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javiersvest · 12 days ago

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breathe, hold, release (pt. 1)

joel miller x f!pilates instructor reader

summary: when sarah forces joel to drive her to a new pilates studio downtown, he finds a new favorite way to spend saturday mornings.

tags: mdni (18+ only), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader is afab/able bodied, has long hair, no other physical descriptors, meet cute vibes, no smut (yet! part 2 pending) but joel is having thoughts so, slightly pervy!joel, age gap (joel is 40, reader is 28), mention of a breeding kink if you really squint, joel is an angsty horny mess, if i forgot anything please lmk!

word count: 6.8k

a/n: this is my first published fic on here after bowing out of writing for a while, so i hope whoever stumbles across this enjoys. my user is misleading but i will be writing for pedro's other characters as well :) ty to my besties for beta'ing this for me ♡ pls be gentle.. alright goodbye!

——————————————————————————————————

“Pill what now?”

Joel’s headache throbbed in time with the sound of Sarah thundering down the stairs, nearly colliding with him as he stepped in from the backyard. It was only May, and already an unbearable heat had settled over Austin – eighty degrees before noon, causing sweat to plaster his shirt to his back. He’d spent the morning in a losing battle with a rotted fence post, back aching as he tried to dig it out of the ground. Stubborn bastard that it was, it wasn’t giving up easy.

“Pilates,” Sarah repeated, breezing past him with a blue tote bag slung over her shoulder. “There’s a new studio downtown and Vic’s mom got us a free class. Can you drive me?”

Joel bit back a groan, swiping the sweat from his brow with the heel of his hand. “Downtown?” he echoed, already dreading the traffic. Saturdays downtown were a nightmare; the farmer’s market turning a ten minute drive into half an hour, easily. Joel had unfortunately gotten stuck in the rush each time he had to make a supply run. He glanced toward the oven clock, the dimming light blinking 10:43 a.m. He needed to fix that, too.

Sarah had begun filling her water bottle – the matching one he’d bought her two birthdays ago.

“You need to shower before you take me, you’re gonna get me kicked out.” Sarah remarks, her finger pointing at him and motioning to all of the grime and dirt that clung to him like a second skin. “Class is at 11:30, we have time right?”

Joel ignored the question, sliding the back door’s lock into place. “What the hell is it anyway?” He rarely said no to her, despite his perpetual bearish nature and overall aversion for people. Too many times had Sarah dragged him out of the house just for him to get stuck somewhere that only reminded him of how lonely he was.

“It’s like yoga but with machines,” Sarah’s words are muffled in between her bites of an apple.

Joel’s brow raises. “Thought you said yoga was boring?”

She rolled her eyes and dropped onto the couch, already absorbed in her phone. “Go shower. If we’re late, they’ll charge Vic’s mom.”

He sighed, deep and through his nose. Muttering something about who in their right mind pays to do yoga on machines, he trudged up the stairs.

The truck rumbled down South Congress, Joel’s elbow propped against the window, one finger pressed to his temple in an effort to soothe the persistent ache pulsing behind his eye. A silver sedan cut him off with zero hesitation, and he bit back the curse rising to his lips.

“I told you we should’ve left earlier,” Sarah said from the passenger seat, craning her neck toward the window in search of the new studio.

Joel huffed, his tone dry. “I was covered in dirt, you said I had to shower.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you were a walking health code violation.” She laughs at her own joke and Joel’s expression remains in a comfortable scowl. Such a smartass. As he made a sharp right turn into the plaza, Sarah perked up and let her arm stretch out of the open window. “Right there! That’s it.”

Joel gave the building a once over. It was new, pristine, and pretentious. Probably owned by some well-to-do Texan socialite who spent more on coffee in a week than he did on power tools in a month. He parked with a heavy exhale and cut the engine. Sarah had one foot out the door, stressed about missing a second of class, when she paused. “Oh – you have to come in and sign a waiver.”

Joel paused, fingers still on the keys. “Thought the whole point of this was me sittin’ in the truck.” Driving back home and turning around to pick her up again would be a waste of time; and gas. But lingering outside in a baking metal box didn’t sound much better.

