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It had taken her sister months of nagging before Thorin agreed to try yoga. Last Friday, at the weekly family dinner, Dis had threatened to pick her and if it came to it, drag her out by the hair, anything to make her come out of her flat, where in her dear sister’s own words “she had been holed up like a gremlin” since she was medically discharged from active service after her accident last year.
So Thorin had finally capitulated. And knowing her sister did not utter such threats in vain, Thorin had left her flat with plenty of time to drive leisurely to the training center and find a good parking spot. Therefore, when Dis had started blowing up her cellphone, she was sitting in a nearby café, sipping an iced tea.
“I am already here, sister”, she began, feeling a little smug as these words cut short the diatribe Dis had prepared. “The question is: where are you? You said the class starts at four thirty, right?”
“I am meeting you by the main door in two minutes”, replied Dis, and cut the call, sounding slightly winded.
Thorin cracked a self-satisfied smile and finished her iced tea with one long gulp before standing up, calm and collected. Perhaps it was petty of her, but she delighted any time she made Dis bite the dust, literally and figuratively. It was endlessly funny to see how her sister had never really outgrown her competitive streak. It might have benefited her career in commercial law, but striving to arrive first to whichever occasion they were both attending was nothing but childish. And annoying as hell, because she would take any excuse to berate Thorin’s laid back attitude.
When Thorin wanted to wind her sister up, she only had to remind her that she was the older one, having arrived (head first) just a few minutes before her twin (bum first). As fraternal twins, they were not identical, although as children they had been so similar-looking (black hair, blue eyes, long noses) that only their closest family could tell them apart. They had grown different, physically and personality-wise when they reached puberty.
Nowadays, people would act surprised when they discovered they were twins, though on closer inspection, and under Dis’s heavy make-up layer, their facial features were still eerily similar for fraternal twins. Yes, they had the same colouring and a similar build, but they were night and day, in how they dressed and moved and talked, like doppelgangers forced to live in each other’s alternate universes (G.I. Jane wears Prada vibes). Thorin was taller than her sister (even when she, like usual, was wearing her elegant yet comfortably low pumps), and much broader (pure stubborn muscle due to her years of strict training, and no small amount of fat now, with months of forced rest).
Not bothering to put her hoodie back on, even though it was drizzling, Thorin walked the few paces that separated the cafe from the gym’s entrance, just as a taxi braked noisily by the sidewalk, and her sister swanned out of it, all dolled up in her fierce red lipstick and high executive attire, high heels, pencil skirt and matching tailored jacket.
“There you are!”, said Dis, making it sound as if she was the one who had been waiting. “Come quickly, or we’ll be late”.
Grunting in a mixture of greeting and disbelief, Thorin dutifully followed her sister into the gym. Dis was already speaking with the girl in the front desk, and promptly had her sister admitted as a personal guest, babbling something about getting her a membership card for next time if she liked the class. Thorin scoffed and just followed her into the changing room.
She was not a monster, so the first thing she did when she entered the changing room was lean briefly against the wall for support as she took her dusty Dr. Martens off. She then left them on the shoe rack standing by the door (which for some reason only held half a dozen pairs of shoes, not even half of the women currently present in the changing room.) If the other women were afraid of the proverbial shoe thief, Thorin knew no one in their right mind would want to even touch her old, smelly Docs.
“Aren’t you going to change?” asked Dis, who in the less than thirty seconds it had taken Thorin to put on and tie her training shoes, had managed to get rid of all her prim office clothes and stood unashamedly naked in the middle of the changing room. She was rummaging into a ginormous gym bag that contrasted with the slim hiking backpack that Thorin still had on, holding only the most basic gym essentials (a microfibre towel, fresh t-shirt, underwear and socks, a water bottle and the indoor trainers she had put on as soon as she entered the changing room).
“Why are you naked?” asked Thorin in turn, perplexed.
“You have to put on your gym clothes”, continued Dis, ignoring her question.
“I’m wearing gym clothes”, said Thorin, looking down at her dark grey sweatpants and loose black T-shirt, the obscure band name too faded to be deciphered by the uninitiated.
“That’s your normal outfit, Thorin, I’ve seen you wearing that for months”, protested Dis. “You have to put on yoga pants”.
“I’m not putting on yoga pants”, said Thorin horrified. “Never have, never will”.
“It’s a yoga class. You have to use yoga pants”, insisted Dis, and took out a bundle of clothes from her own bag. It was something bright pink and white that made Thorin reel in immediate, instinctive disgust. “I have an extra set just in case something happens to the other one”.
“I’m not wearing your clothes, Dis”, said Thorin, arms crossed defensively before her. “Especially not something Barbie would wear”.
“We still use the same size, Thorin. At least in spandex. You can choose between the pink and white one, and the light blue and green. But the blue one has a cropped top”.
