Page 46 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

“Laura,” he breathes as he unwraps it, “this is… incredible.”

It’s a journal, made from handmade paper I crafted from plant fibers. I learned the technique in a craft class. Goodness knows it’s much harder without access to an electric blender.

The cover is a piece of leather I salvaged from an old bag in the men’s tent and then etched with designs inspired by Roman art. “I thought you might like to write your story,” I explain. “Your memories, your experiences. It could be a bridge between your past and your present.”

As Varro carefully runs his fingers over the journal’s cover, I notice his eyes glisten with unexpected emotion.

“Varro?” I ask softly, concerned by his reaction. “Is everything alright?”

He nods, swallowing hard before speaking. “It’s just… this is the first gift I’ve received since I was a boy in Hispania. My parents would give us small presents for Saturnalia, but after…” He trails off, then finally adds, “No presents were freely given.”

My heart aches at this realization. I reach out to squeeze his hand gently. “Oh, Varro. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think…”

He shakes his head, a small smile forming on his lips. “No, Dulcis. Don’t apologize. This is perfect. Thank you for giving me back a piece of joy I thought was lost forever.”

I lean in to kiss him softly, feeling my own eyes mist over at the depth of emotion in his voice. In this moment, I vow to shower him with thoughtful gifts for the rest of our days together, determined to make up for all the years he went without.

Then it’s my turn. Varro hands me a small object wrapped in a scrap of cloth. When I open it, I gasp. It’s a necklace, made from small shells and stones, carefully drilled and strung together. In the center hangs a piece of green sea glass, smoothed by the waves, now shimmering in the firelight.

Wait. Drilled?

Then I remember when we were packing up to move to our cottage, Varro saw Rick’s cordless drill and wanted to know what it was. I showed him and all the attachments that went with it.

“When…how…” I stammer and see the pride on his handsome face.

“I wasn’t watering the cucumbers every time I went out.” He says with a cheeky grin. “But as long as you thought that’s what I was doing, you didn’t follow me. The magic power in the tool died just as I finished the last piece.”

“Varro,” I whisper, “it’s beautiful.”

He helps me put it on, the heat of his fingers brushing my neck sends shivers down my spine. “I wanted to give you something to remember this place by,” he says. “When we leave this island, you’ll have a piece of it with you always.”

The confidence in his voice—notifwe leave, butwhen—brings tears to my eyes. I blink them back, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Thank you,” I manage to say. “I love it.”

We spend the rest of the evening singing—Christmas carols from me, old Roman songs from Varro. Our voices blend together, filling our little cottage with warmth and joy. As the fire burns low and we prepare for bed, I find myself wishing this night could last forever.

“Merry Christmas, Varro,” I say as I climb into my sleeping bag.

“Felicem Saturnalium,Dulcis,” he replies, his voice warm with affection.

As I drift off to sleep, the necklace cool against my skin, I realize something. Despite everything—the isolation, the hardships, the uncertain future, and all the freaking fish—I’m happy. Truly, genuinely happy. And it’s all because of the man sleeping across the room, the impossible friend who has bridged the gap of two millennia.

Chapter Forty

Marcus Fabius Varro

I wake up feeling surprisingly content, the warmth of yesterday’s celebration still lingering in the air. The necklace I made for Laura catches the morning light, throwing tiny rainbows across her sleeping face. The sight fills me with affection.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” I call out, mimicking her usual morning greeting. “It’s Christmas Day, remember?”

Laura stirs, a smile spreading across her face before she even opens her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Varro,” she mumbles, stretching like a cat in the sunlight. Her gaze catches mine, filled with something different. Maybe it was the fun we had together last night, but she seems… softer somehow.

Now that I have that journal, I not only want to write, but I want to sketch. I’d love to draw her as she was a moment ago, stretching in the sun with that gentle smile on her face. If I didn’t think she’d find the journal, I’d draw her as I imagine her nude—breasts full, nipples pointed. But no. I’ll draw her with the baggy men’s clothes she took from the compound and wears almost constantly.

We go about our morning routine, the atmosphere between us light and comfortable. As I serve up our usual fish breakfast, Laura groans dramatically.

“If I never eat another bite of fish in my life, it’ll be too soon,” she declares, even as she takes a hearty bite.

I chuckle, settling down across from her. “Oh really? And what would you prefer? Some of that ‘fast food’ you always go on about?”

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