14. Sean #3
Holy shit. I can’t believe we just did that in front of God knows how many people.
Later, in his hotel room, the shower water is too hot, and Emiliano’s hands are gentle when they wash my hair, like he’s trying to calm my nervous system.
We order takeout because we’re too tired to exist, and once the takeout is sprawled across the bed between us like we’re teenagers hiding from the world, we feast.
Noodles, sauce, and a mountain of napkins. Emiliano eats like he hasn’t seen food in a week, and I’m still half-listening to the imaginary roar of the stadium and the very real roar of the internet.
I pick at my food, then stare at the ceiling. “The internet is going to explode, you know.”
Emiliano chews, swallows, and shrugs like it’s just another Monday. “Let it.”
I laugh weakly. “Just like that, huh?”
He shifts closer and wipes a smear of sauce off my lip with his thumb like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a thousand times.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just like that.”
He takes a breath and says it like he’s calling a pitch, calm and intentional.
“I know you’re worried about the logistics of the relationship. But baby, we’ll plan the travel,” he murmurs, putting his food down and scooting closer. “We’ll make time. We’ll talk when it gets heavy. We’ll handle the PR stuff if it turns ugly. And… we’ll build what we want.”
I blink. “What we want?”
Emiliano’s eyes stay on mine. “Yeah.”
There’s something steady in the way he says it that makes my chest ache.
“And kids,” he adds, like it’s just another line item.
My heart trips.
“Kids,” I repeat, like I’m testing the word.
They were always part of my plan.
Emiliano nods once, mouth tilting. “So… how many?”
“What?”
He narrows his eyes. “You heard me, Cobre.”
My laugh comes out shaky. “That’s not really a normal question at this point in a relationship.”
“I’m not normal,” he says. “How many?”
I roll my eyes, but it’s soft. “I don’t know. Two?”
Emiliano makes a thoughtful sound. “Two is a good start.”
“A good start?” I laugh. “You want more than that?”
He grins. “Four is my minimum.”
My eyes go wide. “Four?”
Emiliano shrugs like this is obvious. “I grew up with only two sisters, but I had a shit ton of cousins. What can I say? I want a loud house.”
I swallow. “Okay, but… like, how? I don’t think I need to explain to you how babies are made.”
Emiliano’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t get awkward.
“Adoption,” he says first, simply. “There’s a bunch of kids out there that need loving parents.” His gaze softens. “I think that’s something we could offer.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with the man in front of me as I am now.
“And,” he continues, “surrogacy. If that’s something you want. If it feels right. If we can do it in a way that doesn’t feel like we’re buying a baby like a fucking accessory.”
I swallow hard, because of course he’d say it like that. Of course he’d care about the ethics even while he’s being dreamy.
“And we could alternate,” he adds. “You know, one biologically tied to you, the other to me.”
Clearing my throat, I stare him down. “You’ve put some thought into this, have you?”
Emiliano’s mouth tilts, almost shy for half a second. “Yeah. Well, I’m on a lot of long plane rides. And I know what I want when it comes to you, baby. I want it all.”
My chest goes tight and warm and too full.
“Okay,” I mutter. “So you want… four kids. Minimum. Adoption and surrogacy. A loud house.”
“Sí.” Emiliano nods. “And you.”
I take a breath, then make the weak joke because feelings are scary and I’m me. “We’re planning like we’re getting married or something.”
The second the words leave my mouth, my stomach drops.
Fuck, that was too far.
Too soon, Sean.
I glance at him, ready to backpedal, but Emiliano just goes still. Then his eyes darken, and not in a sexual way. In a serious way.
In a, “You just said something important.”
“Is that something you want?” he asks, his voice low.
“Mili—”
He doesn’t let me dodge the question.
“You want to be my husband, O’Malley?” he asks again, slower, like he wants me to hear every word.
My pulse is loud in my ears, and I try to laugh it off. It comes out pathetic.
“I…” I swallow. “I don’t know. It’s kind of soon, don’t you think?”
“That’s okay,” he says softly. “But think about it.”
He reaches over and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, his thumb brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding me back into my body.
“Because I do,” he murmurs.
My breath catches, and he leans in, forehead resting against mine.
“I want you,” he says quietly. “In my life. In my house. In my future.”
Don’t cry.
Too late.
My eyes sting with the familiar burn of tears, and I just nod once. Then I say the most honest thing I can ever say.
“I want you too,” I whisper. “O’Malley-Guerrero is gonna be really long for the back of the jersey, though.”
Emiliano laughs and kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then my mouth, slow and steady.
"Well, I guess that’s a problem for our teams to deal with,” he murmurs against my lips. “We’re just there to play.”