CLYDE LIES ON HIS BACK WITH HIS LEGS UP AGAINST THE wall. And I stand above him, watching his chest rise and fall, trying to ignore the light rasp in his breathing. It makes the thought of leaving him even harder.

    Because I am considering leaving.

    Kira, the studio owner, contacted me over the weekend to let me know she’d need her apartment back by the end of the month. She offered little exnation, just something about a family member needing a ce to stay. To me it sounded far-fetched. Especially when she told me she wanted me to keep teaching.

    Now, I have to find a new ce to live—and rent (and pay rent for)—which is less than ideal for my savings n. But I didn’t tell her that.

    I’ve buried my anxiety over the upheaval, not ready to leave yet. I’ll figure something out. I always do.

    “So now we’ll take one regr breath in through your nose and then another quick one at the top of that. Fill your lungs as full as possible before you slowly breathe out through your mouth.”

    Trying not to stare at the increasingly yellow tinge to his body, I demonstrate the breath a few times before letting Clyde take over breathing on his own.

    Over the past several months, I’ve spent a lot of time with the man. It’s too remote where he lives. The roads are bad. And the hospital is too far away forfort. And he needs too much help with day-to-day tasks.

    Which is why I was both grateful and relieved when he offered to hire me to help around his house. Now I spend a couple of days a week up on the mountain—meal prepping, shoveling snow, and doing general chores that have be harder for him as his kidneys weaken.

    In all honesty, spending time with Clyde fills something in me that I didn’t realize I’ve been missing. The way he calls to me when I enter his home—That you, kiddo? in his raspy voice—makes me smile every time.

    He always asks about my yoga sses and how they’re going. Always checks if I’ve been sleeping well and eating properly. He always lights up when I walk in, and he always, always listens when I speak.

    Yes, Clyde pays me for my time, but if he stopped, I’d continue to show up. Hell, I’ve even offered to do it for free, which, in hindsight, I think offended him. He’d hobbled away ande back with a handful of cash, shoving it at me brusquely. Then he looked me straight in the eye and told me to never work for free. To never sell myself short or question my value.

    I cried in my truck after that and never brought it up again.

    So we keep doing our regr private sses for cash payment. Bash drops him off at the studio’s front door in the big ck Denali pickup truck he drives, and I try not to crane my neck too far, straining for the smallest glimpse of him. He neveres inside, but he never fails to get Clyde here on time. He also never fails to get Clyde to his doctor’s appointments. He just… never fails to show up for the man, period.

    Between the two of us, Clyde gets a daily check-in. Bash might act like an awkward dickhead around me, but I admire the rtionship he and Clyde share. It’s heartwarming, endearing, and—unfortunately for me—I find his reliability and loyalty to be incredibly attractive.

    We don’t even have to see or speak to each other for Sebastian Rousseau to upy space in my mind. My meditation practice is a struggle, constantly interrupted by shes of surly brows, a square jaw rough with stubble, and big, calloused hands.

    When Clyde’s breathing transforms into a coughing fit, I drop to the ground beside him, gently cing my palm on his sternum. Because after months spent with the funny, quirky old man, I have grown attached to him. And watching him deteriorate is, well… It’s brutal.

    “Soften your chest,” I murmur. “It will pass.”

    “People can’t soften their chests, Gwen,” he grumbles between coughs from behind closed lids.

    Always arguing with me.

    “I can. So you can too.”

    “I don’t want to be an old pervert like Bash, but I need to point out to you that our chests are very different.”

    I bite down on augh and just end up snorting.

    “Plus,” he continues, “I don’t need to soften my chest. Because my new kidney is on the way.”

    I freeze and stare down at Clyde. “What?”

    “I must have forgotten to tell you. Bash is giving me a kidney tomorrow.”

    My lips pop open. “Sorry?”

    A raspy smoker’sugh spills from his lips as his eyes finally flick open. “Yeah. Couple weeks ago, he brought it up over beers. Went and did all the testing. Turns out the two of us are a match made in heaven.”

