7. Emiliano
SEVEN
EMILIANO
He’s standing in front of me looking like he’s about to bolt. Like the air in this apartment is too thick, and my presence is a fuse that could explode if I move wrong.
But he’s still here, so I guess that’s something.
Sean O’Malley has a mouth built for war and eyes built for truth. The mouth is what he uses to survive. His eyes are what betray him, and right now those green eyes are shining too bright, like he’s holding back tears and rage at the same time.
He looks furious with himself, and it hurts me somewhere deep, because all I want is to love him. To show him that he means more to me than this thing we’ve built out of rivalry, sex, and fear.
Sean swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. I could take control of the situation right now. It would be easy. He’s right on the edge of it, breath uneven, pupils a little blown. I could say one dirty thing in Spanish and he’d fold like a lawn chair.
I didn’t come here to take the easy route.
I didn’t cross the country to fuck him into silence. No, I came here to keep him from disappearing into his own shame. I know I pushed too hard by coming here like this, but I need him to know he still has a choice.
So I do the harder thing. I lift my hand slowly and touch his cheek, my thumb brushing the warm skin there. He flinches, barely, startled, like tenderness is a language he doesn’t trust.
“Cobre,” I say softly.
His lashes flutter.
“Please,” I add, and it’s not a word I use often. Not like this. “Let me kiss you.”
Sean’s breath catches and his eyes search mine like he’s looking for the trick.
“I—” he starts, voice rough. “I can’t…”
“You can,” I say, gentle but firm. “Let me show you affection isn’t something evil you have to cleanse yourself of.”
I watch him process what I just said, watch him shake his head once, like he’s trying to say no without saying no.
I keep my hand on his cheek, nice and steady.
You can do it, pretty boy.
“You let me touch you,” I murmur. “You let me have you. Please let me kiss you like you’re worth more than a quick fuck in a dark dugout.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not—”
“It is,” I cut in, quieter. “You don’t run from the sex, Sean. You run from feeling wanted.”
His breath stutters, and I watch the fight inside him happen in real time. Faith and fear and family and the shape of shame pressing down on him like hands on his shoulders.
Then, slowly, he nods. Almost like it hurts him to do it.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Who knew a single word could be my undoing? Hearing him say “okay” opens the floodgates inside me. I lean in slowly, giving him time to change his mind, to pull back, to flinch.
He doesn’t.
When my mouth meets his, it’s careful at first, letting him get used to the sensation of my lips on his.
Soft and tentative. Sean lets out a shaky exhale, and then he is kissing me back like he has been starving, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally remembered how to breathe.
His hands grab my shirt, fists in the fabric like he needs something solid to hold onto.
I keep one hand on his cheek and slide the other to his waist, anchoring him, keeping him steady. He makes a sound into my mouth that feels like surrender and anger all mixed together. I deepen the kiss, still keeping it gentle and slow. Sean shivers like he hates how good it feels.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes are wide and glossy, like he can’t believe he did that. He looks around the room, like he’s waiting for lightning to strike.
It doesn’t.
The apartment stays still. Everything around us stays normal. Only Sean looks like his whole reality shifted half an inch.
He swallows, then whispers, almost hoarse, “Okay…”
I wait.
Sean squeezes his eyes shut like he’s bracing for impact, then peeks again, and all I do is smirk. Giving him time to come to the realization that we’re fine. Then he says it again, louder this time, like he’s forcing the truth through.
“Okay,” he repeats. “Let’s talk.”
Relief hits me so hard I laugh.
“Alright,” I murmur. “Let’s talk, pretty boy.”
Sean’s eyes flick down to my mouth and then back up, and I see the heat trying to creep in. That familiar part of him wants to turn physical because physical is easier than emotional. His body shifts toward me, like he’s going in for another kiss, and I don’t move away.
But I tilt my head and give him a look that says, “Not yet.” The complaint formed on his face immediately.
