Lityerses’s first reaction to human kindness had been to completely break down and sob. After years spent under the crushing weight of Midas and Commodus—two pathetic, power-hungry men who treated him like a weapon—his body didn’t know how to process gentleness. He had carried out orders to hurt, to kill, to obey without question. Survival had been his only goal. And when Commodus turned on him, tried to have him killed, it only confirmed what he already believed: that kindness was always a trap waiting to snap shut.

He lived with the aftermath of all that—PTSD, the kind that crawled into his sleep and left him shaking in the dark. The kind that made sudden sounds feel like threats. Anxiety shadowed him, too, though he tried to keep it under control with medication. It didn’t erase the trembling in his hands or the constant, quiet alertness in his eyes, but it helped him breathe. Slowly, he was learning what it meant to live without fear. To exist in a world that didn’t demand blood or obedience.

He still struggled with vulnerability. When you did something kind—something small, like leaving coffee out for him, or waiting patiently when he stumbled over words—he froze, unsure what to do with that warmth. He was trying, though. Trying to let it in.

Now, he leaned against the counter, brow furrowed, his phone held loosely in his hand as he frowned at the black screen. He tapped it once, then again, as if persistence might bring it back to life. It had died two hours ago, but he hadn’t noticed. You stood nearby, waiting for him to realize you were there, quietly amused but unwilling to rush him.

When he finally looked up and caught sight of you, he startled like he’d been burned. His body moved before his mind could catch up—he pushed off the counter, stumbling a step aside.

“Sorry, sorry.”