â The first week of Hell Week, an hour, four minutes, and twenty dang seconds inâyouâre still with me, Daise? â The laughter he cracks can take Sophia Bushâs on a hoarse-run. Virgil honestly didnât need her to put down her concentration to offer him an answer to the obvious: The answer already lied in the evidence that literally sweated his back profusely; locked ceremoniously back-to-back, it was easy to tell that the guarded little flower of the Watkins household was playing no games. None! She neither gave him or herself any complaints. Heâs impressed!
     Itâs as if Beyonce spirit told her to stay in formation ( unless it was to steal a three-minute break for water ) and told him to prove to her that he can stay in coordination. It went on to show him that he shouldnât have gone ahead and challenged her, knowing damn well how headstrong she can get when she set her mind to making naysayers eat and choke on their doubts ( he was really regretting not taking her up on her offer to join her on her early morning Yoga ritual. Four oâclock in the morning and Miss Badu? Whew, girl, hard pass on that, he said. Okay, Virg, but youâll regret it and your body is going to hate you for it, she said. She. Wasnât. Wrong. ).
     The time spent in aching on these gains was worth his Hell on Earth though. This is their first time doing something out of the norm. Theyâre both geeks that spent their time doing geek things: hang out with nerds, talk a bunch of nerdisms, slay class exams, and wellâhere comes the spectacular part of being an extraordinary nerd couple: Virgil would spend the better part of his day playing hero without the cape and S on his chest and flex on criminals with the smoothness of early Soul Power, all the while dogging his girlfriendâs heart with his consistent absences like that should be an embraceable new religion. He would do the typical and throw her through the typical Peter-and-MJ loop, offering her mud-stained excuses and shit-filled promises, though he knew better than to treat her as âQueen of Moron Mountainâ. Today was the start of new approaches to this relationship thing of theirs.
     Under Baileyâs Total Fitness rooftop, it was just them and J. Coleâs âImmortalâ bumping off of their shared Spotify from her laptop. He was grateful that she was open to giving him another shot ( promising himself, God, her, his family, the Universe, and the dog he doesnât have that he will not take that for granted ever again. ) and doing this as the inception of their repair. But now his arms were now soring, he was reaching his end. Daisy winsâbut he wouldnât let her know that. His last ( dramatique ) grunt ended the whole story. Disconnecting their sweaty backs as he leans forward and carefully drops the large barbell on the padded floor, he tiredly turns his neck to peer at her over his shoulder.
     â O-o-okay, little miss Gal Gadot! You got this. Wassup? â Though she couldnât see it, his clammy smirk was boasting like âYeah, Iâm good. Iâm done for the day. That was a good damn work out. No pain, but all gains here. I didnât tapout without actually tapping out or anything. Your man got this boo, and he believes you do too. Challenge his confidence in you and show youâve kept up with him with no problems.âÂ
     Tell me youâre done, is he wanted to say, but the kidâs a boy-manâlet him keep some pride.
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