Chapter Eight #2
“Was my job, maybe. I was good at reading people. Good at making crowd happy.” A truth I rarely admit. A truth the Jester would hide behind a joke. But not now.
Her fingers tap—that thinking rhythm of hers. I shift my hand closer without meaning to.
“Your job because you were skilled at it, or because someone assigned it?”
“Because I…” The truth sticks, but she waits, patient. “Because I learn early that crowd loves fighter who makes them smile. Even when he does terrible things.”
Her expression softens. She lays her hand over mine—brief, warm, steady. Her touch anchors me in a way nothing else ever has.
“You developed a persona that let you survive psychologically as well as physically.”
Persona. Mask.
“Yes. Was like… wearing mask. Mask keep real me safe while body does what must be done.” I do not tell her the mask still lives in me. But I think she already sees pieces of it.
“That’s incredibly smart, Flavius. And incredibly strong.”
The way she says my name—soft, warm—makes something shift in my chest.
“Smart?” I gesture at myself. “Most people think I am just… gladiator who makes jokes.”
“Most people don’t understand what you survived.” Her voice is fierce, protective. Dangerous to my pulse. “Creating a defense mechanism like that under pressure? That takes remarkable intelligence and emotional strength.”
Her belief in me is new. Rare. Precious.
“You really think is… valuable? What I do?”
“I think it’s extraordinary.” Her gaze warms. “And it needs to be documented. Understood. Not dismissed.”
The silence between us is alive. I register every breath she takes.
When did this become… more?
She clears her throat. “I want to show you something.”
She saves her notes. Her excitement returns in a bright, focused burst—the scholar coming forward again.
“I’m sending my latest framework to Dr. Blackwell tonight.
She’s been asking about methodology—how we’re combining your experiential knowledge with historical texts.
I think she wants to co-present some of this. ”
Her smile is excited. Proud.
“This research is going places, Flavius. Real places.”
I swallow. Her pride makes me warm all over.
“I found a Roman account of a fighter who ‘brought laughter even to the moment of death.’ I think it might describe exactly what you’re talking about.”
She angles her laptop so I can see. Our shoulders touch. Electric. Her flowery scent wraps around me.
I pause.
Just for a breath.
The arena taught me how fast want can turn into mistake, how easily heat becomes something you cannot undo. This closeness must be chosen, not momentum.
“I’ll read it aloud,” she says softly.
Her mouth draws my attention before the text does—the way her lips shape words, the small movement of her throat when she swallows. I pull my gaze back to the page. I want to be the kind of man who listens to her words, not just watches her mouth.
She leans closer. Closer.
“That… that could be fight I know,” I manage, my voice rough. “We learn to make dying look like choice, not failure.”
She looks up. We’re suddenly very close—heat shimmering between us.
“Exactly,” she breathes. “He thought it was natural. Not something you had to learn to survive.”
The moment stretches—charged, unmistakable.
She pulls back, cheeks flushed. A careful retreat—professional, appropriate. But her hands tremble just slightly. Good. I am not alone in this wanting.
“I think we should shift to reading,” she says, voice a little unsteady. “Something concrete.”
“Yes,” I say. But what I want is not letters. “Want learn new words.”
She opens the book, steadying herself, and we work on longer words—hand, sand, fight. Her closeness distracts me more than any wound ever did.
“Fight,” I say. “F-I-G-H-T.”
“Perfect!”
Her smile is bright enough to chase shadows away.
“You see how this connects to what we were discussing?”
I look at the letters, then at her. She’s close enough that I could tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear. I clench my hands instead.
“Is word for what I did? In arena?”
“It’s the word, yes. But was it fighting—or something else?”
Her question lands deep.
“Was… acting,” I say. “Was keeping boy alive. Was making people happy while looking like fighting.”
Her smile warms my whole body. Not soft like pity—warm like understanding. Like respect.
Her fingers settle on my forearm. Gentle, but not a mistake. Not a flinch. A choice. Her touch anchors me. Warms me.
“More words?” I ask, voice low.
We continue, but the air has changed—charged with something beyond learning. Every brush of fingers, every lean toward the page, sparks something deep.
“That’s excellent progress,” she says, breath warm against my cheek.
“Is because I want learn. And because…” I hesitate, then say the truth. “Because you make me feel I can learn. That is not too late.”
“You’re smart, Flavius.” She says it like an oath.
Packing up is slow. Neither of us wants this moment to end.
“Sophia?”
“Yes?”
Her name tastes warm in my mouth.
“Thank you. For letters. For listening. For… seeing me. Not just Jester.”
Her smile softens. “Thank you for trusting me.”
“Is good trade,” I say. “I bring stories. You bring letters.”
“Exactly.”
At the door, she pauses. Looks back at me with something bright in her eyes.
“Same time next session?” she asks. “We’ll get back on our schedule.”
“Yes,” I say. “I be here.”
When she leaves, her warmth lingers.
Dangerous. Scholar and subject should not feel this.
But they do.
And I already know I will count the minutes until the next session—not for letters.
For Sophia.