“I hate it already.”
“You just started.” I straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra. “Now step or jump back to plank.”
He stepped back, one foot at a time, settling into position. His arms locked out immediately, shoulders hunched near his ears.
“Drop your shoulders,” I said, moving into plank beside him. “Engage your core, not your arms.”
He adjusted. Better. His core work was solid. All those hours of bracing against g-forces paid off here at least.
“Now lower down halfway. Chaturanga.”
He lowered an inch. Maybe two. His elbows barely bent.
I bit my lip. “That’s it?”
“My arms are shaking.”
“You’ve been in plank for ten seconds.”
“Exactly.” But he was grinning, and that surprised me more than his terrible form. “This is bullshit.”
“It’s yoga.”
“Same thing.”
I flowed into upward dog. He followed, arching his back with surprising ease. His shoulders opened, chest lifting.
“Better,” I said.
“Finally something I can do.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
We moved through sun salutations. One. Two. Three. He struggled through the forward folds, his hamstrings protesting every time. But he kept going, asking occasional questions, adjusting when I corrected him.
It was unnerving.
Griffin Michaels was sharp-tongued and restless and incapable of sitting still. But here, following my instructions, he was focused. Trying.
And I couldn’t stop noticing.
Noticing the way his muscles shifted under his training shirt. The concentration on his face when he held a pose. The small adjustments he made, the way he listened when I spoke.
This was a mistake.
“Warrior two,” I said, stepping my right foot forward, arms extending. “Front knee over ankle. Back foot parallel to the short edge of the mat. Gaze over your front hand.”
He moved into position beside me. His stance was too narrow, knee drifting inward, hips completely closed.
“Wider,” I said, keeping my eyes forward. “Your hips need to open more.”
He adjusted. Still wrong.
I sighed and moved closer, hands hovering near his hips. “Can I?”
“Yeah.”
