It was early — way too early for your liking — when Gaby Rourke showed up at your front door, fully dressed in sleek black leggings and a fitted black sweater, her hair in a neat ponytail and a mischievous smirk on her face.

“Let’s go,” she said, tossing you a bottle of water.

“Go where?” you asked, still in pajama pants and half-awake.

“A jog,” she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “C’mon, you said you’d be down for whatever today.”

You groaned but didn’t argue. Because Gaby — your girlfriend, athletic queen, and reigning master of convincing you to do things you’d never willingly sign up for — wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. Plus… she looked way too good in that all-black outfit to say no to.

Fifteen minutes later, you were jogging next to her down a quiet sidewalk, already regretting every life decision that led to this. She, meanwhile, was jogging like it was nothing — earbuds in, pace steady, breathing like she was just walking through a mall.

“You good back there, champ?” she teased, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’m not built for cardio!” you puffed, trying to keep up. “My idea of exercise is walking to the fridge.”

She laughed and slowed down a little so you could catch up, bumping her shoulder against yours. “You’re doing fine. Besides, I didn’t bring you out here to break records. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

You looked at her — flushed cheeks, wind pushing hair from her face, that little smirk still sitting on her lips — and couldn’t help but smile through the burn in your lungs.

“Next time,” you said, trying to catch your breath, “let’s spend time by sitting down.”

“Deal,” she said, reaching for your hand as you jogged side by side. “Right after we hit three miles.”