After

Chapter 25: Are you turned on?

Their feet were together, raised in the air, legs opening in a wide V as they held each other’s hands for balance. The studio lights haloed the fine sweat on Tessa’s forehead. Hardin’s gaze was locked on hers. The pose was a silent conversation of strain and trust, their linked hands the only point of contact, trembling slightly with the effort.

For the next pose, Tessa lay flat on the mat, her chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths. Hardin knelt behind her, his hands sliding under her shoulders. He pulled her up smoothly, her back coming to rest against the solid wall of his chest. The cotton of his shirt was damp. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Is yoga supposed to be a turn on?” he whispered, his voice a low vibration she felt in her spine.

A smile broke across her face, her eyes still closed. “Are you turned on?”

“Mhm hmm.” She breathed out.

“Well, can we leave then?” The words were rushed, impatient.

“Mhm hmm,” she hummed, the sound agreeable and warm.

“Now.”

“Mhm hmm.”

“Let’s go.”

They moved as one entity, a clumsy, hurried disentanglement. They rolled the mats with quick, uncoordinated motions, barely nodding at the instructor as they slipped out the studio door into the cool evening air. The sudden transition from the humid, scented studio to the concrete sidewalk was a shock. Streetlights flickered on, casting long, chasing shadows.

They rushed inside the apartment, the door slamming shut behind them with a finality that echoed in the empty space. The yoga mats dropped to the floor with a soft thud.

Hardin grabbed her waist before she could take another step, spinning her around in the dim hallway.

“I am sweaty,” she laughed, the sound breathless and echoing in the small space.

She pushed against his chest, not hard, but with enough force to create a gap. He stumbled back a step, giving her the opening she needed. She darted past him, her bare feet slapping softly on the hardwood floor as she made for the bedroom.

He followed, a grin on his face. She reached the bed and turned, placing her palms on his chest again. With a shove fueled by adrenaline and laughter, she sent him falling backwards onto the mattress. The springs groaned in protest.

She didn’t wait to see his reaction. She spun and ran for the bathroom.

“I don’t care, I don’t mind,” he said, his voice muffled in the other room.

“Wait, just give me five minutes,” she called out.

Hardin stepped in.

He reached in, his hand finding her ticklish side just above her hip bone—the same spot from the studio. She convulsed with laughter, trying to twist away. He used her momentum to spin her back toward him, his mouth finding hers.

The kiss was a clash of teeth and laughter. He fumbled with the old chrome tap, turning it sharply. A shock of pure, icy cold water drenched them both.

“Oh my god!” she shrieked, the sound bouncing off the tiles. She broke the kiss, gasping for air, her hands flying up to cover her head.

She turned to face him, water streaming down her face. Her expression shifted from shock to something determined. She reached up, her wet hand curling around the back of his neck, and pulled him down to kiss him again.

This time it was deeper, a silent answer to the frantic energy that had crackled between them since the yoga studio. His hand went to her cheek, his thumb stroking her jawline as he pulled her closer, tilting her head to get a better angle.

The water began to warm around them, steam rising to fog the glass. He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “Get these off,” he muttered, his voice rough against her lips.

He pushed her gently back against the cool tile wall. Then he was on his knees, the water cascading over his shoulders. His hands went to the waistband of her soaked yoga pants, his fingers hooking under the fabric.

She laughed, looking down at him. His hair was already dripping, his ocean eyes looking up through dark, wet lashes.

He gave a firm, insistent tug. The heavy, wet fabric resisted, then slid down her thighs with a sodden whisper. “Okay, we’re getting somewhere,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the tangled pile at her ankles.

She laughed again, a nervous, excited sound lost in the shower’s roar. He didn’t pause, his fingers finding the edge of her underwear and pulling them down too. He tossed the wet bundle aside with a careless flick of his wrist.

He stood up in one swift motion, water sheeting off him. He kissed her again, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of her head. She molded against him, and he groaned softly at the contact.

Her own hands were frantic now, pushing the soaked fabric of his shirt up his stomach. He lifted his arms to help, and she peeled it off, throwing it out of the shower stall. It landed with a wet slap on the bathroom floor.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his track pants and the boxers beneath, shoving them down in one urgent motion. He stepped out of them, kicking the heavy wet pile away.

