Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
ANDRES
I don’t do subtle. At least not with something as important as this.
Subtle is for bunt signs and stealing bases and the lies people tell themselves when they’re afraid of wanting something too much.
Jackson has spent his whole life learning how to make his needs small.
How to swallow the alarm, the hunger, the love, and the fear because someone taught him it was safer to be quiet.
I’m doing this at our favorite place because he deserves a love that doesn’t whisper his name. I plan on shouting it for everyone to hear.
Forever.
Santa Cruz smells like salt and eucalyptus and sun-warmed sand. It’s late afternoon when we get there, the light already turning honey-gold, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it is. The ocean is loud, steady, and endless. Waves rolling in like a heartbeat.
Jackson stands at the edge of the sand, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hair already getting tugged by the wind. He looks relaxed, like this place calms him without him even realizing.
I watch him for a second too long and he catches me.
“You’re staring,” he singsongs, eyes narrowing.
“I’m appreciating the view,” I smirk.
Jackson’s mouth twitches. “You’re plotting something.”
If only he knew.
“Come on." I reach for his hand. “Walk with me.”
He lets me pull him down the beach, and we walk in comfortable silence for a while. There’s no tension, no hiding what we are to each other. People around us don’t care one bit.
It’s just us and the ocean and the gulls being rude in the distance.
Jackson bumps his shoulder into mine. “So what’s this? Because you don’t randomly take me to Santa Cruz without a reason.”
“I can’t take my boyfriend on a date?”
Jackson scoffs. “You can. But you’re doing that calm voice you do when you’re about to drop a bomb.”
He knows me too well.
We pass a cluster of people taking photos by the waterline. A couple of kids chase each other with plastic shovels. A dog sprints through the surf like it’s winning a championship. My chest tightens, not with nerves exactly, but with that deep, clean certainty.
This is it.
This is my life.
He is my person.
Jackson looks over at me, brows drawing together. “Dre, are you okay?”
I stop walking and Jackson stops with me, turning to face me. The wind pushes his hair forward. The sun catches the freckles across his nose. His eyes are warm and wary and open, and I take both of his hands in mine.
“I’m more than okay,” I say quietly.
Jackson’s throat bobs. “Then why do you look like you’re about to fight the ocean?”
“Because I’m about to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” I huff a soft laugh.
His eyes widen just a fraction and the world keeps moving around us, people laughing in the distance and waves crashing, but in my head it goes silent because he is all I see, hear, and feel.
I pull him a few steps farther down the beach, to a stretch of sand that’s emptier, where the sound of the ocean feels like it’s meant for us.
Jackson’s pulse is visible in his throat.
“Dre…”
I let go of one of his hands and reach into my hoodie pocket. The ring box is small, but it weighs like a promise.
Jackson sees it and freezes. His breath catches so hard it’s audible.
“Oh, fuck—” he says, his voice barely there.
I drop to one knee.
The sand is cool against my skin, the wind is loud, and my heart is steady anyway, because this isn’t a question I’m uncertain about.
This is the only yes I’ve ever been sure of.
Jackson’s hands fly to his mouth, and his eyes go glassy immediately.
“Oh my God,” he whispers.
I open the box, and the ring catches the last of the sun and throws it back like a dare. Silver and perfect, simple enough for him to wear every day. Jackson makes a shaky sound that could be a laugh or a sob. My eyes lock on his.
“Jackson Michael Baker,” I say, voice low and clear, “you’ve been my best friend, my home, my favorite person, and my biggest fear because I didn’t know if the world would ever let us have this.”
Jackson’s tears spill silently down his cheeks. I keep going anyway.
“I watched you spend years trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to be easy. Trying not to need.” My throat tightens, but I don’t look away. “And I want you to know you never have to do that again. Not with me.”
Jackson shakes his head, eyes shining. “Dre…”
I lift the ring box slightly, as if he needs proof.
“I don’t care about headlines,” I say. “I don’t care about strangers.
I don’t care what anyone thinks about who a man is supposed to love or how he’s supposed to show it.
I care about you. About your laughter, your stubbornness, your soft heart, your scary-brave moments, and the way you still try even when you’re exhausted. ”
Jackson is crying openly now, chest heaving like he’s trying to breathe through too much emotion.
My voice drops even lower.
“I love you more than anything I’ve ever known. And I don’t want a life where I have to pretend you’re not mine.”
I swallow, then give him the only honest, dangerous truth I have.
