On request of a solid friend.



>The bite of February frost scratches at your knuckles, the winter months are bitter, but thankfully everything isn't buried in snow in this part of the country.
>You're sure if snow storms started rolling in you'd start thinking of moving again. California was warm, sure, but you hated the price and you hated the neighbors perhaps even more.
>At least around here the gyms were decent.
>The glossy panel doors are strangely welcoming this time around, perhaps because you know with the turn of the month it's a lot less crowded.
>Joy of joys, the new year's resolution crowd had given up.
>No more dude-bros failing to deadlift 300; no more neckbeards leering at the cardio bunnies; no more unracked weights; and no more ham planets thinking a leisurely stroll qualifies as exercise simply because its on the treadmill.
>And perhaps most importantly, you could hear yourself think.
>Because of this it's no wonder you aren't flattened by a tidal wave of noise as you push open the double doors.
>The receptionist gives a polite smile as she recognizes you.
>"Hello miss Lena!"
>You return the gesture and bump your pass against the card reader, much as you would like to stay and chat a bit today may be the first day you can actually focus on getting some good time in.
>The locker rooms are thankfully uncrowded as well, your only company as you change is a bottom heavy tigress you've seen around since last summer. She keeps to herself.
>It doesn't take long to throw on your usual ensemble, shorts and a tank top.
>With the crowds gone plenty of familiar faces strike you from the assortment around the place.
>That trackstar lynx, the literal cardio bunny, those wolves that always bunched up together.... it's good to be home.
>In fact it seems near everyone is here and even... well hello.
>Someone new that you didn't expect to still be around.
>A human that you expected to have been lost in the sea of new comers and been swept right back out by the tide of failing constitution.
>Sure he was a bit husky, but he was working on that.
>Working quite hard actually, he was really going at that treadmill.
>Maybe you should keep an eye on him.
>For now you settle into your usual warmups of light curls and stretches while sneaking an occassional glance at the new guy. You have enough girl friends but not enough guy friends.
>Never know when you could make a new buddy.
>Perhaps even something more, but that's just fancy talking, like it always does.
>You heard human guys are chill, so either way it's not a real big risk.

<The hero of this story>
>Be a chubby fucker.
>After years of teasing, name calling, running short on breath, and generally learning how much of an unhealthy wreck of a human being you are; decide this is the year to do something about it.
>Rest of your little resolution posse that signed onto a membership with this gym vanished come turn of the month.
>They looked at you like you were somehow mad for actually sticking things through instead of going thirty days and then giving a giant shrug, content with the participation trophy of 'oh well, I tried.'
>You've shed something like 30-40 pounds so far, and honestly just plain feel better.
>Right now you're not feeling on top of the world though.
>No, right now you're sweating off an extra five pounds as you power jog what feels like four miles.
>Maybe it was four miles, you can't be arsed to remember what you set the machine to right now. You're attention is too taken up by the fact your legs are burning.
>You have to wonder why you do this to yourself every week.
>Sure, health is one thing, not dying in your late thirties because your heart is so caked in transfat it resembles an abscessed pillow is nice, but what else could there be. Girls?
>You weren't payed any attention before so why would that suddenly change now that you were moderately thinner?
>Maybe this was just a way of telling yourself you're useful for *something*.
>Whatever the case, your musing is interrupted by your pocket beeping, time to move on.
>You set the mill to stop and ride the slowing belt to a halt, thankful for a bit of time to rest your legs and catch your breath.
>Your chest feels heavy from the exertion, crying for five minutes in bed to recuperate. You deny it.
>Next on the agenda is curls, you're sure the weight rack is behind you somewhere among the mats.
>The burn in your chest stings. Running takes a lot but you're aware it doesn't gain you much.
>Curls were simple repetition, working your arms until you're just that slight bit better at it, and you can go a slight bit longer to lose a slight bit more.
>That was your steps up the stairs, slight bit by slight bit, only yourself keeping yourself up there.
>It's hard sometimes... especially when you get looky-loos expecting you to tumble.
>As you reach for the dumbbells you can feel them right now. Eyes on you, someone expecting the fat man to put on the clown makeup.
