Page 37 of Switch Hitter

I exhale, amused despite myself. “Let me take you out to dinner. Somewhere quiet where we can talk.”

Sean frowns. “Why can’t we do that here?”

Because if we stay here, his mouth is going to end up on mine again, and my hands are going to slide under his shirt. We’ll start grinding against each other, then I’ll lose my mind, and he’s going to let me, and then he’ll panic afterward and run, and we’ll be right back where we started.

I step closer, just enough to murmur against his ear, “Because if we don’t get out of this apartment, the only talking we’re gonna do is you moaning my name into the mattress and me telling you you’re such a good boy for taking this dick.”

Sean makes a sound that’s half offended and half wrecked. His cheeks turn pink, freckles standing out like he’s been kissed by the sun.

“You act like we don’t have self-control,” he mutters.

I smirk. “I’m barely hanging on just looking at you. Indulge me.”

Sean rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Fine. Dinner.”

I grab my hat from the counter, then pause and point at him. “Put on shoes.”

Sean flips me off and shuffles toward his room, and I watch him go and try not to feel too much about the fact that he’s not running.

He’s staying.

Sean picks a seafood place because of fasting. Because rules. Because if he can wrap this in something that feels “acceptable,” it won’t feel like he’s breaking himself open.

I don’t fight him on it.

Compromise. Relationships are all about that, right?

The restaurant is small and warm, tucked into a quiet corner of downtown. Not fancy, but nice. Low lighting, soft music, and the smell of lemon, garlic, and the ocean. We get a booth in the back where nobody pays attention to two men sitting across from each other. Nobody even bats an eye at the two of us, and yet Sean still sits like he’s waiting for ESPN to pop out of nowhere and put him on the spot.

I slide into the booth and let my knee brush his under the table. He stiffens, then relaxes slightly when I don’t push.

The waiter brings water and a basket of bread, then sets down two menus.

Sean scans it like it’s a test. “I think I’m gonna get the salmon.”

“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath.

He glares. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re predictable,” I answer calmly. “I knew it was going to be either the salmon or the shrimp pasta.”

Sean’s mouth lifts, sharp. “You flew across the country to talk to me. Don’t call me predictable.”

Fair.

I shrug. “Okay. You’re infuriatingly consistent.”

Sean snorts, then looks down at the table like he doesn’t want me to see the way that landed. The server comes back, and we order. Salmon for him, and I order the shrimp pasta. When the waiter leaves, I gently kick his foot.

“In case you wanna steal a shrimp.”

Sean stares at his water like it owes him answers.

I wait.

“Thanks…”

I let him breathe for a few more moments, then I say, softly, “This is where I’m at with this.”