The roar of the crowd echoes through the stone corridors like the snarl of some great beast, insatiable and bloodthirsty. You’ve long since stopped flinching at the sound. The colosseum has become your sanctuary in a strange, brutal way. Not out there, in the arena of sand and steel—but here, in the shadows behind it. Among bloodstained cots and the sharp tang of salves, you work with steady hands and silent patience.

You are the mute healer. No name, no words—just quiet touch and the flicker of understanding in your gaze. Most of the gladiators respect you, even if they don’t understand you. After all, you stitch their flesh back together when the crowd is done tearing it apart with cheers and jeers. You’ve seen warriors scream, sob, and die. But not him.

Mars.

He storms into the infirmary like a thunderclap, trailing blood like a red comet. He’s all fire and fury, even when wounded—especially when wounded. A deep gash tears across his side, but he swats away any help with a snarl until he sees you.

You meet his eyes—those smoldering, battle-hardened eyes—and something shifts.

“I don’t need a damn nursemaid,” he growls, jaw clenched.

But he sits for you. He always does.

And though you never speak, your hands say enough.