>Despite looking around your only direct company on the mats is some sweaty gorilla, flamboyantly grunting as they shift a loaded bar.
>Last thing you want is for the worked up beef eater to start adding to his personal bellicose ensemble with crackings about the baby man with his baby weights as you pull out the 5 pound dumbbells. So you find a lonely bench off to the side away from the meat truck's eyeline.
>He continues with his swaggering, sweating, growling squawking. You start on your equally mindless, if much quieter, routine, still wary that your apparent audience hasn't fully lost interest.
>They're bound for disappointment if they expect anything special out of you. You're just here to slim down and then go back to your quiet, lonesome existence. The brainless repetition gives you solace to contemplate.
>David would probably want you to run inventory again, just so he can quintuple check and *still* find something wrong with how the storeroom was stacked. What a fantastic manager.
>Guy's a fucking neatfreak is what he is.
>You're sure if he came in one day to find his desk out of order he'd pop an ulcer and die on the spot.
>Least that would give you something resembling reprieve, if only.
>Likely they're just conjuring an excuse to punt you out the door and hire some new schmuck.
>Someone who'll work for less and stifle their complaints.
>It's always the same excuses.

>Your hefty bag companion finally decides that not getting attention on this side of the hall isn't working, so he should go be overly loud over *there*.
>Thank fuck.
>Now it can just be you, the mats, that faint, indescribable sourness you can only mentally note as 'gym stank', and your own selfish musings.
>The dumbbells too but you frankly forgot they existed until your elbow decided to pop. Best to switch arms for now.
>Now what were you on about? oh yeah, your dead-end 'career'. Who else was there?
>There was Ryan, who vanished into the back room, never to be seen again until the shift ended because he had avoiding people down to an art form.
>Then there was Greg, fresh out of highschool and just as fresh out of fucks to give. He spent most of the day playing layabout, practically daring the boss to fire him because somewhere, corporate had him marked down as a diversity hire just because the dude had a muzzle and a coat of fur.
>What wonderful people you surround yourself with; A twitchy OCD case, a socialphobe, and a narcoleptic teenager.
>Course they at least had that going for them. You were plain, and going nowhere fast.
>And, apparently, still being spied on because that prickly feeling on the back of your neck still wasn't drifting off.
>Who would be wasting their time giving you the stinkeye all damn day like this?
>Maybe some pumped up gym bro with too few calories to the brain thinks you're here to steal his whamenz.
>You try to ignore it as you move on with your routine... try.
>It's not to the point that it's outright worrying; when you think about it the neighborhood isn't bad. Yet, the off and on feeling of eyes studying you is a touch concerning.
>Even as your arm starts getting that numbing, stiff feeling that indicates it's gonna be sore tomorrow, you risk peering glances to try and suss out your would-be observer.
>You swear if they had a camera trained on you, you'd probably try to kill them.
>Scanning over the usual suspects gives you nothing, so you put your head down just in time for your elbow to give a soft sort of popping sensation. The familiar signal that it's time to switch arms or put down the weights.
>Checking your watch it's been around ten minutes so that seems about right.
>You sit and let yourself chill for a minute or two, thinking on what to do next.
>Out of the corner of your eye you spy the loaded bar left behind by the noise machine. You doubt your ability to get anything out of it as is but taking some of the plates off could be worthwhile.
>Something more intensive than cardio could only help, right?
>It's then that the feeling of being watched surges up again with gusto, and your anxiety tepidly whispers in your ear that now may not be the best time to risk making a fool out of yourself.
>Your brain spins on a decision when-
>"Sup"
>A shot of iron zips up your spine as your legs can't decide if they want to scramble forward or launch you off the bench. They settle on just forcing your shoes to squeak against the floor and lending a little more emphasis on your jittering.
>You snap your gaze backwards to find your gaze landing on a pair of hazel eyes framed by short fur the shade of milk chocolate and a round cheeked rodent face.
>Its owner leans backward and throws up a cautioning pair of paws.
>"Woah dude!... Sorry I made ya jump."
>She speaks in a subdued sort of tone, dulcet and naturally calmed, but you aren't paying keen attention to that.