“What?” he mutters.
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.”
Sean’s head snaps up.
Good, my boy is focused.
“I’m not going to be treated like something you’re ashamed of,” I tell him. “I’m not asking you to come out to the world tomorrow. I’m not asking you to tell your family this week, and I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not ready for.”
Sean swallows hard. “Okay…”
“But,” I continue, steady, “I’m asking you to stop with the Houdini shit.”
He bites his lip and stares at me.
“No more attempting to ghost me,” I say. “And no more running after we’re intimate just because the feelings catch up to you.”
Sean’s eyes flick away. “Look, I panicked—”
“Oh, I know,” I say, softer. “But panic can’t be the thing that decides for you every time.”
He nods once, and I lean in slightly, keeping my voice low.
“If you want me,” I say, “then we communicate. We talk. You tell me when you’re scared. You don’t punish yourself and call it faith; that’s bullshit, Sean.”
Sean’s jaw tightens, and I can see him fighting, not me, but himself. Or maybe he’s fighting whatever he was taught to believe. Whatever it is, I hate seeing him struggle with it.
Finally, he exhales and says, raw and quiet, “I do want you.”
The words hit me like a clean strike.
He rushes on before he can stop himself, his voice rough. “I want… this. Whatever the hell this is, I’m not gonna lie, I’m scared of how my family will react.”
I nod, calm, even though something in me feels too full.
“Okay,” I say. “This is honest, and I can work with that.”
Sean’s eyes shine again, furious and vulnerable. “I don’t want to lose them.”
“You might not,” I say. “And even if they struggle for a while, which they might. I’ll be with you.”
Sean’s throat bobs, and I reach across the table, slowly, and rest my hand over his. He doesn’t flinch this time. His fingers curl around mine like he’s holding on. The server shows up a few seconds later with our plates, and it pulls us apart.
We eat, and we talk more in between bites.
Not deep confessions the whole time, just… small things too. What shows we like to watch when we can’t sleep. What music each of us likes to play in the car. How I like my coffee and how he’s never had a good cup of coffee since coming back from a trip to Ireland.
The stupid things that make a relationship feel like a life instead of a crisis.
Back at his apartment, we get inside, and he pauses at the door.
“You locking the deadbolt this time?”
Sean flips me off automatically. “Shut up.”
“Mmm, no, I don’t think I will.” I smirk, my hand brushing his as I pass.
He snorts, but the sound is softer now.
He kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the couch like he’s running out of adrenaline. I follow, keeping distance until he pats the cushion beside him.
I sit, and Sean leans into me slowly, shoulder against mine, like he’s testing whether he’s allowed.
Okay, cuddling. This is a huge step forward.
I don’t move away. I just shift slightly and tuck him in, arm around him, hand warm on his side. Sean exhales like he finally has some peace.
“No sex,” he mutters, his voice muffled against my shirt, like he’s reminding himself.
Softly, I kiss the top of his head. “No sex.”
He’s quiet for a second, then reaches for the remote. “What do you wanna watch?”
I blink. “That’s your question?”
Sean huffs. “We’re… talking. Right?”
“Okay,” I say. “I like dumb reality shows. Don’t judge me.”
Sean lifts his head just enough to stare at me. “You? The Mets ace? Watches reality TV?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, and that makes him laugh.
A real laugh.
Then he settles back into me, and it feels… easy.
We put something on, some show neither of us really follows, just noise and light while we exist beside each other until Sean’s breathing slows.
His hand finds mine on the couch. And when I glance down at his fingers laced with mine in the soft lamplight of his living room, I think to myself, this is what I wanted.
Not the dark or the constant fighting and shit talking.
This.
The part where he stays, and where he lets me be gentle without flinching. Where he finally stops running long enough to rest. I keep my arm around him and stare at the TV without really watching it.
Tonight, I don’t need him to moan my name to know he wants me.
He said the words out loud, and it’s a good start.