She offered Thorin a slightly less hideous (and flashy) gym outfit consisting of tight capri-high leggings and something that looked like a sports bikini top. Dread coiled in Thorin’s stomach at the idea of doing yoga with her stomach on display, the stomach that had gone so soft and squishy after the months of bed rest, and she hadn’t managed to put back in shape in the few weeks she had been greenlighted to retake weightlifting and indoor cycling.
“I don’t need to wear stupid girly clothes to do yoga, Dis”, she said, as firm as possible. “This will do perfectly fine”.
“But it’s unsanitary to use street clothes inside the gym. And what are you going to do when you are all sweaty after the class?”, reasoned Dis, who was still as naked and unashamed as a couple of minutes ago.
“It’s yoga, not a marathon. Besides, I brought clean underwear and another tee just in case. It’ll be fine”, insisted Thorin. “Look, I’ll wait for you in the yoga studio, I feel weird standing here while everyone is butt-naked. Can you put my bag in your locker, please? Thank you”.
Without waiting for an answer, she took her water bottle and quickly left the room. The inner changing room’s door led to a long corridor, with bright red floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows (more properly glass walls) overlooking different training spaces. Trying not to limp very obviously, although it made her walk conspicuously slow, she moved down the corridor looking for the type of space where yoga classes could be held. Left and right, there were dancing and cycling classes going on, and a big room full of running and other cardio machines, followed by a weightlifting space that was mostly empty, with a few brand new machines Thorin eyed speculatively. Women of all ages, most (but not all) were indeed clad in multicoloured variations of Dis’s tight gym outfit, doing all types of training with an unseeming degree of enthusiasm for someone not faking it for a camera. The booming of subwoofers playing upbeat tunes in each room made the floors tremble.
At the end of the long corridor there were a couple of empty, silent rooms. Thorin examined them both with a slight frown before deciding the left one seemed more likely. There was a big wooden case full of rolled-up yoga mats just by the door, and one of the walls was covered in mirrors, with a ballet barre in the middle. On the far side of the room, near the window overlooking the city, there were a few wooden wall bars and Thorin approached them to do some warming pull-ups while the room was still empty.
Although she doubted that upper body strength exercises would feature in the yoga class, she was so used to them that they had become part of a comfortable routine. She rolled her shoulders forward and back for half a minute, and then did some arm movements for a while before jumping to grab the topmost bar and starting the pull-ups.
With a steady grip on the bar, Thorin’s muscles tensed as she lifted herself off the ground with ease. The rhythmic motion of lifting her body weight grounded her, allowing her to quieten the nervousness that had been upsetting her stomach ever since she set foot in the foreign gym. Each body lift felt like a silent tribute to the strength and perseverance that had defined her identity for so long. The familiar sensation of exertion spread through her arms and core, the parts of her that were still fit and painless, unlike her traitorous hip that still bothered her when she walked.
Thorin could still do a series of twenty pull-ups easily enough, and she was working up a pretty sweat by doing a second set with synchronous leg lifts to engage her hips and core by the time she heard several people coming into the class. She immediately lowered herself down from the bar with a controlled release of tension, her muscles warm and energised from the workout, and stood tall, sweat glistening on her brow, a sense of satisfaction washing over her as she relished the progress she had made since her injury. Breathing deeply to ground herself further, she turned and searched the small crowd with squinted eyes, until she found the bright pink yoga outfit her sister seemed to have finally settled on wearing.
“Come here”, instructed Dis, gesturing energetically with one arm. She had already picked up two yoga mats and was unrolling them in the geometric centre of the room, precise as a compass, never shying away from taking centre stage. Thorin groaned, but bit her tongue when she saw her sister´s challenging facial expression. Well, she had come here to prove a point: she was not built to do yoga. The more uncomfortable the experience made her, the better to prove the point to her nagging sister.
“Why are you sweating so much?” whispered Dis, wrinkling her long, pointy nose a bit. She looked spotless in her pink spandex, even as she moved her arms and legs a little erratically, stretching out. Her bright outfit contrasted sharply with Thorin’s sweaty, comfy (honestly, a bit ratty) attire. She felt a pang of self-consciousness as she looked down at her t-shirt, that being black, did not show any sweat spots, thankfully, though she was feeling warm and a bit on her face, beads of sweat trickling down between her breasts and wing bones under the tight sport vest that flattened her small chest almost completely. Taking a surreptitious look around her to ascertain everyone was busy with their yoga mats, Thorin lifted the hem of her tee to wipe her forehead quickly, and then patted her hands over her thighs to get rid of the excess humidity in her palms.
“Good afternoon, everyone, new faces and old”, came a voice from the left, soft and sweet and low-pitched like a bed-side whisper, startling Thorin who hadn’t been expecting someone to speak so close to her. Turning sharply, at first she only saw her own reflection in the mirror, her cheeks red and sweaty, but when she lowered her eyes she spotted the diminutive woman standing a few paces before her. She was bouncing on her bare toes, which seemed more of a reflex than a nervous gesture, and still, the top of her curly head did not reach Thorin’s shoulder-level.
