Chapter 5: Walk and Talk

Sunday Flow

Sunday morning started like so many others. Soft sun, long shadows, the quiet hum of life rolling slowly down the block. Kids laughed somewhere a few houses over, a dog barked, and the scent of dew clung to the sidewalks.

Carla met me outside for our walk, already in athletic gear. Tight black joggers. Navy-blue tank top. Earbuds hanging loose around her neck like she forgot to care how good she looked.

“You look like you’re ready to spar, not stroll,” I said.

She smirked. “Same thing if you keep talking trash.”

Ay, no empieces, Eli... She didn’t say it out loud, but it flickered across her grin.

We took the usual route, weaving through sidewalks scuffed with chalk outlines and past front lawns trimmed too perfectly. The kind of place that hid everything exciting behind closed doors.

Mama’s Latest Venture

“My mom’s been working on a new cleaning service package,” Carla said as we rounded a corner. “One of those women’s entrepreneur groups invited her to pitch for an empowerment conference.”

“That’s awesome. Think she’ll give us a free demo?”

“If you ask nicely.” She bumped my elbow with hers. “Or pretend to be her tester again.”

“She still hasn’t launched full-time?”

Carla shrugged. “She likes the flexibility. Plus, she low-key lives for eavesdropping on her clients. Calls it ‘market research.’”

I laughed. “Classic.”

She laughed too. But when she glanced over, the look she gave me lingered just a second longer than the joke.

Training Ground

Back at my place, we stretched in the living room. No words needed. She flowed through the warm-up sequence—fluid, controlled. I mirrored her best I could.

She dropped into a full split like it was nothing, then twisted effortlessly into a kick sequence that made my knees ache just watching.

I tried to keep up.

“You’re still slow off that left leg,” she said, not even out of breath.

“I’m conserving energy.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “For the couch later.”

The smirk she gave me ... yeah, that one wasn’t innocent.

Friendly Fire

We moved into light sparring—nothing intense. Playful jabs, teasing swipes. She faked a sweep and I half-fell, half-laughed trying to catch myself.

“Cheater,” I muttered, chest heaving.

She winked, flicked sweat from her brow. “You like it.”

Coño ... I really did.

Her hands on me were controlled, precise. Her body never hesitated. But every moment carried this charged softness—like we were both pretending it was just about the movements. Just about the training.

We weren’t there yet. But the space between us was tighter. And shrinking fast.