She straightened up faster than usual, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, not needing to brace herself on her knees. And then, the unexpected happened. A smile. Not a grimace, not a sarcastic smirk, but a genuine, slightly breathless, surprised-at-herself smile spread across her face.

  "Okay," she announced, looking at James, then down at her own feet as if they’d somehow betrayed her by cooperating. "Okay, that... that was weird."

  "Weird how?" James asked, tilting his head.

  "Weird good," she crified, shaking her head in disbelief. "Like, it actually didn't feel like death warmed over today. Maybe just... lukewarm death? Significantly less soul-crushing than usual!"

  She ughed, a real ugh this time. "Seriously! I wasn't even mentally composing my obituary on the st stretch! Huge improvement!"

  James ughed with her, the sound bright in the cool morning air. "See? Progress! Told you consistency pays off, even when it feels like torture."

  He cpped his hands together briskly, the trainer mode kicking back in with pyful speed. "Awesome work! Ride that high! Now... how are we feeling about those ten push-ups we talked about?"

  Dipa responded instantly with a loud, drawn-out, theatrical groan, throwing her head back and appealing to the heavens (or at least the park's leafy canopy). "Oh, come ON, Khan! Seriously? Can't a girl savor her minor cardio victory for like, five seconds?"

  "My arms just finished sending hate mail about yesterday's eight-rep betrayal!" But the groan, while dramatic, cked its usual despair. It was the groan of someone pying their part, the sound of someone who knew the challenge was coming and, deep down, was kind of ready for it. Faking an injury to escape?

  Nah. That felt like old Dipa. This Dipa just groaned louder and rolled her shoulders.

  Operation: Impress the Crush was officially six feet under, pushing up daisies (or maybe just grass stains). Its memory was fading fast, repced by the much more immediate, much more real campaign: Operation: Badass Dipa Takes No Prisoners (Especially Not Her Own Excuses). Or maybe Operation: Who Knew Sweat Could Be So Satisfying? The title was flexible; the mission wasn't.

  It was about showing up, pushing through the suck, and discovering, rep by painful rep, that she was way tougher than she'd ever given herself credit for.

  And James? He was locked in as co-pilot on this journey. No longer just the knowledgeable guy from the community center, he was the head coach who knew exactly how to push her buttons (and her limits), the chief motivator armed with annoying levels of calm, the occasional sadist who seemed to enjoy prescribing burpees just a little too much, and now, also a genuine friend. It was a team, albeit a slightly unconventional one, fueled by sarcasm, shared exhaustion, and the surprisingly potent drug of tangible progress.

  "Okay, okay, stop groaning," James said, grinning. "Let's get it done. Ten reps. You got this."

  "Famous st words," Dipa muttered, but she was already moving towards their usual patch of grass, determination settling over her face. The real workout, the real transformation, was just getting started.