    My heart swells with joy, and my eyes fill with unshed tears.

    “Gwen, if you get all sappy on me, I’m leaving. All this universe and energy yoga shit is already toeing the line for me.”

    I smile and swallow the lump in my throat. He always ims he’s skeptical about yoga, but he keepsing back, sullenly admitting that it does, in fact, make him feel better. So I don’t take his threats to heart.

    “I bet Bash loves being referred to as your ‘match made in heaven.’”

    A mischievous grin curves across his wrinkled lips. “He hates it. Still giving me a kidney, though.”

    My head shakes as I gaze down at the frail man, feeling a weight lift off my chest, reced by an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

    Fucking Sebastian Rousseau.

    His name ys on repeat in my head as I guide Clyde through a “nap”—what he continues to call the Savasana. My wordse slow and steady as I lull him into a state of meditation. I’ve tried to tell him that dozing off defeats the purpose, but he’s so exhausted these days, I figure if he’s rxed enough to drift off, thenfortable sleep might be one of the most restful things we can do for his body.

    I watch his chest rise and fall, his breaths slowing and lengthening as he slips from consciousness into what I hope is a peaceful dream state.

    The blocks prop up his thin limbs. His fingers unfold as the tension melts away. I blink a few times as I watch over him, hoping he finds rest.

    Relief.

    Relief that he might make it through this hits me hard and fast. I might still have someone to visit. Someone who looks forward to having me around—who takes an interest in me.

    As emotion wells in my tear ducts, I swipe at my eyes and head to the basket in the corner. I pull out a thin fleece nket, then return to Clyde’s resting form, draping it over him gently. Just to make sure he doesn’t catch a chill.

    I dim the lights and slip out of the studio, sniffing as I meander to the front, where I know there’s a box of tissues.

    What I don’t expect to find there: Bash.

    He’s lounging in a chair, one ankle slung over his knee as he casually flips through a yoga magazine wearing his typical hypermasculine boots-jeans-nnelbo.

    My heart thuds when he nces up and meets my gaze.

    For several moments, we watch each other in silence. His eyes taking a leisurely cruise over my bright-pink matching leggings and crop top. My skin prickles under his attention so I pull my oversized, cream cardigan tighter around my shoulders.

    “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice quavering as I force myself back into motion and round the front desk, heading toward the small table in the corner.

    He neveres in, and he never looks at me. But right now, he is, and it has me squirming under his attention.

    There’s also a little part of me that feels like this is a step toward forgiveness. Like maybe he can finally stand the sight of me again. And the prospect of that makes me feel almost relieved. Like a weight lifts from my shoulders because I can’t stand the thought of anyone—especially him—disliking me.

    “Clyde seems weak today. Figured I’d be here early to help get him—” Bash starts, but his sentence cuts off as I let out a watery sigh, followed by a sniffle. “Sorry, are you crying?”

    I press my shoulders back and tip my nose up as I snatch a tissue from the box. “No.”

    Bash’s skeptical gaze sweeps over me.

    “Just have a runny nose,” I add, dabbing at my nose right as a stray, traitorous tear tumbles down my cheek.

    His eyes track the droplet, like the tear itself has done something to offend him. Then my other eye betrays me, and his gaze moves over my face, sharp and assessing. Jaw popping, he pushes to stand, his tall, broad form towering over me.

    “What did he say to you?” His voicees out rough, edged with something fierce.

    I blink, dabbing at my stupid, leaky eyes as I shake my head. “No. No. It’s not—”

    He goes to step past me, his focus like aser down the hallway where Clyde is resting. “So help me, if Clyde made you cry, I’ll—”

    “Bash.” My hand darts out to stop him andnds t on his chest. Just like that day in the bathroom at Tripp’s party, I can feel the hard lines of his toned body beneath the soft weave of his nnel shirt.

    His head jerks down, eyes snapping to the contact as we both still.

    I should move my hand—snap it back like I’ve touched a hot stove. Because this fire between us is bound to burn someone eventually.

