Page 53 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

“Fides.”

Laura smiles. “The goddess of trust and faith. I like it.”

I nod, settling back on top of the sleeping bag. Laura positions herself next to me this time, not on top, and works on my shoulders. Her touch is firm but gentle, kneading out the knots of tension.

“Tell me your plans about what we’ll do come spring.” Her voice is calm, soothing.

It strikes me that she’s acknowledging what I consider to be the truth—that we’ll be here in spring and summer and fall and the next year and the next year after that. It must kill her a little inside to admit it. If she can make these changes in her thinking, I’m glad I’m trying new things too.

So I tell her about the wood I’ve been collecting to make a small boat to find different fish in waters farther from the shore, making sure not to get her hopes up. Any boat I could craft would never get her to the mainland which she tells me is hundreds ofmille passusaway.

“I want to make a coop, to capture some native birds, breed them, so my roommate can dine on something other than fish and rabbit.”

“How thoughtful.” She leans low to press her elbow into that spot on my back that is cramping. The pressure both hurts and feels divine.

Laura is bright, keeping my attention on her and my muscles and away from my memories. She’s such a good woman.

Gradually, I relax under her tender touch. The fear recedes, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my body. Laura’s hands move lower, working out the kinks in my back, and I have to bite back a groan of pleasure.

“How are you doing? You still with me?” she asks softly.

“Doing good,” I mumble into the pillow. “Really good.”

“Think you’re ready to try the lotion? Just a little?” Her voice is so calm, so reassuring. “Or we don’t have to… weneverhave to.”

I tense for a moment, but then force myself to breathe. “Okay. Let’s try.”

Laura uncaps the bottle, and I brace myself for the scent. It’s there, but it’s different somehow. Softer, less overwhelming. Maybe because this time, it’s mixed with Laura’s own scent—a combination of sea salt and clean snow.

She works the lotion into my skin, her movements slow and deliberate. There’s nothing sexual about it, but it’s undeniably intimate. Each stroke of her hands feels like it’s saying something her words can’t—that I’m safe, that I’m cared for, that I matter. And then I feel a small area of pure warmth being pressed into my shoulder blades and down the column of my spine.

“We call this a hot stone massage but, really, this is a warm pebble from the beach massage.”

I let out a snort of laughter that surprises me and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I allow myself to simply enjoy the scent without drifting back in time. I’m fully present, fully aware of Laura’s touch, of the warmth of the fire, of the softness of the bed beneath me.

“You’re doing great,” Laura murmurs, her fingers working out a particularly stubborn knot in my biceps.

I hum in response, too relaxed to form words. As she continues the massage, alternating between her fingers and using the stones warmed by the fire, my thoughts drift, not to the past, but to the future. To more nights like this, more moments of peace and connection.

It’s a dangerous thought, one that would have terrified me not so long ago. But now, as Laura’s thumbs movein soothing circles across my back, I find I don’t want to push it away. Instead, I let it settle over me like a warm blanket, comforting and full of possibility.

When Laura finally finishes, I feel boneless, completely at ease. She kneels next to me so her concerned eyes can search my face as she asks, “How do you feel?” She cocks her head, giving me her full attention.

I take a moment to consider the question. The truth strikes me like a thunderbolt because it’s such an odd feeling.

“Like a conqueror, Laura. Like I climbed the Pyrenees or vanquished in the arena. That was a match not with a gladiator, but with myself. And I emerged the victor.”

Laura smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out after a storm. “You deserve that, Varro. You deserve the very best life.”

I doubt she knows that I’m coming to believe my best life is here with her, but she doesn’t want to hear that, so I roll over as I ask lazily, “Do you want to be the big spoon tonight?”

As she chuckles and slides behind me, I bask in the newfound triumph that lavender no longer smells like fear and pain. Instead, it smells like Laura, like comfort and safety and home.

It’s a small change, but an important one. A step forward on a path I never thought I’d walk. And as I drift off to sleep, Laura’s steady breathing behind me, I find myself looking forward to where that path might lead.

Chapter Forty-Five

Marcus Fabius Varro

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