“It’s five minutes,” Sarah assured him, then smirked. “Unless being surrounded by chicks in leggings is too overwhelming for you.” Joel shot her a long, withering look in response.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shoving the door open with a little more force than necessary.

The parking lot shimmered in the sun as Joel stepped out of the truck, the soles of his boots crunching against the asphalt. Sarah was already halfway to the entrance, her tote bag bouncing against her side, curls swaying. Joel followed at a slower pace, dragging a hand through his hair. The studio came fully into view. Floor-to-ceiling glass, a glowing sign that read MOTIV in green serif, flanked by potted olive trees and dangling strings of fairy lights.

Inside, everything looked soft, curated, and suspiciously spotless. He walked through the front door and was hit with a cool rush of air and the sharp scent of lavender and orange; his headache vibrates in his skull. A display shelf of similar cups to Sarah’s and matching workout sets sat to the right. A neon pink sign above a brushed gold water dispenser glowing Hydrate + Radiate. He hovered near the entrance while Sarah went to check in, arms crossed with a faint scowl. The chalkboard on the wall read “Today’s intention: be here now.” The hell does that even mean?

Joel felt like a sore thumb with a heartbeat.

“Wow,” Sarah murmured, her voice echoing against the sleek linoleum floors as she looked around. “This place is so nice.”

Joel made a low sound in his throat, eyes narrowing at the bright lighting. The walls were all soft blush tones and polished wood, greenery hung in just the right places. Overhead a top fifty playlist sounded through the speakers, Joel recognized the current song from Sarah’s collection.

A woman steps out from around the corner, clipboard in hand, smiling bright and open. Your hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, loose strands of it catching the morning light and framing your face. If he looked close enough he could see the flush over your skin, probably due to the heat. You wore a soft pink sports bra and black leggings, a matching sheer wrap tied around your waist in a loose knot that somehow made the whole ensemble seem less like activewear and more like intention. Not flashy, not performative. Just… natural. Must be what that stupid chalkboard was talking about.

“Hi there!” you greet warmly, approaching with the kind of ease that could only come from liking the act of getting to know people. “Checking in?”

Your eyes meet Joel’s and he feels something stutter in his chest. He might’ve managed a proper introduction if every part of his body hadn’t suddenly forgotten how to function. He’d expected your voice to be sharp and high-pitched, but it was lower than he thought, and warm.

“I’m Sarah,” she answers, and Joel is grateful for it. “This is my dad. He’s just here to drop me off and sign the waiver thing?”

“Got it!” you beamed at her, then turned your attention back to Joel, your smile undimmed. “We ask all guardians to fill one out - liability stuff, just in case. These machines are a little weird for people at first.”

Joel feels like you’re overexplaining, his expression flat as you extend the clipboard to him. Behind him, Sarah coughed pointedly, silently telling him to stop being such an ass. When he glanced at her, she was already watching him with narrowed eyes. The pen attached had a small, fake sunflower affixed to the top. Joel stared at it like it was a trap. “...Really?”

You laugh, light and unbothered. “I know, but everyone seems to like them.”

Joel doesn’t do the polite thing – a laugh, a nod, that reflexive smile people give each other when they lock eyes in a grocery store. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose and squints at the waiver, pen scratching across the lines with a kind of grim determination. His handwriting is slanted and a little sloppy, like he’s trying to get it over with as fast as possible.

You turn your attention to Sarah, your voice softening. “We’ve got a few machines open, most people like being up front their first time so they can see what’s happening.”

Sarah perks up. “Cool. Is my friend Vic here already?”

You glance over your shoulder, smile brightening when you spot her. Now you remembered checking her in ten minutes ago, she’d mentioned she was saving a place for a friend. “Yep! She checked in earlier, I think she snagged the one in the middle for you. You two are doing this together?”

“First timers,” Sarah grins, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. “Her mom booked us the free class.”

“Trying new things, I love it!” you say, giving her a high-five. “She asked me earlier if it was normal to feel like Bambi on ice during the first class. I told her that’s half the fun.” Sarah laughs and heads toward Vic, who greets her with a dramatic stretch.

Joel is still standing at the counter, hunched slightly over the clipboard. He scrawls his signature on the last line, clearing his throat as he hands the clipboard back to you. Your eyes scan the page, and you find his messy handwriting endearing.

