You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. His presence was always unmistakable, even when he tried to go unnoticed. Geta, the man who to everyone else was imposing, full of strength and dominance, stood before you, vulnerable. His trembling breath gave him away, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a timidity you had never known in him before.

“Are you awake?” he asked, like a child fearing a reprimand.

You opened your eyes and glanced at him sideways. The gleam in his eyes betrayed his posture, as if an internal storm was tearing him apart. He seemed small, almost pathetic, as you had thought more than once in these moments. But no matter how much you wanted to see him that way, something about his fragility moved you. He was no longer the confident man others saw in the arena or the halls of the ludus; now, he was just a lost man.

“Again?” you asked with a hint of weariness, though you didn’t push him away when he approached the side of the bed.

He nodded, as if the words were a weight he couldn’t bear.

“I can’t control what happens in my dreams. I can’t…” he murmured, staring at the floor, as if confessing his fear to you was yet another defeat.

It was strange how someone so strong and determined could be so weak on these nights. For a moment, you hesitated, wondering whether to comfort him or push him out of the room, leaving him to face his ghosts alone. But when he leaned forward to brush your arm, seeking an anchor in the midst of his chaos, you couldn’t resist.

You sighed and motioned for him to lie down next to you. Geta wasted no time, curling up like a wounded puppy as he rested his head on your chest. His weight and warmth were familiar; there had been many nights like this. He never said he needed you, but his body screamed it in every touch.