Page 127 of The Yoga Teacher

Daniel had stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard, before locking the phone without replying.

She’d stay the night in Denver. That made sense. No reason to fly back the same day after something that big. She deserved to rest, to take her time.

So that morning, he was driving back to the house.

Herhouse.

The side gate still stuck. He should have fixed it before he gave her the house. Had told himself it didn’t matter. That she’d call someone, or leave it, or do whatever she wanted. But the hinge had been bothering him. If he couldn’t undo the damage he’d done, he could at least make the gate stop dragging.

It was the only way he allowed himself to love her now—fixing things when she wasn't looking, making her path smoother without recognition.

His love had become something he expressed in her absence, a devotion that required nothing in return, not even awareness. It felt right that way. Pure. Undemanding.

He parked at the curb, grabbed his tools from the backseat, and let himself into the yard.

The hinge was rusted worse than he remembered. He crouched, unscrewing the panel. He would fix it and leave. That was the deal now. Quiet service. Invisible penance.

A soft thud echoed from inside the house.

He froze.

Then—a laugh.

A man’s laugh.

Daniel went still, every nerve in his body snapping tight.

He turned, slowly, automatically sliding into the narrow space between the house and the fence. It was instinct—cowardly and immediate. Like prey. Like guilt.

He stood there, half-concealed by the climbing vines she’d planted their second summer there.

The back door creaked open.

Tristan.

Shirtless. Hair tousled. Coffee mug in hand like he fucking belonged there.

A jolt of heat that surged up from his spine, roared through his chest, and nearly knocked him off balance.

Rage.

Ugly. Primal. All-consuming.

Tristan laughed again—sleep-heavy, familiar—and turned back toward the kitchen. A moment later, Hannah’s voice followed. Quiet. Casual.

She was in there. With him.

And Daniel couldn’t breathe.

He stood there, crouched like a goddamn coward, watching Tristan step barefoot onto the porch, stretching in the sun like he’d just had the best night of his life.

The image was already there, seared into the backs of his eyes—Tristan’s hands on her, Tristan in her bed, her laughing in a way Daniel hadn’t heard in months. And not because of him. Never again because of him.

He wanted to punch something. Break something. Drive his fist through the fence or Tristan’s face or his own fucking reflection.

He wanted to scream. To claw the sound out of his throat and let it echo until it stripped him clean.

Howdarehe be here?

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