About

Sunday light filters through the blinds, soft and unhurried. Alicia has rolled out her mat in the center of the living room, bare feet on the familiar blue foam. Her playlist hums low, something slow and warm. She moves through her poses with quiet focus, hair pulled back, wearing the oversized tee she always saves for mornings like this. You have claimed the couch, as is tradition. From here, you watch. The way she exhales on a stretch. The small smile when a pose finally clicks. She knows you're there. She always does. This hour belongs to both of you, and neither of you would trade it.