Winters in Portland are cold and dark—a stark contrast to the perpetual warmth of Florida. The sun sets far too early, and the endless gray skies press down on me. I signed up for yoga as an escape, a place to find some semblance of light and movement amid the stillness of these long evenings.
I hadn’t expected to meet him there.
He always arrives a little late, slipping in quietly and unrolling his mat in the back corner of the studio. There’s something unassuming about him, but I notice everything—the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, the lean strength in his arms, the quiet focus in his posture. He’s my height, which surprises me; I’ve always imagined I’d be drawn to someone taller. But it feels right, somehow. Grounded.
Tonight, as we move through the poses, I find myself distracted. My gaze drifts toward him, catching the outline of his profile in the soft candlelight. I wonder what his voice sounds like. Is it deep? Gentle? Does he laugh easily, or is he the kind of person who only smiles when no one’s looking?
Somehow, I imagine we’re walking out of the studio together, the sharp, cold air a welcome change from the warmth inside. “Good class tonight,” I say, the words hesitant but deliberate.
He smiles, a flash of warmth in the winter chill. “Yeah, it was. Really needed it after today.”
We fall into step together, our breath misting in the crisp air. The city feels quieter tonight, the streets softer under the dim glow of streetlights. We talk easily—small things at first, like work and the weather, and then, as if by some unspoken agreement, deeper things. I tell him about Florida, about the winters I never had to think about before, and he shares stories of his childhood summers in Mumbai, where the heat was so heavy you could feel it pressing against your skin.
When we reach his apartment building, he hesitates at the door. “Do you want to come up?” he asks, his voice soft but certain.
I nod, my heart thrumming in my chest.
His apartment is warm and unpretentious, filled with small signs of who he is—books on the coffee table, a framed photo of his family on the shelf. We sit on the couch, a movie playing softly in the background. I don’t remember the name of it; I don’t think either of us is really watching. Our knees touch, and the slight contact feels electric.
It’s his hand that moves first, brushing against mine, hesitant but deliberate. I don’t pull away. There’s a moment—just a moment—when the air seems to shift, heavy with something unspoken. Then he stands abruptly and disappears into the next room, returning with a small jar of coconut oil. The smell is instantly nostalgic, earthy and rich.
“Would you put some in my hair?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.
I nod, taking the jar from him, scooping out a small amount with my fingers. He sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me, and I kneel behind him. My hands find his scalp, and I massage the oil gently into his hair, my fingers weaving through the thick strands. He sighs softly, his shoulders relaxing under my touch. The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming, and yet it feels natural, like something we’ve done a hundred times before.
My hands wander, slipping from his hair to his shoulders, tracing the lines of his chest. His skin is smooth but firm, warm with a faint musky scent that makes my breath hitch. I let my fingers explore the soft hair on his chest, marveling at the way his body responds under my touch. His breathing deepens, and I let my hands drift lower, grazing his hips.
The room feels heavy, charged with something electric, and I close my eyes, letting myself sink fully into the moment.
“Namaste,” a soft voice says, breaking through the stillness.
My eyes snap open. The room is bathed in candlelight, the faint scent of lavender filling the air. The instructor stands at the front of the studio, her hands pressed together in a gentle bow. Around me, the other students begin to stir, rolling up their mats and murmuring softly.
I sit up slowly, my heart still racing, and glance around the room. No one is looking at me.
I exhale, letting the fantasy fade, but the warmth lingers. The yoga mat beneath me feels grounding, but my thoughts are still adrift. As I roll up my mat and gather my things, the crisp air from the window hits my face, a reminder of where I really am.
I step out into the cold, gray evening alone, the imagined warmth of him still clinging to my skin like a secret.
