I roll through my foot, controlled and precise, the way I was taught, but softer now. Less punishing. My muscles remember what to do even if my mind is focused on protecting my ankle. I move through a light sequence, nothing showy, nothing that demands strain. Just movement for the sake of being in my body again.
It feels good. Grounded. Beautiful in its simplicity.
I’m halfway through a stretch when the awareness blooms in my lower abdomen.
My skin tightens along my arms, breath shifting without permission. I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. I know the weight of him the way I know the sound of my own heartbeat.
Avros.
He stands in the doorway to the studio, watching me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. Just observes with that same quiet intensity that I used to believe lived only in my imagination.
Except now I know he’s real.
I straighten slowly, letting the stretch go, and our eyes meet in the mirror before I face him properly. The look he gives me sends a shiver straight through my center. Controlled hunger.
He’s holding himself back.
The thought settles hot and heavy in my belly.
“Your ankle is improving,” he says finally, voice low.
“I’m listening to it now,” I reply. “The rest helps.”
His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “You still move with such perfect, quiet strength,sovershenna.”
“Thank you,” I reply, leaning against the barre. “What does that mean, ‘sovershenna?’”
He steps into the studio, slowly walking towards me as his eyes rake down my body stirring up memories of this morning and last night.
The silence stretches between us, thick and charged. I’m suddenly aware of everything. The way my leotard clings faintly with sweat, the bare skin of my arms, the steady thrum of my pulse. The studio feels smaller with him in it.
He steps close enough that I feel the heat of him, the gravity, the electric spark that zaps between us.
“It means “perfect.” Because that’s what you are.” His voice is lower, gravelly in tone and my skin goes to goosebumps in response.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, eyes dropping briefly to my ankle.
“A little,” I admit, voice breathy with an arousal I wasn’t expecting. “But it’s considerably more manageable.”
“Good,” he says. Then, after a pause, “Turn and lift your leg onto the barre.”
I do as he asks, bending into the stretch as he watches me in the mirror.
His jaw tightens, just slightly. His hands remain at his sides, fingers flexing once like he’s grounding himself. The restraint in that small movement is almost unbearable to watch.
The space between us hums, alive with desperate need and brittle control. My heart is racing now, breath shallow, my body buzzing with anticipation that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
He exhales slowly, like he’s counting. “Emma,” he says, desire threaded through my name.
“Yes,” I reply. I don’t know what I’m answering, but I know that I don’t want him to stop looking at me like this.
I lift my hands above my head, feeling the stretch in my torso, not taking my eyes from his in our reflection.
Judging by the way he tries to control his breathing, I think I know what he needs to hear.
I bend forward slightly, leaning towards the mirror. The thin wisp of my wrap skirt lifts up as I do.
“Are you still sore?” he asks, his dark eyes dropping to the space between my thighs, covered only by my pale pink leotard.
