Pilates

Isabella woke to the alarm.

For a second she did not move. The sheets were kicked down around her hips. She looked at her own naked body in the morning light — bare chest and Daniel’s arm still heavy across her waist.

"babe?" She hears Daniel behind her.

Daniel was already half awake behind her. His hand slid up from her stomach and cupped one of her tits, squeezing it lazily, thumb brushing over her nipple like he was still in last night.

“Morning,” he murmured and kissed her shoulder.

“Morning, I have to get up. sleepyhead”

He made a small unhappy sound and fondled her other breast, pulling her back against him, causing her to fall back into his arms. “Five more minutes please.”

“I would love to, but I can’t. I have pilates, remember.”

Daniel kissed the side of her neck and kept his hand on her, warm and possessive in the soft way he always was. Isabella stared at the ceiling and let him touch her tits for another few seconds, then gently moved his wrist.

“I’ll be back after.”

She sat up. The sheet fell away completely. Daniel watched her cross the room naked, staring at her beautiful figure.

The campus gym was almost empty at that hour. A few students on treadmills. The pilates studio already warm. Isabella signed in, took a mat near the back wall, and tried to make her body do something simple.

“Aight, ladies, let’s get this started.”

Kelsey’s voice bounced off the mirrors. Pale wood. Glass. Morning light in long white bars across the floor. Isabella sat tall on her heels and reached one arm overhead until her side pulled tight. The black top shifted with the stretch, the single strap cutting across her chest, a strip of skin showing above the waistband.

That was when she saw him in the mirror.

Coach Ryan Hale stood on the far side of the room with a coffee. He leaned against the wall like the class was something he had walked in to watch. His eyes found her reflection first, then dropped to the tight black crop, the bare stomach, the way the fabric clung when she inhaled.

Kelsey counted them into a roll down.

Isabella tucked her chin and folded forward, vertebra by vertebra. In the glass she watched Ryan take a slow sip and stay exactly where he was. He did not come over. He just watched.

“Bridges,” Kelsey called. “Ribs heavy. Squeeze at the top.”

Isabella lay back. Cool mat under her shoulders. Bare midriff under the overhead lights. She pressed through her heels and lifted. The black bottoms drew tight across her hips. The crop rode up a little, showing more of her stomach, the gold ring at her navel catching the light. In the wall of mirrors her body looked too open, every line of her held up under the studio lamps while the rest of the room kept moving like nothing was wrong.

From the other side of the room Ryan’s gaze stayed locked on the lift of her hips and the stretch of that black top. He made it look idle. A man with coffee. A coach killing time. It was not. Every time she lowered and lifted again, his eyes followed the motion and stayed there a second too long.

“Side lying,” Kelsey called. “Top leg long. Hips stacked.”

Isabella turned onto her hip. Sweat had started at the base of her throat and along the single strap of the top. The black fabric had darkened along her ribs. She stacked her hips the way she was told and stared at the baseboard so she would not have to look at the glass. She looked anyway. Ryan still did not leave the wall. Coffee in one hand. Shoulder against the frame. Watching her like the rest of the class did not exist.

Kelsey walked the front row, tapping a shoulder, laughing at something one of the other women said. The music kept a soft count. Isabella’s standing leg started to shake. She locked it and held.

Kelsey clapped. “Last stretch, then you’re done. Nice work, ladies.”

Isabella sat up and folded over her legs. That was when he moved.

Ryan crossed the studio only then, slow, like he had been waiting for the cooldown on purpose. He picked a path behind the other mats so it looked accidental. He stopped behind hers while she was reaching for her feet. In the mirror he was standing over her, looking down the open line of her back, the cling of the black set, the flush across her chest.

“Form’s good,” he said, low enough that it stayed between them. “I love seeing you show off your body.”

Isabella kept her eyes on her shins. “What are you doing in class.”

“Class is over.” Coffee on his breath as he crouched. One hand hovered near her hip, close enough that she felt the heat of his fingers without the touch. “And plus I’m just watching.”

“Don’t,” Isabella whispered.

He put two fingers against the back of her knee, a correction that was not a correction, and let them slide an inch too high. Isabella’s breath caught. She shifted her leg. He followed the movement like it was part of the stretch.

“Sauna’s empty, you know.”

The other women rolled their mats and talked about coffee. Someone laughed near the door. A water bottle hit the floor and rolled. Isabella rolled her own mat too fast, shoved it under her arm, and headed out without looking at him.

The hallway was cooler. Fluorescent. A vending machine humming against the wall. Intramural posters peeling at the corners. She made it five steps before she heard him behind her. Same coffee. Same smile. Same unhurried walk, like he had all morning.

“Go away,” she said.