I woke up and got myself ready for yoga. I slipped into short, stretchy yoga pants and tight but flexible shorts that hugged every curve. As I continued to stretch, I could feel my muscles slowly warming up, my body loosening and my mind drifting—until I heard the soft creak of the door and sensed Miles watching me.
Suddenly, every move felt hotter, slower, and way less innocent.
"Like what you see?" I asked him, smirking over my shoulder.
Miles leaned against the doorframe like he owned the whole world—and unfortunately, most of my attention. His eyes dropped, slowly dragging from my ankles up to my hips, then higher. That lazy grin tugged at his lips, the one that always made me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
"I mean," he said, voice low and teasing, "I was just coming to grab some water… but apparently, there's a free show in the living room."
I rolled my eyes and reached down to touch my toes, just to mess with him. My hamstrings stretched, my shorts riding up a little higher. I heard him suck in a quiet breath.
Good.
"Careful," I said, still bent over. "You keep staring like that, you'll catch a cramp."
He laughed under his breath. "The only cramp I'm catching is from trying to behave around you."
I straightened and moved into a side lunge, arms reaching overhead. "Nobody asked you to behave," I shot back. "You're the one acting like a saint all of a sudden."
He pushed off the door and walked closer, barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white T-shirt wrinkled like he'd just rolled out of bed. His curls were a little messy, his eyes still soft with sleep.
"Trust me," he said, stopping a foot away, "there's nothing saintly about what's happening in my head right now."
A shiver ran through me, but I tried to keep my face neutral. "Then stay over there and keep it in your head," I said, switching legs.
He tilted his head, studying me. "Why, you scared?"
I scoffed. "Of you? Please."
He stepped closer. "Then let me help you stretch, princesa."
I hesitated, pulse skipping. "You don't even do yoga."
"Yeah," he said, smirking. "But I'm a fast learner."
Before I could protest, he moved behind me, big hands lightly wrapping around my hips. "Bend forward," he murmured.
"Bossy," I muttered, but I did it anyway, folding at the waist.
He followed my movement, one hand sliding to the small of my back, the other resting on my thigh to steady me. His touch was firm but careful, fingers splayed like he was afraid to press too hard.
"Does this hurt?" he asked.
"No," I said, voice a little breathy. "Feels… good."
"Yeah," he replied, and I could hear the smile in his tone. "I know."
He guided me a little deeper into the stretch, his breath warm against the back of my neck. Every inch of my skin felt too aware of him—the heat of his chest, the way his fingers flexed on my thigh.
"Miles," I said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"If you keep touching me like that, I'm not going to finish this yoga session."
He chuckled softly. "Who told you I wanted you to finish?"
I straightened up fast and turned around, swatting his chest. "You're impossible."
He caught my wrist gently before I could pull away. For a second, all the joking faded from his face. His eyes searched mine, a softness there that made my stomach flip.
"Jayla," he said, voice lower now, "you know if you ever want me to stop, I will, right? For real. Just say it."
Something in me melted a little. I hated how much I liked hearing that—and how safe it made me feel.
"I know," I said, quieter than before.
He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a small kiss to my knuckles. "Good."
I rolled my eyes to cover the way my heart was suddenly doing gymnastics. "You're ruining my bad-girl image, you know that?"
He grinned. "You? Bad girl? You're the one doing yoga at eight in the morning, princesa. That's main-character-trying-to-get-her-life-together energy."
"Maybe I am trying," I admitted.
He loosened his hold on my wrist, fingers sliding down to lace through mine instead. "Then let me help."
I squinted at him. "You? Help me get my life together? You literally fight in underground rings for fun."
He shrugged, unbothered. "I can still hold a yoga pose."
"Prove it," I challenged.
His eyes lit up. "Bet."
We moved to the center of the room, the early light slanting through the windows and pooling across the hardwood floor. I stood facing him, feet hip-width apart.
"Okay," I said, trying not to smile. "We start simple. Tree pose."
"Sounds easy," he said.