>No, your attention focuses on the slight curl at the corners of her mouth, which tell you pretty clearly she's trying not to laugh.
>Great...
>Cheeks beginning to flush with shame, you turn back to sulk at your feet.

>She was probably over here just looking for the dumbbells or whatever. Now she undoubtedly thinks you're a flailing spastic.
>"You know, I just came over to say hi. Since you stuck around for so long."
>Wait what?
>You risk turning back to engage with your mystery woman despite the sensation clinging around your jaw.
"Pardon?"
>She offers a short smirk and something approaching a laugh.
>"You came in with the new year's resolution crowd, and here you are sticking to your guns."
>She scratches at the back of her head. Now that you stop to look at things like the traingular shape of her nose and her small, rounded ears you think you can confidently place her species as a capybara.
>You remember wasting time to vids of her animal cousins just chilling with just about any other species. Very peaceful animals, you can imagine, and hope, that chill attitude extends to their anthro cousins, but her speaking again brings you back to the now.
>"Kinda expected you to be long gone at the close of the month."
>Now you're just confused.
"Is. Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
>She gives a soft snort and a snicker.
>"Of course it is! You did good not to puss out like those other losers."
"Erm.. Thanks. I guess."
>She lowers herself onto the other side of the bench and softly punches your arm.
>"Loosen up dude, I just wanted to talk to ya."
>You suppose she's right, making a fool of yourself being so tensed around someone obviously friendly.
>You turn yourself to face your side to her, still unsure of how to start.
>She helps you along, probably spying the fish-gaping of your mouth as you failed to wrangle words together.
>"Name's Lena."
>Before you even know it she's clasped your hand in a shake.
>"Anyway, wanna hustle?"
"Ermmm."
>"You know, bust some more of that fat off ya? You aren't going to slim down much just jogging and curling."
>She offers a blunt-clawed digit pointing rather accusingly at your soft, doughy middle.
>"Ya look Pillsbury down there."
>Yeah, she *did* just come over to say hi... and humiliate you.
"Thanks..."
>"awww, didn't mean it like that. All I'm saying is you really need to *work* that off."
>She spins up to her feet and offers a hand.
>"So, you up for it?"
>You were still mentally lost on this, and half wondering if you weren't just being stalked by some aerobics nut straight out of a VHS tape circa 1985.
>At least she wasn't wearing felt leg warmers.
>With a heavy sigh you take her hand, it's probably not going to be anything special. If you're lucky it won't be grating.
"erm, what are we starting with?"
>She jaunts back onto the mats before dropping on her knees.
>"Push ups, of course."
>Her paw motions for you to take the mat next to her, only a sparse 2 or so feet away.
>You aren't sure about going through and 'feeling the burn' so close to a girl. Especially one that you *know* has an acute sense of smell.
>Just doesn't mesh quite right with that little voice in the back of your brain telling you you're gonna fuck it up.
-you know you will-
>That awkward feeling dancing around your diaphragm only intensifies as you settle onto your hand and knees at her side.
>She arches herself forward and your eyes can't help but take one glancing trace, following the slim curve of her back till the odd tussle of fur sitting at the small of her back. Guess that's her tail, her very stubby tail.
>She's a lean, athletic thing, which doesn't help that heat you're attempting to swallow.
>"Ready?" she chirps.
>Ready as you can be.

>Following her as best you can you mimic her planking pose and put your arms under you.
>You can't help but feel you just don't look nearly as graceful doing this, flab hanging down, your back curving inwards like a moist noodle.
>"Go!"
>The calling comes with a bit of a start, you try not to smack your chin against the mat as you duck down with all of the control of a safe vaulted out of a window.
>You shakily raise yourself and attempt to control your descent this time, it's about now that you think to ask.
"How many are we doing?"
>"One hundred."
>fuuuuuuuck.
>The hell is she trying to do to you?
>You think you're at 4... maybe 5, and you're already puffing like a locomotive, upper arm strength was never your forte and you have extra weight dragging you down.
>Maybe this is some sort of game to her, you don't know.
>"Come on then!"
>You peer over to see her matching your pace seemingly without complaining. Sure seems like a game now, at least on her end.
