Chapter 2 - Lilah
two
Lilah
I sent the email to Kevin after midnight because I couldn't sleep.
Dear Kevin, After careful consideration, I've decided that my studio is no longer a good fit for your practice. I wish you well on your wellness journey. - Lilah
I rewrote it seventeen times. Added and deleted apologies. Almost chickened out completely. But Geoff's voice kept echoing in my head: Next time anyone makes a comment about your ass, you kick him out. Immediately.
So I did it. Hit send before I could overthink it more.
Kevin responded at 6 AM: Are you serious? Over one joke? You're way too sensitive. This is ridiculous.
I stared at the email for ten minutes, fingers hovering over the keyboard, already composing an apology in my head.
Then I remembered how uncomfortable Kevin made me feel.
How the other students, especially the women, tensed up when he arrived.
How many "jokes" I'd laughed off over the past six months.
I deleted his email without responding.
It felt terrifying and liberating at the same time.
Now it's Wednesday and I'm setting up for the evening class. Geoff said he’d come back. Men like him, all gruff and damaged and clearly allergic to anything remotely spiritual, don't usually return after one session.
But, he walks in right on time. Black gym shorts, a faded Marine Corps t-shirt that's tight across his shoulders and chest. His dark hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and he moves carefully, favoring his left side, but better than Monday. Less stiff.
"You came," I say, immediately cringing at how surprised I sound.
"Said I would." He grabs the same mat from Monday and heads to the back corner without further comment. "Kevin responded to your email?"
My heart skips. "How did you know?"
"You have that look. Like you're waiting for punishment."
I bite my lip, remembering Kevin's angry response this morning. "He said I was too sensitive. That it was just a joke."
Geoff's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping there. "You didn't apologize to him, did you?"
"No! I just... I deleted his email without responding."
"Good girl."
The words hit me unexpectedly, making something warm unfurl low in my stomach.
I've been called "good girl" before-– by my parents, by teachers, always in that patronizing way that means you're behaving as expected.
But the way Geoff says it, low and serious and like I've actually accomplished something difficult, feels entirely different. Earned.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "For pushing me to do it."
"You did it. I just pointed out what needed doing." He settles onto his mat with a barely suppressed wince. "Are we doing this or what?"
The class fills up, and Mrs. MacDonald arrives, immediately trying to pay with a check this time. I notice it's dated for next week, and I open my mouth to accept it, to tell her whenever is fine—
"Payment due at time of service." Geoff's voice carries across the studio from his corner, though he's not even looking at us, still focused on his stretching
"I... I could run to the ATM?" Mrs. MacDonald stammers, her face flushing.
"That would be great!" I say quickly, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. "Class starts at six, so if you're quick—"
"Take your time," Geoff interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll wait."
"We will?" The question comes out as barely more than a squeak.
He finally looks at me, and those dark eyes are steady, unyielding. "We will."
Mrs. MacDonald practically runs out of the studio, and I watch her go with a mixture of mortification and something else I can't quite name. She returns eight minutes later with cash, flustered and apologetic, paying full price without any of her usual excuses or promises.
After she's settled on her mat, I walk over to Geoff, keeping my voice low. "You can't just do that."
"Can't what? Protect your business? Someone has to."
"I can handle it."
"You can't," he says flatly, but there's no cruelty in it. Just stating a fact. "And that's okay. But you need to learn."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. I hate that this stranger saw through me in one class and is now casually reorganizing my entire professional life.
But also... my cash box has more money in it than it's had in months.
Classes are paid. Kevin's gone. Maybe Geoff's interference isn't the worst thing that could happen to me.
The class goes smoothly. Geoff still struggles with the flexibility, but his form is improving. His breathing is more controlled. During warrior pose, I adjust his back leg, and he doesn't flinch away from the touch.
"You're doing better," I murmur.
"Helps when I'm not hungover," he admits quietly.
After class, he stays late and helps me wipe down the mats without asking. Then he notices my payment system of a simple cash box and a spiral notebook where I write down who owes what.
"This is your bookkeeping?" There's no judgment in his voice, just weary resignation.
"I'm not very good with that stuff."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain as he flips through pages of names and amounts, some dating back months. "No shit. When's the last time you actually collected on these?"