It was the instructor. Thorin knew it instantly, though her looks couldn't be further away from the preconceptions (not prejudices!) she held of what a yoga person looked like. For starters, she was soft all over, from the riot of curls on her head to her generous curves, that her boho attire (for lack of a better word) did nothing to hide.
She was wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt, the front ends tied over at waist level showing a peek of her middle, pudge and all (including an ellaborate navel piercing Thorin squinted to figure out). The shirt was made from a sunflower patterned cloth, so hideous it truly looked like something grandma Vigdis would use for a tablecloth or curtain or worse. If that garment wasn’t eccentric enough, she was also wearing the kind of flowy trousers Thorin had only ever seen on Disney animation movies starring impossibly curvy princesses. They were light green (Dis would describe them as Fern or Sage or some other mysterious herbal hue, and probably say they belonged to Spring, not a proper Fall palette), embroidered with intricate floral designs in the waist and hems, and made from some flowing, soft-looking cloth that accentuated her springy movements as she started pacing the room, exchanging a few quiet words here and there with the students that greeted her warmly.
When she completed the circle, she stood over her mat, which was made of cork and not plastic like all the other ones. It was placed sideways just by the big mirror that covered one wall, that is to say less than two metres away from Thorin’s own. She then put her hands in front of her, palm to palm as if she was praying, and Thorin found herself imitating her without thinking, but thankfully when she self-consciously looked around, she saw everyone else was doing the same.
“It’s been a few rainy days, which is great for my prized tomato plants, which are doing their best to survive…” She prattled on for some time about a ridiculous vegetable garden she kept in her flat’s balcony, but Thorin was too distracted by her British accent to get the details. “… but I’m sure more than one here is looking forward to some more sun hours, am I right?”. She lifted her arms over her head and stood on her tippy toes as she continued: “Let’s salute the sun and hope she’ll favour us with her beams”.
It was the kind of vapid spiritual shit that would usually make Thorin scoff and roll her eyes, but the instructor had such a nice, husky voice, made even prettier by her accent, and so the former soldier found herself hanging on every word, as she gently guided the class into the first yoga routine.
She started by making them lift their arms as high up as possible above their heads (imagine you're reaching for the clouds!), before bending forward at the waist, reaching down to touch their toes (let’s pull the weeds out!). It was a full body stretch Thorin wasn’t used to doing (and she would reluctantly agree she needed it, as her injury had left her rusty and wary of certain movements that once came effortlessly).
As the class progressed, the instructor's voice, calm and soothing, guided them through a series of warm-up stretches. Thorin tried to follow along, mindful of her body's limitations. The familiar twinge of pain occasionally flared up in her hip, reminding her of her vulnerability. At times, she glanced at Dis, the bloody bitch, who seemed to effortlessly flow from one pose to another, not a bead of sweat in sight.
Thorin’s hip started throbbing more painfully when she attempted what the instructor called a garland pose (really, a glorified squat), balance precariously held on her toes until she staggered and had to sit down, massaging the area. Being idle and with their yoga mats standing so close, she couldn’t help fixating on how the lateral openings of the instructor’s princess trousers, which she hadn’t noticed before, were slit all the way down from her hips to her ankles, had opened with the acrobatics, showing a shocking amount of thigh and calf, all covered by thick, dark blonde hair that shone almost red under the fluorescent lightning, so long it looked as if it hadn’t been touched by a razor in years.
It shouldn’t shock her but it did. It was everything Thorin had spent her life scrubbing, cropping, plucking, burning away with shame. She was painfully reminded of when her middle school classmates had started calling her Chewbacca because she unwillingly showed her unshaven legs one day during gym class, and how the name had followed her all through high school. She was big, she was socially awkward, and back then, she hadn’t yet figured out how to wield her strength like a shield. The teasing, although it had never reached bullying levels, had made her shrink into herself, hyperaware of every inch of her body, of every way she failed to be soft, small, and pretty like the other girls. She’d learned to hide—under long sleeves, under loose fitting pants, eventually under the sharpness of her tongue, when her resting bitch face was not enough to keep people away. And as soon as she had earned her first four figure paycheck, a few months before she joined the army (her physics degree had been too challenging and she dropped college right before Christmas, to her father’s glee and her mother’s disappointment), she’d used it to erase the offending hair altogether. The sting of the laser had been nothing compared to the relief of never having to feel like a monster again. Still, it had done little to make her feel more like the woman she was supposed to be.
Much later, when she had stopped trying to fit herself in a mould that was too small to contain her, she had never reconsidered what that trauma-induced choice had meant. Not once. Not until now, as she sat there, her hip throbbing, her skin clammy with sweat, watching this diminutive woman twist and stretch, unselfconscious, unconcerned, the very picture of ease in her own body. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was, but how different she was—soft where Thorin was hard, short where Thorin was tall, warm and inviting where Thorin was all awkward bulk, idle muscles covered with fat and scar tissue.