“Thanks… Joel,” you say, softly - not like you were spitting it out. Maybe he imagines that part. Joel gives a grunt that might be a thank you. You don’t seem to mind either way. You tuck the form under your arm and check your watch.

“You’re welcome to wait inside if you’d like - there’s cold towels and water in that fridge over there.” You motion to the bench in the corner with your chin. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He can’t formulate a response, can’t even mumble a simple token of gratitude. You gave another breezy smile and turned to greet a pair of women walking in behind him, slipping easily into conversation. Across the room, Sarah and Vic are giggling over their machines, pointing at the foot straps like they’re some kind of amusement park ride.

Joel lingers for a beat too long with the clipboard no longer in his hands, as if waiting for something else to anchor him. He wondered if you were pretending, if you ever talked to people the way he did; uninterested, rushed.

He sighs and moves toward the bench in the corner. The cushions are softer than expected. They remind him that he doesn’t belong here. He pretends not to notice the way each woman looks him up and down, probably wondering why the hell he was there. Still, Joel sits. Just a few minutes, he tells himself. Long enough to cool off. Long enough for his pulse to stop kicking at his throat. But as your voice drifts through the room - steady and laced with quiet command, he decides to stay.

——————————————————————————————————

Joel hadn’t meant to stare.

He really hadn’t.

But somehow, he found himself still on the bench fifteen minutes into the class, a cold towel slack in his hand, no longer pressed to the back of his neck. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, as if that’d make him less conspicuous. As if anyone in this goddamn studio even noticed he was still sitting there – except maybe Sarah, who'd sent him a single, suspicious look before disappearing into your instructions.

But Joel couldn’t look away. Not from you.

You’d claimed the reformer at the front of the class, surrounded by the ten students. Joel watched, rooted, as you’d settled onto it, feet covered with pink socks on the bar. You were fucking adorable. Every movement was fluid – graceful in a way that made his jaw clench. You moved through the class with quiet precision, your legs extending in a slow push that brought your hips off the carriage, then back down with a faint hiss of the springs. Your body stretched; long, flexed, contracted, then stilled. And then again. Again. Again.

It was obscene how hypnotic it was.

"Place your heels on the foot bar, toes flexed toward the ceiling. Keep your spine neutral and engage through that core,” your voice cutting through the lowered music like warm honey. You spoke like you trusted everyone in the room would follow you – even Joel, even though he wasn’t on a machine, even though he hadn’t moved an inch.

“Good. Now press through the heels, extend the legs. Slow tempo. Four counts to extend, four to return. Feel the hamstrings fire up.” And God help him, he did. Watching your body glide slowly along that strange looking machine, smooth and controlled, everything tight and drawn in. You continue until the class is warmed up, then step off your machine to observe.

“Now that we’ve got our legs warmed up, we’ll go ahead and move into foot loops,” you said. You’d taken the pink wrap from around your waist and tossed it onto the wall hooks, leaving only the curve of your hips in black leggings, your baby-pink sports bra clinging to your skin. Joel’s eyes followed you as you walked between the machines, stopping next to Sarah to help her get the foot straps on. Your voice lowers to guide her on where to place the straps, but he can’t hear you over the buzzing in his ears.

You moved down the row, adjusting tension springs on Vic’s machine. “We’re going to start with some wide leg circles. Let the loops pull your legs back as far as they can go, feel that stretch through the backs of the legs and then pull down through the middle.” Your arms lift and mimic the gesture, feet padding along the floor as you inspect each student to check for anyone needing guidance. When you’re satisfied with everyone’s form, you return to your machine and slip your own feet into the loops.

His breath caught when your legs started moving outward in slow splits, carving invisible circles in the air. Joel pressed the towel to his mouth. Not to cool off – just to keep from making a fucking sound. The straps catch in the pulleys above you, like silk thread tugging you from some invisible point in the ceiling.

“Keep your spine anchored, core doing the work. Focus on your breathing, that’s where the strength is.”

Joel feels his breathing switch up to match your pace, and it felt good. The straps kept tension in your limbs, your legs moving in wide circles, gliding just inches above the mat before rising again. The control it took – not just to move like that, but to make it look so easy – tightened something deep in Joel’s gut.

