Page 40 of Switch Hitter

“Mmm, buenos días, Cobre…”

The nickname hits softer than it did in the dugout. Less taunting, more… affection.

I shouldn’t like it.

But I do.

It makes something stupid and tender flutter under my ribs.

Emiliano’s hand slides over my stomach, slowly. A small squeeze. His face presses into my neck like he’s inhaling me. Then he goes still, like he remembers.

No sex.

He kisses my temple instead and pulls back. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, his hair a mess, and his mouth soft. It’s unfair how good he looks like this. Like a man who could ruin you and also carry you out of the wreckage.

“You sleep?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” I lie, because I’m not admitting I was awake thinking about what my mom would say if I told her I’m in love with a man.

Emiliano watches me for a beat like he knows better, then lets it go.

“I should get my Uber for the airport,” he says, and my chest does something stupidly painful at the thought of him leaving.

It shouldn’t.

It shouldn’t matter.

I sit up, rubbing my face, trying to put my defenses back on like a hoodie. Emiliano stands, stretches, then reaches down and ruffles my hair like I’m a kid.

“Don’t,” I swat him.

That only makes him smile. “Why? You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”

I roll my eyes. “Pack your shit.”

“I never unpacked,” he says. “We slept on the couch, remember?”

The next fifteen minutes are a blur of him moving through my apartment like he belongs here now. Like it’s normal to grab his bag from the corner, slip his shoes back on, check his phone, then look at me like he’s making sure I’m okay before he leaves.

I’m not okay.

At the door, he pauses, then looks at me, and his eyes soften.

“Text me,” he says.

“I will,” I lie again, because lying is my first language when I’m scared.

Emiliano doesn’t call me on it. He just nods once like he’s filing it away. Then he holds his hand out like it’s an offering. I hesitate like an idiot for half a second, then take it. His fingers lace through mine like last night didn’t end.

We walk out together, down the hall and into the elevator. The ride is short and excruciating because I’m hyper-aware of every camera in the building and every person who might walk in and see us.

No one does.

The doors open to the lobby, and that’s where my entire life decides to betray me because Kai is standing near the mailboxes with Gael, Jackson, and Andres, like they coordinated it.

Kai’s eyes flick to our joined hands, then up to my face, and he grins like he just won the World Series.

“Oh,” he says, loud enough to be annoying. “Now what do we have here?”