Page 73 of Switch Hitter

Then he shifts into caretaker mode like it’s automatic: grabs the wipes, cleaning us up gently, making sure I’m okay, making sure he’s okay, with no jokes in his eyes now. When he’s done, he crawls back into bed and pulls me against his chest, tucking me in like I belong there.

My body melts into him before my brain can fight it. The city outside is still loud, still hungry, still waiting for us to give them the story it’s after. In here, it’s just breathing and warmth and Emiliano’s hand moving slow circles on my back like he’s teaching my body what safe feels like.

My mind tries to sprint ahead anyway, because it always does.

Distance. Schedules. Easter.

Emiliano must feel the shift in me because his fingers press a little firmer, grounding me.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

I swallow. “I’m—I’m scared it’s going to be hard.”

Emiliano’s gaze holds mine, steady as the mound. “Then we put in the work,” he says simply. “We plan. We don’t disappear on each other and we don’t punish ourselves for not being perfect.”

He pauses, his voice dropping softer.

“And when Easter comes,” he adds, “I’ll hold your hand the whole damn time. Under the table or where they can see.”

I nod, pressing my forehead to his collarbone. “Okay.”

Emiliano kisses the top of my head. “Okay.”

We stay like that a while, the quiet settling into something that doesn’t feel like guilt.

It feels like rest.

Then Emiliano shifts just enough to lift my chin, eyes dark but gentle.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

My stomach flips. “Say what?”

His mouth tilts like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “The word.”

I huff a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Boyfriend?”

Emiliano’s smile softens, and he leans in until his lips brush my hair.

“No,” he murmurs, voice warm as a promise. “Mine.”

THIRTEEN

EMILIANO

Baseball is routine until it isn’t. Friday night, we beat the Giants, and it feels like we’re setting up for another series sweep. My arm feels good, command sharp, the kind of outing that makes the stadium roar and the reporters ask you about “poise” like it’s some mystical thing.

Saturday’s another game, another grind, another round of cameras and questions and fans shouting my name like they own it. But I’m ready for it. Then the weather in the Bay Area decides to be petty. Sunday morning, the forecast is a mess, and postponement is set for Monday. The Coyotes have no game this weekend, which means Sean has no excuse to skip Easter with his family. And I can tell by the way he texts that he’s been holding his breath all week.

Sean overthinks in bullet points. He panics in drafts. He spirals in silence if you let him.

So I didn’t let him. All week, my phone has been a constant buzz with him. Not just horny texts.

Real things like questions and fears.

Sean

What if my dad asks if we’re serious?