He kissed the side of her neck, his lips tracing a hot path along her wet skin as her hands went to her hair, pulling the soaked elastic from her ponytail. A cascade of blonde strands, dark with water, fell around her shoulders. She laughed, a giddy, free sound.

His hands slid under her clinging tank top, pushing it up and over her head. It joined the growing pile of discarded clothes. His fingers found the clasp of her bra, fumbling for a second before it released. He slid the straps down her arms and tossed it aside.

Then there was nothing between them but water and skin and the thick, humid air. They kissed, a slow, deep rediscovery. Her hands were on his neck, her fingers tangling in his wet hair. His arms snaked around her back, pulling her flush against him, erasing any last inch of space.

His arms snaked around her back, pulling her flush against him, erasing any last inch of space. The heat of his skin against hers was a shock, even through the warm water. She could feel the raised lines of his torso, a familiar topography under her fingertips.

Hardin looked to the bottles of soaps on the shower rack, Tessa’s eyes following. He grabbed a bottle, flipping it upside down and holding his hand out. The lid came off, the soap gushing all over his hand.

“Oh shit,” he said, laughing.

He lifted the bottle up and it dropped down his chest in a thick, clear stream. Tessa laughed, her hands coming up to rub it into his skin, her fingers slicking over the defined planes of his pectorals. He threw the bottle behind him, the plastic clattering against the tiles.

He began rubbing the soap all over her back and shoulders, his movements slow and deliberate, smoothing the slickness over her skin. Her arms went around his neck as they stood under the water, rinsing the soap off. They kissed, a deep, unhurried melding of mouths under the spray.

He kissed her neck, his lips trailing up to her jaw. Then he was spinning her around, her back softly hitting the wet tile wall. The coolness against her shoulders made her moan into his mouth.

He laughed, a low, warm sound lost in the steam, and turned around to rinse his hair. She ran her fingers up his chest, tracing the ship on his right shoulder. He turned his head to the side, and she kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting water and him.

He spun back around, going behind her. He kissed the side of her neck, his damp chest pressing against her back. She moaned, her head falling forward.

He ran his hand down her stomach, his touch firm. His fingers slid through her soaked centre, and she moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the shower walls. He groaned in response, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.

He put his hand on her throat, squeezing gently, just enough pressure to make her breath catch. He kissed the pulse point just beneath his thumb. She moaned loudly again, her eyes closed, surrendering to the dual sensation of his hold and his mouth.

She moaned again, turning around to kiss him, her hands going to the back of his neck. His moved to her shoulders, sliding down her slick arms. She stepped back, looking up at him, the water streaming over her lips.

She sank to her knees on the hard porcelain. He tilted his head back into the spray, groaning at the sight. He looked down at her, his hands finding their way into her wet hair.

A tinny, muffled ringtone pierced the steam. It was persistent, vibrating against the bathroom counter.

Tessa froze, her eyes flicking toward the sound. She crawled out of the shower on her knees, water puddling around her. “It’s my boss, I have to get this,” she said, her voice breathless.

He threw his head back against the tile, muttering, “Seriously?” The word was lost under the drumming water.

She grabbed a towel, wrapping it hastily around herself as she snatched the phone. “Hi, Kimberly, what’s wrong?”

“I have to go out and have no one to watch Smith,” Kimberly’s voice was frazzled, stretched thin.

“Oh no, how can we help?” Tessa said, looking back at Hardin. He was still in the shower, his expression a dark cloud of interrupted intent.

She walked into the office twenty minutes later, her hair damp at the ends. “Hi,” she said, seeing Kimberly rush around the cluttered desk. Hardin shuffled in behind her, his hair a mess, wearing a clean but hastily donned grey sweatshirt.

“You have no idea how much of a life saver the two of you are right now,” Kimberly gushed, grabbing her purse. “Poor Vance caught this bug and he’s throwing up everywhere.”

“It’s no problem,” Hardin said, looking at Kimberly. His voice was flat, but not unkind.

Kimberly stopped mid-motion, staring at him. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Hardin?”

“It’s part of my birthday present,” Tessa cut in quickly, shooting Kimberly a look. “I’ll tell you later.”

