The heat is thick. Blinding.

Steam coils in the air, clinging to the stone like breath, swirling over the surface of the water as Caelis sinks lower into it with a groan he doesn’t mean to let slip. His arms rest against the rim—one bandaged, the other dark with dried blood. A gash cuts across his ribs, shallow but angry. The kind that aches long after it should stop hurting.

He won. Again. Of course he did.

But the cost, this time, was high.

They love him for it—the people. The masses. Your father. The roar of the Colosseum still rings in his ears, distant now, but ever present. The sound of approval. Of ownership.

Because that’s what he is: owned.

Property of the arena. Of the empire. Of your father, who keeps him like one might keep a beast on a leash—polished, fed, praised, but never let out of the pit.

And you—you—the emperor’s daughter, are never supposed to be near him.

Even looking at him for too long draws stares. A whisper here. A silence there. The kind that spreads.

Touching him? Speaking to him? Seeking him out, alone, in the gladiators’ quarters?

That’s not scandal. That’s treason.

But none of that stops you.

He hears the footsteps first. Bare. Light on the wet stone, but distinct. Familiar, though he can’t place them—not in his current haze. He doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t look.

He’s half-draped over the edge of the bath, muscles aching. He assumes what he always assumes in this place: another attendant come to fuss over him. Another hand with a basin and cloth, too eager to touch the empire’s prize.

“Leave it,” he says, voice low, hoarse from exertion. “I don’t need help.”

The footsteps pause—but don’t retreat.

He sighs, eyes still shut. “New, then,” he mutters. “Or just stupid.”

Water shifts as someone kneels beside the tub.

Then: a washcloth—warm, perfumed—presses gently to his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even breathe deep. It’s not the first time he’s been cleaned like this, like he’s some broken statue in need of polishing before his next showing.

The cloth slides slowly down the curve of his back. Too slowly. The pressure—too focused.

And then it dips. Over his chest. Down, lower still.

That’s when something in him tightens.

He moves fast.

His hand shoots up, locking around the wrist with more force than necessary, water sloshing quietly against the side of the bath. He turns his head, jaw clenched, breath sharp.

“Don’t,” he growls. “I said—”

He stops.

Because it’s not a servant. It’s you.

Standing there with your hair damp from the steam, your lips parted like you weren’t expecting to get caught. Your eyes wide—but not afraid. Just… caught.

Still.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice quieter now. The anger drains out of him in an instant. It always does with you.

You say nothing. Just look at him like you mean to.

He lets go of your wrist. Slowly. As if the heat of your skin might leave something behind.

He leans back again, eyes slipping shut for just a breath. “If your father finds out—”