"Uh-huh. Lift one foot, put it against your calf or thigh—just not your knee. Hands at your chest."
He tried to copy me, wobbling immediately.
I bit back a laugh. "Wow. Amazing. So graceful."
"Shut up," he said, focusing hard as he lifted his foot higher.
His arms flailed a little. I stepped closer on instinct, hands hovering near his sides.
"Do not let me fall," he warned.
"Trust me," I said, smirking. "If you fall, I'm recording it."
He shot me a look—and that was all it took. His balance went sideways, and he tipped toward me.
I squealed as his weight crashed into mine. We stumbled together, my back hitting the yoga mat as he landed half on, half over me. For a second, neither of us moved.
Then he started laughing.
Full-on, head-thrown-back, can't-breathe laughing.
I tried to stay mad, but it was impossible. "You suck at this," I giggled.
He braced one arm beside my head, the other still around my waist from the fall, our legs tangled. "You're the one who distracted me," he said.
"How? By existing?"
"Exactly."
The laughter faded into something quieter, softer. His face hovered just inches from mine, curls falling over his forehead. I could see the tiny flecks of darker brown in his eyes, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.
His thumb brushed absently along my waist, just under the hem of my top. My breath hitched.
"Jayla," he murmured.
"Yeah?" I whispered.
"This… okay?" His gaze searched mine, careful, that same question he'd asked in the closet now written all over his face.
I swallowed, then nodded. "It's okay."
He leaned in slowly, giving me all the time in the world to stop him if I wanted to. I didn't. Our noses brushed, then his lips met mine in a kiss that was the opposite of last night's fire.
This one was warm. Unhurried. Sweet.
My fingers curled into the front of his T-shirt, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss just slightly, like he was afraid to push too far. The world outside the living room faded—no ocean, no Brooklyn, no drama. Just the soft slide of his mouth on mine and the steady thump of his heart under my palm.
When we finally broke apart, we were both smiling.
"That was…" he started.
"Cute," I finished, wrinkling my nose.
He laughed. "Wow. Way to kill the moment."
"I'm serious," I said. "I like cute. Just… not all the time. Don't get soft on me, Miles."
He brushed a strand of hair from my face. "Too late."
My chest squeezed.
He rolled off me and lay on his back next to me on the mat, one arm tucked behind his head. After a second, he reached out with his other hand, just barely brushing the back of his fingers against mine.
I turned my hand over and threaded our fingers together.
"So," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "New rule."
"Oh, we have rules now?"
"Yeah. Rule number one: You stop saying you don't belong to anyone like that means you're alone. You've got people now." He squeezed my hand gently. "You've got me."
My throat tightened. "And rule number two?"
He smiled. "Rule number two: Every time life tries to screw you over, we start the day with yoga and end it with something sweet. Coffee, ice cream, making fun of rich people on TikTok—I don't care. Just… something that's ours."
I turned my head to look at him. "Something that's ours, huh?"
He met my eyes, suddenly serious again. "Yeah. Ours."
For a long moment, we just lay there, hands linked, the morning light slowly climbing the walls. I could feel the familiar ache of the past pressing at the edges of my mind—San Angel, the ocean, Dan, Makayla—but it felt farther away now, like a storm I'd finally driven past.
"Okay," I said softly. "I like that rule."
He grinned. "You better. I worked hard on it."
"You made it up five seconds ago."
"Genius works fast."
I snorted, but my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Maybe this was what starting over actually looked like—not some dramatic, perfect movie scene, but yoga mats on the floor, failed tree poses, tangled limbs, and soft kisses in the morning light.
I squeezed his hand.
"Hey, Miles?"
"Yeah?"
"You know that ocean I told you about?"
He turned his head toward me. "The one that feels like home?"
I nodded. "Yeah. That one." I took a breath. "This… kinda feels like that. A little."
His smile faded into something gentler, something that made my chest ache in a good way.
"Then I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not unless you tell me to."
I didn't answer with words. I just shifted closer, resting my head on his shoulder, our joined hands resting over his heart.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I didn't have to face this new life alone.