But James noticed her form held up a little better, her steps seemed slightly less like lead weights, and maybe, just maybe, she sounded a fraction less like she was about to cough up a lung by the end. Tiny improvements, but they were there.
The push-ups came next. Still shaky, especially on those st couple of reps. Her arms trembled, her face contorted with effort. But this time? She squeezed out six proper reps before colpsing.
A triumphant grunt escaped her lips as she flopped onto the grass. "Six! Take that, gravity!" she puffed out, grinning weakly up at James. Progress! The squats and lunges still elicited quiet groans and muttered compints about the sheer unfairness of ctic acid build-up, but she completed all the assigned sets without wobbling into near-vomit territory.
Another win.
Then came the jump rope. Oh, the jump rope saga continued. It was… comedic gold, honestly. Dipa tripped, she stumbled, she got the rope tangled around her ankles, she whipped herself accidentally on the back of the legs multiple times.
"Stupid noodle rope!" she yelled at it after one particurly spectacur face-pnt recovery. "Why are you doing this to me?!" James had to bite back a ugh more than once. But here was the crucial difference from just messing up: every single time she flubbed it, she'd let out a frustrated sigh, shake out her arms or legs, maybe gre daggers at the offending rope, but then she’d immediately reset and start skipping again.
Zero hesitation. The quit wasn't even an option in her eyes anymore.
Later, because James was apparently feeling particurly mean, he introduced burpees. "The king of full-body torture!" he announced cheerfully. After one especially grueling set of ten (which felt like a hundred), Dipa full-on colpsed onto the grass again, ft on her back this time, limbs spread-eagled, panting like she’d just wrestled a bear. She didn't compin about stopping or ask how many more sets there were.
She just y there for a solid sixty seconds, chest heaving, staring bnkly up at the blue morning sky, possibly questioning every decision that led her to this exact moment. Then, with a deep breath and another low groan that sounded suspiciously like "I hate you, James," she slowly, deliberately pushed herself back up onto her elbows, then her knees, then her feet. Wiped the sweat dripping into her eyes. "Okay," she rasped.
"Next?"
Throughout it all, James was there. Offering specific pointers ("Keep that core tight on the burpee jump! Land softly!"), timely encouragement ("Almost there, st two reps, push through it! You got this!"), and strategically timed water breaks ("Okay, hydration station!"). But he wasn't coddling her. He saw that flicker turn into a fme.
He saw the raw steel underneath the exhaustion and the soreness. This clearly wasn't just about impressing some guy anymore; that motivation might have gotten her here day one, but it wasn't what brought her back for day two. Now, Dipa was locked in a fierce battle with herself, with her own perceived limitations, and she was absolutely refusing to back down. And James?
He found himself genuinely, unexpectedly invested in her corner, eager to provide the tools and support she needed to win that fight. This whole thing just got way more interesting.