Kimberly’s eyes widened with understanding and amusement. She bent down, looking at Smith who was quietly building with blocks on the rug. “I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?” She kissed the top of his head and stood up, looking at them both with immense relief.

“Thank you,” she said, already walking briskly towards the elevator. The doors swallowed her, leaving a sudden, heavy quiet in the reception area.

Smith looked at the closed elevator doors, then at Tessa. She stepped forward, getting onto her knees so they were eye-level. “Hi,” she said, her voice softening. “So, we have the whole afternoon together. Is there anything that you wanna do?”

Smith looked at her, his expression blank. “No,” he said.

“I can get us some markers and we could draw?” she suggested, gesturing toward Kimberly’s desk.

“I don’t like to draw.”

“No? Are you hungry?” she tried again, her smile staying patient.

“No,” he replied flatly.

She looked back at Hardin, who was leaning against the wall. He smiled, a small, knowing twist of his lips. He pushed off the wall and nodded his head toward Vance’s office. “C’mon, mate. Your mum said we could hang in there.”

They headed into Vance’s office, a room that smelled of old paper and the lemony cleaner the janitors used. Smith immediately sat on the thick carpet, his small hands reaching for a detailed wooden train set arranged on a woven rug. Hardin lowered himself into Vance’s large leather chair, the material groaning under his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You wanna tell me about your trains?” he asked.

Smith stayed quiet, meticulously connecting a blue engine to a red boxcar. He leaned back, his eyes drifting from the tracks up Hardin’s arm. The sleeve of his grey sweatshirt had ridden up, revealing the dark tips of the birds inked around his forearm.

“What are those marks on your arm?” Smith asked, not looking at his face.

Hardin glanced down. “My tattoos.”

“Why do you have them?”

“Because I like them,” Hardin replied, his voice even.

Smith finally looked up, his brow furrowed with a child’s ruthless logic. “Don’t people think it looks strange?”

A familiar, defensive heat sparked in Hardin’s chest. He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking. “I don’t give a fuck what people think.” The words were out, automatic and sharp, before he could filter them.

Smith’s eyes widened, not with offence, but with pure, clinical curiosity. “Which people don’t you give a fuck about?”

Hardin’s eyes widened in genuine alarm. He sat bolt upright. “Don’t say fuck,” he said, his voice dropping to a stern whisper.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Smith said, testing each syllable. It was a quiet chant, absorbed in the newness of the forbidden word.

Hardin heard Tessa’s soft footsteps in the hallway. He jumped up from the chair so fast it swiveled, walking over to intercept her at the office door. “Hey,” he said, his voice a little too loud.

“Hi,” she said back, a question in her eyes as she took in his flushed face.

He spun her around by her shoulders, guiding her back toward the hallway, putting his body between her and Smith. He leaned close, his voice a low, urgent rush in her ear. “So he actually is hungry now,” he said.

Tessa turned around. “What’s he saying?”

Hardin grabbed her shoulders, walking her towards the hallway, away from the office door. “He’s… expanding his vocabulary. I can go if you want,” he said, glancing back with a look of pure, unvarnished desperation.

“No, no, I’ll get us some,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. She grabbed her keys from the reception desk.

“Perfect,” Hardin said, the relief palpable.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, already backing toward the office.

“Okay, bye,” she said, headed to the elevator.

When the doors slid open on her floor, Hardin stood holding a large cardboard box, his arms straining slightly. Kimberly was there, holding Smith’s small suitcase, with Smith standing quietly next to her, clutching a stuffed dinosaur.

Kimberly and Smith stepped inside the elevator together.

“I can take those now,” Kimberly said, grabbing the box from Hardin. He released it, flexing his fingers.

He smiled, a tight, polite thing.

“You know, she really brings out the best in you,” Kimberly said softly, nodding toward Tessa.

Hardin’s smile turned genuine, softer at the edges. “Is it that obvious?”

“Have a nice holiday,” Kimberly said as the elevator chimed at the parking level.

“You too,” Hardin said. He bent down, bringing himself to Smith’s eye level. “Cya, mate,” he said, holding his fist out.

Smith bumped his small fist against Hardin’s. “Cya, mate,” he said back, perfectly mimicking Hardin’s cadence. The doors closed on Kimberly’s grateful smile.

