Page 87 of Switch Hitter

I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with the man in front of me as I am now.

“And,” he continues, “surrogacy. If that’s something you want. If it feels right. If we can do it in a way that doesn’t feel like we’re buying a baby like a fucking accessory.”

I swallow hard, because of course he’d say it like that. Of course he’d care about the ethics even while he’s being dreamy.

“And we could alternate,” he adds. “You know, one biologically tied to you, the other to me.”

Clearing my throat, I stare him down. “You’ve put some thought into this, have you?”

Emiliano’s mouth tilts, almost shy for half a second. “Yeah. Well, I’m on a lot of long plane rides. And I know what I want when it comes to you, baby. I want it all.”

My chest goes tight and warm and too full.

“Okay,” I mutter. “So you want… four kids. Minimum. Adoption and surrogacy. A loud house.”

“Sí.” Emiliano nods. “And you.”

I take a breath, then make the weak joke because feelings are scary and I’m me. “We’re planning like we’re getting married or something.”

The second the words leave my mouth, my stomach drops.

Fuck, that was too far.

Too soon, Sean.

I glance at him, ready to backpedal, but Emiliano just goes still. Then his eyes darken, and not in a sexual way. In a serious way.

In a, “You just said something important.”

“Is that something you want?” he asks, his voice low.

“Mili—”

He doesn’t let me dodge the question.

“You want to be my husband, O’Malley?” he asks again, slower, like he wants me to hear every word.

My pulse is loud in my ears, and I try to laugh it off. It comes out pathetic.

“I…” I swallow. “I don’t know. It’s kind of soon, don’t you think?”

“That’s okay,” he says softly. “But think about it.”

He reaches over and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, his thumb brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding me back into my body.

“Because I do,” he murmurs.

My breath catches, and he leans in, forehead resting against mine.

“I want you,” he says quietly. “In my life. In my house. In my future.”

Don’t cry.

Too late.

My eyes sting with the familiar burn of tears, and I just nod once. Then I say the most honest thing I can ever say.

“I want you too,” I whisper. “O’Malley-Guerrero is gonna be really long for the back of the jersey, though.”