Page 176 of The Yoga Teacher

With certainty.

Her heart didn’t race. Her palms weren’t sweating. She wasn’t bracing for anything.

She was ready.

She set the mug down.

“Stay,” she said, voice soft but steady.

He looked up, startled like he hadn’t let himself dream she’d say it. His mouth opened slightly. “For breakfast?”

“For today,” she said. “And tomorrow. And after that.”

A breath hitched in his chest.

She crossed the kitchen slowly, bare feet soundless against the tile. When she stopped in front of him, he didn’t reach for her. Just waited, eyes wide and reverent like he didn’t dare disrupt whatever spell this was.

She liked that.

The patience.

The quiet restraint.

The way he looked at her like she was the only compass he trusted now.

A small flicker of something lit in her chest—something warm and sturdy. Trust, maybe. Or something close enough to begin again with.

She stepped forward and pressed her forehead to his chest. They stood like that for a long moment, the beat of his heart steady under her skin.

Then she pulled back, walked to the bottom drawer—the one she hadn’t opened in months—and knelt down.

The manila folder was still there, tucked behind tax documents and expired coupons and a stack of takeout menus they hadn’t used since the year everything cracked.

She pulled it out. Laid it flat on the counter like a challenge.

Daniel’s breath caught. “Is that…?”

She nodded once.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at the folder like it was haunted.

She flipped it open. Pulled out the unsigned divorce papers, slightly bent at the corners. Still legal. Still real.

Still unnecessary.

Her fingers hovered for just a second. Then she reached into the junk drawer and pulled out the lighter.

As soon as she moved, Daniel opened the back door and followed her outside. The morning air was brisk, the garden still dewy, the rosemary bush wild and unruly near the edge.

The firepit was cold, its ash from last fall still tucked into the corners like old bones.

She held the papers above it. Felt the slight tremble in her hands—not fear. Power.

A ritual.

She looked over at him. “This is probably a little silly, right?”

He shook his head, eyes glassy. “Hannah—this is one of the best moments of my life.”

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