“Felt secure to me.”
Her mouth tightened. She was trying not to smile. The timer beeped. Our walk interval had ended two minutes ago. Amy looked at her watch.
“We are behind.”
“Tragic.”
“We need to finish the session.”
I moved beside her. The correct distance this time.
“Easy pace,” I said.
She started running. I matched her. For the next interval, neither of us spoke. Our arms moved close enough that the backs of our hands touched once. Neither moved away.
We signed the amendment at the first challenge check-in. Rose refused to witness because “levels do not create a regulatory process.” Tessa signed electronically with a heart; Amy deleted it.
At five thirty, twelve couples gathered beneath sponsor banners for Perfectly in Sync: medicine-ball squats, synchronized step-ups, alternating rowing, and a partner sled push. Performance, communication, audience response, and community participation all counted toward the week-four cut.
“Style remains subjective,” Amy said, standing beside me in our matching Iron & Ivy shirts.
“We’re here to have fun.”
“We’re here to win.”
“There she is.”
At the medicine-ball station, Amy wanted cadence and I wanted instinct. We dropped the ball twice in twenty seconds.
“This is inefficient,” she said.
“You are directing every breath.”
“You are not thinking enough.”
“Bodies communicate.”
“I cannot feel a schedule.”
Blake called, “Thirty seconds!”
Other couples moved in smooth repetitions around us. Amy set her jaw. I knew that expression. The moment fun became proof.
“Stop,” I said.
“We have time.”
“We’re both trying to lead. You count; I follow.”
“You haven’t.”
“I will.”
Amy studied me for another beat, then nodded. We reset.
“One,” she said.
I breathed with the number.
