"Counted every single one!" James confirmed, cpping. "Solid form, Dipa! Told you seven was just a stepping stone!" He grinned.

  "What's next? Nine tomorrow?"

  "Don't push it, Khan," she groaned, but she was smiling.

  "Absolutely saw it! Full range of motion, no worming around!" James cheered back, his pleasure seeming totally genuine, which somehow took the edge off the fiery protest currently raging in Dipa’s triceps. "See? Five was just dipping your toes in."

  "Eight is like... wading in up to your knees!" He paused, mischievous glint in his eyes. "Just wait till you're swimming." Dipa responded with a dramatic groan from her face-down position on the slightly damp grass.

  But let's keep it real. This wasn't all sunshine, rainbows, and celebratory push-up counts set to an inspiring 80s rock bald. Nope. This was gritty, repetitive, sometimes soul-crushing work.

  There were absolutely moments where the sheer, unrelenting grind felt less like character-building and more like spirit-breaking. James, who seemed to have developed a sixth sense for Dipa's internal weather patterns, started picking up on the warning signs.

  He'd see it after a particurly savage set of burpees – an exercise Dipa remained convinced was a tool of psychological warfare. Maybe mid-set, her movements would get sluggish, her face tight with frustration. "Come on, how many more?" she'd snap, her voice tight.

  "Just three left! Drive up!" James would push, but he'd also note the ck of her usual sarcastic comeback.

  Then, after the set, he'd see the tell-tale slump. Shoulders rounding, head dropping, eyes staring bnkly at the scuffed toes of her sneakers, sweat dripping unnoticed. The usual spark, the 'fight back' energy she typically had, would just... drain away, leaving her looking utterly depleted and questioning every life choice that led her to this patch of grass at stupid o'clock.

  He learned fast that those moments weren't the time for loud encouragements or ptitudes. "You got this!" would probably earn him a gre that could melt steel. Trying to jolly her out of it felt profoundly wrong. His internal coach-mode switched gears.

  This required less drill sergeant, more quiet observer.

  "Alright, pause," James would say quietly, stepping closer but not crowding her, his voice losing its usual trainer's edge. He’d wait until she looked up, or at least acknowledged his presence with a slight tilt of her head. "Take a minute. Just focus on your breathing."

  "Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Seriously, just breathe."

  Sometimes Dipa would resist initially. "I am breathing," she might mumble sullenly, still staring at the ground. "It's the only thing keeping me conscious."

  "I know," James would reply calmly. "But focus on it. Slow it down. Let your heart rate come back from the stratosphere."

  He wouldn't push the next exercise, wouldn't gnce impatiently at his watch or phone. He'd just stand there, maybe take a sip of his own water, creating a small pocket of stillness in the middle of the workout.

  He'd validate the effort, too. "Look, that set was brutal," he might say matter-of-factly. "Burpees followed by sprints? Yeah, that's designed to suck."

  "It's okay to feel wiped." Acknowledging the difficulty, naming the suck-factor without judgment, seemed to defte some of her frustration. It wasn't about making excuses; it was about recognizing the effort involved.