He shifts his weight off the pillar, stepping closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can see the tiny gold flecks in his bold green irises. Close enough that the air between us feels thick.
“You look at me different,” he says. Not accusing. Just observing. “After training.”
My pulse jumps.
“I saw more of you,” I say. “That’s all.”
“And?” he asks.
And I love you.And watching you fight made it worse, or better, or both.
“It made things… clearer,” I say. “About who you are. What you choose to be, even when you could so easily choose something darker.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps once, then eases. Whatever he was bracing for, it wasn’t that.
“This is still part of me,” he says quietly. “The fighting. The old way.” He glances back toward the training yard. “I do not want you to think I am only the man who makes sandwiches and bad jokes.”
“I don’t,” I say. The words come out fast. “I think you’re the man who survived that—and then chose to be more than what it made you.”
His fingers flex once at his sides. “You say this like it is simple,” he murmurs.
“I know it isn’t simple,” I say. “That’s why it matters.”
He goes still. The silence between us shifts—less like absence, more like a held breath.
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “The interviews. You want me there?”
The offer lands deep. He’s not just offering to testify—he’s offering to sit beside me in that room, knowing exactly how they’ll try to discredit him. His lack of education. His status. His “unreliable” gladiator memory.
“They said I can have a support person,” I say slowly. “But Flavius, they’re going to be brutal. They’ll question your memory, your motives, your relationship to me—”
“I know,” he says simply. “I still want to be there. If you want me.”
My throat tightens. “Yes. I want you there.”
He nods. “Good. You tell me when. I will be there.”
Of course he will. I should know by now to expect nothing less.
“Thank you,” I say. The words feel too small for what I mean.
He gives me a small, genuine smile. “You are welcome, Sophia Vitale.”
Another breeze snakes through the breezeway, skimming cool across my heated skin. A strand of hair falls across my cheek.
He reaches up and tucks it behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a second at my temple. The touch is gentle, familiar—we’re past asking permission for small comforts like this.
“Better,” he breathes.
I lean into his hand for just a moment before he pulls back. Not regretfully. Just… respecting the line we drew. The “after the fight” line.
We’re both holding it. And somehow that makes the small touches—the ones we allow ourselves—feel more precious, not less.
“Go,” he says finally, tilting his head toward the cabins. “Fight your papers. I will teach tourists.”
A laugh escapes me—shaky, but real. “Deal.”
I move past him, letting my hand trail briefly across his arm as I go—deliberate, a silent thank you. The contact sends warmth racing under my skin.
