“Professional assessment?” she asked.
“Functional.”
“Personal?”
“It looks good.”
“Scale?”
“Nine.”
She grinned and tested it on the upstairs track, turning the jog into an advertisement until she nearly collided with a display. I caught her hand.
“Got me,” she said.
The treadmill memory arrived in a rush. I released her.
“The belt is suitable.”
In apparel, Dani proposed reflective lightning bolts, metallic shorts, and a visor visible from space before holding up fitted blue running shorts.
“Try these.”
“I have sufficient shorts.”
“These match the shirt.”
“That is not a reason.”
“Romantic presentation.”
“We are not required to match during ordinary training.”
“You don’t want to know how they fit?”
“No.”
Dani’s smile said she did not believe me. The changing rooms stood along the back wall. I should have refused. Instead, I took the shorts.
“For sizing data.”
“Of course.”
I entered the stall. The shorts fit more closely than my current running clothes, but they were comfortable and practical. The color matched the top. In the mirror, I looked like a runner—not someone disguised as one or trying to prove she belonged in a gym. A runner. The realization held me for several seconds. Dani knocked lightly.
“You alive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need emotional support?”
“No.”
“Zipper assistance?”
“There is no zipper.”
“Then why is this taking so long?”
