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“Oh,” I say, taking a half step back before I can stop myself. “Hi there.” I glance up at Nick, who’s watching me with an amused grin. “Didn’t realize you had a… a canine security system.”

Nick leans down, ruffling the dog’s ears like she’s just a regular good girl and not a fur-covered bouncer deciding if I’m allowed inside. “This is Sunshine. Don’t worry, she looks scary, but she’s the sweetest thing in the world. Unless, you know, you’re planning to rob me or something.”

Sunshine’s ears flick at his words, but her intense gaze never wavers. I swear I see her assessing my posture, my breathing, maybe even my criminal record. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, trying to keep my tone light even as my heart pounds in my chest.

Nick chuckles. “She’s part of a rehabilitation program.”

I can’t help but arch a brow at that, still rooted in place just outside the doorway. “Rehabilitating who? You or the Terminator here?”

“Both, actually,” Nick says, scratching under her chin. His voice softens, and something in his expression shifts—gentler, more vulnerable. “Sunshine’s a vet, just like me. She was wounded in the line of duty and retired from service. Theypaired us up because apparently we’re supposed to be good for each other.” He chuckles, the sound low and a little self-deprecating. “I couldn’t tell ya if I’ve been any good for her, but she’s been great for me. She’s an inspiration. Come a lot farther than I have.”

“I’d say that means you’ve been plenty good for her.” I glance down at Sunshine just as her mouth drops open and her tongue lolls out, her head cocking to the side with a curious little whine.“Are you sure she’s okay with me being here?”

Nick laughs, the sound low and warm. “If she wasn’t, you’d know by now. Sunshine doesn’t do subtle.”

His words don’t do much to reassure me, but before I can respond, Sunshine’s posture softens. Her ears tilt back slightly, her body relaxing as she steps forward to sniff at me. Slowly, cautiously, I offer my hand, and after a few tense seconds, her tail gives a tentative wag. The tension in my shoulders eases, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“There you go,” Nick says, his grin widening as Sunshine licks my hand, her earlier menace completely gone. “Told you she was sweet.”

“Yeah, sweet like a chainsaw,” I mutter, but I can’t help smiling as I scratch behind her ears. Sunshine leans into the touch, her big brown eyes suddenly soft and trusting.

Stepping inside, I can’t help but notice Nick’s house feels a lot like he does right now. At one point, he put time and energy into the place, but now there’s a thin layer of dust on the surfaces. The walls are painted a soft sand color, and while the windows have blinds and curtains begging to let in light, they’re pulled taut. Pictures line a desk in the foyer. Most of them show Nick in uniform, smiling with other Marines, standing in front of tents in the desert, or dressed in his blues, receiving medals. Two or three of the frames are facedown, though, and I wonder what memories he’s trying to keep hidden.

“So,” I say, switching to the task ahead to mask my sudden discomfort, “where’s the worst of it?”

Nick looks baffled and I hurry on. “The soreness, I mean. Depending on how bad it is, I’m not sure working those muscles again is a great idea.”

I meet his gaze, suddenly very aware of how close we are, of the fact that I’m in his space, surrounded byhim. This is where he sleeps, where he breathes, where he has good days and bad days. There’s something intimate about being here, in the place he calls home. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

Nick drags his fingers through his hair. I’d grown used to him with his military crop, but he’s wearing his hair shaggy now. It’s like everything else about him, untouched since he came home. The longer hair works for him, but I don’t like what it suggests about his mental state.

“I hurt from here to here,” he says, waving a hand from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, “but I don’t want you to worry about that. I’m an expert at working through discomfort. I’m tired of walking around like an old man, and I really don’t want to be the big guy who falls over all the time the next time I come to class. So, hit me with your best stuff so it never happens again.”

I laugh. “Remember what I said about you being predictable?”

“Yeah…” Nick gives me the side-eye.

“Let’s just say I definitely knew that would be your perspective.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No. Just that maybe you should learn that hard-charging into things isn’t always the best play. Sometimes you need to breathe a little. To allow rather than control.”

“Now who’s being predictable, Miss Crunchy Granola Yoga Instructor?”

We move into the living room, shifting furniture to make space, and I lead him through a simple seated flow. His body is warm beneath my hands as I adjust his posture—his muscles strong and taut beneath his skin. Every time my fingers brush against him, I’m hyper-aware of the heat radiating between us, of how much space he takes up, physically and otherwise.

I guide him through the poses, my voice soft. “Breathe into it.”

He sits up, his face so close to mine that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw. Our eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. I’m tumbling, head over heels through the bluest sky, standing on a pier watching him walking away, certain that Nick Hutton is my future… until he cocks his head and pulls back slightly, returning me to the here and now.

“What does that even mean?” he asks, his voice low, gravelly. “Breathe into it?”

I swallow, trying to focus. “Allow the inhale to expand your ribs and lungs, to lengthen your body, then use the exhale to soften into the stretch. Let the movement happen naturally. Don’t force it. Just let it be.”

Nick’s gaze stays locked on mine for a second too long. For a second, I think he might kiss me. Or I might kiss him. Like the year separating us never happened and he never pushed me away and I never met Davis. It’s just me and Nick, the way I thought we were meant to be. But then he leans forward into the stretch again, seemingly oblivious to the electricity crackling between us.

“Allow. Soften. Don’t force it,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “I made a life out of making things happen. Observe. Orient. Decide. Act. On a loop. I didn’t ‘allow’ shit.”

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