SINCE BASH CAME HOME, I’VE BEEN IN AN INSUFFERABLY good mood.

    Between a night spent lying beside him and an afternoon spent getting silly on the front porch, a new sense of camaraderie has grown between us.

    It’s like he finally opened up, and now I can’t help but feel a whole new level of attachment to him. To us. Or, well, to the idea of us.

    Last night, I didn’t push my luck after watching Bash get high—for the first time in what I had to assume was decades. When we went back inside the house, he scarfed down a bowl of chicken noodle soup, then some fresh-baked cookies… and then a bowl of chips.

    After a full attack of the munchies, he walked to the plush couch in the living room, flopped down, and conked out. For three hours, he slept, and I know because I kept checking on him. I draped a nket over his sleeping form, marveling at how much younger he appears in sleep, without the stern crease to his brow.

    When he woke up, he looked better rested than he had first thing in the morning. And seeing his improvement made it that much easier to head out to the studio for a night’s worth of teaching.

    Even today, my good mood persists. Partially because when I got home from workst night, the sounds of my favorite singing bowls ylist filtered from beneath Bash’s room and the scent ofvender oil wafted from beneath his door.

    Earlier I had texted him the link to the ylist and then left my speaker and the oil on his bedside table, just in case.

    Bash using them should not have felt as good as it did. It was so small, so simple. But it felt like more. It felt like he didn’t think I was ridiculous or zany. It felt like he valued the strategies I showed him.

    It felt like he valued me.

    I went to my room with a goofy grin on my face, though a huge part of me was tempted to crawl into bed with him. Sleeping next to Bash had been peaceful in a way that I don’t know I’ve experienced before.

    It was a quietpanionship, a soothing connection. It was just more.

    Everything with Bash has been, since the first time we met.

    Now, I prepare the studio for my morning ss, brain still hung up on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.

    Iy out blocks and straps at each station, with a full lesson n in my mind, then I head to the front of the studio so I can greet the students as they filter in.

    One by one, familiar faces pass through the door, each a part of the regr following I’ve amassed. Until I find myself staring into the eyes of someone I didn’t expect to see here at all.

    Bash.

    My mouth pops open and then closes again. “What…” I trail off, shaking my head as my lips curve up into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

    The way his gaze rakes over my body, lingering at my hips, my waist, my breasts, makes my body hum. For someone who spent so many years working to find beauty in her body, I don’t need to try at all with Bash.

    He shrugs, eyeing the studio as though he’s never seen it before, assessing the odds and ends for sale on the shelf in the corner. “I had a call with one of the fire association’s mental health workers this morning, and they suggested some different ways for me to soothe my nervous system. Yoga was one of them.” His eyes slice back to mine. “I told them I knew one of the best teachers around. Figured I’d try it.”

    My cheeks hurt from how hard I grin back at him. “Yeah?”

    “Yeah. So far, every piece of advice you’ve given me has only made me feel better. So I bet this will too.”

    I giggle. Yes, Bash makes me giddy.

    He wrings his hands together now, a sh of uncertainty touching his features. “I also wanted to take a moment to…” He scrubs a hand over his beard. “To apologize.”

    “For what?”

    “For being ornery. For the way I’ve spoken to you since you moved in. My call this morning made me realize this has been a long timeing. That I haven’t been myself. And that I have taken out a fair bit of my anxiety on the people around me.”

    I blink, not wanting to interrupt him. Even though I want to tell him how hot it is to hear him apologize. Too many people walk around never reflecting on their actions, never owning them, never admitting when they’re wrong.

    “I hate the way I’ve spoken to you in certain moments, and I wanted to tell you I n to be better. To work on all these…” His hand goes into a wlike shape as he rotates it near his chest and his lips draw back as though he’s disgusted by the words he’s about to say. “To work on all these feelings.”

    I blink again. Then, I nod. But I say nothing. Honestly, I’m concerned that if I speak, I willugh over how appalled he looks over having to deal with feelings.

    “I was a dick. I wasn’t myself. Especially that night with the roon.”

    My head bobs. He was a dick about the roon. But then he also kissed me stupid, and that part had been a make-out session for the record books.

    It hadn’t been a healthy interaction, but parts of it had been pretty damn unforgettable. “Yeah, but maybe you don’t need to be sorry about everything that happened that night.”

    One of his brows quirks and his head tilts almost suggestively. “There are certainly parts of that night I am not sorry about.”

    A thrill races down my spine as my eyes shift to take in the lobby around us, wondering if anyone is watching or listening in as they stroll past.

    Bash has no such hesitation; he carries on like he didn’t just make me all hot and bothered with one simple sentence.

    “Ished out, and you didn’t deserve it. So I’m sorry. If you want to be Gwen Dawson, mother of roons, then I won’t stand in your way. I support you in that venture. You can be seen and heard in my house. And you are wee to befriend overgrown rodents who may or may not carry diseases. I won’t judge you.”

