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thelunarbar · 8 days ago

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It’s even better than I imagined! So cute! I love it so much! Thank you thank you!

their little plan

summary: two scheming kids, one yankees pitcher, and a daycare friendship that turns into something much bigger under the bright lights of yankee stadium.

word count: 6.7k words

a/n: this was a request! its so cute, i hope you enjoy! also my first carlos imagine!!

⸻

It’s always the same at 5:15 p.m. the familiar, noisy chaos of the daycare hallway.

Little sneakers squeaking on tile, coats half zipped, crayon smudged fingers clutching construction paper masterpieces, backpacks spilling glitter and glue sticks in every corner. Parents crowd around the cubbies in a practiced dance of shoes, snacks, and goodbye hugs, voices overlapping tired but patient.

You’ve come to know this routine by heart slip past the double doors, scan for Jade’s ponytail bouncing as she plays, brace for her inevitable, breathless “Look what I made today!” and prepare to negotiate one last game, one more hug, before convincing her it’s time to go home.

But today like every day lately your gaze catches, almost involuntarily, on a figure standing across the room.

Carlos Rodon.

Though you didn’t actually know it was Carlos Rodon at first. Not when he blended so easily into the background those first few afternoons hoodie pulled low, ball cap shadowing his eyes, scruff softening his jawline, shoulders relaxed but somehow set apart from the rushed, frazzled energy of most parents here.

Quiet. Still. A quiet that stood out.

He’s always there around the same time as you leaning casually by the coat rack, one hand in his pocket, while his son, Alex darts around the playroom, cheeks flushed with afterschool excitement.

And every day, your interaction is the same. A brief nod exchanged across cubbies. A fleeting, almost shy smile. And then back to your parallel worlds.

But always, always Jade and Alex together.

Side by side at the craft table, heads bent over paper and glue. Chasing each other through the carpeted play corner in matching light up sneakers.

Laughing loudest at story time, giggling in tandem.

Even their cubbies have crept close together their tiny jackets practically tangled on the hooks, their backpacks leaning into each other like old friends.

The teachers love to point it out “They’re inseparable, those two,” Miss Ellen says nearly every day, her voice fond as she rearranges their artwork on the bulletin board. And sometimes, when you pause on your way out, you notice their drawings stick figures labeled “Me” and “Alex” or “Jade” and “Me,” bright rainbows and scribbly hearts filling the margins.

It’s sweet. But it’s also, something else. A connection. Not just between the kids, but between you and this quiet man in the hoodie, who seems to orbit your space even if he never quite steps into it.

⸻

Today’s no different except it is, somehow.

Jade is the first to spot you from across the room, her ponytail swinging wildly as she runs full speed, pink backpack bouncing against her small frame.

“Mommy! Mommy!” she sings, launching herself into your legs and wrapping her arms tight around your waist before tugging insistently at your hand.

“Come see! Alex helped me draw a rocket ship today! Look it has his dog in it too!”

You let her pull you across the play mat, crouching down to admire her picture and as you glance up, your gaze finds him again.

Across the room, Alex is holding up an identical picture proudly for his dad, and there he is Carlos crouched low, his ball cap pushed back slightly, head tilted to better hear his son’s excited explanation. One large hand rests gently on Alex’s small shoulder, and he smiles at something Alex says a soft, genuine smile that you can’t help but notice.

There it is again, that quiet awareness. You’re both here every day, standing close enough to speak but never quite doing it. Parallel paths, polite nods, shared smiles but no real words.

Not yet.

And right as you’re kneeling to slip Jade’s tiny sneakers onto her feet her fingers twisting the ends of her hoodie strings with mischief you hear her giggle to Alex, loud enough that it cuts through the chatter around you.

“Maybe our mommies and daddies should come together next time!”

It’s so innocent, so perfectly timed, that you freeze for just a second your fingers stalling on the laces.

And when you glance up, your gaze meets his really meets his properly for the first time.

Carlos’s lips quirk in a smile that’s both amused and intrigued, a spark of something unspoken flickering in his expression. A quiet curiosity there now, where before there was just polite distance.

Without a word, he tips his cap in that familiar way still understated, still soft but now it feels different somehow. More intentional.

Another nod. A glance that lingers just a little longer.

Nothing more.

At least, not yet.

⸻

It starts that evening, just after bath time the house wrapped in that soft hush that always follows splashing and laughter and endless reminders to rinse the shampoo properly.

Jade is perched on the couch, legs tucked under her in her favorite pajamas, the ones with little moons and stars down the sleeves. Her damp hair is still curling softly at the ends, sticking slightly to her cheeks as she bends over a crayon drawing, a purple marker clutched in one hand, tongue peeking out in concentration.

