My Male Yoga Coach

The yoga studio mat slid beneath my knees as I arched into an advanced pose, arms stretched forward. Sweat trickled down my spine—I was giving this my all.

But the instructor's critical gaze said it wasn't enough.

"Mrs. Laurent," his voice rumbled behind me, "your alignment needs adjustment..."

A large, warm hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me lower. My cheeks flushed—from exertion or his touch, I wasn't sure.

Perfecting this form was kicking my ass.

I'm Vivian Laurent—new mom, determined not to let pregnancy wreck the body I'd worked so hard to maintain. Those first postpartum months were golden for recovery, and I wasn't about to waste them.

Later, sprawled on my bed, I reached for the pink pelvic trainers. Deep breath in, hips lifted, muscles clenched in rhythm. Three reps in, my thighs trembled. Five, and sweat slicked my skin. Yet the damn things still slipped out like I hadn't made progress at all.

These pastel spheres were supposed to be miracle workers—graduated weights to rebuild what childbirth had wrecked. The other moms in my group were already on level four. Meanwhile, I could barely keep level two from hitting the floor. Humiliation burned hotter than the ache between my legs.

"Does that thing even do anything?" Ryan's voice cut through my focus. He lounged beside me, watching with that infuriating half-smirk.

I forced a laugh, twirling one of the spheres between my fingers. "Works wonders. Want to try?"

His face twisted like I'd offered him a dirty diaper.

The rejection stung worse than any postpartum pain.

Before the baby, my body had been his obsession—every curve worshipped, every inch adored. He'd called me his goddess, sworn he'd die happy between my thighs. Now? Nine months of pregnancy and one seven-pound human later, he looked at me like I was yesterday's leftovers.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. When I reached for him, he pulled me into a limp hug that screamed obligation.

"Too tired," he muttered, already halfway to snoring.

Tears soaked my pillow that night.

By dawn, I stood naked before the bathroom mirror, scrutinizing every inch. My skin glowed like morning dew, curves fuller than ever—so why couldn't he see me anymore?

Screw the pelvic trainers. If the yoga moms swore by professional rehab, I'd get the best.

The studio's receptionist gushed about their VIP program with their star instructor. "Zachary Roland is miraculous," she promised.