>One she's easily going to trounce you at.
>But... why were you here, if not to at least *try*.
>You won't let her beat you that easily. You steady shoulders, mentally time your breath, and take your shot at the task anew.
"Oh, I'm goin'."
>8..9..10..11..12, It's getting a little, 13, tiring.. 14, maybe if you tried something, 15, different?
>Perhaps more effort is the answer, you think to yourself, before shifting to put more of a force behind your upstrokes. Maybe if you try to be a little more 'springy' like her...
>The extra bounce at the top seems to make it easier to gear back down into pushing against your momentum, and gives your arms a split seconds' rest.
>You let yourself go down a little further, moving towards a pattern more circular than a stiff pivot as you shift your legs forward in time with your descent.
>21.22.23, Hey, this isn't bad! 25,26,27. You're really doing it.
>But it can't really be this simple right? There has to be some schao-lin secret to all this.
>No doubt she's doing it better, but you look to find she's doing almost the exact same technique.
>She glints with a small grin before her focus returns to her task. Was she trying to show you this?
>She did say she had an eye on you for a while, weird as that sounds.
>Asking couldn't hurt, right?
>You command yourself to mentally jot down your place so you don't lose track.
"Are you trying to show me how to do this stuff right?"
>She doesn't stop or turn away from her hands but her demure muzzle does open with a smile.
>"Ah-heah-heah, You got me."
"So that's it. I- kinda just thought you were here to tease me."
>Now where were you? 46,47,48-
>"Nah dude, I'm not some hyper-competitive gym rat."
>At least that was good to know.
>Your thoughts wander to said gym rats, and if one of those larger women really wanted to fuck with you they'd just haul you around the waist and act like they were about to cart you off for savagery.
>Maybe Lena had some ulterior motive, but you shunt the train back into yard before you end up losing your place.
>6-0... yeah that sounds right, 61,62,63-
>"Oh by the way.."
>You look over to find her in the up position, before she slowly lowers herself down, lithe back curving inwards as she presses her legs into the mat to stand arched on her hands, her eyes flashing you a serene look as she glances over her shoulder. It's enough to make you stop in befuddlement for a second.
>"One hundred." She chirps, before rolling backwards into a sitting position.
>What was tha-ah dammit!
>You sour a little, the display just rubbing in the inadequacy against your already sore pride.
>She must see as she offers a patient smile, and motions for you to continue.
>"Go on."
>... You continue your own, more ponderous exercise, at least she's not being a bad sport about it.

>82,83,84.
>"So why are you here?"
"Wha?"
>85,86.
>"Why are you here?"
"Like meaning of life stuff or-"
>You can hear her swallowing down an amused snort.
>"*snrk*, no."
>She sits cross legged on the mat, relaxed and patiently watching you.
>"I mean, you here to lose weight? Or just cut and ply for attention like Magilla Gorilla over there?"
>Her thumb juts at mr. hefty from earlier, presently making a show of himself at that bench with the weights stacked on pulleys that you 'hug' with for lack of a better word.
>You may not know the name of the machine, but even you know that he's putting a lot more "effort" into it than needed and practically accentuating every rep with an Elvis-esque hipthrust and grunting. You also note the more dense presence of female gym goers around that area, that all seem thoroughly put up with his peacocking.
>Even as out of shape and out of luck as you are, somehow you still can't see yourself being as much of a loser as that guy right now.
"I'd like to think I'm here to get in shape, yes."
>Her patient smile rarely seems to leave her.
>"Believe it or not I used to be big like you."
>Looking at her now you wouldn't think that, pretty much every part of her is pliant and lean.
"Oh really?"
>"Yeah!, really let myself go when I was younger. I was the chubby girl in school. Some of that weight still hasn't left me in the softer places but I don't mind."
>Her eyes shift towards images only present in the wistfulness of her mind's eye.
>"It actually took me a while to really commit to taking care of myself, but I think that's because I didn't have anyone to help push me along."
-waidaminute-
"Is that what you're trying to do for me?"
>She nods softly.
>"Yeah-huh. I can tell you have good cheekbones, if you just melted a bit of that weight around your face I'd bet you look kinda handsome."
