“Everyone else canceled,” she said, turning the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
“You could’ve told me.”
“I wanted to see if you’d still come.”
The studio felt different without background noise — just soft music and the faint echo of our footsteps.
“What are we working on?” I asked.
“Control,” she replied. “Yours.”
She positioned me with a light push to the chest, then adjusted my arms, my shoulders — her touch precise but unhurried. Instruction that lingered.
“You resist being guided,” she observed.
“I like knowing what’s happening.”
She smiled slightly. “That’s the problem.”
She stepped in closer and lowered her voice.
“Real chemistry,” she said, “happens when you stop predicting and start feeling.”
Her fingers slid down to my wrist and held it there — pulse to pulse.
“Tell me when you want me to let go,” she whispered.
She didn’t sound like she expected me to say it.
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