ve seen the demos,” I say. “But that was…”
I trail off because I don’t have a precise word. My brain churns through possible options—violent, beautiful, terrifying, honest—and none of them feel big enough.
He tips his head slightly. “Too much?” he asks. His gaze flicks over me again, taking in my shoulders, my hands clutching the rail, the angle of my jaw. Checking for a flinch.
“No,” I say. And it’s the truest thing I’ve said all week. “Not too much. Just… real.”
A subtle change crosses his face, as though he’s letting me see a layer he usually keeps hidden. “This is what training looks like,” he says. “Not show. Not Jester.” His gaze searches mine. “You wanted to see.”
“I did,” I say. My throat feels tight. “I needed to understand what your body remembers when you’re not protecting other people from it.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale, not amusement—more like bracing for impact. His fingers flex once on the top rail, barely, like my words hit something deep. “And now you understand?” There’s no challenge in it. Just curiosity edged with something like fear.
“I understand more,” I say. “Enough to know I’m only seeing the surface.”
I should stop here. Maintain some emotional distance.
Instead, I hold his gaze and add, “Enough to know how much you’ve chosen not to be that anymore. When you could be.”
His fingers flex once on the rail. “This is still part of me,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I answer. “That’s the point.”
We stand here, the fence a thin, inadequate line between us, the morning brightening around our edges. Noise from the rest of the yard seeps back in—Varro correcting someone’s stance, Thrax laughing at a joke I can’t hear, the thud of another pair colliding. The world exists again. It just feels… rearranged.
Somewhere between the first crack of wood on wood and this moment, something inside me tilts, settles, locks into place.
I love him.
