Moving through my sun salutations slowly, deliberately, letting each movement flow into the next.
Forward fold.
Plank.
Upward dog.
Downward dog.
The familiar sequence grounded me and brought me back to myself. My muscles warmed, my breath deepened, and gradually my mind began to quiet. The sky continued to lighten, shifting from pink to gold, the sun finally cresting the horizon and spilling warm light across the water. It caught droplets of dew on the grass, making everything sparkle like diamonds. The ocean turned from gray to turquoise, and the whole world seemed to glow. I transitioned into a standing backbend, my hands reaching behind me to catch my ankles with my chest opening toward the sky. The stretch was deep and intense, my spine arching, my throat exposed, and my heart lifted. I could feel the pull in my hip flexors, the opening in my shoulders, and the way my breath had to work harder to hold the position, but I stayed with it.
Waves in the ocean seemed to grow louder. The crash and retreat sounding similar to a heartbeat. My eyes drifted closed, sinking deeper into the pose, feeling the sensation and remaining still. This was the art of meditation and it solidified peace. My mind was finally quiet and nothing else mattered in this moment.
"You didn't make enough dinner for me."
The voice shattered my peace like a rock through glass, cutting deep and rough. Syx's voice cut through the quiet peace I'd been chasing all this time, making me grow irritated.
My concentration broke instantly, making my hands slip from my ankles, my balance went sideways, and I pitched forward with no grace whatsoever. My knees slammed into the mat, my palms slapped hard against the dew-soaked grass, and I felt the jarring impact shoot up through my wrists.
"Fuck," I hissed, pain radiating through my kneecaps.
For a second, I stayed there, on my hands and knees like some kind of wounded animal, trying to catch my breath, but it wasn't embarrassment flooding through me. It was irritation. I was so fucking heated.
I pushed myself up to standing, brushing the wet grass and dirt from my palms with sharp, angry movements. My knees throbbed. My wrists ached, and my elbows hurt. Don't let me forget to mention my carefully cultivated sense of peace was fucking destroyed, and he didn't have a care in the world that he disturbed it. I turned to face him after gathering my things, and yeah, there he was, standing a few feet away, barefoot, showcasing those clear-coated, manicured toes on his size thirteen feet, wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders. His arms were crossed, and there was something in his expression that made my blood pressure spike. He was looking amused, completely engrossed in my privacy that involved him.
"You good?" he asked, as if he hadn't just scared the shit out of me.
"No, I'm not good," I snapped. "You just made me bust my ass in the middle of a pose. You aren't supposed to interrupt people while they're doing yoga!"
"I called your name from the patio," he said, tilting his peanut-shaped ass head. "You didn't answer."
"Because I was in the middle of something," I shot back. "That's kind of the point of meditation, Syx. You tune everything else out."
He shrugged, completely unbothered. "Well, I'm hungry. I smelled food and went to the kitchen only to find out there was only enough food for one person, and the pots and shit were in the sink already. You ain't make enough for me."
I stared at him, my jaw tight. "And?"
"And I'm wondering if you're planning to cook more or if I need to fend for myself."
"You got some fucking nerve interrupting my practice and making me fall on my ass, just to come out here and ask me to fucking feed you. I don't owe you shit, Syx." I spat. "You have hands. Make yourself something to eat."
Being done with him and this conversation, I prepared to strut past him, already moving toward the house, but I didn't get far. His hand closed around my upper arm. It was firm and unyielding, pulling me to stop.
"Let me go," I demanded, my voice low and dangerous, but I doubt he had an ounce of fear. I weighed a buck fifty that didn't compare to his broad stature and body mass. Syx had to be about two hundred and ninety pounds. Most of that was pure muscle.
"Make me something to eat," he demanded way too cooly for me.
His eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, his body crowding mine, and his voice dropped to that low rough register that made my stomach clench. "Look, Nyne, I'm gonna eat something. Whether it's your pussy or food, I need to eat. Either way it goes, baby, I'm having shit my way."
Heat exploded through me. It was hot anger with something else I didn't want to name.
"Nigga, what?" I said, my voice rising. "You think you can just?—"
"I think you're being petty," he interrupted, his grip on my arm tightening just slightly. "You know exactly what the fuck you're doing."
"What I'm doing?" I jerked my arm again, harder this time, and he finally let go. "What I'm doing is trying to have five fucking minutes of peace without you or anyone else interrupting me."
"You made food for one person," he spoke again once more, his voice still calm and controlled. "I know we beefing and shit, but we can talk that shit out like grown folks. You been giving me the silent treatment and shit, ignoring a nigga. You really gon' stand here and tell me that shit wasn't intentional?"