“I want to be your husband,” I say. “For real. In paperwork and rings and vows. In hospitals and airports, away games and quiet nights on the couch. In every version of our life that exists.”
Jackson’s hands tremble and he whispers, “Andres…”
I smile, soft and wrecked.
“So,” I say, and my voice breaks just a little, “will you marry me?”
For a second, Jackson doesn’t speak; he just stares at me like I hung the moon and then dared him to believe it was his. Then he laughs through a sob and drops to his knees in the sand in front of me, grabbing my face with both hands.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, you asshole. Yes.”
Something in my chest detonates, and I stand up fast enough to stumble, and Jackson throws himself into me, arms around my neck, legs wrapping around my waist like he’s never letting go.
I spin us once, laughing into his shoulder like I’m nineteen and fearless and the whole world is ours.
Then I set him down carefully because I’m not trying to propose and then immediately break my ankle.
Jackson wipes at his face, sniffing hard. “You… you did it with a ring.”
“Of course I did,” I say, and I open the box again. “Give me your hand, mi sol.”
Jackson holds his left hand out like it’s sacred. His fingers tremble as I slide the ring on slowly, watching it settle into place like it belongs there.
He stares at it, breath hitching, then he looks up at me and his smile is so bright it hurts.
“I’m going to be your husband,” he whispers, like he’s testing the words on his tongue.
“Yes,” I say, kissing his wet cheeks. “You are.”
Jackson laughs, then kisses me hard, mouth warm and salty, the ocean roaring approval behind us. When we pull back, he rests his forehead against mine.
“You did it publicly,” he whispers. “People have their phones out.”
“Go big or go home.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more,” I murmur automatically.
He snorts. “Liar.”
We walk the rest of the beach with our hands linked, the ring glinting every time he lifts his hand like he can’t stop checking if it’s real. At some point, Jackson glances up at me, eyes shining again. “So… when?”
“September,” I say immediately.
Jackson freezes mid-step. “Wait, really? That’s only a few months away.”
I nod. “You said you liked September, the way the air changes, and the soft sunlight. You said Santa Cruz feels like home, so let's do it here.”
“You remembered all that?” Jackson’s mouth hangs open.
I lift his hand and kiss the ring. “I remember everything about you.”
His face does that thing, softening into something vulnerable and overwhelmed.
“September,” he repeats, like he’s trying it on.
“It will be worth it, Jack. Being able to go into next season with you as my husband.”
Jackson’s smile turns wicked through the tears. “Are we doing, like… a big wedding?”
I shrug. “We can have whatever kind of wedding you want.”
Jackson hums, thinking. “Okay. Specifics. I want… I want something beachy but not cheesy.”
“Agreed.”
Jackson keeps talking, suddenly animated, like this is the only kind of planning that doesn’t scare him.
“Santa Cruz. September. Maybe—” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “Wait, do we want the ceremony on the beach or, like… somewhere overlooking it?”
“Overlooking,” I say immediately. “Sand is unpredictable and the wind can be rude as fuck. Your grandma would hate it.”
Jackson laughs. “True.”
“We do the ceremony somewhere with a view,” I continue, already mentally building it like a game plan. “Reception nearby. Good food. Good music. People who love us. No drama.”
Jackson points at me. “No drama is an impossible request.”
“It’s a boundary,” I say, dead serious. “No exceptions.”
He giggles, then looks at his ring again, softer now. “I want something personal,” he says. “We don’t need three hundred people.”
“We’ll write our vows,” I say. “Real ones.”
“Yeah,” Jackson swallows. “That sounds like us.”
“And,” I add, brushing my thumb over his knuckles, “we do it how you need it. Your schedule. Your health. Your comfort.”
I love the way his eyes shine again.
“You’re going to plan this like a baseball season.”
“With spreadsheets.”
He groans. “No.”
“Yes.”
Jackson shoves me gently, laughing. “Okay, okay. September, right here. We’ll start looking at venues. We’ll figure out dates. We’ll—”
I stop walking again and Jackson turns back, brow furrowing. “What now?”
“Now,” I say softly, moving closer and cupping his face, “I get to call you my fiancé.”
Jackson’s lips part, and then he smiles like the sun, living up to his nickname.
“Fiancé,” he whispers. “Holy shit… I love it so much.”
I kiss him, slow and sure, the ocean wind wrapping around us like a blessing. When we pull back, Jackson’s grin turns mischievous.
“So,” he says, voice low, “does fiancé status come with benefits?”
I laugh, pressing my forehead to his. “It does… but they’re not as good as husband benefits.”