You’re only half paying attention at first, moving about the living room, gathering up stray plastic dinosaurs and a lone sock from under the coffee table, folding a tiny hoodie over the arm of the couch.

And then her voice floats out soft but purposeful, the kind of tone that makes you pause even though she says it so casually. “Mommy, why don’t you talk to Alex’s daddy?”

You freeze mid-step, dish towel slung over your shoulder, a small toy in your hand. “What do you mean, baby?” you ask gently, curiosity creeping into your voice as you glance over at her.

Jade glances up without hesitation, meeting your gaze with wide, serious eyes as if this is the most obvious question in the world, and she’s only just now realized she has to ask it.

“You always just wave,” she says simply, brushing an unruly curl behind her ear before turning back to her picture. “You could talk to him too.”

There’s a beat, and then she adds with complete sincerity. “And you should both come with us to the park. Me and Alex would really like that.”

You smile despite yourself, warmth blooming in your chest at her certainty at the way her small voice makes such a big suggestion sound so simple.

There’s something innocent in her tone, but something almost knowing too as though she’s been thinking about this for a while, quietly watching, quietly wondering why two grown ups haven’t figured out what she and Alex already seem to know.

You shake your head softly and cross the room, setting the toy down on the coffee table as you lean over her. You press a kiss to her still damp curls and reply, teasing gently, “I talk to him.”

Even though that’s not entirely true.

Her eyes flick back to you, skeptical in that wise beyond her years way she has sometimes. Her mouth quirks just slightly as if to say “Sure you do.”

“We just, don’t know each other very well,” you add, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jade hums, unconvinced, and bends back over her drawing, her small hand moving quickly with the purple marker.

You watch as she puts the finishing touches on it. A crayon family, bright and bold, under a wide yellow sun two tall stick figures, one clearly labeled “Mommy” and one labeled “Alex’s Daddy,” their hands joined together.

Beside them, two smaller stick figures “Me” and “Alex” nestled right in between.

All of them smiling, all of them surrounded by a big red heart.

Your chest tightens as you take it in the sweetness of it, the utter clarity of what she wants, what she imagines.

She doesn’t say anything else, just hums a little tune under her breath as she colors, perfectly content, perfectly certain that this is how things should be.

And as you watch her, you realize with a quiet smile that maybe she’s not entirely wrong.

⸻

Meanwhile, in another apartment across town, the night routine is winding down.

The bathroom is still warm and steamy from Alex’s bath, the mirror fogged, and the soft scent of shampoo lingers in the air.

Carlos sits on the edge of the bed with Alex in front of him, gently rubbing a towel over his son’s damp hair taking his time, careful, quiet.

It’s a peaceful, familiar rhythm, one of those small rituals that anchors the end of their long days.

And then, without warning Alex’s little voice breaks the calm, clear and thoughtful in the way only a five year old can manage. “Daddy? Jade’s mommy is nice.”

Carlos pauses mid-rub, towel still bunched in his hands. His eyebrows lift, curiosity flickering as he looks down at his son. “Yeah, bud she seems nice,” he says carefully, not sure where this is going but feeling the weight behind Alex’s observation.

Alex twists around, sitting back on his heels so he can face his dad properly, his expression serious earnest in that unguarded way that always gets to Carlos, no matter what the topic is.

And then he says it.

Simple. Soft.

“I want a mommy too.”

The words land with a quiet, unexpected force. Not loud. Not demanding.

Just honest.

Carlos’s chest tightens, a tug deep and sudden, because for all the laughter and joy that fills their little life together, this desire has always lingered quietly at the edges.

“Oh yeah?” Carlos murmurs, setting the towel aside as he crouches lower, resting his forearms on his knees so he can meet Alex’s gaze at eye level.

Alex nods immediately, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, his wide eyes shining with sincerity.

“You could talk to Jade’s mommy,” he suggests simply, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. His voice softens, a hopeful little smile appearing. “Maybe she can come with us next time, to the park.”

Carlos feels his throat tighten moved by the innocence of it, by the clarity of Alex’s little heart.

And he can’t help it he lets out a quiet laugh, gentle and warm, before reaching forward to ruffle his son’s hair again.

“Maybe, huh?” he says, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, softer now. “Maybe she can.”

His mind drifts for a moment thinking of the quiet nods exchanged at daycare pickup, the glimpses of her kneeling beside Jade, tying a shoelace, the way she smiled when their kids’ giggles filled the playroom.

How long had Alex been cooking up this plan?

Long enough, clearly.

Carlos leans in and presses a quick kiss to the top of Alex’s damp head.

“Alright, champ,” he says, voice full of affection now. “Let’s get your pajamas on. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

But even as he pulls the pajama top over Alex’s head and laughs as Alex sticks his arms out the wrong sleeve the thought lingers.