>Your mental computing hiccups.
"Errrr."
>"That's supposed to be encouragement, dummy."
>Her grin grows more mischevious.
>"Oh, and you passed one hundred like fifteen reps ago."
>Your body hitches with an offended start and your hands slide out from under you, your chin meeting the mat after being teased back and forth from it for so long.
"...ow."
>You roll to sit yourself up, and immediately are offered the familiar lime green shape of your thermos. You guess she can literally sniff out which one is yours, being an anthro and all.
>"Heah, sorry. Five-two minute break."
>Fresh, cold water is so welcome to your dry pipes, and taking a minute is agreeable, you only wonder what she has in store next.
>"So.. crunches?"
>Oh boy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

>A fair slice of the day continued all the same, her gently goaded challenges pushing you just that little bit further.
>She wasn't like those pumped up presenters on tv excitedly working bored housewives through light cardio, something about her was genuine enough to follow through.
>So you did.
>You followed through on 100 crunches, because she was there, your diaphragm was sore.
>You followed through on lunges and jumping jacks and squats, somewhere around half an hour of these, because she was there.
>You followed through on jumping at the pommel horse and swinging your legs around, your technique was clumsy, inertia hated you, but she was there.
>You even swallowed your fearful pride and tried your hand at deadlifting a light bar for a few reps, all because she was there ready to match pace and work alongside you, you followed through.
>It occurs to you that you've never had a day hitting the gym quite this hard.
>But then again, she wasn't there before. You had no 'gym buddy'.
>Still, your general ill maintained body was in the process of throwing a fit, you felt winded and just the slightest bit sick.
>How much you puffed after lost breath was of no matter. Your husky frame demanded you sit down, watch and indulge, or it was going to start breaking things.
>But that was the chubby fucker talking, the chubby fucker that wanted your appendix dead someday, the same one that chased off all the milling figment bunnies when your shirt was removed.
>Lena seemed intent to be his enemy. So no, you shouldn't listen to chubby.
>He needs to go now.
>Though dislodging such a mass will take time, you wonder if it isn't better to pause now and pick up another day as you guzzle down your electrolyte supply on the bench.
>Lena nibbles at her own water, from her thermos with that flip-up plastic snorkel you note almost adorably resembles a hamster bottle.
>It goes without saying that she's holding up much better than you are, but even she is a little sapped.
>Maybe she's working herself harder too?
>Her shoulders slump some, but she looks back up to meet you with a shining in her eyes.
>"Care to finish with a run?"
"I start with one."
>"You start with a jog."
>Her grin makes itself known.
>"Mile, mile and a half maybe at full pelt. Up for it?"
>Were you? Already you pushed yourself further than you ever had before. But running isn't really exercise now is it?
>The capy seems to take your thoughtfulness as hesitation.
>"I mean, if you're already too wiped out to give a little run the time of day, I understand."
-she's goading you-
>You know.
>Then again, weren't you already trying to build up *something* here?
>A stirring of quiet pride lurks under your collar. You've been capable so far, like you can't keep up one more round.
"Oh no, you misunderstand. I'd be glad to."
>Her grin steps up a notch, and she pulls herself off the ground towards the treadmills.
>As you follow behind, she elaborates.
>"Think you can keep up a good ten, twelve miles an hour?"
>You usually jogged at 6-8, so it should be fine. Your newly budding confidence encourages this.
"Definitely."
>She sways a little as you arrive at the mills, for some reason you suspect there's something more hinted at that you're just starting to uncover.

>It's not a busy day, the treadmills are barren of anyone except yourselves as you start punching in the figures Lena described to you.
>She speaks over the warming whirr of the belt starting to move between your feet
>"How about.. three miles?"
>That's not much! You can handle it.
"Just fine with me."
>"Alright then." she hums.
>A few more punches on the clacky plastic buttons and the machine puts up a digital countdown for three miles.
>You're going a little faster than your normal routine, sure. But it's only three miles. drag racers cover a sixth of that in seconds so it should only take you what? twenty minutes? Ten more likely.
>You have this in the bag after everything else she's thrown at you.
