I placed my hands on his hips, guiding them into proper alignment. His skin was warm through the thin fabric of his training shirt, solid muscle beneath my fingertips.
Don’t think about it. Adjust his hips. Step back. Don’t think about?—
“Like this?”
I pulled my hands back quickly. “Yes. Better.”
We held the pose. My thighs burned, but I focused on my breath. In. Out. Steady.
It didn’t help. Not with Griffin two feet away, his presence filling the space the way it always did.
“How long do we hold this?” he asked.
“Five more breaths.”
He groaned. “My legs are on fire.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re a sadist.”
“You asked to join.”
“Worst decision I’ve made all week.”
I bit back a smile and transitioned into warrior one. He followed, wobbling slightly on the shift, his back foot sliding on the mat.
We moved through the sequence. Warriors one and three. Triangle. Extended side angle. Griffin kept up, occasionally muttering curses under his breath when a pose challenged him. His hamstrings fought him through triangle. His balance wavered in warrior three.
But he didn’t quit.
“Tree pose,” I said, shifting my weight onto my left foot. “Right foot to your inner thigh or calf. Never on the knee.”
He tried. Wobbled. His foot hit the floor within seconds.
I pressed my lips together.
“Don’t.” He glared at me.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Maybe if you focused?—”
“I am focused.” He tried again, foot pressed to his calf, arms reaching for the ceiling. Held it for three seconds before toppling sideways. “Bollocks.”
This time, the laugh escaped.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbled.
“It’s a little funny.”
He tried again. Failed again. And then he laughed. Not the sarcastic huff I’d grown used to, but genuine laughter. Full and unguarded, and completely unlike the Griffin I thought I knew.
My chest tightened.
“What?”
