Chapter 2: More Than Sunday

Sunday Comfort

I leaned against the window frame, the wood cool beneath my fingers as I watched the street bathed in golden morning light. It was quiet, calm—the kind of slow warmth that made everything feel like it was waiting.

And there she was.

Carla moved like always: effortlessly graceful, even in the simple act of stretching on her porch. She wore an oversized hoodie that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the clean line of her collarbone. My breath slowed. I pressed my thumb into my palm, trying to anchor myself.

At barely five feet tall, she was all contradictions—slim, curvy, delicate, fierce. I knew every tilt of her head, every way she moved when she thought no one was watching.

But I always watched.

It was Sunday. Our day. In a few hours, she’d be curled up on my couch, our usual playlist of binge-worthy shows humming in the background while we shared waffles and laughter. A ritual born from years of habit and something deeper we never named.

She wasn’t just a friend. Not to me.

She always waved when she passed my window on her run. Today was no different. Tight ponytail, snug leggings, sports bra hugging curves I tried not to stare at. She grinned when she caught me looking and flashed a thumbs-up.

I grinned back.

She’d been doing ten-mile runs for as long as I could remember. I used to try keeping up—until the infamous trail incident where my knees gave out and my ego followed. Now I stuck to basement workouts. My speed. My comfort zone.

She ran. I trained. Then we met in my kitchen, like clockwork.

Touch Points

Today I’d made her favorite—waffles with cinnamon and nutmeg, crisp edges, soft center. Fresh berries. Whipped cream. She always claimed she didn’t want any, then stole spoonfuls from my plate.

When she arrived—hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, gym bag dropped near the door—she moved straight to the kitchen and inhaled.

“Mmm,” she said, eyes closed. “Tell me that’s waffles and not some elaborate trick to get me over here.”

I raised a brow. “Would it work if it was?”

She grinned, popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Probably. But now I’m here, so they better be real.”

We ate at the kitchen island. Carla stole bites from my plate even though she had her own. Afterward, we drifted to the couch. She tucked her feet beneath her and leaned in just enough that her shoulder brushed mine every time she shifted.

“I’ve been running too much lately,” she murmured, stretching her legs out across my lap. “My calves are killing me.”