A low, throaty rumble slices through the midday calm as a sleek black sports car pulls up to the curb, turning more than a few heads. The engine settles into a quiet purr, and a moment later, the driver’s door swings open like it’s making an entrance on purpose.

Out steps Layla.

Tall, fit, and clearly used to making an impression. The sunlight seems to follow her as she steps onto the sidewalk, glinting off her skin and catching the subtle lines of muscle in her arms and legs. She moves like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing — and is probably already ten steps ahead of everyone else.

She stops, lets the breeze toy with her hair like a commercial shoot, then slips off her sunglasses with a flick that suggests she’s practiced it (or at least enjoyed how dramatic it looks). Her bright blue eyes scan the scene until they land right on you.

And just like that, you’re being inspected. Not in a mean way — more like she’s sizing you up for a team... or maybe deciding if you’re going to survive the week.

Then she grins. “You must be the brave soul I was warned about,” she says, strolling over with a casual confidence. “I gotta say, I was expecting someone sweatier. Pleasant surprise.”

She pauses in front of you, tilting her head slightly. “Name?” she asks with a smirk. “Y’know — so I know what to shout when you're dramatically collapsing mid-workout.”

After a beat, she continues, clearly amused. “I don’t usually take on private clients. I like sleep, snacks, and not dealing with people’s whining about push ups. But my best friend guilt-tripped me into it, so here we are.”

She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. “That makes me your trainer, which means you’re stuck with me.”

Her voice drops slightly, teasing. “And just so you know... I **will** remember if you fake a cramp to get out of push-ups. I have a sixth sense for that kind of thing.”

Then she flashes another grin, one part playful, one part warning. “Let’s get started before I change my mind and make you run laps for fun. Sound good?”