“Right on time,” I said, rolling out the second mat. “You brought those instructions from your doctor?”
He handed me the folded papers. I scanned the notes while he stood there radiating nervous energy like a caged animal who'd forgotten how to be wild.
“Light stretches only,” I said, setting the papers aside. “Nothing overhead, no deep twisting. We'll see how your body wants to move.” I gestured to the mats. “Think of this as a conversation, not a battle.”
He settled across from me, cross-legged but stiff. Most athletes were like broken sculptures when they first came to me, all that conditioning made them forget they were more than muscle and bone.
“Let's start simple,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “Follow my lead.”
We moved through basic stretches, and I kept my voice low and steady. Shoulder rolls, gentle neck releases, modified poses that wouldn't stress his injury. He fought every movement at first, his body locked up with tension that had nothing to do with physical limitations.
“Breathe,” I reminded him. “Your body remembers how to flow. You just need to listen.”
His breathing deepened. I watched the exact moment he stopped trying to control everything and started trusting the process. The rigid lines began to soften.
“Better,” I murmured, placing my hand on his lower back during a seated twist. The contact sent warmth through me. “How does that feel?”
“Good,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Different.”
“Different how?”
He was quiet for a moment, moving with me through the stretch. “Like my body's not just a machine that broke down.”
The raw honesty in that made my chest tighten. I'd worked with people's pain for years, but the way he said it, like he was admitting to a sin, hit me hard.
“Your body isn't a machine,” I said. “It's more like a painting that got damaged. You don't throw it away. You restore it, layer by layer.”
Our eyes met, locked for a long second.
“Can we try deeper work?” he asked.
I guided him through more poses, always mindful of his shoulder. With each movement, the space between us seemed to shrink. His breathing had changed, deeper now, but not from exertion. When I adjusted his position, my hands lingering on his skin, he leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.
“Dusty,” he said, my name coming out rougher than intended.
“Yeah?”
“I need to ask you for help with more than just yoga.” He turned to face me. “And I need you to be honest with me.”
I waited, watching shadows dance across his face.
“Can you help me test my limits? My body, I mean. Whether it can handle...” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, this is going to sound crazy.”
“Try me.”
“I need to know if I can still take it. Being fucked, I mean. Hard.” His face flushed, but he didn't look away. “I've been so careful, so fucking gentle with everything since the surgery. I need to know if I'm still whole.”
The vulnerability in his voice made everything inside me clench. This wasn't about getting off. This was about reclaiming himself.
“You want to test your boundaries,” I said.
“I want to feel like myself again. Like I'm not made of glass.” He met my eyes. “Will you help me?”
I studied his face in the candlelight, seeing the need there, the desperate hunger to feel strong again. “You sure about this?”
“I'm sure.”
I reached for him then, my hand cupping the back of his neck. “Then let me take care of you.”
