Rep by Rep
"She hires a personal trainer to lose weight before her sister's wedding. He's Somali, supportive, and slowly becoming more than a coach. When she reaches her goal, she realizes what she really wants isn't the dress size—it's him."
Six months until my sister's wedding.
Six months to fit into a bridesmaid dress that currently doesn't zip. Six months to be something other than "the big one" in family photos.
I hire a personal trainer.
Mahad is not what I expect.
"I don't care about your weight."
I stare at him. "Then why am I here?"
"You're here to get strong." He tosses me a resistance band. "I don't train for dress sizes. I train for what your body can do."
"I can barely climb stairs without dying."
"Then we start with stairs." He grins. "And by six months, you'll be running up them."
"That seems optimistic."
"That seems like my job."
The first weeks are brutal.
Every muscle hurts. Every session leaves me wiped. But Mahad is patient—celebrates small wins, adjusts when I'm struggling, never makes me feel like a failure.
"You're doing amazing," he says after a particularly hard workout.
"I'm lying on the floor wanting to die."
"That's the amazing part." He helps me up. "Most people quit after week one. You're still here."
"I have a dress to fit."
"You have a life to live." He holds my gaze. "The dress is just a milestone."
Week eight.
I can run up stairs now. My energy is higher. My body is changing—not dramatically, but noticeably.
"How do you feel?" Mahad asks.
"Strong." I pause. "Actually strong. Not just 'trying to be strong.'"
"That's the goal." He smiles. "See? Not about weight."
"Then why do I keep weighing myself?"
"Habit. Numbers are easy." He packs up his bag. "But your deadlift went up fifteen kilos last month. That's not a number on a scale. That's real power."
Month four.
I notice things changing between us. His hand lingers when he spots me. His eyes follow me across the gym. Our sessions run over because we keep talking.
"Do you train all your clients like this?" I ask.
"Like what?"
"Like—" I gesture between us. "This."
"No." He sets down the weight he's holding. "You're different."
"How?"
"You're the first client I've ever wanted to ask to dinner."
"We shouldn't."
"I know."
"You're my trainer. There are rules."
"I know all the rules." He steps closer. "I've been reciting them to myself for four months."
"And?"
"And rules don't help when someone makes you forget your own name."
"I make you forget your name?"
"Every session." He touches my face. "Every time you lift something heavier. Every time you don't give up. Every time you smile at me like I'm doing something good."
I kiss him in the gym.
After hours, when everyone else has gone home. Between the weights and the mirrors, where I've spent four months becoming someone stronger.
"Mahad—"
"Tell me to stop—"
"Don't you dare."
He doesn't stop.
He takes me to his office.
The small room behind the gym where he does consultations. There's a couch. There's a lock on the door.
There's us.
"I've wanted this—" he breathes between kisses.
"Since when?"
"Since your first session. When you looked terrified and showed up anyway."
"That was bravery?"
"That was everything." He undresses me slowly. "That was exactly what I needed to see."
He worships my body.
The body I've been learning to accept. The one I've been training not for a dress, but for itself.
"You're beautiful—"
"I'm still not thin—"
"You're strong." He kisses my stomach. "You're powerful. You're the woman I've been falling for since day one."
His mouth moves lower.
I stop protesting.
He makes me come on his office couch.
With his mouth, then his fingers, then finally himself—filling me while I grip his shoulders and forget every insecurity I've ever had.
"Mahad—yes—"
"This is what you look like when you're powerful." He thrusts deeper. "This is what you feel like."
"I feel incredible—"
"You are incredible."
We come together.
Fall into each other on his narrow couch. Laugh at how we got here.
"I have to find a new trainer," I say.
"Why?"
"Because I can't have sex with my trainer and still take his advice seriously."
"Or—" He pulls me closer. "You could stop being my client and start being my girlfriend."
"Is that what you want?"
"I want everything with you." He kisses my forehead. "The workouts. The dinners. The mornings. Everything."
My sister's wedding arrives.
The dress fits—not because I lost weight, but because I asked for a different size. One that suits who I've become.
"You look amazing," my sister says.
"I feel amazing."
In the photos, I'm not "the big one."
I'm just me. Smiling. Strong.
With Mahad in the corner of every frame, looking at me like I'm the best thing he's ever trained.
The best rep.
The best set.
The best match.