Thorin clenched her jaw, dropping her gaze to her own hands braced on the yoga mat as she concentrated on her breathing, breathing in as her back flexed upwards, out with the opposite movement. In this posture, there was little else she could do but fixate on how big and ugly her hands were; the palms broad and calloused, the fingers too long and thick, nails bit down to the quick. It had taken her time, but she had come to like that about herself, her lack of embellishments, of pretences of any kind. Even if she appreciated how well they looked in Dis, she had never been one for rings or painted nails, never had the patience for beauty routines or makeup. Even as a teenager, when she’d first begun to realize, with an ache in her chest she didn’t dare name, that although she wasn’t looking at boys with the single-minded obsession the other girls did, she would never be able to be the kind of girl they liked. She would never be dainty, never be fluttering lashes and coy smiles.
And later, absurdly later, well in her twenties, when she’d realized she didn’t want to be wanted by boys at all, she had understood something else: she would never be the kind of woman girls who liked girls dreamed about, either.
The girls she liked—hesitantly, painfully, in stolen glances and quickened pulses—had always been the pretty ones. The ones who smelled of floral shampoo and body lotion, who looked pretty and femme even after sport class, who attracted every eye even without wearing any makeup or special clothes, just pure charisma distilled in a dainty body. But that kind of woman had always felt unattainable, like a fever dream just beyond her reach.
And so, finally, after years of swallowing her instincts down, trying to date men, she had started seeking out women who might actually want someone like her, and to do so, it had been easier to comply with the unwritten expectations of what they might want from her. Thorin had behaved exactly as they expected her to be: she was in the army, therefore she was a butch, and so she made an effort to stifle any feminine interests she still had. It had always felt like a performance, like she was filling a role in someone else's fantasy but it had suited her just fine, because wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? Comply with expectations? Shape herself into what a desirable partner should be?
In turn, the women who had sought her out had been the kind of women that made an effort to be perceived as feminine; if not naturally, effortlessly stunning, pretty in a way that could be cultivated with the discipline of a well-maintained beauty and fitness routine, happy to accept that she would offer to carry their shopping bags, even if they could do the same themselves without breaking a sweat, because it was the done thing. There had been an unspoken understanding between them: that they were each other’s best option, that it was easier to move through the world together than alone, each in their own role.
It wasn’t that she had never been attracted to them. She had liked them well enough, had felt the satisfaction of being wanted. But she had never been undone by them. Never felt her stomach twist with something dangerous and overwhelming. Desire, for her, had always been a controlled burn she could turn up and down at will.
Never a wildfire.
Until now.
Until this…
Until this diminutive yoga instructor that was breath-takingly beautiful, even though it was evident she didn’t give a fuck about femenine beauty standards and routines, who was soft in ways that had nothing to do with performance, yet had made no effort to smooth out the parts of herself that the world might find unfitting. A woman who was wearing Disney princess pants and outrageous flower patterns, yet wasn’t using any kind of make-up, and hadn’t shaved in years. A woman who was utterly at ease in her own skin, who took space without hesitation or performance, without trying to be anything other than own self.
Thorin remembered herself at sixteen, staring at her own body in the mirror with resentment, feeling like she had been built all wrong. And now, watching this woman—this woman who hadn’t bothered to erase a single inch of herself—she felt something awful and raw twist inside her.
She wasn’t sure if it was longing or envy.
But it was something she couldn’t ignore.
Throughout Thorin’s internal turmoil, the instructor simply kept speaking with her soothing, musical voice as she explained and modelled the different poses, her limbs twisting and stretching with impossible grace. Thorin only realised she was there gaping like a loon when after a particularly complicated bend forward, her leg lifting impossibly high behind her, her back arched obscenely, the woman had looked directly at Thorin with her disquietingly big eyes in her small face (eyes that up close appeared to be grey and not brown as Thorin had initially thought… or was there a hint of green there too?). Feeling self-conscious, Thorin struggled to find her balance, her left leg all wobbly on the floor while the right one was bent at an awkward angle behind her. Then, her knee buckled slightly, sending a sharp spike of pain through her leg, and she faltered, nearly falling. Heat flushed up her face, but she managed to keep her precarious balance.
“Do you need help?” It was not more than a whisper, carrying easily due to how close their mats were positioned.
“No, no!” replied Thorin, blushing extending to the tips of her ears. “Just… I was recently injured and I’m afraid I can’t quite contort myself like that”.
Before Thorin could stop her, the instructor was there on her mat, her plump frame moving with surprising quickness, her hands gentle but firm as she placed them on Thorin’s hips, steadying her.
“Easy”, she murmured, her voice low and encouraging. “You don’t have to push so hard. Do only as much as you can comfortably manage. Trust your body —it knows where it needs to go”.
