“I don’t think you’re going to like it,” I warned.
“Try me.”
“You asked for it.”
“Not yet, but probably by the end of the day.”
She winked, wetting her lips until I caught on to her insinuation.
I flattened my lips, but chose not to open that door even in a joking manner. We were already alone in a small, dark room — I didn’t need to flirt with the line we were already dangerously close to crossing.
“All right. You want to learn? First rule — you actually have to be quiet.”
She zipped her lips dramatically, then pressed her palms together like she was about to pray.
“Second,” I continued, settling back into position, “you don’t have to do anything fancy. Just sit. Spine straight, shoulders relaxed. Hands wherever they’re comfortable.”
She adjusted, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin just slightly. For once, she didn’t crack a joke.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
She blinked one eye shut, then the other, a smile on her lips like we were playing a game.
“Now just breathe,” I went on, keeping my voice low and even. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow. Controlled. Don’t try to force anything. Just… notice it.”
Silence stretched between us, soft and fragile.
I could hear her inhale — a little uneven at first — then exhale, longer this time.
“Inhale,” I murmured.
She followed.
“Exhale.”
A few beats passed. Maybe thirty seconds.
And then —
“It’s not working.”
My eyes opened to find her squinting at me, already halfway out of position.
I huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve been doing it for five seconds.”
“It’s been at least a minute.”
“It hasn’t.”
“Well, it felt like an hour,” she muttered.
“Hard to be quiet and still when you’re so used to movement distracting you from the present moment, isn’t it?”
Her eyes widened, a softness washing over her. “Damn. You don’t have to yell.”
I chuckled. “Let’s try again.”
She groaned but got back into position, crossing her legs again and dropping her hands to her knees. “If I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”