"I mean, people will pay when they can—"
"Lilah." He closes the notebook and levels me with that look, the one that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and safe. "How behind are you on rent?"
My stomach drops to somewhere around my feet and I look at the floor.
"How. Behind." Each word is deliberate, commanding.
"Three months," I whisper, the shame of it making my voice small. "But the landlord is understanding—"
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time since I met him, he looks genuinely frustrated. "Okay. New system. Starting now."
"Geoff, I appreciate the concern, but this is my business."
"And it's failing because you won't protect it." He's not mean about it, just matter-of-fact, using the same tone he probably used with Marines under his command. "I'm setting up a payment app on your phone. No more cash box. No more 'pay me later.' Card on file, automatic charges. Done."
"But what if someone can't afford—"
"Then they can't afford yoga," he cuts me off. "You're not a charity, Lilah. You're a business owner who needs to eat and keep a roof over her head."
The words are harsh but they land softly because I know he's right. I've been running myself into the ground trying to be nice, trying to make everyone happy, trying to never be the bad guy. And where has it gotten me? Broke, stressed, on the verge of losing everything I've worked for.
"I don't know how to be firm," I admit, the confession feeling like pulling out a splinter. "Every time I try, I just fold. Apologize. Give in."
"That's why you have me now." The casual possessiveness in those words makes my breath catch in my throat.
"I can have you?" I ask before I can stop myself. My face is burning.
"For now. Until you learn to do this yourself. Consider me training wheels."
"Training wheels," I echo, testing the metaphor.
"Yeah. When you can ride on your own, I'll let go. But until then, I'm helping you stay upright."
Over the next hour, he completely reorganizes my payment system, setting up automatic charging and creating a waitlist system so I stop letting random people drop in and disrupt class.
He even makes me a basic spreadsheet to track income and expenses, his fingers moving over my phone screen with surprising efficiency.
"You're good at this," I observe, watching him work with a kind of fascinated attention.
"I'm good at systems. Structure. The military trains you for that." He glances up at me briefly before returning to the phone. "What I'm not good at? People. Being nice. All that touchy-feely crap you do naturally."
"It's not crap!"
"Either way, I'm not good at it. You are. We're just balanced differently." He hands back my phone, now organized with apps and systems I would've never figured out alone. "We balance each other out."
I think about that as he gathers his things to leave, about how I'm all softness and accommodation, and he's all edges and boundaries. How my weakness is his strength and maybe, just maybe, vice versa.
"Geoff? Can I ask you something?"
He pauses at the door, turning back to face me. "Yeah."
"Why are you really doing this? You don't even know me."
He's quiet for a moment, and I watch something complex move across his face - consideration, maybe, or the weighing of how much truth to offer.
"Because I know what it's like to need help and be too stubborn to ask for it.
And because..." He finally meets my eyes.
"Because watching you let people walk all over you pisses me off.
You're better than that. Your business deserves better than that.
You just need someone to believe it until you do. "
My eyes sting with sudden, unexpected tears. When's the last time someone believed in me? Really believed, not just offered empty encouragement while secretly thinking I was too soft, too accommodating, too much of a pushover to ever succeed at anything?
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion.
"Don't thank me yet. This is just the start." He heads for the door again, then pauses with his hand on the frame. "Next class is Friday, right?"
"Right."
"I'll be here. And Lilah?" He's already walking away when he calls back over his shoulder. "When someone tries to negotiate the price down or shows up late or doesn't pay, what do you do?"
"I... tell them the rules?" It comes out as more of a question than a statement.
"Wrong. You tell them nothing. You point at me. I'll handle it."
"But—"
"No buts. You focus on teaching. Let me focus on protecting what you've built. Deal?"
"Deal."
After he leaves, I sit in the empty studio, looking at my newly organized phone. At the payment system that will actually function. At the spreadsheet showing how dire my financial situation really is.
Then I open my phone and scroll to the romance novels I've been reading. The ones about dominant men and submissive women. About power exchange and rules and structure. About women who feel safe for the first time in their lives because someone else is making the hard decisions.
I've always thought it was just fantasy. Something I'd never actually want in real life.
But the way Geoff said "good girl". The way he took over my payment system without asking permission. The way I felt relief instead of resentment when he started making rules...
Maybe it's not just fantasy after all.