Page 31 of Switch Hitter

“I know it’s not,” he says. “But when you stop answering my texts and pretend I don’t exist, it hurts.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. The urge to bark and bite and throw a punch rises up like it always does when I’m scared. If I’m angry, I don’t have to be honest.

“You’re insane,” I say.

Emiliano’s smile turns slow. “Maybe.”

I glare at him. “You flew here.”

“Yes.”

“You flew across the country because I didn’t text you back.” That’s unhinged behavior and I really should contemplate calling the cops.

“No.”

The word lands heavier than I expect.

He stands up and crosses the space between us, not rushed. Not aggressive. Just controlled. Like he’s taking the mound. Like he’s choosing pace, choosing distance.

He inches closer, and I don’t back up, because I’m not giving him that. But I can’t stop my body from locking up. This is the part that always ruins me. Not his cocky mouth. Not his smug wins. Not even the sex.

It’s the way he can be calm while I’m falling apart.

“It wasn’t the texts,” he says quietly. “It was the running.”

I swallow. “Don’t act like you know me,” I snap, because that’s safer than the truth.

Emiliano stops an arm’s length away.

“Then tell me,” he says, voice low. “Tell me why you ran when I tried to kiss you.”

All this over a stupid kiss.

I glare at his shoulder instead of his face because eye contact feels too intimate right now.

“It was nothing,” I lie.

Emiliano exhales through his nose like he expected that. “No.”

I flinch. “Stop saying no like you’re my dad.”

His expression flickers for half a second, and something passes behind his eyes. Understanding.

Then it’s gone.

“I’m not your dad,” he says carefully. “I’m not your priest and I’m not here to judge you, Sean.”

I laugh, sharp and ugly. “Yeah, okay.”

Emiliano’s jaw tightens. “Sean.”

The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. It’s not in a teasing way or a taunt.

More like a tether.

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice rough.

“Don’t what?” he asks, like I’m already exhausting him.