Thorin nodded, though her throat tightened with the effort of holding back her frustration. The other woman smelled so good, something vaguely citrusy and sweet. She let her adjust her stance, let her small hands roam over her body, softly pushing her legs and arms into the right position, where her muscles burned a little, but they didn’t ache. Only then did the instructor step back, giving her space.
“Remember to breathe”, she whispered, a very soft smile curving her lips for the briefest of moments before she resumed her monologue at a higher volume, talking to the whole class again and not just Thorin, that felt strangely bereft.
Her mind was reeling, all prickly sensation and tangled thoughts. She had always tied femininity to softness—to smoothness, to dainty hands and neat, polished bodies. But the instructor’s hands, if much smaller, had been as calloused as her own, and her nails bitten off. And when she leaped into a hand stand, back rod straight and legs high in the air, with an agility Thorin could never hope to imitate, her bulging muscles in her shoulders and arms contrasted with the generous curve of her breasts and soft, dimpled buttocks, her stomach rolls displayed for anyone to see as her cropped shirt got caught by the inevitable pull of gravity.
And although neither strength nor pudge had never before attracted Thorin, she now felt something tighten low in her stomach at the display.
God, she thought helplessly, pressing her nails against her own thigh to ground herself as she bent her body into downward dog again, and then awkwardly lifted one leg, not even high enough to be level with her waist. It was the closest thing she could do to whatever folly the instructor expected the students to do (not even Dis managed) and it had the additional benefit of forcing her eyes as far away from her as possible.
From the corner of her eyes, reflected on the traitorous wall-to-wall mirror, she still spied her moving into different poses, her loose clothing shifting with her, unselfconscious about her hair, about her chub. She was so strong and yet so soft, soft and dimpled like a stone fruit. It was the kind of softness Thorin had never allowed herself to have (how much she hated the layer of fat that had settled on her hips and stomach during the months she had been forced to remain inactive, after her accident), even less to desire.
And her hair. God, her hair. It wasn’t just the wild curls on her head, the shocking flash of an undercut when she had finished her previous hand-stand pose with a cartwheel and a musical laugh, not even the unapologetic fluffness running down her legs and arms, catching the light like something alive.
Thorin swallowed hard, dragging a hand down her damp face, trying to shake off whatever strange spell had settled over her. She was being ridiculous, overfixating on hair or lack thereof, of all things. It must be the heat, the exhaustion, the sharp ache in her hip making her irritable and light-headed. She wasn’t interested in this woman.
And even if she was…
Well.
She had never been the kind of person women like that looked at twice.
As if.
She probably had someone waiting for her home anyway.
Gritting her teeth, Thorin forced herself to think about something else, catching up with the new set of instructions, trying to keep her body as engaged as possible through the rest of the class. She kept her eyes closed whenever possible, concentrating on her breathing. And by the time the end of the session approached (if the soft music playing in the background was to be trusted), Thorin felt a sense of accomplishment wash over her, overcoming her internal turmoil and exhaustion, the dull pain in muscles she had never felt aware of before.
“Let's bring our practice to a close with some restorative poses”. The instructor’s words flowed like honey that seemed to seep into Thorin’s weary bones. “Find your way to your back, knees bent, feet flat on the mat”.
Thorin complied gratefully, her hip giving a small protest before settling into the position. Around her, the room filled with the soft rustle of bodies adjusting, but all she could focus on was that voice, those elongated, lilting vowels that seemed to card into the recesses of Thorin’s mind like fingers stroking her scalp.
“Good. Close your eyes if that feels comfortable for you. Let your breath slow, let your body sink into the ground beneath you”.
The instructor's bare feet whispered across the floor as she moved between the mats, and Thorin kept her eyes determinedly closed, even when she could sense the woman's presence hovering over her own mat. She was feeling too vulnerable to meet her eyes, looking down at her from above.
“Now, bring your knees into your chest, wrap your arms around your shins. Rock gently side to side, massaging your lower back”.
Thorin followed the instruction, surprised by how good it felt.
“Beautiful”, came that musical voice, very close again. “Let go of any negative thoughts. Concentrate on the sensation”.
There was the soft creak of the instructor settling onto her own mat. Some seconds later, when Thorin cracked one eye open, she saw the woman had folded herself into what looked like a pretzel, her legs folded beneath her, head resting between her knees. Even in her ridiculous pose, she was mesmerizing, her reddish curls catching aflame under the light filtered through the tall windows, her shaved nape exposed to the air, a light sprinkling of dusty brown freckles disappearing under open collar.
“Let's finish in savasana, the corpse pose. Lie back. Extend your legs as far as they’d go. Let your arms fall open at your sides, palms facing up. Relax”.
Thorin arranged herself as instructed, though she felt anything but corpse-like. With her pulse thrumming erratically, she was hyperaware of every inch of her body against the mat, every breath filling her lungs.
“Close your eyes. Let your body be heavy, let it sink. There's nothing to do here but simply be”. The instructor's voice grew even softer, more intimate, as if she were speaking directly into Thorin's ear, which in a way she was, her stretched arms lying but a handspan away from Thorin’s own. “Breathe in peace, breathe out anything that no longer serves you. Let yourself rest, let yourself simply exist in this moment”.
