Chapter Eight #2
My throat tightens. No one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now, not with infatuation or lust, but with genuine seeing and understanding.
It’s terrifying.
“The other shoe is going to drop,” I say quietly. “This feeling, whatever this is, it’s temporary. It always is.”
“What if it’s not?”
“It will be. It has to be.”
“Why?”
“Because good things don’t last for me. They start perfect and beautiful, and then something shifts. Someone leaves or lies or decides I’m not worth the effort.” I pull my hand away, wrapping his jacket tighter around myself. “I’m not trying to be dramatic. It’s pattern recognition… data.”
Reece is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Who hurt you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does.” His voice is gentle. “Because whoever it was did a hell of a number on you, and I’d very much like not to repeat their mistakes.”
I look at him, searching for signs of pity or impatience. There’s only curiosity and something that looks suspiciously close to care.
“College boyfriend,” I admit. “Baseball player, naturally. He was charming, attentive, and said all the right things. Then his team started losing, and suddenly, I was the distraction. The reason he couldn’t focus.
His coaches agreed, his teammates agreed, and he ghosted me halfway through senior year. ”
“He’s an idiot.”
“He was practical. Athletes can’t afford distractions.”
“He was an idiot,” Reece repeats firmly. “And a coward. You’re not a distraction, Ava. You’re the thing keeping me sane right now.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” He shifts closer, and I don’t pull away.
“I know you take your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar. I know you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking.
I know you keep everyone at arm’s length because you’re convinced they’ll leave eventually, so you’d rather control the exit. ”
“Amateur psychology?”
“Accurate observation.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.” His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw. “I’m not him. I’m not leaving because things get hard. And I’m not letting you convince yourself this is temporary when it feels anything but.”
“You can’t know—”
“Watch me.”
Then he’s kissing me, soft, sure, and nothing rushed. It’s different from our first kiss. Less desperate, more intentional. His hand slides into my hair, angling my head, and I melt into him without thinking.
When we break apart, my heart is hammering, and my walls are crumbling faster than I can rebuild them.
“Still think the other shoe is going to drop?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Absolutely.”
“Then I guess I’ll keep proving you wrong.”
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m reorganizing my station when the studio door opens.
Reece walks in carrying a brown paper bag and grinning. “Lunch delivery.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“I know. I’m spontaneous.” He sets the bag on my desk and pulls out the containers. “Thai. You mentioned liking Pad See Ew, so I took a chance.”
I stare at the food, then at him. “You can’t keep showing up here. People will notice.”
“Door was unlocked. I’m a walk-in.” He opens a container, the smell of basil and garlic filling the studio. “Besides, it’s Saturday. They’re on the road. I’m not cleared to travel yet. We’re safe.”
I freeze. “Not cleared to travel?”
He shrugs as though it’s nothing. “Mild hamstring tightness. Tweaked it in the last bullpen. Team doctor’s playing it safe.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s not dramatic,” he says quickly. “No tear. No strain. Just tight. They’d rather I miss a game than push it and make it worse.”
My chest does something unpleasant anyway. “So you’re… okay?”
“I’m fine.” He steps closer, like he needs to prove it. “Two days. Maybe three. Then I’m back.”
“Really?”
He smiles, softer this time. “I’m fine. I just happen to have unexpected free time.”
“And you’re spending it here.”
“Obviously.”
It’s thoughtful and infuriating, and I’m absolutely going to eat the Pad See Ew.
“You’re trouble,” I say, accepting the fork he offers.
“You’re only figuring this out now?”
We eat, sitting on my tattoo chair, legs dangling, shoulders touching. He tells me about yesterday’s practice, the ridiculous bet Tommy made, and how Mack accidentally locked himself in the equipment room.
I tell him about my new design commission, the client who wanted a portrait of their cat, and my complicated feelings about pet tattoos.
“You don’t do pets?” he asks.
“I do pets. I just think people underestimate how much emotion goes into a good pet portrait. They expect it to be easy, but animals have personality. You have to capture their essence, not just their face.”
“You care about the work.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean…” He sets his container down, turning to face me fully. “You care deeply. About the art, the meaning, getting it right. It’s not a job to you. It’s a calling.”
The observation catches me off guard. Most people see tattooing as edgy, cool, or rebellious. Reece sees it as the thing it actually is and essential to who I am.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It is.”
“I get it. Baseball’s the same for me.” He reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so casual, so natural, it makes my breath catch. “When I’m on the mound, everything else disappears. It’s pure. Simple. The only place I feel completely myself.”
“And off the mound?”
“Off the mound, I’m performing. Being whoever people need me to be.” His hand lingers near my face. “Except with you. With you, I’m just… me.”
The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in my chest. This is the softer side no one else sees, the part of him not on display for cameras or crowds.
“Reece…”
“I know… too real, too fast.” But he doesn’t pull away. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I should tell him to stop. Protect us both from whatever heartbreak is waiting down this road.
Instead, I lean forward and kiss him.
He responds immediately, hands framing my face, kissing me slowly and thoroughly. There’s no rush, no desperation, just connection, pure and simple.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
“Still waiting for the other shoe?” he whispers.
“Always.”
“I’ll keep proving you wrong.”
“You can try.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
Two weeks into whatever this is, Reece texts me at dawn.
Reece: I have a game tonight.
Me: I’m aware. It’s all over the city.
Reece: Come.
Me: To the stadium? Where my dad coaches? Are you insane?
Reece: You’ve been to games before.
Me: Not since we started… this.
Reece: Exactly. Come tonight. I’ll pitch better knowing you’re watching.
Me: Cocky.
Reece: Accurate. Box 214. I left your name at will-call.
Me: Reece.
Reece: Please?
The please does me in.
I show up an hour before first pitch, cap pulled low, sunglasses firmly in place. Box 214 is blessedly empty except for one other couple more interested in each other than the field.
Reece takes the mound in the first inning, and my heart does something stupid in my chest. He looks lethal out there, all controlled power and devastating precision. Every pitch is art, and I can’t look away.
In the fifth inning, after striking out his third batter, he glances toward my section. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but I see it.
The inning ends, and Reece jogs to the dugout with his team. I watch him disappear from view, and thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Reece: Told you I’d pitch better.
Me: Show-off.
Reece: Your show-off.
I read the message three times, and the warmth spreading through my chest feels dangerously close to something I promised myself I wouldn’t feel.
When he takes the mound again in the seventh, he strikes out the first batter on three pitches. The crowd roars, chanting his name.
But before he winds up for the next pitch, his eyes flick back to my section, and his smile is just for me.
The other shoe is going to drop eventually.
And I’m starting to think I might not care.