“Nothing.” I shook my head, looking away before he could read too much on my face. “Try again.”
He did. Managed ten seconds this time before losing his balance, arms windmilling as he stumbled off his mat.
“Better.”
“Patronizing.”
“Accurate.”
He grinned, and I made the mistake of looking at him. His face was flushed from exertion, eyes bright with laughter. The tension he’d been carrying all week had finally eased.
He looked lighter. Happier.
I glanced away. “Let’s move on.”
We worked through a few more poses. He attempted crow pose, committing fully this time, and launched himself forward. He caught himself barely before face-planting into the mat.
“Fuck!” He collapsed onto his back, laughing. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible.”
“Did you see that? I nearly broke my nose.”
“You didn’t commit to the lean.”
“I committed plenty.” He sat up, hair completely destroyed now. “That pose is rigged.”
“It’s about core strength and balance.”
“Both of which I have.”
“Apparently not for crow.”
He pointed at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe.”
“Sadist.”
“You already said that.”
“Bears repeating.”
I shook my head and moved into seated forward fold, legs extended. He mirrored me, hands barely making it to his shins.
We held the pose in silence. The room filled with the sound of our breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside, Hazel’s white noise machine.
My hamstrings burned. My back pulled. But I sank deeper into the stretch, exhaling slowly.
This was what I’d needed. This quiet. This calm.
Except it wasn’t calm. Not with Griffin beside me, close enough to touch, his breathing syncing with mine.
I was in trouble.
Because somewhere between Mario Kart and night feeds and watching him fail at crow pose while laughing, I’d stopped seeing Griffin Michaels as the selfish driver who’d disrupted my life.
I’d started seeing him as a person.