Joel could feel the resistance just from watching. The subtle burn in your thighs. The strain in your lower belly when you drew your legs tighter. The slight tremble in your inner muscles that showed, just for a second, before you steadied again. And Jesus, the way your stomach drew in when your legs came together, toes pointed, straps pulled taut… Joel shifts on the bench, one hand pressing into his thigh. He blinked, trying to scrub the image from behind his eyes. But it was seared there now – your legs in those slow, perfect arcs, hips pinned down, your voice soothing and low.

Then came bridges, and his jaw ticks.

You guide the class through the setup with that same calm cadence that had been slowly wrecking him all morning. “Alright, this one is going to burn after the first few, but I promise it’s worth it.” You joke and earn laughter from the room. “Pull the carriage in with your feet, arms straight and long on the carriage.”

And when you demonstrated the motion yourself – feet on the bar and your hips rising until you were up in the air – Joel’s brain completely derailed.

From the bench, he could see it all: your knees bent, heels digging into the foot bar, the slow articulation of your spine as it peeled away from the mat. Shoulders down. Hips up. The curve of your back forming a line he had absolutely no business thinking about.

“Feel the glutes working here, not the low back. Squeeze and hover, then we’ll pulse for ten and roll down,” you said, calm as ever, like you weren’t using all of your strength. You rolled down slowly, vertebra by vertebra, until your spine was flat again.

“Keep it steady. Don’t let the carriage slam. There’s strength in control.”

His jeans tighten further, jaw going slack.

He could see every line of your body through those leggings – the way your hips rose and fell in rhythm, the tight pull of muscle around your thighs, your stomach flexing, ribs shifting beneath your skin. That pink sports bra rose with each inhale, clung tighter with every breath you blew out.

Joel couldn’t stop imagining your breath against his throat, hot and shallow. Couldn’t stop picturing what it’d be like to have those thighs wrap around him in the air, hips shaking as he traces his name with his tongue in your sweetest spot. To feel the strength of you – the steadiness, the ease, the command. Would you still talk him through it? Patient, encouraging, eager to watch him fall apart?

His jeans were fucking unbearable now.

The machine creaks beneath you, slow and steady as you release and tell the class to catch their breath. Your palms flatten beside your hips, body curling as your knees drew in and your stomach hollowed. You begin rocking side to side to stretch through your lower back, instructing the class to do the same. His mind flashes with the image of you doing it in his bed, exhausted from him spending the night buried deep inside you, knees in the air to make it stick.

Joel dropped his gaze to the floor, pushing a sharp breath through his lips. What the fuck was wrong with him? His daughter was here, just a feet away, laughing quietly with you, following your cues without hesitation. And him? He was on a bench with a hard-on, staring at you like some fucking creep. Arousal simmering under denim like he was seventeen again. He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to will the tension out of his shoulders.

This wasn’t who he was. He was a father. He should’ve been paying attention to Sarah, making sure she felt supported, safe. But his mind had gone somewhere dark and hot and selfish – and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t drag it back.

All because of the way your voice wrapped around the room. Because of the curve of your back, the power in your legs, the way you didn’t even seem to know what you were doing to him.

And that was the worst part, this wasn’t a fantasy. It was real, you were real.

You sit up on your machine momentarily, one knee bent on top as you face the class.

“To cool down we’re going to do the same thing, but with our legs this time. What I mean by that is,” you pause and lie back down, everyone in the class sat up to watch your demonstration.

“Feet into the loops, your shoulders should stay grounded. With bridges we roll the back down one vertebrae at a time, this time think of lifting up with your spine instead.” Your legs rise up towards the ceiling, your toes pointed. Voice steady, you say something about keeping your tailbone tucked in, but Joel isn’t hearing you.

His eyes follow your body like he’s a snake charmed, lips parting in awe. He’s watching so closely he can see your abdomen flex just slightly as you lift up through your hips, practically suspended in midair if not for your shoulders staying down. And your face – focused, serene, utterly unbothered by both the difficult maneuver and the effect you were having on him just feet away.

You were so strong, so beautiful. Hell, he was old; probably didn’t know much about what people could do with their bodies outside of hard labor.

