Page 86 of Switch Hitter

Later, in his hotel room, the shower water is too hot, and Emiliano’s hands are gentle when they wash my hair, like he’s trying to calm my nervous system. We order takeout because we’re too tired to exist, and once the takeout is sprawled across the bed between us like we’re teenagers hiding from the world, we feast.

Noodles, sauce, and a mountain of napkins. Emiliano eats like he hasn’t seen food in a week, and I’m still half-listening to the imaginary roar of the stadium and the very real roar of the internet.

I pick at my food, then stare at the ceiling. “The internet is going to explode, you know.”

Emiliano chews, swallows, and shrugs like it’s just another Monday. “Let it.”

I laugh weakly. “Just like that, huh?”

He shifts closer and wipes a smear of sauce off my lip with his thumb like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just like that.”

He takes a breath and says it like he’s calling a pitch, calm and intentional.

“I know you’re worried about the logistics of the relationship. But baby, we’ll plan the travel,” he murmurs, putting his food down and scooting closer. “We’ll make time. We’ll talk when it gets heavy. We’ll handle the PR stuff if it turns ugly. And… we’ll build what we want.”

I blink. “What we want?”

Emiliano’s eyes stay on mine. “Yeah.”

There’s something steady in the way he says it that makes my chest ache.

“And kids,” he adds, like it’s just another line item.

My heart trips.

“Kids,” I repeat, like I’m testing the word.

They were always part of my plan.

Emiliano nods once, mouth tilting. “So… how many?”

“What?”

He narrows his eyes. “You heard me, Cobre.”

My laugh comes out shaky. “That’s not really a normal question at this point in a relationship.”

“I’m not normal,” he says. “How many?”

I roll my eyes, but it’s soft. “I don’t know. Two?”

Emiliano makes a thoughtful sound. “Two is a good start.”

“A good start?” I laugh. “You want more than that?”

He grins. “Four is my minimum.”

My eyes go wide. “Four?”

Emiliano shrugs like this is obvious. “I grew up with only two sisters, but I had a shit ton of cousins. What can I say? I want a loud house.”

I swallow. “Okay, but… like, how? I don’t think I need to explain to you how babies are made.”

Emiliano’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t get awkward.

“Adoption,” he says first, simply. “There’s a bunch of kids out there that need loving parents.” His gaze softens. “I think that’s something we could offer.”