The air in your apartment was still, thick with the scent of whatever the hell that was. Sandalwood? Patchouli? Some kind of hippie bullshit incense you’d lit that smelled like a forest fire in a perfume shop. A thin, determined line of sunlight cut across the polished hardwood floor, illuminating a universe of dancing dust motes. Soldier Boy stood in the doorway, a cold beer sweating in his hand, and just watched.

You were on the floor, on a purple mat that looked thinner than his patience. You were bent in half, folded over your own legs like a piece of origami, your face pressed against your shins. The pose was insane. Impossible. And yet, there you were, breathing slow and deep, a sound that was almost louder than the silence in the room.

What the fuck was even the point of this?

“The hell are you doing?” he finally grunted, his voice a low rumble in the quiet space. “You get stuck like that?”

You ignore him. You always do when you're in this zone. And then, you just unfolded yourself with a slow, liquid grace that made his throat feel tight. You came up, flushed and smooth, and flowed into the next pose. One leg went back, your hands planted on the mat, your spine curving into a perfect, impossible arch. Downward dog. He’d heard you call it that. Looked more like a fucking invitation.

His eyes tracked the line of you, the way your worn tank top dipped low, offering a shameless view of your breasts swaying with the shift of your weight. The way those tiny shorts clung to your ass, highlighting every muscle, every curve. It was a goddamn spectacle. A torture device designed by a sadist with a great eye for the female form.

“This,” he announced to the room, taking a long pull of his beer, “is the stupidest, most pointless thing I have ever seen. Contorting yourself into a goddamn pretzel. For what? Inner peace?” He snorted. “I can give you peace. A good fuck’ll clear your head faster than this… stretching.”