Page 65 of Switch Hitter

Everyone is talking. Moving. Touching. Someone hands me a drink, and then out of nowhere someone else presses a plate into my hands like refusing food is a crime here.

Señora Guerrero is already frowning at my shoulders like she thinks they’re too tense.

“You hungry?” she asks, as if the answer matters.

“Yeah, he is,” Emiliano answers for me.

I glare at him.

“What? You played a hell of a game… I’m sure you’re starving.”

Señora Guerrero nods like he just gave a sermon. “Sí. Come.” She pats my cheek, and I swear my heart lurches.

This is… insane.

And yet, it doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like being pulled into something warm. It feels like I belong somewhere.

We eat at a table that’s too small for the number of people crammed around it. Plates everywhere, with food shoved in every available place. Laughter all around me in every direction. There’s a candle burning near a small altar in the corner, and it doesn’t feel like judgment.

It feels like a blessing.

Someone says grace, short and casual, like it’s just… part of life, not a weapon.

Señora Guerrero keeps putting food on my plate like she’s trying to personally ensure I don’t starve. Emiliano’s sisters make comments in Spanish about my hair, my freckles, and the way I talk, and I understand maybe every sixth word, but I understand the tone.

Affectionate.

Sometimes it’s teasing, but never cruel.

Emiliano sits beside me, his thigh pressed to mine, hand resting briefly on my knee under the table like he’s reminding me, “I'm here.”

At one point, his uncle Juan strolls in, loud voice, big grin, beer in his hand, like he’s already decided tonight is going to be fun. He looks at Emiliano. Then at me. Then back at Emiliano.

His grin grows.

“¿Y éste?” he asks, eyebrows lifted. “¿Quién es?”

Emiliano answers easily, like he’s practiced. “Es Sean.”

Juan’s gaze flicks to me. Sharp, curious. Not mean. Just… direct.

“Mucho gusto,” he says.

“Back at ya,” I manage, and Emiliano’s hand squeezes my knee like praise.

Dinner rolls into the kind of evening where the whole living room seems to breathe around you. Kids take over, and adults chat while some clean up after the meal. A group of women gossip in the corner, and every so often I hear my name get whispered. Emiliano ends up on the floor with a few of his nephews climbing him like he’s a jungle gym, and the sight punches something soft into my chest.

That man is born to be a dad. I can see it now.

He looks so right here.

So loved.

So certain.

I’m sitting at the table with his mother while she watches him, smiling like her heart is full. And for a moment, the noise fades enough for my brain to do what it always does.

Overthink.