He bet you’d teach him a lot of things.

The best his imagination could do still had all his blood pumping to his cock.

If he had you under him, legs hooked over his shoulders, spine arched, stretched and slack like that for him… christ he wouldn’t be able to stop. Guiding your breathing as he turns you into a soft puddle of skin in his grip, fingertips pressing into your knee as he holds you still. He’d do it all night if you would let him. Now that he’d seen you like this, strong and sweet and sexy without even trying, he had to show you how good you were.

You held the pose for a few more seconds, some polite applause sounding from a few of the women. A bashful smile appears as you set your feet down, motioning for everyone to try. You start moving slowly, taking the time to correct each person’s form if necessary. The way you instructed was never malicious, no undercurrent of judgement if someone wasn’t at your level. Joel half expected every girl in here aside from his daughter to have that catty personality that made people feel bad about themselves just for saying hello.

He follows you as you get to Sarah’s machine, the teenager’s brow furrowed as she tried to lift her hips in the air how you did. Her legs were shaky, unsure. Joel almost stood up in case the machine did something wonky and hurt her. Soon there’s a pair of hands on Sarah’s calves, supporting her legs while you talk to her.

“Breathe into it, Sarah,” you say softly. “Imagine there’s a string pulling you right up, like you’re nothin’ but a feather.” You laugh airly at your own comment, Sarah’s eyes scrunching as she giggles back. Then your fingers are wrapped around her ankles, shoulder blades flexing under that baby pink sports bra as you guide her legs up.

She tries again – and this time, her body rises just like you’d said, wobbly, but right. You nod excitedly, a beaming smile on your face as you encourage her to hold the post without your support. Your fingers release and Sarah cranes her neck towards the bench.

She was checking; checking to see if her dad was watching. Just like at every soccer game, every choir show, Joel was. He sees her trying something new and succeeding, and sees you helping her get there. Joel’s smile is soft and immediate. Pride floods his chest as he gives her a small nod, then his eyes carry back to you.

You’re already looking at him, and Joel’s breathing nearly freezes.

There’s a look written across your face that he can’t decipher. A flicker of curiosity, maybe? The way you’re looking at him now, head tilted, lips parted, chest rising slow; it tells Joel you know. You know what he’s been thinking. Know he’s been watching you, wanting you, sinking teeth into every soft command and slow stretch like a starving man. And worse than that: you’re not stopping it. You’re not asking him to leave, or giving him dirty looks.

Joel swallows hard, jaw flexing as he drags his gaze down your throat, your shoulders, the curve of your waist. Lets you watch him imagine your thighs hooked over his shoulders, his hands keeping you steady, taking what he’s been aching for since the first breath you took in that room.

You blink slowly.

And just like that, it’s over. You turn back to the class, guiding and praising like you didn’t just fucking unravel him from across the room. His hands curl into fists on his knees when he realizes this isn’t just some fleeting crush. Not anymore.

The room settles, your voice softer but clear as you lead the class through a final cooldown. Your chin is tilted up towards the ceiling, shoulders rolling back. Then your hands come together in a gesture of appreciation. You thank everyone for coming, a few women already reaching for towels and water bottles. Sarah steps off the reformer and starts tugging her shoes back on, you coming over to adjust something with the machine Joel can’t see. She says something, he can’t hear it, but you both laugh, and Joel feels his chest crack open with something warm. Something more pure. But it’s not enough to smother the want.

Sarah joins Vic by the water refill station, the girls chatting excitedly and sharing their surprise for how fun it was. You’re kneeling by the machine she’d used, a bottle of disinfectant spraying onto the leather as you wipe it down with a rag. You do it to each machine, diligently moving through the motions like you’d done it a million times.

Everything is back to normal except him.

His body is still too wired, every nerve still lit up from watching you teach. And now he has to walk over, play it cool, and be a good dad. Ask Sarah if she had fun and tell her how proud he is – without letting a single thing on his face give him away.

God help him.

Sarah bounds towards him, some of her curls stuck to her forehead with sweat. “Who’s the walking health hazard now?” Joel teases, bumping his fist into her shoulder gently.

