He finally looks at me, and those dark eyes are steady, unyielding. "We will."
Mrs. MacDonald practically runs out of the studio, and I watch her go with a mixture of mortification and something else I can't quite name. She returns eight minutes later with cash, flustered and apologetic, paying full price without any of her usual excuses or promises.
After she's settled on her mat, I walk over to Geoff, keeping my voice low. "You can't just do that."
"Can't what? Protect your business? Someone has to."
"I can handle it."
"You can't," he says flatly, but there's no cruelty in it. Just stating a fact. "And that's okay. But you need to learn."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. I hate that this stranger saw through me in one class and is now casually reorganizing my entire professional life. But also... my cash box has more money in it than it's had in months. Classes are paid. Kevin's gone. Maybe Geoff's interference isn't the worst thing that could happen to me.
The class goes smoothly. Geoff still struggles with the flexibility, but his form is improving. His breathing is more controlled. During warrior pose, I adjust his back leg, and he doesn't flinch away from the touch.
"You're doing better," I murmur.
"Helps when I'm not hungover," he admits quietly.
After class, he stays late and helps me wipe down the mats without asking. Then he notices my payment system of a simple cash box and a spiral notebook where I write down who owes what.
"This is your bookkeeping?" There's no judgment in his voice, just weary resignation.
"I'm not very good with that stuff."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain as he flips through pages of names and amounts, some dating back months. "No shit. When's the last time you actually collected on these?"
"I mean, people will pay when they can—"
"Lilah." He closes the notebook and levels me with that look, the one that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and safe. "How behind are you on rent?"
My stomach drops to somewhere around my feet and I look at the floor.
"How. Behind." Each word is deliberate, commanding.
"Three months," I whisper, the shame of it making my voice small. "But the landlord is understanding—"
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time since I met him, he looks genuinely frustrated. "Okay. New system. Starting now."
"Geoff, I appreciate the concern, but this is my business."
"And it's failing because you won't protect it." He's not mean about it, just matter-of-fact, using the same tone he probably used with Marines under his command. "I'm setting up a payment app on your phone. No more cash box. No more 'pay me later.' Card on file, automatic charges. Done."
"But what if someone can't afford—"
"Then they can't afford yoga," he cuts me off. "You're not a charity, Lilah. You're a business owner who needs to eat and keep a roof over her head."
The words are harsh but they land softly because I know he's right. I've been running myself into the ground trying to be nice, trying to make everyone happy, trying to never be the bad guy. And where has it gotten me? Broke, stressed, on the verge of losing everything I've worked for.
"I don't know how to be firm," I admit, the confession feeling like pulling out a splinter. "Every time I try, I just fold. Apologize. Give in."
"That's why you have me now." The casual possessiveness in those words makes my breath catch in my throat.
"I can have you?" I ask before I can stop myself. My face is burning.
"For now. Until you learn to do this yourself. Consider me training wheels."
"Training wheels," I echo, testing the metaphor.
