Chapter 4: The Comeback

Her Story, From My Window

Carla spent most of her 14-year Navy career overseas. She was the kind of officer people didn’t forget—sharp, fearless, and impossible to ignore. She left after a training accident collapsed one of her lungs. She recovered physically, but losing three of her closest friends—fellow career-track officers—made her reconsider everything.

She came home. Moved back in with Mama Caceres. Refocused on family. On healing.

She still hasn’t married. No kids. Part of it, I think, is that Carla scares the hell out of most men.

Including me.

Five-foot-one, maybe 116 pounds dripping wet. Built like a gymnast but moved like a panther. She’s got multiple black belts, absurd flexibility, and a mouth that could put half the Navy to shame. I’ve seen grown men flinch at her glare.

I used to joke she was a stripper pretending to be an officer. She’d roll her eyes, punch my shoulder, and mutter, “Coño, Eli...” under her breath. But I wasn’t lying. The woman couldn’t hide her curves if she tried.

Full breasts that don’t seem to understand gravity, a tiny waist that flows into hips made for sin, and legs that don’t seem to fit on her compact frame—but somehow make perfect sense when she moves.

She’s also got fists like wrecking balls and the tactical mind to back them up.

No one underestimates Carla twice. The second time usually ends with an ice pack and a broken ego.

Back in Sync

I outweigh her by nearly a hundred pounds, and she still makes me earn every inch when we spar. I only win by brute strength and leverage—and even then, she bruises me good.

When she moved back, it was like no time had passed. Within days, we were back in sync. Laughing. Training. Watching trashy TV. Sneaking breakfast at each other’s place depending on who had fruit or coffee stocked.

The gorgeous tomboy from my childhood was back, glued to my side. And I still didn’t have the guts to tell her I was in love with her.

And lately ... it’s been changing.

The routines—our Sundays, our midweek drop-ins—were shifting. Expanding. Turning into something we didn’t talk about but couldn’t deny.

Dinner after workouts. Phone calls that started with dumb memes and ended with shared silence. She texted first more often. Asked when I was free. Left behind things in my house—hair ties, protein bars, one of her hoodies.

She found more and more reasons to be near me.

Signals and Silences

I wanted to believe it meant something. That maybe she wanted this, too. Whatever this was. But part of me still held back. Scared of misreading the signs. Scared of losing her.

Because once I said the wrong thing, there’d be no going back.

But sometimes ... sometimes she looked at me like she felt it too.

Like that time she rested her head on my shoulder for too long during a movie. Or when her hand brushed mine and stayed a beat longer than it needed to. Or when she said nothing at all but her eyes lingered just a second too long.

Maybe she felt it.

Or maybe I was just a man too far gone, seeing hope where there was only habit.

But the quiet was getting louder. The gaps between us getting smaller. The line between friends and something more was so blurred now I didn’t know where to place my feet.

I didn’t know how long we could go on pretending we didn’t feel it.

But I also didn’t know how to be without it.

And I sure as hell didn’t want to be the one to break it.