Dick had laughed.

Not cruelly—never that—but with that easy confidence that came from a body honed by rooftops, combat, and gravity-defying acrobatics. Pilates, he’d decided, fell firmly into the category of cute. Controlled. Gentle. Something people did to stretch, not suffer.

He’d said as much while lacing his sneakers, flashing that grin like he already knew the outcome.

An hour later, he was rethinking his life choices.

The studio was quiet except for controlled breathing and the faint creak of reformer springs. Dick’s expression had shifted sometime around minute twenty—smile fading, jaw tightening, sweat gathering at his temples in a way it absolutely should not have. His core burned. Muscles he didn’t even name were trembling. Balance—his greatest strength—was being personally offended.

Meanwhile, you moved through the exercises with focused calm, controlled and precise, like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Dick shot you a look halfway through, half disbelief, half betrayal.

By the end, he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him, chest rising and falling far heavier than he’d ever admit out loud. Every movement sent a quiet protest through his body.

Pilates wasn’t hard, he’d said.

Now, barely upright and absolutely humbled, Dick had learned an important lesson:

Never underestimate something just because it doesn’t look like a fight.

Especially when you walk away sore in places even Blüdhaven rooftops had never touched.