Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Keane
The yoga studio smells like lavender and something earthy I can’t place. The scent curls around me, invasive and irritating, as I step inside and glance around. It’s quiet here—too quiet, save for the soft murmur of voices drifting from the main room. The walls are pale blue, except for the mirror in front of the room. All this is supposed to calm you, but all it does is put me on edge. Everything about this place feels wrong.
Too polished.
Too open.
Too . . . much.
I was able to avoid yoga classes during my ninety-day rehab stay because I was too busy in therapy. Horse therapy. That’s when I realized I’d rather be among animals than humans. Nothing against people, but animals don’t judge. They just exist.
The point is that I shouldn’t be here. Hell, I don’t even want to be here. But after weeks of relentless prodding from my physical therapist, I finally gave in. She swore this would help. This isn’t just any yoga. It’s trauma-informed yoga, whatever the fuck that means. I just want her to stop looking at me with those sad, knowing eyes, like she’s dissecting every fractured piece of me and putting them on display.
A woman at the front desk looks up as I walk in, her smile immediate and professional. “Hi. Welcome to Luna Yoga. Are you here for the trauma-informed class?”
I nod, forcing myself to return her smile with a tight one of my own. “Yeah.” The word feels like sandpaper in my throat.
She gestures to a clipboard on the counter. “If you could just sign in here, and we’ll get you set up. The class is about to start.”
I scribble my name on the sheet, the pen feeling awkward and too small in my hand. Keane Stone. There it is, written in purple—not black—ink, as if I’ve just committed to something I can’t take back.
“If you don’t have a mat, you can grab a mat from the shelf over there,” she says, pointing to a wall lined with rolled-up mats. “The instructor will guide you through everything, so don’t worry if it’s your first time.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, already moving toward the mats. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I’m cursing myself for agreeing to this. I’m not built for this kind of thing—the communal silence, the vulnerability. The last thing I need is a room full of strangers watching me try to twist my broken body into shapes it can’t manage anymore.
The main room is dimly lit, with soft, ambient music playing in the background. A handful of people are already here, setting up their mats and stretching. I find a spot in the back corner, as far away from everyone else as I can manage. My hands grip the edges of the mat as I unroll it.
The door opens, and she walks in.
At first, I don’t notice her—just another face in the crowd. But then her voice cuts through the low hum of the music, warm and inviting, drawing my attention. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Julianna, and I’ll be guiding you through today’s practice.” Her presence is magnetic, her confidence effortless, and suddenly, she’s impossible to ignore.
My head snaps up before I can stop myself, and there she is. Brown hair swept into a loose braid that falls over her shoulder, a nose with a playful upturn, and a smile that feels like a warm invitation. She’s petite but carries herself with an ease that draws my eyes, her curves soft and natural, her movements so fluid it’s like the air bends around her.
Julianna stands at the front of the room, radiating a quiet confidence that doesn’t demand attention—she earns it. Her eyes sweep the room, lingering on each person as if she’s already found something to connect with in all of us. And then her gaze meets mine.
Something sparks—unexpected, electric. My heart stumbles as her lips curve slightly, a flicker of recognition or maybe curiosity. I can’t tell, but it doesn’t matter. She’s magnetic, the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you, not because of how she looks, but because of the way she is. I should look away, but I don’t. I can’t.
She doesn’t pause when her eyes land on me, doesn’t falter or hesitate. It’s like she already knows what’s written all over my face. The tension. The reluctance. The thinly veiled desperation to be anywhere but here.
“I’m glad you’re here. There are many tools available to heal trauma and one of them is practicing yoga. As a trauma-informed yoga instructor, today I’ll be guiding you into a safe place where you can develop a deeper sense of trust and mind-body connection. I encourage you to take any variations and do what you feel is best for your body.
“Let’s start by finding a comfortable seat on your mat,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Take a moment to ground yourself, to settle into this space.”
I do as she says, but my version of grounding involves crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the wall. I’m here, aren’t I? That’s enough.
Julianna moves through the room, adjusting the lights and offering quiet instructions. The others follow her lead, their movements fluid and precise, like they’ve been doing this for years. I’m painfully aware of how out of place I am, a jagged edge in a room full of smooth curves.
“If you’re comfortable, close your eyes,” she says, her voice breaking through my thoughts. “Take a deep breath in through your nose, and let it out slowly through your mouth.”
My jaw tightens. Closing my eyes isn’t an option. The moment I do, the memories come rushing back—the headlights, the crash, her voice screaming my name. The way everything went still afterward, like the universe had decided to stop moving just long enough to let me feel the full weight of what I’d done.
“If closing your eyes doesn’t feel comfortable, that’s okay,” Julianna says, her voice soft and reassuring, as if she’s speaking directly to me. “Keep them open. Find something in the room to focus on—something that helps you feel at ease.”
Her words catch me off guard, and I force myself to look at the floor, tracing the way the faint light plays along the grain of the wood. It doesn’t calm the chaos inside me, and it sure as hell doesn’t help me focus, but it’s better than meeting her gaze again.
The class moves on, each pose more complicated than the last. Julianna demonstrates every movement with ease. She moves through the room, offering adjustments and quiet praise, but she doesn’t come near me. I’m grateful for it. I don’t think I could handle her hands on me, correcting the tension in my shoulders or the way my spine refuses to bend.
Still, I can’t stop watching her. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she carries herself, that’s both intimidating and magnetic. She doesn’t just exist in this space. Sheowns it, commands it, but without arrogance or force. It’s unsettling and captivating all at once.
When the class ends, I’m the first to roll up my mat and head for the door. The others linger, chatting quietly as they pack up their things, but I don’t want to be a part of that. I’ve had enough forced interaction for one day.
“It’s Keane, right?” Her voice stops me just as I reach the door. It’s the first time she’s said my name, and hearing it come from her lips does something I can’t quite explain. I turn slowly, gripping the strap of the mat slung over my shoulder.
She’s standing a few feet away, her expression calm but unreadable. “I’m glad you came today,” she says. “I know this can be a lot, especially if it’s your first time.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” I admit, the words sharper than I intended. Her eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t react the way I expect. No pity. No judgment. Just quiet curiosity.
“There’s always a choice,” she states. “But I’m glad you came. Sometimes showing up is the hardest part. And you did. That’s something.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod and push the door open, stepping into the cool air. The tension in my chest eases just a little as I walk to my car, but her voice lingers, gentle and unwavering, weaving through the noise in my mind.
Even when I barely did anything during the class, I suddenly wonder if maybe—just maybe—there’s a way out of this darkness after all.