>"Aight, go!"
>She hits into the stride with a sublime lack of effort, bouncing into each step with a purpose.
>You follow, gliding both feet together and not being nearly so dexterous as you lurch forward in response to your weight rudely accelerating backwards. Fat feet fumbling thudding footfalls as you roughly shunt yourself up to speed and try to ignore how that mass over your waist-band jitters to and fro.
>Any attempt to follow her bounding, energetic method simply meets you with pain on your frontside as your extra pounds decide they don't like that much motion and would rather you settle down before they start making stretchmarks, well, more stretchmarks. So at the end of the day you settle for barely picking up your feet and letting what little vertical momentum you build carry you.
>You must look so maddeningly ordinary next to her.
>The cardio bunny and the fat bastard chasing her stride. What a fuckin pair, really shattering the conventions on that one.
>Some gawker probably snickering over how you're dumb enough to think you can get with that right now.
>You aren't dumb, just morosely unambitious.
>It's not like she's being anything but friendly.
>Right now you just need to focus on finishing off this little excursion. Then you can give it a week, come back, not find her and get sad over that because you're lonely and pathetic and all that other good shit.
>Looking down, the display reads 2.9 miles left.
>"Still think you can keep up, dude?"
>You imagine your breath a little heady from exertion, but you aren't *that* out of shape.
"Oh don't worry about me."
>She shrugs and turns back to her bound.
>You continue, attempting to focus on the mental picture of a road or path winding out ahead.
>"So, what are you her for anyway?"
"Thought we already went over this."
>"I mean what's after? What are you hoping to lose weight *for*?"
>That was a good question, what were you trying for anyway?
>You fall naturally into pace and think over things.
>Girls? no, they didn't really pay you any mind before.
>Work? You weren't doing anything particularly physical. The only taxing aspect of it was mental.
>Health? Well that's everyone's obvious excuse.
"Guess I'm.. really just doing this for myself..."
>For a second you're sure you note for the first time the lines of a frown pulling across her before she turns away.
>Her relaxed cheer seems to bleed from the room shortly after.
>There goes the neighborhood...
>The display reads what seems a far more monumental 2.3 miles.
>You're already feeling some of that energy flee you.

>It's somewhere in mile 2 of 3 that you start feeling your mistake. You plainly aren't built for extended, long distance exertion and your legs were reinforcing that notion with a great amount of complaining.
>Complaining that turned towards aching, which was now shooting off a sensation turning decidedly towards burning.
>The counter read 1.4 miles, and a surety of breath was absent.
>Still a mile and a half left to go, and Lena's quiet encouragements had fled the room.
>Fantastic..
>Maybe she thought you sounded... course answering her.
>Maybe you should say something.
>....
>Dead air filled with nothing but whirring and the light stamp of cheap sneakers.
>Like a natural moment is going to arise from this, you should just say something.
"Look, I..."
>....
>Maybe she's 'looking' at you, in that way anthros acknowledge your existence with a flick of the ear rather than a turn of the head.
"I don't mean to sound. selfish or anything. I just don't really have anything else I can think of."
>Your life is so dreadfully ordinary, so maddeningly insulated, there's little to work towards other than what you envision of yourself, for yourself.
"Job's crap, don't exactly have a wealth of friends. Folks stopped caring a while ago, and... I haven't exactly had a. girlfriend. in years.."
>You aren't sure if that tip of the snout means she's paying you any real attention.
>"Sorry to hear that."
>There's that feeling of eyes on you, you turn and meet her hazel gaze.
>She offers a mellow smile.
>"It's not easy being alone like that. So let's finish this up, eh?"
>You... aren't sure what she means by that, but you feel a bit less empty.
>Unfortunately that doesn't quite take away from the burning rocketing up your leg or the dull ache that makes itself faintly known in your lungs at the moment.
>"One mile left, let's go!"
>The return of her encouragement is welcome, but oh lord is this last stretch going to hurt.
>You push yourself into the stride as far as you can in some rationale that gravity can help you just a touch, but your legs are approaching boiling point.
>They're crying out for you to quit, but looking over at Lena's confident stride keeps your blood up.