“It’s way harder than it looks,” she says with a tired smile, ignoring his banter. She must really be burnt out then.

Joel chuckles and looks at the reformers with a dramatic puff of air. “Those look like hell.”

“They are,” her grin grows, proud now. “But it was fun! Like, weirdly fun.”

He hums and lets her take a drink of water before asking, “You wanna come back then?”

Sarah doesn’t think anything of his question, but shakes her head. “No way, I just wanted to try it. Pilates is expensive,” she answers. Joel’s heart clenches a little, a flicker of insecurity on his face with the knowledge that his daughter was aware of their financial situation. They were comfortable, but things were definitely tight most of the time. Joel did what he needed to do.

“I’m sure they’ve got a payment plan or somethin’, c’mon let’s ask.” Joel jerks his chin towards the front desk. You’re sitting there now, sipping from a water bottle. Sarah looks at her dad in confusion, surprised that he was even entertaining the idea.

When they approach the desk you set the bottle down, smiling at Sarah. “Hey! How’d you like it? You did an amazing job for it being your first time.”

Her face lights up, and she can’t help but beam under the praise. “It was awesome, I didn’t think I’d be able to do half of that.”

“You’re always stronger than you think you are, at least that’s what I’ve learned doing this,” you offer kindly. Always affirming and attentive.

Joel clears his throat, voice steadier than he feels. “We were just wonderin’ about the membership. If there’s uh, a rate or somethin’ like that.”

Reaching under the desk you grab a piece of paper, placing it on the counter. You turn it so they can read it, your pointer finger tracing the rates as you explain each one. “Since we just opened a few months ago we're still running a 25% off discount if you buy three months of classes.”

Joel and Sarah share a look, but they don’t say anything, silently communicating. Joel’s hand moves to his back pocket, digging out his wallet and sliding one of his cards out.

“You better become star pupil, how much this is runnin’ me,” he jokes with her, handing the card to you. You laugh at the exchange, not impolitely. Joel feels a sense of accomplishment that he’d made you laugh.

“She’s already on her way, don’t worry.” You hand over his receipt with a smile, that same pen from earlier nestled between your thumb and the thin paper. The pen clicks against the counter as he hunches over to sign; sign himself away to you, it felt like. This time when the fake flower taped to the top grazes his knuckles, he just smiles to himself. Welcomes it, like that little flower was the closest he’d ever get to you.

——————————————————————————————————

It had become routine, sacred in its quiet regularity.

Every Saturday morning, he’d watch her fill up her water bottle, tousle her hair, then watch her sling that tote bag over her shoulder like she’d been doing pilates her whole life. Then Joel drove Sarah downtown, pretending to dread the drive a little less each week that passed. The first time back, he’d tried to leave after dropping her off. Using coffee as an excuse only worked that first time, though, Sarah knowing there was no way in hell Joel was going to drop $9 on a latte three buildings down. At least not on a coffee for himself.

It’d been about a month now; four Saturdays. Maybe five, he couldn’t remember. It was long enough that the receptionist knew him by name, long enough that Sarah had a favorite reformer, right next to yours, and a pre-class stretching routine. You had grown roots in his mind, but not just his – in Sarah’s too. Every afternoon after class she’d rave about your teaching, how funny you were, how she thought you were “just the coolest.”

Aside from the fact he already thought you were beautiful, the way his daughter spoke about you made appreciation bloom in his chest. You really saw her. You never shrunk her, always met her teenage uncertainty with warmth and ease, matched her sense of humor. In a room of older women, toned and polished, you treated Sarah like she belonged. The studio, with its sun-warmed floors and pop music, had become a place they both looked forward to.

And so, Joel would sit on that bench in the corner for an hour every weekend, watching you stretch and manipulate your body in ways he didn’t know were possible.

He told himself it was purely for Sarah. That it was about her confidence, her joy. And it was. The way she’d fallen in sync with you each class, it was worth every penny. He’d picked up some night jobs on the weekends Sarah was at a friend’s house just to make up for the splurge, his back aching in places it hadn’t before. He bet you’d be able to soothe that ache in his back, your hands gently nudging him over the line of satisfaction, voice gentle as you guide his breathing.

