Inside, the room was warm—not yet as hot as it would be, but already warm, and sweat trickled between Shaw’s shoulder blades. It smelled like a yoga studio: eucalyptus and mint and sweat.

“It smells like feet,” North said. A toned blonde glanced at him, her expression full of distaste. North grimaced at her until she flinched and looked away.

“It does kind of smell like feet,” Shaw said. “Come on, mats over here.”

They got settled. The instructor, a woman with iron-gray hair cut down to the scalp and a body like an MMA fighter, circulated, greeting the students. She smiled at Shaw, and the smile faded as she looked at North.

“This is the one?”

“Yeah,” Shaw said.

She looked at North for what felt like a full minute. Then she said, “It’s your choice, I guess,” and walked away.

“What the hell was that?”

“I think she likes you,” Shaw said.

“But what the hell was that?”

When class started, Shaw kept an eye on North. The bigger man was struggling. At first, it was just a lot of micro-adjustments as he tried to hold positions. When he did downward dog, his shirt slid, bunching under his arms and exposing the slabs of muscle in his back. Sweat glowed on his skin. Then North grunted, shifting most of his weight to his other arm, and Shaw realized something was wrong.

He scrambled up off the mat and crouched next to North.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine.” North huffed a few breaths; his face looked like chalk. “It’s just hot.”

“Your shoulder—”

“I’m fine, Shaw.”

The instructor was staring over at them. Shaw waved, and she nodded and continued to move through her practice.

“Just tell me how to get into the fucking pretzel that everybody else is doing and I’ll be fine. Shit, why are they moving again?”

“Let’s go, North. We’ll get some ice on your shoulder and—”

“No. I promised you I’d do this, and I’m going to do it.”

“Um, that’s not exactly—”

“Either tell me how to do it right or get back on your fucking mat.”

“Language,” said a woman with a severe bob and a librarian’s glower.

“Bitch fuck shit hell damn,” North hissed at her. Then, to Shaw, “Well?”

“You don’t need to—”

“Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.”

He tried to brace his weight on his good arm, and Shaw caught him by the hips. “No, hold on. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He was suddenly very aware of the thin cotton under his fingers, of the way the sweat slicked North’s skin, of the hollows of his hips where Shaw’s fingers fit when they made love.

“Oh shit,” Shaw muttered.

“Shaw?”

“Oh shit.”

“What’s the matter? Why are you—oh.”

“Just be quiet.”

North started to laugh.

“North, please.”