[Cassian’s POV]

The prenatal yoga class is exactly as uncomfortable as I anticipated.

The studio is warm and dim, filled with women in various stages of pregnancy and a handful of partners who look about as out of place as I feel. Adrian and I attract immediate attention when we walk in with Sophie between us—curious glances that quickly become whispered conversations when people realize we’re together. All three of us.

“Just ignore them,” Sophie murmurs, squeezing both our hands before releasing them to check in at the front desk.

Ignoring them is easier said than done. I’ve never been particularly comfortable with attention, and the scrutiny feels especially pointed in this context. These people are making assumptions about us, constructing narratives to explain our presence, and none of those narratives are likely to be flattering.

Adrian, characteristically, seems unbothered. He surveys the room with an easy confidence that I envy, then selects a spot near the back corner where we’ll have at least some semblance of privacy. I follow, spreading out the yoga mat I purchased yesterday—a deep navy blue that Sophie insisted “coordinated” with Adrian’s charcoal gray and her soft lavender.

“You look like you’re preparing for battle,” Adrian observes, watching me align my mat with geometric precision.

“I’m preparing for public humiliation,” I correct him. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“It’s yoga, Cassian. Stretching and breathing. Even you can’t optimize that into a competitive advantage.”

“Watch me.”

Sophie returns with a smile that tells me the registration went smoothly, settling onto her mat between us with a grace that belies her expanding middle. She’s beautiful like this—not despite her pregnancy but because of it, glowing with a vitality that makes my chest tight with emotions I’m still learning to name.

The instructor is a serene woman in her fifties who introduces herself as Maya and speaks in a voice so calm it borders on hypnotic. She guides us through a series of poses designed to accommodate pregnant bodies, emphasizing breath and alignment and the connection between mother and baby.

I struggle more than I expected. My body, honed by years of disciplined exercise, doesn’t know how to relax into these gentle stretches. I keep tensing, anticipating effort that isn’t required, trying to perfect movements that are meant to be felt rather than accomplished.

“You’re overthinking it,” Sophie whispers during a particularly challenging pose that involves being on all fours while moving the spine in ways that feel deeply unnatural. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re calculating. There’s a difference.”

She’s right, of course. She usually is when it comes to identifying my coping mechanisms. I take a deliberate breath, trying to release the tension I’ve been holding, and feel something shift—a subtle loosening in my shoulders that spreads gradually downward.

“Better,” Sophie says, smiling.

Adrian, on her other side, appears to be having no trouble at all. He flows through the poses with an ease that seems almost insulting, occasionally catching my eye with expressions of exaggerated serenity that are definitely meant to provoke me.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

“Natural talent,” he counters.

“Children,” Sophie interjects. “Focus.”

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