Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Keane
Another day, another entry . . .
I’m not sure if practicing yoga with Julianna—Jules, as Zeke calls her—is a good idea. Or maybe it’s too good of an idea, which is the real problem.
Every morning, we go through the flow, matching our breaths to the rhythm of the poses. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Except I don’t fucking breathe the way I’m supposed to. Not when she’s near me.
She moves around me, correcting my posture with the lightest touch—her hands brushing against my shoulders or guiding my arms. Every time she does, I hold my breath.
It’s not just the touch, though that alone is enough to undo me. It’s her. The way her hair escapes from her braid, the loose strands catching the morning light. The faint scent of her—something soft, floral, and maddeningly subtle—lingers in the air, wrapping around me like a memory I can’t quite place.
And her voice. Fuck, her voice. It’s calm, patient, but there’s something about it that pulls at me. Like it’s not just my posture she’s trying to fix, but my broken soul too.
She’s always so close, yet I feel like I’m a world away. I’m distracted by every little thing—how her lips purse in concentration as she demonstrates a pose, how her fingers tap lightly against her thigh when she’s thinking. It’s like every movement is a small piece of her she doesn’t realize she’s giving away.
I try not to stare, but it’s impossible not to notice the curve of her smile when she catches me wobbling mid-pose, or the way her laugh softens when Rayne joins us outside, claiming her spot on the swing like it’s her throne.
Jules doesn’t just move. She exists. She gives life to everything around her. She lives fully. She’s so present in every moment. So in tune with everything around her. It’s magnetic. I’ve never met anyone like her, and it terrifies me how much I crave the time we spend together.
Because the truth is, it’s not just yoga. It’s her.
It’s the way she glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking, like she’s trying to figure me out. It’s the way she talks to Rayne, her voice shifting into something even softer, something that feels like safety.
And it’s the way I feel when I’m with her—like I’m not a total mess. Like maybe there’s a version of me she could see as whole.
Every time her hand lingers a little too long or her gaze meets mine for just a second too much, my heart trips over itself, and I wonder if she feels it too.
But I can’t let myself go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She deserves someone better than me—someone who isn’t trying to rebuild a life from the wreckage of what they destroyed. But when I’m with her, I can’t help but want to be better. Even if I don’t know how.
So, tomorrow, I’ll show up again. I’ll go with the flow, try to match my breath to hers, and hope she doesn’t notice how often I hold it when she’s close.
And I’ll wonder, just like I always do, if this thing that’s growing between us is real—or if it’s just me, grasping for something I’ll never have the courage to reach for.