Alicia adjusts her mat, every motion calm and deliberate, like she’s tuned to a completely different frequency from my jittery fidgeting.
She moves like she’s got the music wired into her veins—fluid, effortless, every motion syncing with the low pulse of the bass humming through the air. Her dark brown hair, pulled into a sleek ponytail, bounces with each stride, chestnut waves flashing under the fluorescent lights like molten caramel.
Then there are her eyes—hazel, sharp, always scanning. They shift with the light, flickering between gold and green, taking everything in. There’s something about them. Calculated, sure. But warm, too, like she knows exactly how to pull you in without trying.
Her skin glows with a sun-kissed warmth, the kind that makes her look like she belongs outside, soaking in the daylight. The black leggings mold to her legs, stretching with every precise movement, showing strength without flaunting it. Her fitted tank? Same story—just enough to hint at the muscle beneath, a quiet, undeniable statement.
But it’s not just the way she looks. It’s how she exists in a space. She doesn’t ask for attention—she commands it, effortlessly, like it’s her right. There’s this energy around her, an unspoken challenge humming in the air. Keep up, if you can. It crackles like static, pressing in, shifting something in the back of my mind before I can stop it.
She doesn’t just move through my thoughts. She redefines them.
“Ready to give it a try?” she asks, her tone light, almost inviting.
“Sure,” I say, though the word wobbles on the way out.
Her gaze meets mine, steady, unflinching. For a second, I’m convinced she sees straight through my act. “Good,” she says. “You’ve already done the hardest part.”
“What’s that?”
“Walking through the door.”
Her words land heavier than I expect, like she’s just unearthed some hidden truth. I nod, mostly to myself. Maybe she’s right. Maybe just being here is its own kind of win.
The hum of the gym blurs into the background, fading beneath the steady rhythm of my breathing. I step onto the mat, feeling it give slightly under my weight. The world hasn’t changed, but maybe I have.
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“Let’s start,” Alicia says, her voice calm, grounding.
The yoga section of the gym is its own pocket of quiet. The clang of weights and the drone of treadmills exist somewhere beyond, muffled like an outside world I don’t need to worry about. Diffused light softens the edges of the room, and the faint scent of lavender lingers, promising peace. But peace doesn’t come easy.
“Let’s start with some stretches,” Alicia says, her smile easy, assured. “Good way to loosen up—and get to know each other.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Isn’t yoga just stretching?”
She laughs, bright and melodic. “Fair. But it’s stretching with purpose.”
I nod, unconvinced. Stretching feels like stretching. Still, I tug at my hoodie sleeves, suddenly aware of how warm it is in here. Or maybe I was always warm.
“You’ll be more comfortable without that hoodie,” Alicia says, casual but firm, her gaze pinning me in place.
“I’m good,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Not cold or anything.”
Her eyes sharpen, playful but unrelenting. “Come on, Carlos. You don’t need to hide under layers. This is yoga, not boot camp.”
Before I can protest, she steps closer. Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches for my hoodie. “Here,” she says, voice soft but insistent.
I freeze. Instinct screams to back off, to create space. But her confidence makes hesitation feel awkward. Reluctantly, I let her tug the hoodie over my head. The fabric snags on my nose before coming free, leaving me in a fitted tank that reveals more than I’d like.
Alicia exhales sharply. “Damn, Carlos.” Her eyes drag over my arms and shoulders, lingering too long. “You sure you don’t live at the gym?”
I force a laugh. “Never said I don’t work out.”
Her fingers trace the ink on my right arm, the swirling patterns leading toward my collarbone. “These are stunning,” she murmurs, voice dropping. “So much detail.”
I glance down at the designs—symbols and words woven with meaning. “Yeah,” I say, keeping it light. “Took a while.”
She leans closer, fingertips ghosting over the edges of black and gray. “This one,” she says, almost reverently, “it’s powerful. Your culture really comes through.”
My jaw tightens. “Thanks.”
“Cholo and Chicano heritage, right?” Her touch drifts toward the bold Revolución inked across my back. “It’s all about strength, isn’t it? Resistance?”
I step back. The space between us feels necessary. “It’s personal.”
Her hand falls away, and she blinks, startled. “Of course,” she says quickly, but there’s something off in her tone. A stiffness. “I just think it’s amazing how you wear your heritage. Like, literally on your skin.”
I nod, masking the weight pressing against my ribs. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy, uneven. I glance around, searching for an anchor, but the yoga section remains lavender-scented and useless.
Alicia’s gaze flickers back to my arm, drawn like gravity. “People must compliment these all the time,” she says. “They’re so bold. So… masculine.”
I let out a hollow chuckle. “They’re not about that.”
Her head tilts, curiosity flickering across her face. “Then what are they about?”
Memories surface—late nights spent listening to my abuela’s stories, her voice weaving tales of survival, family, sacrifice. The ink is my tether to those moments, to the history etched into my bones long before I ever set foot in a tattoo shop.
But I don’t say that.
It’s not for her. Not now.
“They’re personal,” I repeat, voice flat.
She nods slowly. Her smile returns, but it’s thinner now, like she’s not sure where she misstepped. “I get it,” she says. But she doesn’t.
Not really.