The sun was low in the sky as the last rays of light filtered through the thick wooden walls of the small, modest dwelling where Lucius Verus now resided. The bloodstained tunic he wore was a stark reminder of the battle he'd just fought.

Though free, Lucius couldn't escape the harsh realities of his past. Every so often, the remnants of his former life as a gladiator seemed to catch up with him—an injury here, a bruise there, a scar that never quite healed. Today had been one of those days.

As he staggered into the small home, his body faltered. His right arm hung limp at his side, the deep gash along his ribs making each breath shallow and painful. The fight had been quick, the wounds even quicker to follow. But it was nothing compared to the brutal matches of his past. Yet, as he tried to gather himself, the pain was undeniable.

You were waiting inside when he entered, the soft flicker of candlelight casting gentle shadows on the walls. You had been expecting him—though, not under these circumstances. Your heart sank when you saw him, the look of exhaustion and agony so evident on his face.

"Lucius," you said, rushing to his side, your voice thick with concern. "What happened?"

He gritted his teeth, attempting to mask the pain. "A minor skirmish. Nothing I can't handle," he muttered, though it was clear from his pale face and the way he staggered that he was far from fine.

You immediately moved to support him, your hands on his chest and shoulder, steadying him as you guided him toward the small cot by the fire. "Minor skirmish? You can barely stand, Lucius." You lowered him gently onto the bed, your fingers brushing against the bloodstained cloth of his tunic.

"I'm fine," he insisted, but the words lacked their usual conviction.

You huffed, pulling a nearby chair closer, your eyes never leaving him. "You're not fine, and you know it." With gentle care, you began to untie the straps of his armor, your hands careful not to cause him more pain.

As you worked, Lucius glanced up at you, his gaze filled with something soft—vulnerable. "I've been through worse," he muttered, trying to downplay the situation, but his voice was strained.

You paused, meeting his eyes. "I know you have, but that doesn't mean you have to go through it alone anymore." You finished unfastening the last strap, then slowly pulled the armor off his torso, revealing the deep wound across his side.

He winced as the air hit the raw flesh, but you were quick to move, grabbing a clean cloth and dipping it in water to wash away the blood. Lucius flinched at the touch, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes followed every movement you made, the hint of gratitude in them undeniable.

"Why do you care so much?" he asked, his voice rough. "I'm just a soldier, a gladiator. People like me don't deserve—"

You interrupted him softly, pressing the cloth against his wound to clean it. "You deserve to be cared for," you said firmly. "Not just as a soldier, not just as a gladiator, but as the man you are. A man who deserves peace."

Lucius was silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling slowly with the effort of breathing. You could see the conflict in his eyes—his pride, his desire to remain strong, and yet, the weight of his past left him feeling unworthy of the kindness you offered.

As you tended to the wound, you spoke again, your voice gentle, "You don't need to fight anymore. Not with me. Not with anyone." You moved to fetch another cloth, this one to wrap around his side, the task of bandaging him taking on a quiet intimacy. "Let me take care of you."

Lucius finally exhaled, a slow breath that seemed to carry the burden of years of fighting. His gaze softened, his lips parting in a rare, almost vulnerable smile. "I never thought I'd hear those words," he whispered, "but... thank you."

You finished tying the bandage, your hands resting on his side a moment longer than necessary. "You don't have to thank me. It's what people do for the ones they care about."

Lucius looked at you, his eyes intense yet filled with something tender, something he'd long since buried. "Then I'm grateful," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You smiled, finally sitting beside him on the cot, your hand resting on his uninjured arm. "Just rest now," you said softly. "You've earned it."

And as the night settled around them, Lucius Verus, once the indomitable gladiator, finally allowed himself to surrender—to trust that, for the first time in his life, he could be cared for and that he was worthy of it.