Minutes passed. Thorin couldn't tell how many. The instructor continued to speak occasionally, her words washing over the room like a gentle tide. Something about gratitude, about honoring the body, about the strength that comes from softness. Again, it was the kind of spiritual language that should have made Thorin squirm, but instead, she found it immensely relaxing.
When the instructor finally guided them back to sitting, Thorin felt as if she were being pulled from a dream she wasn't ready to leave.
“Thank you. It was a pleasure having you here today. Before you go back to your busy lives, remember to take a moment to thank your body for showing up today, for carrying you through this practice”.
Thorin opened her eyes to find the instructor looking directly at her again, those brown-grey-green eyes warm and unfathomable.
“Namaste” she said simply, bringing her palms together at her chest. Her eyes were still fixed on Thorin’s.
“Namaste”, the class chorused back, and Thorin mumbled something unintelligible, too caught in the strange spell of the woman's presence.
The other students began to roll up their mats and collect their belongings, chatting quietly among themselves, but Thorin remained seated, ostensibly massaging her hip but really just trying to collect herself. The instructor was moving through the room now, speaking to individuals, her laughter carrying easily over the noise of several simultaneous conversations.
“Well, well”, came Dis's voice from beside her, dripping with amusement. “That was... transcendent, was it not?”.
Thorin glanced up to find her sister standing over her, yoga mat already rolled and tucked under one arm, that familiar shit-eating grin spreading across her face.
“What?” Thorin shot back defensively, avoiding her eyes, moving from a sit to a kneeling position on the floor to begin rolling her own mat.
“Oh, nothing”. Dis's grin widened. “Just that you looked like you were having a religious experience”.
“It was relaxing”, Thorin muttered, finally pushing herself to her feet. “That's the point of yoga, isn't it?”
“Mmm”. Dis's eyes were dancing with mischief. “And I'm sure your relaxation had nothing to do with our instructor…”
“Dis…!”
Her furious whisper did little to deter her sister from continuing.
“The way she adjusted your warrior pose was particularly... intimate, wouldn't you say?”
Thorin's blushed. “She was just helping me not injure myself further”.
“Oh, absolutely”. Dis nodded solemnly, though her expression was anything but serious. “She is very professional. You… however… the way you were staring at her….”
“I had my eyes closed for most of the class!”
“Not the whole time, you didn't!”.
Thorin wanted to argue, but the words died in her tongue because Dis was right, and they both knew it. She had spent half the class stealing glances , drinking in the way her body curved and flowed through the poses. Probably leering. Huffing, she pulled Dis’s mat from under her arm and turned on her heels, walking the few feet that separated her from the box where they were stored, and put them there.
“Come on”, Dis said, who has followed her, looping her arm through Thorin's with obvious glee. “Let's get you cleaned up. You worked up quite the sweat”.
Thorin let her drag her towards the door, acutely aware that the instructor was still in the room, still speaking softly with a few lingering students. She risked one last glance and found those remarkable eyes on her again. The instructor raised one hand in a small wave, her eyes crinkling adorably over a full-cheek smile, before she got caught up in conversation with another student.
“Aren’t you coming, sister?” asked Dis, her voice sounding faint and distant, despite her being but a few paces away. When Thorin didn’t reply, she huffed and dragged her out of the classroom. Thorin walked the long corridor back to the dressing room as if in a dream. The powerful subwoofer sounds steaming from the other classrooms, that had irritated her so much before the class, thrummed on her eardrums, echoing her blood pulse.
“Shower”, Dis announced as they reached the changing room, tugging on the back of her joggers. “Now”.
“I can shower at home, Dis…” Thorin tried to resist, but as usual Dis was surprisingly strong, or maybe just very determined, and somehow managed to manoeuvre her clothes off her in a matter of seconds.
“Absolutely not”. Dis was already naked and pulling towels from her enormous gym bag. “You're not leaving here until you've properly cleaned up and we've had a chance to discuss your... spiritual awakening”.
“There was no spiritual awakening”.
“Right”. Dis thrust a towel into Thorin's hands. “Poor Bilbo will be so disappointed”.
Thorin's interest piqued when she heard the name. Bilbo. Extraordinary, and yet so very fitting. Her lips smacked when she uttered it to herself, as if she was blowing a kiss into the air.
Though she wasn’t sure of how she had gotten there, she suddenly felt the warm spray of the shower on her, and she blinked down at her own hands, which held a bottle of coconut shampoo. She hated coconut but there wasn’t any other option, and she hastened to rub it in her hair before Dis bit her hand off to use it for herself.
“Next time you bring your own products. I am not wasting my signature Parisian hair treatment in your rat locks”.