>This is the home stretch, you can't give in.
>Legs crawling with fire ants, you soldier on.
>.8 miles...
>Your lungs heave and jitter with effort, measured breaths are not demanded, huffing is.
>.7 miles...
>The burning suddenly feels... cold? around your knees. Almost feels like dull knives are slowly being pressed towards your joints.
>.5 miles...
>Your stride is starting to fumble, uneven, clumsy. You have to push through, if anything just to prove now that you won't quit, you can't quit.
>.3 miles...
>Fucking hell your ribs are aching from how much air you're sucking. How out of shape are you, you sad sack of garbage?
>"Almost there, pal!"
>Oh you know that probably means nothing but fuck it, it's encouragment.
>.2 miles...
>An errant misstep almost sends you toppling over yourself and catapulting off the back of the mill, the commotion draws her attention as you right yourself. You give her a nervous grin laced with manic to assure her you're okay, even if it felt like your knees locked up on you there for a moment.
>You swipe over your forehead and find the back of your hand welcomed by a slick warmth. You must be sweating like a pig.
>.1 miles...
>You nail your eyes shut, picturing the figurative finish line just up ahead...
>...
>.1 miles... Oh come on you son of a-
>.0 miles, the console gives a cheerful beep and you mash your palm against the stop button.
>Fuck that took more out of you than you were expecting.
>Can't breath, knees weak, arms spa-
-stop that-

>You find Lena wearing a glowing smile as she bounces off her machine. Not exactly the exuberant bouncing up and down and cheering you may have expected somewhere, but it's still something genuine. You return the grin, trying to relax and control your breathing and take some weight off your aching legs.
>Of course your half lidded expression of satisfaction doesn't catch the towel thrown your way until it collapses over your face.
>You manage to mumble an appreciation for the subtle queue to dry off.
"Gee thanks."
>A snort and a chuckle is her response, you're busy rubbing at your eyes and trying to shake the greasy feeling from your hair.
>You can have a proper shower at home, the idea of doing so at the gym always just seemed a little bit... uncouth for you.
>After guzzling whatever's left of your water bottle, you decide it's best to move on home again, strangely enough the capybara seems to decide the same, anticipating your course towards the locker rooms.
>"Thanks for that, dude. And, uh, told you you could do it."
"Yeah, uh. No problem."
>The hotspots scattered about your throat are making it difficult to find words.
>And what was she saying thanks for? For proving to her that you don't give in easy?
>Whatever, too beaten to think on it, you just shuffle into the locker room and get to changing out of your gym stuff and digging out the car keys, phone, wallet, etc.
>Lena has packed herself up rather nicely, didn't even change you note as you find her at the door.
>She gives you another grin and you can't help but get the feeling something's happening here.
>"Think I'll see you around again sometime?"
>You push the door open, she follows close behind.
"Uhm, sure. Not like I'm busy."
>"Hmmmmm."
>What is she up to?
>Soon she stops and curiosity pulls your momentum to a halt as well. She fishes around in her duffel in front of a sporty red compact job, must be hers.
>The chocolate rodent comes up with a set of keys and some crumpled slip of paper.
>She presses a paw to your collar, and your own fingers fumble to meet at standoff range with hers.
>"Wanna be?"
>She gives a wink and pulls away, promptly tossing everything in the car and starting the engine.
>errrr....
>You note the texture lying under your fingertips isn't cotton and sweat, so you come up with what looks like that same slip of paper as the red compact starts pulling out of its spot.
>Intrigue over riding everything now, you unfold it and stare.
>A set of digiii- wait.
>This is her number!
-did this just really happen?-
>You double check, area code, seven digits, it's real alright.... Holy shit!
>Before you can think to move, the compact starts rumbling off to the road end of the lot, you jog after once you realize.
"HEY, WAIT!"
>You're sure that paw hanging out the driver's window is waggling the signal for 'call me.'. Before she pulls off onto the road and away.
-what just happened?-
>You don't know, but you're pretty sure you just got a date.
>...
>Shit, she didn't even get your name.

[---------------------------------------------------------------Fin-------------------------------------------------------------------]