I turn back to him, smiling despite myself. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer. “But I wanted to.”
There’s something in the way he says it—simple, certain—that makes it feel less like a gift and more like a decision that was always going to happen.
I shake my head, still half-laughing. “This is better than any studio.”
“That’s the point.”
I climb onto it without thinking.
My body remembers immediately—positions, balance, the subtle engagement of muscles I don’t usually notice.
But here in the apartment, it feels different. Quieter. More exposed becausehe’shere.
“Show me,” he says.
I glance at him. “What?”
“You like it,” he replies. “Show me.”
Heat creeps up my neck. But I start anyway, lying back on the platform and putting my hands through the straps, gripping them and pulling down as the platform moves beneath me.
Slow movements. Controlled. My breath syncing with the rhythm of the carriage.
I’m too conscious of where he’s standing. Of the way his gaze doesn’t waver for a second. It’s not casual watching. It’s focused. Intense. Like he’s taking in every movement, every shift, every adjustment my body makes.
I transition into another position, standing up on the static part of the platform and extending one leg onto the moving part,adjusting my balance and using the straps to keep myself stable. The carriage slides. My breath catches as I wobble.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
And then he’s there. His hand at my waist. Firm. Steadying.
“Like this,” he says quietly, shifting my hips just slightly. It’s a small adjustment, but my body reacts like it’s something more. “That’s better.”
I swallow. Try to focus. But his hand doesn’t move.
I continue the motion, slower now. Every movement feels heavier. More deliberate.
“You feel that?” he asks. His voice is lower now. Closer.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His hand shifts just enough to remind me it’s there. “Good.”
I stop moving. Not intentionally. It just… happens. The room feels quieter. Smaller. Like everything has narrowed down to the space between us.
“Come here,” he says.
I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I move.
He helps me off the reformer, his hands guiding me—waist, wrist, the back of my neck—like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been this easy to direct me.
“You like it,” he says again. Not a question.
“Yes.” My voice is softer now.
His fingers tilt my chin up. “Say thank you.”