“Rat locks? You wish! You’ve always resented not being able to grow your hair so long and thick as I used to have it, before the army. It’s growing so quickly now that any day it will be longer than yours again”, grunted Thorin, and added, wrinkling her nose: “And as if I wanted to be smelling like a bloody walking coconut all day”.
She yelped when she felt her sister slapping her in the ass with an echoing smack sound that had everyone in the shower room turning to look at them.
“Dis! Behave!” she whispered, furiously rubbing her aching skin with one hand while she covered herself self-consciously with the other. “What will the other people think?”
"What will the other people think?" Dis mimicked in a sing-song voice, completely unbothered by her sister's indignation and the curious onlookers. "They'll think we're sisters having a completely normal conversation about your obvious crush on the yoga instructor."
"I do not have a crush!"
"Oh please." Dis rolled her eyes as she began lathering her own hair with a second layer of what looked like liquid gold, probably some expensive conditioner she didn’t offer to share, but Thorin stole anyway when Dis had her back turned. "You've been sighing like a lovesick teenager for the past twenty minutes. Next you'll be writing her name in your diary with little hearts”.
Thorin wanted to retort, but the mental image of how stupid she might have looked in the middle of the dressing room, uttering Bilbo’s name under her breath and thinking it reminded her of blowing a kiss into the air, made her cheeks burn hotter than the shower steam. She focused intently on scrubbing herself clean, hoping the sound of the water would drown out her sister's continued commentary about her own foolishness.
Get a grip, you fool.
When they went back to the dressing room, Thorin quickly pulled on her clean underwear and tee shirt that she had kept on her backpack. She was looking for the joggers she had used in the class (the only pair she had with her), when Dis silently offered her the bright blue capri leggings from earlier.
“Thanks but…. no thanks. Where are my joggers?”
“Wet”, said Dis succinctly, indicating a grey, soggy pile on the floor.
“Dis!”
“It wasn’t me, I swear” Dis raised both hands placatingly. “They were on the bench, they must have fallen while we were showering”.
And so Thorin had little choice but put them on, or walk outside on her knickers. They were ridiculously tight and made her feel exposed, so she tugged at the fabric self-consciously, then trying to pull her tee’s hem a bit lower, when she caught Dis watching her with both eyebrows high in her forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“Why do you insist on downplaying your assets?”
Thorin froze. “My what?”
“You heard me”. Dis gestured vaguely at her with one hand while pulling a brush through her damp hair with the other. “Yes, I know you are feeling all self-conscious because you no longer are as fit as you used to be, but you still have a fantastic ass and legs even if you spend all your time trying to hide them under baggy clothes, slouching like a gremlin”.
“I do not…”
“You do”. Dis's voice was matter-of-fact, not unkind but entirely unapologetic. “You could crush a watermelon between those thighs and here you are, trying to cover everything up like you're ashamed of your body”.
Thorin felt her cheeks burning. “I'm not ashamed, I just…”
“Just what? Don't want anyone to notice you're attractive?” Dis set down her brush and turned to face her fully. “Because trust me, sister, Bilbo noticed”.
The name sent flutters through Thorin's stomach, and she hated how transparent she apparently was when she saw her sister scoffing on her face. “You don't know what you're talking about”.
“Don't I?” Dis grinned, that infuriating know-it-all expression creeping back across her features. “The woman couldn't keep her eyes… sometimes her hands, off you during class. And don't tell me it was just professional concern. I was witness to it all, saw how she treated the other students. And how she treated you”.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dis started stuffing her wet things into her bag with unnecessary force.
“She was being flirty…”
It was Thorin´s turn to scoff.
“And you, my dear repressed sister, were eating it up like a starving woman”.
Thorin shot her a withering look. “I am not repressed”.
“Please. When's the last time you went on a date?”
Thorin couldn't actually remember the last time she'd been interested enough in someone to even consider dating them. Certainly before the accident.
“That's... that's not the point”, she said weakly.
“Isn't it though?” Dis's voice gentled slightly, losing some of its teasing edge. “Look, I'm not saying you have to marry the woman, but maybe it wouldn't kill you to acknowledge when you're attracted to someone. It's human, Thorin. It's normal”.
Before Thorin could respond, Dis was already heading for the shoe rack, gym bag slung over her shoulder. Thorin had no choice but to follow, her own belongings hastily shoved into the small backpack she'd brought.
It was infuriating how effortlessly put-together her sister always appeared. Despite having put on street clothes —simple jeans and a striped sweater that had seen better days—and not the elegant office clothes she had on before, Dis somehow managed to look like she'd stepped out of a fitness magazine despite having just showered in a gym.
“You realize this doesn't mean anything” Thorin said quietly as she laced up her boots. “Even if I did find her... attractive. Which I'm not saying I do”.
“Mm-hmm… Of course you don’t”.
“Dis…”
“Thorin”. Her sister's tone turned gentler, though the mischief never quite left her eyes. "You know there's nothing wrong with being interested in someone, right? Especially someone who seems lovely and makes you forget to scowl for five minutes at a time”.
