"Of course you do." His eyes narrow.
"Later, babe!" I sing and wave, disappearing past the door and shutting it before he can say anything else.
The hallway swallows me the second the door clicks shut. Plush carpet muffles my steps, but my pulse doesn't get the memo. It keeps racing, loud in my ears, as I walk away from him without looking back.
I don't need to. I can picture Red with his narrowed eyes, mouth set, and his brain already replaying the last thirty seconds.
I take the elevator to the eighth floor and get off. The gym's only a few units down the hall, and the door is propped open with a foam roller. Soft, airy music pulses from inside, completely mismatched with the tension still humming under my skin.
Inside, bodies stretch and bend across mats in neat rows, mirrors reflecting movement from every angle. Eucalyptus and disinfectant flare in the air.
Cloud spots me instantly and grins. "There you are! Are you ready to sweat out your sins?"
I laugh. "I don't believe in those."
She snorts. "Good. Makes life way more fun."
I sit on the mat and begin stretching, letting Cloud talk, her chatter filling the space. It's easier than thinking about howquickly Red tried to put distance between us the moment the door opened, or dissecting the way his eyes lingered anyway.
"So," she says casually, "you live with Red, or was that just a very convincing overnight stay?"
I glance at her and smirk, "Pretty much living there."
She grins. "Nice." She stretches her arms overhead, adding, "That man has the energy of someone who hates surprises."
I wiggle my eyebrows. "He likes control."
"Don't they all." She leans closer and lowers her voice. "Do you call him Daddy?"
I burst out laughing. "No. Should I?"
"Yeah. I bet he'd fall right into the role." Her lips twist into mischief.
"I'll put it on my list of things to try."
"Ohhh. I want to see that list!" she practically squeals.
"Class, we're going into the quiet zone now," the instructor warns, looking at us, and guides everyone into the first slow stretch.
I follow the movement, folding forward, palms pressing into the mat. My muscles protest faintly, but it's a welcome distraction. My breath deepens, steady and deliberate.
For a few moments, it works. Then I turn my head and catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes drift to the mark on my neck, studying the faint shadow beneath my skin.
"Hands toward the sky," the instructor orders.
I straighten a fraction, adjust my posture, then freeze when the movement pulls at the tender spot.
A sharp awareness flashes through me. My breath stutters. I press my lips together and slowly raise my arms into the air.
The instructor's voice flows over us, talking about presence and intention.
I snicker.
Cloud mutters, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing." I shake my head.
She studies me for half a second longer, then nods. "If you pass out, I'm going into your love shack and stealing those shoes I saw near the couch last night."
