James offered a hand again, gently helping her to her feet. She swayed slightly, still looking shaky. He gave her what he hoped was a final, genuinely encouraging nod – trying to silently communicate 'Seriously, don't beat yourself up, you survived day one!'. Then he just stood there for a moment, watching her walk away towards the park exit.

  Her steps were slow, deliberate, almost shuffling, each one looking like it required conscious effort.

  He let out a quiet sigh as she disappeared from view. Honestly? He was already mentally drafting the polite 'no worries, maybe another time' response to the text he fully expected to receive ter that day, the one cancelling their next session. Or maybe she just wouldn't text at all.

  Radio silence. Yeah, he gave it maybe a 10% chance she’d actually show up tomorrow. The 'Operation: Impress the Crush' motivation seemed well and truly crushed by the reality of burpees and breathless sprints. Most people quit right about now.

  Which is precisely, exactly why James was genuinely, utterly gob-smacked the next morning. He jogged lightly towards their usual meeting spot by the park entrance, going through his own pre-workout mental checklist, fully prepared to be standing there solo, maybe just get in his own longer run. He’d even pnned a slightly different route assuming he’d be alone. But then… wait.

  Was that…? No way. But yes. There she was.

  Dipa. Already there. Leaning against the thick, rough bark of a massive oak tree, gingerly stretching her quad.

  Okay, let's be real, she looked like she'd been run over by a small truck. And then maybe backed over again for good measure. Every single movement was slow, stiff, and punctuated by barely concealed winces. You could practically hear her muscles screaming in protest.

  And the dark circles under her eyes? They were practically designer luggage, telling a clear story of a night spent tossing, turning, and regretting every lunge. But the absolutely critical, mind-blowing part? She. Was. Physically. Present.

  Against all odds, against the siren song of her aching muscles and the comfort of her bed, she had dragged herself out here. Again. Holy crap.

  "Whoa," James couldn't help but let slip, slowing his jog to a walk as he approached. "Round two? Already here and stretching?" He genuinely couldn't keep the impressed surprise out of his voice. He had been so sure she'd bail.

  Dipa turned towards him, pausing her stretch mid-wince. Ouch, yeah, straightening up definitely looked painful. But then, she mustered a look that was pure, unadulterated determination, aimed it squarely at him, and gave a short, sharp, albeit slightly pained, nod. "Ready," she said.

  Her voice was quiet, maybe a little hoarse, but underneath, it was rock solid. Damn.

  A sudden, powerful surge of genuine respect washed over James. Seriously. Showing up today, after the absolute physical and mental beatdown of yesterday? That wasn't just 'grit'.

  That was some next-level tenacity. Like, forget impressing some random dude; this level of effort was purely internal. This was Dipa digging deep for herself. Mad respect.