    I tilt my head to show that I don’t quite believe him.

    With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, holding a hand up in defeat. “Much.”

    I smile broadly. “Yeah, that’s more believable.”

    “Yeah. Okay. I won’t judge you much.”

    “Thank you. I appreciate this. And your honesty. And even your mild judgment. If you were too chipper about this exploration of feelings, it would be a red g.”

    He gives me an eye roll for that dig and then forges ahead, letting a little cynicism back in. And I’m d for it. That signature bitchiness is just part of his charm now. “Okay, let’s go stretch and shit.”

    I snort and take him by the hand, long enough to give him a reassuring squeeze as I lead him down the hall. “Let’s go get you set up for stretching and shit.”

    Once in the ssroom, I guide him to a spot in the corner near my mat so I can help him as much as possible. I unroll one of the studio’s purple mats for him—part of my ongoing effort to make him look at more purple things—and help him settle into a simple pose while the rest of the ss finds their ces.

    As I lead everyone through the lesson, I make a conscious effort not to only focus on Bash. I start on the far side of the ssroom, adjusting positions, whispering reminders to soften or stop holding their breath, to rx their spine.

    When I work my way around to Bash, something about seeing him here—trying, being open to giving this a whirl—hits me square in the chest.

    I know he’s showing up for himself, but it feels like he’s showing up for me too.

    Either way, it endears him to me even more. This is what makes him different. This is proof that he believes in me and in what I do to make my living. I shouldn’t want his approval, but damn, it feels good to have it.

    As he moves into Downward Dog, I let my palm glide over his spine. His shoulders are tight, so I apply gentle pressure between them. “Make space here, between your shoulder des, and drop your chin,” I whisper before moving my hand in a gentle circle on his back.

    He shivers.

    It’s way too easy to touch him freely here.

    Under the guise of checking his alignment, I let my hands wander. They end up on his hips, straightening him. “Release through your lower back. If it’s too strong of a stretch, you can bend your knees, take a deep breath, and then push back into it. Eventually, you’ll be able to rx your heels to the floor.”

    He snorts at that, but he says nothing. In fact, all he does is try. Every time I make my way around the ssroom and back to him, his breathing is more even. His muscles, just a little softer. His entire aura, more rxed.

    “You’re doing amazing,” I whisper.

    He chuckles and shakes his head, as though he doesn’t believe mypliments.

    But it makes no difference to me. I continue giving him praise at every turn, enjoying telling him what a fabulous job he’s doing. And the more I do, the more I realize I misread his reaction at first. It’s not dismissive. It’s… bashful.

    It’s as though he doesn’t know how to ept apliment—or doesn’t buy it. I figure if I keep giving them to him, one day he’ll start believing me.

    At the end of the ss, we move into Savasana, and much like Clyde always does, Bash falls asleep.

    As the rest of the ss filters out, he finally wakes. Not wanting to stare at him like the obsessed fangirl that I am, I turn my focus to saying goodbye to each student as they depart.

    Bree, one of my favorite students,es up to me. There’s a lightness in her bodynguage that wasn’t there when she first began yoga with me. Back then, her energy was all turmoil, heartbreak, and sadness, but with time, she’s found some bnce, and it makes my heart swell to see her in a better space.

    From what I know, she’d been through a lot. She hasn’t been at her best, but she’s never stopped trying. And striving to be better is one of the best things a person can do.

    As such, Bree is pretty badass in my books.

    She gives me a shy smile as she hands me a small box wrapped with a pretty bow. “Happy early birthday, Gwen,” she says. “I know you’re not teaching tomorrow, so I wanted to give this to you today. It’s been a hard year for me, but your sses have been a bright spot. I hope you know what a big difference you make in people’s lives.”

    My eyes well as I ept the gift, then wrap her lithe body in a tight hug. “Thank you, Bree” is all I manage, my voice thick with emotion.

    When I step back, I squeeze her shoulder, eyes still misty, and smile.

    “You enjoy your day off,” she says, giving my arm an affectionate rub. “And I’ll see you on the weekend.”

    “Perfect. I’ll see you then,” I say, watching the woman pad quietly from the room.

    When I turn back, Bash is the only student who remains. He’s kneeling on the mat, hands sped over his knees, brow furrowed.

    When he sees that I’ve faced his direction, he lifts his chin, dark eyes dancing over mine in a way that warms me from head to toe. His expression is a mix of both confusion and determination.

    “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday tomorrow.”

    I wave him off. “Because it’s not a big deal.”

    Birthdays have always left a sour taste in my mouth, and I don’t look forward to them. Usually, I take them as a day to reflect, to practice gratitude, and to think about all the things I would like to aplish in the year toe. And what I rarely acknowledge is that my birthday usually makes me miss my parents.

    Bash stands, shaking his head, his tone of voice slipping back to slightly surly. “Yeah, Gwen, it is a big deal.”