Day four of the bet arrived with a vengeance.
Mia woke to the buzz of her phone at 7:03 AM, groaning as she rolled over, her limbs still stiff from the previous day's business briefing marathon. Her brain was fried, her muscles sore from sitting in the world's most ergonomically hostile chair for two hours straight. Surely, surely Kris wouldn't have the audacity to—
"Meet me at the campus track in 15 minutes. Wear athletic gear. You're joining my morning training session Princess."
She blinked at the message, reread it, then sat bolt upright in bed. Athletic gear? The closest thing she had to "athletic gear" was a pair of paint-smeared joggers and a t-shirt from a freshman orientation she barely remembered attending. She was an artist, not a triathlete. She owned more brushes than sports bras.
She texted back: "You're insane."
No response.
Which, coming from Kris, was confirmation that he was absolutely serious.
Fifteen minutes later, Mia stood by the track, a reluctant soldier reporting for duty. Her joggers clung awkwardly to one leg more than the other, and her shirt, once white, now sported faded streaks of ultramarine blue and burnt sienna from past projects. Her hair was pulled into a lopsided bun that swayed with every heavy breath she took. She looked like someone who had heard of exercise once... from a distance.
Kris, by contrast, looked like he belonged on a fitness magazine cover. His running gear was sleek, sweat-wicking, and somehow even smelled athletic—some clean, piney scent she couldn't place. He'd already finished a lap by the time she arrived, barely breaking a sweat.
"Morning, Princess," he called, not even winded, as he jogged toward her. His grin was infuriatingly bright for this hour of the morning.
"I hate you," she muttered.
"Duly noted." He handed her a water bottle. "Today's demand: one full training circuit with me. That includes the warm-up, sprints, and agility drills. Don't worry," he added with mock solemnity, "I'll go easy on you... for Kris Windsor standards."
She gave him a murderous glare, but took the water anyway.
The warm-up was bad enough. Ten minutes of dynamic stretches that had her groaning like an old floorboard. But the real pain began with the high knees. After twenty seconds, Mia was gasping, her coordination lagging behind her determination.
"Faster, Brown," Kris said as he jogged in place beside her, not even breaking rhythm. "Lift your knees. Not your eyebrows."
"Maybe if you ran your mouth less," she wheezed, "I could hear myself dying."
He laughed—an actual, genuine laugh—and it annoyed her more than the exercise.
Next came shuttle runs. By the third set, Mia's lungs were on fire. She made it through by sheer will and caffeine fumes, occasionally hurling creative insults at Kris between gasps for air. He, annoyingly, seemed to be enjoying this. She suspected he found her suffering amusing. Or endearing. Maybe both.
Then came the ladder drills.
She stared at the plastic rungs laid out on the track like some medieval torture device. Kris demonstrated first—quick feet, precision, barely brushing the edges.
She took her turn and immediately clipped the first rung. And the second. And nearly tripped over the third.
"Don't be a statue," he called, jogging backward in front of her like some demonic personal trainer.
"I am moving!" she snapped, flailing slightly. "I'm just moving like a very determined corpse!"
He grinned, pacing beside her. "Points for commitment."
Somewhere between drills, she forgot to care how ridiculous she looked. Her cheeks burned, her legs ached, and she was drenched in sweat—but she didn't stop. Not once. Every time Kris glanced at her, she saw it—that flicker of something unspoken. Not mockery. Not pity. Something closer to... respect?
The real turning point came during the final sprint set.
They lined up at the starting mark. "On my count," Kris said, crouched into position. "One lap. Best you've got."
Mia took her mark, bent knees trembling. The whistle blew. She launched forward with all the grace of a startled giraffe, arms pumping, lungs already screaming.
By the second turn, she was barely holding it together. Her foot caught the edge of the track, her balance wavered—and she stumbled, pitching forward.
But before the ground met her face, a firm hand caught her arm.
Kris.
His grip steadied her, strong and startlingly quick. For a brief second, their faces were inches apart. His fingers lingered on her skin before he pulled back, almost reflexively, as if surprised by his own instinct.
"Watch your step," he said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
Mia blinked. "I—I had it."
"Sure you did," he murmured, but there was no smirk this time. Just a flicker of something she didn't have the energy to name.
They walked the last few meters together in silence.
When they finally reached the edge of the track, Mia collapsed onto the grass with a dramatic groan. "I'm suing you. For emotional and physical trauma."
Kris handed her another water bottle, this time without commentary.
She took it gratefully, gulping it down between shallow breaths. "Was this... revenge? For the monkey?"
"Maybe," he said, sitting beside her, just close enough for their shoulders to brush. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what you're capable of."
Mia looked at him then, unsure whether she wanted to slap him or thank him. He met her gaze calmly, and for once, didn't have a punchline ready.
Instead, he said, "You didn't quit."
And she didn't. That surprised her most of all.