We are not.
“I thought orthopedic surgeons were supposed to have good body awareness,” she whispers, raising her leg.
I lift mine into the same pose, but the edge of my mat catches on itself and folds beneath my foot. My balance wobbles.
Heidi snorts. “Never mind.”
I roll my eyes on an exhale. “Are you here to stretch, or to antagonize me?”
“Can’t it be both?”
The instructor drifts past with a serene smile and gently adjusts my elbow. Heidi makes a face like I just got a gold star, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Ten minutes later, we’re on our backs in some blissed-out corpse pose, and my brain is still chewing through patient discharge plans and surgical prep for the next week.
My eyes stay closed. “Remind me why I let you drag me here?”
“Because your cortisol levels are so high, they should be classed as a biohazard.”
I grunt.
She turns her head lazily toward me. “Also, because the last time youdidn’tmake time for a break, you nearly concussed yourself on the IV pole trying to reach the top shelf in supply.”
I crack one eye open. “That was months ago.”
“Maybe a month,” she corrects cheerfully. “And the memory lives rent-free in my head.”
I close my eyes again, the instructor’s voice floating over us as if it’ll help soothe the constant chatter in my head.
Whatwouldhelp is obvious—annoyingly obvious.
Sex. With the right person, and the kind where I don’t have to think or lead or manage anything. The kind where someone else takes control. My kink isn’t lying there and doing nothing; it’s someone else being in charge for once.
Telling me what to do, so I can finally shut my brain off.
It’s not complicated, really. I give orders all day, and I make decisions that affect people’s lives. So yeah, sometimes I want to be told to get on my knees and not overthink it. To me, letting someone else see that part of me, letting someone unravel me in a way that no one else can, is hot as hell.
I haven’t had that in a while. Long enough that my body knows exactly what it’s missing.
But I do not, under any circumstances, say this out loud. Because the second I do, Heidi will have me on a dating app, a referral list, and possibly a mood board within two minutes.
“You’re annoying,” I mutter.
“I’m agift,” Heidi says serenely. “To you, and to Moreno morale.”
Once the session is finished, and the instructor’s closing quote is a reminder that ourvibe attracts our tribe, we roll up ourmats in companionable silence. I watch her coil hers neatly, like she’s not the kind of person who regularly leaves coffee cups in her car until they fossilize.
I follow Heidi out of the eucalyptus-scented studio and into the adjacent in-house café. She’s already pulling her dark brown hair out of her ponytail, somehow glowy and rested and not at all sweaty and tired.
She nods toward the counter. “I’m getting a chai and a giant danish, and you are too.”
The café is a warm blur of wood and honey light. We grab our usuals—Heidi’s spiced and steaming, mine bitter and black with a dash of cream—and snag a corner table by the window. My thighs are still burning from that final warrior sequence, and my palms feel dry and chalky from the mat. Heidi doesn’t sit so much as melt into the chair across from me.
“So,” she says, mouth already half-full of pastry. “How many of your plants are still alive this week?”
I arch a brow, eyes tracking my spoon as I stir my coffee. “All of them.”
“That’s not what you said last time.”
