#softv

You had always prided yourself on avoiding gyms. You had avoided gyms like they were haunted houses, like cardio machines were secretly plotting against you, and like lifting weights was some form of ancient torture. Yet here you were, standing at the entrance of the swanky new fitness center your boyfriend had dragged you into, the smell of disinfectant and protein shakes invading your senses.

V was practically glowing or maybe that was just the sheen of sweat on his impossibly toned arms. He was wearing a fitted tank that made your knees wobble and a grin that dared you to complain.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” he chirped, already bouncing toward the treadmills like a child at a candy store. “You said you wanted to try something new!”

You blinked at him. “I did not say that. I said I might try sushi next week.”

He tilted his head, pretending to ponder. “Sushi can wait. Treadmills can’t.”

You groaned dramatically, dragging your backpack behind you, which felt 80% full of emotional baggage and 20% snacks (your priorities were clear). “Fine. But if I die, this is on you.”

“Deal,” he said, grabbing your hand and squeezing it like it was a lifeline. “But also, you’re not going to die. I’ll be right here.”

V’s energy was infectious, as always. Within thirty seconds, he had you walking on the treadmill like a terrified penguin, gripping the rails for dear life. He jogged beside you, his rhythm effortless, hair bouncing, smile teasing, as if this whole ordeal was a casual stroll in the park.

“You know,” he said, slowing down slightly to match your painfully slow pace, “most people start slow. You’re… very unique.”

You glared at him. “Unique? That’s what we’re calling dying on a treadmill now?”

“Exactly,” he said, mock-serious. “Unique is beautiful.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but somehow, his ridiculous grin melted the sarcasm out of you. You hated gyms, yes. But you didn’t hate him.

Half an hour or maybe it was ten minutes, time distorted in a horror zone of treadmills later, you were sweaty, slightly breathless, and seriously questioning your life choices. Meanwhile, V was somehow unbothered, hopping off the treadmill and doing a few stretches that looked more like choreography than actual exercise.

“Okay, okay,” you wheezed, leaning against the rail for support. “Maybe gyms aren’t completely evil. But if you make me do push ups next, we’re officially enemies.”

V laughed, a deep, warm sound that made your heart beat in rhythm with his voice. “Deal. We’ll start with something easier. Maybe the rowing machine?”

You eyed it suspiciously. “Rowing? That looks like torture with water.”

“It’s… graceful,” V said, puffing up his chest, his ego on full display. “Like a swan. You’ll look like a swan.”

You snorted. “A swan having a heart attack, maybe.”

But somehow, the rowing machine wasn’t terrible. You still hated the exertion, but V’s hand stayed over yours, guiding you, and you ended up laughing more than groaning. You made ridiculous noises every time your arms flailed, and he matched every single one with a dramatic gasp of mock horror.

“Are you trying to row a boat or signal a distress flare?” he asked, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“I’m surviving,” you panted.

“That’s one way to put it,” he teased, leaning in closer. “I’m proud of you.”

You blinked at him. Not the gym, not the sweat, not the ridiculous amount of protein powder floating in the air just… him. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Your heart did that weird flutter thing you were not admitting in public.

And then, because V was V, he leaned down and pressed a soft, teasing kiss to your forehead. “See? Gym isn’t so bad with me.”

You groaned. “I hate that you’re right.”

Next, he led you to the weight section, and you almost bolted. Dumbbells looked like medieval torture devices, and the kettlebells… well, you weren’t going to even go there. But V just smiled, this dangerous, gleeful smile that made your stomach do somersaults.

“Here’s the plan,” he said, picking up a ridiculously light dumbbell. “We’ll do something called a ‘partner workout.’ You do one rep, I do one rep. We alternate.”

You blinked. “Partner workout? You’re calling exercise a date now?”

“Exactly,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “You, me, sweating, laughing what could go wrong?”

A lot, you thought, but you nodded anyway, because he made everything sound like an adventure instead of a chore.

Fast-forward thirty minutes, and your arms felt like jelly. Your hair stuck to your forehead, your face was red, and you were 90% certain you smelled like gym socks. V, on the other hand, looked like he was auditioning for a fitness magazine.

You flopped onto a mat, dramatically wiping your sweat with your sleeve. “I hate this,” you whispered.

“Lies,” V said immediately, lying down beside you, his arm draping over your shoulder. “You secretly loved it. I saw the little smirk when I tripped over my own foot.”

You shoved him gently. “That was one time, and it’s not relevant!”

He laughed, warm and familiar, the kind of laugh that made every horrible rep and treadmill minute worth it. “Whatever you say, gym queen.”

“I am not a ugh, never mind. I’m dying,” you muttered, snuggling into his side.

“Good,” he said softly, kissing the top of your head. “Then let me carry you through life, treadmill-free if you want.”

Your heart melted. Okay, fine, gyms might still be evil. But V… V was worth every second of the torture.

You giggled, teasing despite yourself. “Next time, sushi first. Then maybe gym second. Maybe.”

“Deal,” he whispered, wrapping an arm tighter around you. “But no matter what, we’ll always make it fun. Even if it kills you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest said otherwise. Even if you hated gyms, you would never hate him. Not ever.

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