    But I don’t.

    Instead, I tip my face up and let my fingers sy.

    His dark eyes lock with mine and the air between us thickens. If I wasn’t choked up already, the sheer intensity of Bash’s expression would be the thing making it hard to breathe.

    “Thank you,” I murmur, voice still watery.

    His gaze searches my face again, attention flicking between my eyes, like he’s looking for more information.

    “Clyde’s asleep. But he told me about the—the kidney.” My voice breaks, and more wetness springs up in my eyes. “And just…thank you. I’m so relieved.”

    “You’re crying because you’re happy?” The bite that was in his tone has morphed into a soft rumble.

    I smile up at him and nod. What can I say? I’m a sensitive gal. I’ve always felt things just a little more deeply.

    Bash lets out an exasperated groan, his eyes closing for one long beat as he gives his head a subtle shake. “Please don’t cry. It’s just a kidney.”

    A weepyugh lurches from my throat. “Only you would say it’s just a kidney. He’s… he’s been so sore. So resigned. This is…” I suck in a trembling breath. “Bash, this is a new lease on life. You’re saving him.”

    A whimper spills from my lips as I continue to think about it, my breaths between sentences growing more emotional as I go. “This is so selfless, so brave. You’re giving him a piece of yourself. Do you not see how deeply generous this is?”

    “For fuck’s sake,” Bash growls. “You’re killing me.”

    And then he stuns me by reaching forward, his fingers cradling my jaw as calloused thumbs sweep my tears away with a touch far gentler than I would have expected.

    His palm slips down, softly cradling the side of my neck. I’m pretty sure I stop breathing altogether. But then I force myself to look up at him, and it’s like the world shrinks down to just us. Then his eyes meet mine before dropping to my mouth. His throat bobs and I suck in a breath.

    The scent of him wraps around me—something woodsy mixed with something sweet, like cedar dusted with vani.

    It’s just a little too easy to imagine his hands on me. Holding me like I’m his before dropping his lips to mine.

    It’s silly. Frivolous. And unlikely, considering the fact that I’m quite sure he hates me for dating his son. Something I’m sharply reminded of when he stoops just slightly, bringing his face to the same level as mine. The simplest motion feels warm and reassuring with him.

    “Stop crying, Gwen. I can’t stand it. Everything is fine.”

    His broad palm slips from my neck, rubbing over my upper arm reassuringly. Up and then down. I can’t help but shiver at the unexpected contact. And I know he notices because he steps away, creating more space between us.

    His tone changes when he speaks next. Confident and sure, but the softness of mere moments ago evaporates at once. “It’s all going to be good. You’ll see. Nothing to worry about.”

    I blink away any wetness and try not tough at his brusqueness. Then I consider if I should cry again, just so it will bring him closer.

    But I don’t get the chance.

    “Oh, good. You two have kissed and made up,” Clyde rasps as he hobbles down the hallway.

    “We didn’t kiss,” Bash snipes, right as I say, “There’s nothing to make up about.”

    We both look at each other, eyes locking for a beat. Then Bash steps even farther away, hands raised, like Clyde caught him red-handed, while I wipe any lingering dampness from my face.

    Clyde chuckles, not bothering to inspect us too closely, instead heading straight toward his boots near the front door. “One of my best naps, Gwen. Thank you. I’m d Bash stopped sulking and invited you to his party tonight.”

    Awkwardness descends between us because he most certainly did not. And based on the smug twist of Clyde’s lips and the murderous scowl Bash hits him with, we all know he didn’t.

    And yet, like a scolded child, Bash turns to me. “Gwen, would you like toe to the annoying party that West is hosting for me tonight?”

    He’s clearly only inviting me to be polite. The look in his eyes is practically begging me to decline. But beyond him, Clyde is nodding enthusiastically.

    I shrug. “Sure. I love annoying parties.”

    I tell myself I’m only saying yes to make Clyde happy. And that it has nothing to do with spending more time around Sebastian Rousseau.

    Absolutely nothing at all.