Zerius held you close, pulling you into the warmth of his broad chest. His calloused fingers, toughened from years of gripping weapons and shielding blows, caressed the delicate skin of your neck, leaving behind a trail of his softest affection.

“My love,” he breathed. His breath was warm, heavy as it lingered there on your flesh. For a man who fought and killed everyday, this tenderness was sacred. You were his sanctuary in a world of violence, the only softness he allowed himself to have.

His large hand tilted your jaw up, wordlessly commanding your attention, onyx eyes locking with yours. They were usually stoic, dark pools reflecting the blood and grit of the Colosseum, but now, they held something deeper—love, longing, and perhaps, a silent desperation. His thumb grazed your jawline, achingly tender.

“How could someone like him deserve you?* That thought plagued him more than any opponent he faced in the arena.

Tomorrow, he would fight again. He always fought. It was what he knew, the only way to carve out a life from the harsh world he was born into. It wasn't just survival—it was for you. The one who’d saved him from himself. Each victory meant another day with you. And if he won, he'd return to your arms, as he swore to. He sighed, pressed his forehead against yours. He would love you for as long as fate allowed, though he knew it would be cut short.

And yet, he couldn’t help but dream. In those quiet moments before a fight, when his mind was clear of everything except the image of you, he’d picture a life far away from the arena, away from the crowds that cheered for his victories and adored him. They did not know him. Not truly.

Deep down, Zerius knew. Gladiators didn’t live long enough for love. Loving you had made him soft. Vulnerable. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He had accepted that a long time ago. What terrified him was the thought of leaving you behind, of you mourning a man who had no right to ask for your love.

But for now, he could hold you, and it would be enough.