Lost for words, Thorin trailed behind Dis into the main gym hall. It was far less crowded now, the evening rush beginning to thin out. A few dedicated souls were still running on treadmills, and the distant thump of music from an aerobics class echoed from somewhere deeper in the building. Thorin was beginning to think they might make it out without further embarrassment when…
“Oh! You were in my class, right?”
That voice. Thorin's step faltered as she turned to see the yoga instructor approaching them, having apparently just finished showering herself, though Thorin was both relieved and disappointed she hadn’t seen her in the dressing room. She'd changed out of her princess clothes into a pair of brown corduroy overalls, rolled up and showing a bit of her hairy calves, with the right suspender purposefully left open, hanging on the back, loosely tucked on her back pocket.
“I…yes”. Thorin managed, acutely aware of Dis practically vibrating with barely contained glee beside her.
“I wanted to thank you for coming to class today. I know it can be intimidating trying something new”. Her smile was warm and genuine. “You did really well for your first time. I hope we'll see you again soon”.
“She'll be here”. Dis interjected before Thorin could speak, extending her hand with a brilliant smile. "I'm Dis, by the way. The sister who dragged her here. And you're absolutely right. I think your… classes will be good for Thorin”.
“That's wonderful! I'm Bilbo”. She shook Dis's hand, then turned back to shake Thorin’s. “Feel free to ask me anything if you have questions about the poses or any modifications to help you with your injury, Thorin. I am here to help”.
Thorin nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady.
“Well” Bilbo said after a moment, glancing between them with what might have been amusement, “I should let you two get going. Take care, and I hope to see you both in the next class, Thorin, Dis. Have a nice week!”.
She headed towards the main door with a resolute stride. When she turned at the door, to beam at them before opening it to leave, Thorin noticed that the white T-shirt she was wearing underneath her overalls, which hugged her generous curves and peeked her pink bra underneath, read “Eat me” in big cursive letters, printed over a faint drawing of Alice in Wonderland’s cake piece from the old Disney movie.
Eat me.
Well.
If only.
Thorin was well and truly fucked.
When Thorin came back to herself, she realised Dis was standing before her in the middle of the hall, arms crossed, smiling like the cat that got the cream.
“I was just talking to the receptionist and I'm sure you'll be interested in knowing that Bilbo only teaches three days a week in this studio. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays”.
“Why would I need to know that?”
Her sister’s eyeroll looked painful.
“And you know what?”, she continued, pushing a hard plastic rectangle into Thorin´s sweaty hands. “I was going to wait but you can consider the yearly gym membership as an early Christmas gift. It’s only a few months away after all. I’ll be waiting in trepidation for your gift back. You owe me big time”.
Thorin spluttered. How long had she been staying in the hall to give her sister enough time to buy this? Or did she buy it beforehand because she already suspected that Thorin would fall for the instructor like a newly fledged bird? Even more alarming: had she planned it all? Was the instructor the reason why she had insisted for months on Thorin joining the classes?
As if it meant anything.
As if Thorin could do anything other than drool and make a fool of herself in front of the other students.
“I'm never doing yoga again”.
“We'll see about that”. Dis said, practically purring with satisfaction. “Now come. We’re having a coffee. My treat. We have so much to talk about”.
“I am not going anywhere with you. You’re so nosy. I still can't believe you had that membership card ready”.
“What can I say? I know my sister”. Dis shrugged, walking towards the door. “Besides, I've been planning this intervention for months. Your … hermit phase needed to end”.
“It wasn't a hermit phase”.
“You prefer gremlin?”
Thorin ignored her as she struggled to find the right words, fidgeting with her car keys in her pocket as she walked: “I was just... adjusting”.
“Adjusting, yes. Civilian life, traumatic injury… I know” Her sister’s tone was anything but sympathetic, but Thorin was used to her hard love by now. “And now you’re adjusting to having actual human feelings again. Progress!”
It felt like progress. Like the tiniest candle had been lit into a proper fire in her chest, and there was no stifling it now. She had things to look forward to. And dread.
“Come on, coconut head. It’s getting late. Got places to be, if you aren’t coming with me for a coffee” Dis complained, looking at her watch significantly. “Let's get you home so you can properly obsess over this in private”.
Despite herself, Thorin found the corner of her mouth twitching upward. She still pushed Dis a bit in the sidewalk, making her stumble, before she fought back and nearly made Thorin trip on a pothole in the wet sidewalk. Soon, they had reached the car, and Thorin took some time shuffling things from the front seat to the back seat so her sister could sit, and then she had to rummage in the trunk for some chocolate protein bars she was sure she had somewhere.
It gave her the perfect excuse to think about her actions, her sister’s words. She tried not to think about Tuesday. Or brown-grey-green eyes and musical voices and the way her body had felt when those small, strong hands had guided her into position. What the words in Bilbo’s tee were implying.
She failed spectacularly.