Page 193 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Hank places a hand on my back. They hold me until the ache of change, of growing up and letting go, begins to ease.

The rest of the day unfolds in a comfortable rhythm we’ve perfected over the past week. Hank makes breakfast—his omelets are criminal—while I finish my coffee and Gabe does the crossword. It’s domestic in a way that should feel strange but doesn’t.

Chapter 51

Late morning findsme on the back deck, flowing through sun salutations while the guys work out like a damn action movie montage. The contrast would be comical if it weren’t so perfectly them—me in my quiet yoga flow, slow and deliberate… while Hank counts push-ups at full volume, deliberately trying to mess with Gabe’s rhythm as he grinds through his pull-ups.

“Thirty-seven!” Hank grunts, arms flexing, back muscles rippling with each smooth descent.

I have an excellent view from my downward dog—and take full advantage.

Gabe’s hanging from the pull-up bar, sweat slicking his back, every muscle cut and defined, moving with lethal grace. “Nineteen—no, twenty—damn it, Hank!”

Hank’s smug grin flashes. “What? Not my fault you can’t count and lift at the same time. Thirty-eight!”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Gabe mutters, his grip tightening as he powers through another pull-up, veins standing out along his forearms.

“Have you seen your ass in those shorts?” I offer, stretching deeper into my pose. “It’s a distraction hazard.”

“Sweetheart, I am the hazard.” Gabe huffs, but his mouth curves into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Forty!” Hank announces, skipping a number on purpose, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“That was thirty-nine,” Gabe drops from the bar, shaking his head. “Anyway, I lost count at twenty-three.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.” Hank springs to his feet in one fluid motion.

The switch from banter to brotherhood is seamless—their rhythm is as steady as my breathing. I move into warrior pose, letting their presence wrap around me like sunlight.

Warm. Solid. Steady.

They move around each other with the ease of men who’ve shared foxholes, firefights, and women—passing water bottles, trading good-natured insults, and filling the morning air with their comfortable dynamic.

I sink deeper into my pose, hiding my smile against my knee. Their playful competitiveness is the soundtrack to my day; these two men somehow fit together as seamlessly as they fit with me.

“You’re disrupting her zen,” Gabe complains when Hank hums “Eye of the Tiger.”

“She’s smiling, isn’t she?” Hank shoots back, and he’s right.

I am.

Helplessly so.

Gabe narrows his eyes, muscles coiled with predatory intent. He lunges forward, taking a playful swing that Hank dodges.

They’re grappling on the deck in seconds, a tangle of limbs and testosterone. Hank hooks an ankle behind Gabe’s knee, attempting to throw him off balance, but Gabe counters with a move that sends them both rolling dangerously close to where I’m trying to maintain my warrior pose.

“Seriously, guys?” I try to sound stern but can’t keep the laughter from my voice as I sidestep their wrestling match.

Neither responds, too caught up in their mockbattle. Gabe gets Hank in a loose headlock, but Hank twists out of it, flipping their positions with a grunt of effort. The deck vibrates beneath my feet with their wrestling.

“Namaste,” I mutter sarcastically, closing my eyes and attempting to find my center despite the chaos unfolding three feet away.

The sounds of their struggle—huffed breaths, muffled curses, and barely contained laughter—create a strange counterpoint to my controlled breathing.

I open one eye to see Hank pin Gabe briefly before Gabe reverses their positions, both of them grinning like schoolboys despite the deadly skills their bodies possess.

I sink into my final pose, somehow finding calm in the eye of their storm. With their lethal training, these dangerous men wrestle like puppies while I find my zen.

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