He couldn’t tell if you were aware of how much you fed his delusions. It was the way you smiled each time the pair walked in, the way you warmed up any conversation. The small talk had started slowly. Mundane things, safe things, like how long have you been doing this? 3 years. It’s really heating up out there isn’t it? I love the sun, it’s not so bad. Then it turned into questions about his week, how Sarah was doing, how he was doing.

You never seemed rushed, never distracted. Even when students would trickle in, you never ended your conversation with him. Some mornings, your eyes would focus on him in a way he had deemed unnecessary, eyes searching for something in his face while he talked.

Then you would laugh, quiet and low, when he said something he hadn’t intended to be funny. He wasn’t sure when you started touching his arm when you said goodbye, but he noticed now. The warmth of it. The quick, electric trail it left behind. You never lingered long enough for him to know for sure. Never stepped out of line. But you didn’t avoid him, either.

You followed him home every weekend, embedded in his mind’s eye. Your smile, your body, your voice. Dancing around in his head like the ballerina in a musicbox. One absolutely insignificant detail he’d latched onto was your backpack hanging up behind the desk. Specifically, the pink and silver bow chain dangling from one of the zippers. He’d watch it clink against the fabric each time you took a step, or watch it catch the light when you went to grab something from the small pocket in the front.

She’s got a bow on her keys, he’d think to himself, laying in bed with an arm behind his head.

Of course she does.

You become Joel's little secret, the adoringly kind pilates instructor downtown who always wore matching sets and had a bow keychain hanging on her bag.

Another class had concluded, women passing Joel as he leaned on the front desk, elbows starting to ache a little from pressing into the hard surface. Sarah started helping you around the studio a couple of weeks ago, wiping down machines and mindless tasks, anything to talk to you. This meant he got the hang around a bit longer, watch you. Talk to you. Sarah’s laughter echoes behind him; she offers to fold the towels, her good deed for the day, he hears her say.

You stood behind the desk, shoulders relaxed now that the class ended, a faint sheen still clinging to your skin. There was a different ease to you in the emptiness. The professional brightness dimmed, leaving something quieter in its place – closer to the woman he imagined when he was lying awake at night, chasing the sound of your laugh in his memory while he stared at the ceiling.

“Got anything fun planned for the rest of the day?” you ask him coolly, head tilted in curiosity. You lean into the counter just a little, eyes catching his in that way that knocks the wind out of him.

“Mm,” he hums. “Laundry, dishes. Fix this drawer in the kitchen that never shuts right.”

You lift a brow, smile pulling slowly. “Wow, that does sound fun,” you tease, but not unkindly.

He huffs a dry laugh, lets his gaze drag down the line of your arm and back up again. “Yeah, well. Sittin’ here in the air conditioning beats fixin’ drawers, but it’s gotta get done. Sarah’s been complainin’ about it for days.”

You smile knowingly, a clever glint in your eye. “And here I thought you were sitting in here cause you liked the view.”

He feels himself shift as he straightens up, like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips part as though he’s about to say something else, defend himself, put your suspicions to rest or apologize for being perverted. But nothing comes out. He could try to laugh, make a joke, say he’s just here for Sarah. Hell, maybe he could’ve done that a few Saturdays ago, but not now.

Not with the way you’re looking at him.

Like you already know.

Joel swallows thickly, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he might say something slick, something brave. But it falters, and he comes clean. “Would be lyin’ if I said I didn’t.”

Your brow arches, just barely. You don’t retreat, don’t fill the silence with something easier. You just hold his gaze, head tilted like you’re wondering how honest he’ll let himself be. He lets out a breath through his nose. “”M real sorry, I didn’t mean to..” he trails off, redness creeping up his tanned neck and peeking through the collar of his t-shirt.

Then you laugh; not loud or cruel, just amused. “Relax, Joel,” you say easily. “Be lying if I said I minded,” you copy his words and they land right in his chest.

He glances down at the counter. “Thought maybe you were just bein’ polite, or I read things wrong,” he shakes his head, brows knitted together.

“I was being polite,” you confirm with a nod. “But no, you didn’t read it wrong.”

Joel scratches the back of his neck, the shift in his stance subtle but telling. There’s still heat in the air between you, but now he’s glancing toward the hallway like he’s trying to redirect it, tuck it somewhere safer.