Tessa sat at her desk finishing work, the office empty and silent around her. The only light came from her lamp, pooling on the spreadsheets. The clock read just past seven.

Hardin walked in, the sound of his boots on the tile echoing. “You ready?” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Yeah,” she said, saving a file. “We’re the last ones here, so I just have to set the alarm.” She stood up, walking over to him.

He pulled a flat, box from behind his back. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

She looked at the box, then at him. "Christmas is next week," she said, her voice soft in the empty office.

She took the box. He walked around behind her, his boots scuffing on the tile. "I've never been one to follow the rules," he said, his voice close to her ear.

She turned around and opened the box. Nestled in the velvet was a necklace. Three delicate charms hung from it: an open book, a music note, and an infinity symbol. The silver caught the dim lamplight.

She turned the book charm over with a careful fingertip. Hardin looked out the dark window, his reflection a ghost over the parking lot lights. "It says 'Whatever our souls are made of—'" he started, the words sounding rough.

"His and mine are the same," Tessa finished, her breath catching. She looked up from the engraving.

He turned around, looking at her. Her eyes were bright. "What's wrong?" he said, his voice dropping.

She sat on the edge of her desk, the metal cool through her dress. He sat in her office chair, rolling closer until his knees bumped hers. "I didn't think that I'd see you over the holidays," she said, her thumb stroking the smooth silver. "So I didn't get you anything."

She placed the open box on the desk between them. He smiled, looking at her—not at the gift, but at the conflict in her eyes.

She looked at him. "Is there anything you want?" she asked.

He breathed out, a long, slow exhale that seemed to deflate him. He looked at her, his ocean eyes stripped bare. "Another chance?" he said, the words barely audible.

She looked at him, a smile touching her lips. "Do you promise to act like this every day?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He looked away, down at his own hands, then back up at her. The honesty was painful and plain on his face. "No," he said. "But I'll try."

She looked down at the necklace, then back up. He reached out, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. "Whatever it takes," he said, his thumb stroking her cheek.

She leaned in, closing the small distance, and kissed him softly once. He kissed her back, just as gentle, a seal on the promise. His hand trailed down from her neck, over the hollow of her throat, coming to rest on her sternum. She smiled, looking down at his hand splayed over her heart.

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers. Their breathing synchronized in the quiet office. The only sound was the distant hum of the building's heater.

Hardin’s hand slid from her sternum, his fingers tracing the neckline of her dress.

They looked at each other. His hand stopped at the seam of her dress against her chest. He tugged it gently, a question in the subtle pressure.

She shook her head, smiling. “We can’t do this here. What if someone comes in?” she said, her voice a whisper against the quiet office.

Hardin tilted his head back and yelled loudly, “Hello? Anyone here!” His voice echoed off the empty cubicles and filing cabinets. No answer came, only the persistent hum of the heater.

She laughed, the sound bright and sudden. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

He laughed, a low, warm rumble in his chest. They both leaned in, kissing each other. It was slower now, deeper, a luxury they hadn’t allowed themselves in the frantic shower. Her hand went to his neck, his other to her chin, holding her face as if it were something fragile.

She pulled away, her breath catching. He tugged at a string on her dress softly, a thin, decorative strap at her hip.

She smiled, looking at him. “It’s fake,” she said, referring to the strap’s function.

He laughed, a short, surprised huff. “Shit,” he said, looking at her with mock exasperation.

He leaned up, kissing her again, his hands sliding to her waist. He rolled the office chair back with a smooth glide, creating space. She looked at him, her blue eyes dark in the dim glow of her computer monitor.

His hand went to her thigh, slowly moving up under the fabric of her dress. The sensation of his warm palm on her skin made her shiver. She spread her legs, a silent invitation. He looked up at her, his ocean eyes holding hers, checking.

He grabbed her underwear gently, pulling it down her legs. She lifted her legs, helping him. They looked at each other, the air between them thick and charged. She pushed his chest, and the chair slid back another foot with a soft squeak of casters.

She stood up. The dress settled around her thighs. She lifted his shirt up slightly, her hands went to the button of his jeans, then she zipped the zipper down. They looked at each other, the only sound their mingled, unsteady breathing.