He'd give her that crucial 60 or 90 seconds, sometimes longer if needed, letting her mentally reset. No pressure, no rah-rah cheers. Just quiet space to let the wave of 'I can't' pass, until that stubborn little flicker of 'okay, dammit, what's next?' reappeared in her eyes. It was a surprisingly effective strategy – recognizing the struggle often gave her the strength to push past it, far more than forced positivity ever could.
As the weeks bled into each other, marked by gallons of sweat (disproportionately Dipa's) and the steady growth of her 'workout clothes only' undry pile, their dynamic continued to evolve. That initial awkwardness? Gone. Vanished.
Probably hiding somewhere with Dipa’s motivation on exceptionally tough mornings. It had been repced by an easy, comfortable camaraderie, the kind forged in the slightly weird crucible of shared early mornings and mutual acknowledgment of exercise-induced suffering (again, mostly hers, but James did look vaguely strained after his sets sometimes).
The banter became their default setting. Faster, sharper, more sarcastic. It was how they navigated the reps, the rests, the sheer absurdity of doing jumping jacks while the rest of the city was still asleep.
"Okay, serious question," Dipa puffed one morning, bending over dramatically after a round of mountain climbers that felt suspiciously longer than usual. She wiped sweat from her brow, fixing James with a look. "Do you just... lie awake at night, cackling maniacally while inventing new ways to torture me? Because honestly, Khan, for someone who seems so chill and bookish, your inner drill sergeant is terrifyingly effective."
James just grinned, taking a sip of water. "Keeps things spicy, doesn't it? Predictable is boring." He shrugged.
"Besides, gotta make sure my star pupil doesn't get compcent. And let's be honest, your compining is getting funnier. Consider it part of the entertainment."
"Oh, I'm entertainment now?" she shot back, rolling her eyes but already moving into a pnk position. "Gd my suffering has comedic value. My character is currently writing a scathing one-star review of this whole experience."
"Make sure you mention the coach's dedication," James retorted, tapping his watch. "Alright, pnk hold. Starting... now!" The transition from compint to action was becoming almost seamless, a testament to the routine, however grudgingly embraced.
The questions kept evolving. They moved beyond the basic "Why me?" and "Is this over yet?" territory into actual, genuine curiosity. Dipa, perhaps fueled by a desire to understand why she was willingly subjecting herself to this torture, started digging into the 'why' behind the 'what'.
"Alright, Mr. Miyagi," she asked one morning, holding a pnk and trying desperately to keep her hips from sagging. Her voice was tight with effort. "Expin it to me like I'm five. Pnks."
"Why the obsession? What magical voodoo are they actually doing? Because from here, it just feels like gravity is winning and my abs are staging a protest."
"It's all about the core," James expined patiently, walking around to check her alignment. "Think of it like the central pilr holding up a building. Your core muscles – abs, back, hips – stabilize everything." He tapped her side gently.
"Strong core equals better bance, which is huge for Judo throws and sweeps, right? You need that stability to generate power and stay grounded."