“By the way,” he says, clearing his throat, “Noticed one of the sinks in the men’s room’s got a slow drain,” he said, scratching lightly at the back of his neck. “These new buildings they rush the plumbing.”

You blink, then your brows lift in amusement. “Oh does it?”

“Yeah,” he nods, earnest as ever. “Probably just a loose fitting or the trap’s clogged, but,” he shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets, “I could take a look if you want.”

It’s so innocent on the surface. Almost too innocent. You tilt your head, watching him and waiting for a punchline. “Is this a ploy for something?”

His head jerks back slightly, as if the thought scandalized him. “What? No –” he rubs a palm over his beard, then exhales a quiet laugh. “I mean… no. Just hate bad handiwork, drives me crazy.”

You’re smiling now, arms crossed, leaning just a little into the counter. “So you’re not trying to impress me with your plumbing skills.”

He gives a low chuckle, something sheepish flickering in his expression. “God, no. Just wanna help you out, ‘fore it gets too bad.”

You purse your lips, fighting off an even wider smile. There’s something magnetic about his awkwardness. The way he tries so hard not to overstep, even as his interest leaks out bit by bit.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to show you're considering him. “Does Monday work? That’s our upkeep day.”

“Monday’s great.” Joel nods once, his eyes meeting yours with a tender expression in them.

Sarah steps into the room and squints at the freshly printed class schedule taped to the wall, her gaze quickly moving between it and you.

“Monday?” she asks, her brows furrowing. “Did the class get switched?”

The words hang in the air, and the shared look between you and Joel is one of fondness, like you’re sharing an inside joke.

“Your dad offered to fix a sink for me, what do you think it’s gonna run me?” you say, sliding a small pin across the counter toward Sarah.

You had a matching one affixed to your backpack, the studio’s name printed on it, and Sarah’s eyes light up. The beginning of a smirk starts to appear as she turns the pin over once. She doesn’t miss a thing.

“Hard to say,” she says, she muses, exaggeratedly thoughtful. “He’s not cheap. You might end up owing him dinner.”

You stifle a laugh, trying not to look too pleased as you lean on the counter. “You go around fixing every girl’s sink in exchange for food?”

Joel opens his mouth, but Sarah cuts in before he has the chance. “Just the girls he has crushes on.”

Joel groans low under his breath, head tipping back like he’s asking the ceiling for mercy. “Jesus, Sarah.”

Sarah taps the pin once against the edge of the counter, then pins it to her bag. “Well,” she says with a shrug, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Guess I’ll see you next Saturday, and he will see you on Monday.”

“Looking forward to it,” you say, eyes lingering on Joel just a moment longer, catching the way he shifts under the weight of all Sarah’s teasing.

Sarah leads him to the door and he hesitates, his hand grazing the back of his neck like he’s not quite ready to go, like there’s something else he wants to say but won’t.

“See you Monday,” he says at last, voice low, sincere.

You smile, warm and easy. “I’ll be here.”

Joel nods once, then turns to follow Sarah, who’s already halfway out the door. Just before it swings closed behind him, he glances back over his shoulder – there’s a quiet hopefulness in his eyes, an understanding that the feelings are mutual. That you saw him and his inner turmoil weeks ago, and you didn’t shy away.

You lift your hand in a quiet wave, no teasing this time.

Sarah is saying something about getting food on the way home, but Joel’s mind is still inside, with you. The way you’d smiled at him like you meant it. The way you leaned on the counter, eyes full of mischief, sweet as sin. He hadn’t expected any of this, and was getting more than he bargained for. As he gets into his truck, something settles in his chest – something heavier.

He’d looked too long. Thought too much. You didn’t even know what you were doing to him, and that made it worse. You were so good, so damn sweet, and he’d sat there every week with his head full of things he hadn’t let himself want in years. Things he wasn’t sure he had the right to want now. He told himself it was harmless. Just a little crush, something to think about at night to help him fall asleep.

But he was already thinking about Monday. The sink, sure, but mostly the quiet. Just the two of you. No class in session, no students to pretend around, no reason to keep his distance.

And that scared him more than anything.

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