Maybe just maybe, his son has the right idea.

⸻

The next few days at daycare, it becomes impossible to ignore. Jade and Alex are on a mission and their mission is you.

It starts small.

That first afternoon, you arrive right on time, slipping past the front desk as usual, only to find Jade sitting cross legged by her cubby, arms crossed, a frown of exaggerated frustration on her little face.

“I can’t find my shoe,” she declares dramatically, one sneaker on and the other conspicuously missing.

You kneel down to help, scanning the usual hiding spots under the bench, beneath her backpack but no luck.

It isn’t until five minutes later, after Jade has pointedly refused every suggestion to “just wear your boots home,” that you spot the errant shoe peeking out from behind Alex’s cubby.

You glance up just in time to see Alex giggle and scurry away, Jade’s grin breaking through her faux-frustration the second you hand her the shoe.

Coincidence? Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like it.

⸻

The next afternoon, they up the ante.

You arrive to find Jade ready to go, backpack on, shoes miraculously already tied. But just as you reach for her hand, you hear Alex’s small voice pipe up from across the room. “Daddy, I need to go potty one more time!”

Carlos, who has just walked in behind you, pauses mid-step, one eyebrow lifting as he watches Alex scamper toward the bathroom at top speed glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Jade is watching too.

You exchange a glance with Carlos as you both find yourselves lingering awkwardly by the door again.

He smiles faintly, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips, but says nothing as the minutes tick by and Alex takes his sweet time.

⸻

And then, the third day?

All pretense is gone.

That afternoon, you arrive and Jade flat out refuses to leave.

Her tiny arms wrap around the coat rack, giggles bubbling from her chest as she insists loudly. “I have to say goodbye to Alex first!”

And across the room, Alex is clinging to Carlos’s leg like a koala, his bright eyes locked on Jade.

“But we were going to play together outside,” he announces dramatically and loudly enough that even Miss Ellen glances up from her paperwork, hiding a knowing smile.

The whole thing feels unmistakably rehearsed.

You crouch next to Jade, trying your best to look serious but failing miserably. Her grin gives her away a mischievous, delighted little smile she can’t quite contain.

Alex bounces on his toes next to Carlos, practically glowing with hope, eyes wide as he looks between his dad and you, like this is exactly how he planned it.

Finally, Carlos chuckles under his breath, running a hand across his beard as he gestures vaguely between the two scheming children.

“I think, they’re working together on something,” he says, voice low and amused, the corners of his mouth quirking upward.

You can’t help but laugh, warmth rising in your chest as you glance down at Jade, who is definitely too proud of herself right now.

“Yeah,” you reply with a soft smile. “I think they have a whole plan.”

And somehow standing there next to Carlos, your daughter pressed against your side, Alex still latched onto his father’s leg, it doesn’t feel like an inconvenience.

It feels, oddly right.

Like this little plan of theirs might actually be working.

And neither of you seems too eager to stop it.

⸻

By the fourth day of obvious stalling, it’s almost laughable.

This time, Jade and Alex have gone all in committed little co-conspirators, fully leaning into their mission. Jade insists she can’t leave because she “forgot her rocket ship drawing,” which suspiciously can’t be found anywhere, while Alex declares loudly that he needs “one more hug” before going home, except that hug quickly turns into a full on game of tag inside the daycare.

The two of them squeal with delight as they dart between cubbies and beanbags, their giggles echoing through the room clearly delighted by just how long they can keep you and Carlos standing awkwardly near the door together.

Other parents glance over occasionally, a few amused smiles, a few raised eyebrows, but you can only shake your head.

You kneel, futilely coaxing Jade toward her backpack for what must be the third time, but she’s too busy laughing as she dodges Alex, hair bouncing wildly with every spin.

And then as you straighten, giving up for now your gaze flicks across the room and meets his.

Carlos.

He’s leaning casually against the cubby wall now, the faintest smirk curving at the corner of his mouth as he watches his son gleefully chase Jade around the beanbag chairs.

And then for the first time he speaks first.

A quiet, warm chuckle threads through his words as he says, “I think we’re being set up by a couple of kindergartners.”

You laugh immediately, genuine and light, shaking your head as Jade zips past your legs, followed closely by Alex’s determined sprint.

“They’re not even subtle about it, are they?” you reply, smiling wide as you lean back slightly against the nearest cubby, your shoulders relaxing in a way they hadn’t before.

Carlos steps a little closer not rushed, not intrusive just enough to close that polite distance that’s always existed between you. One hand rests lightly on the strap of his backpack, his posture easy, the familiar hoodie hanging open for once, revealing the quiet confidence underneath.

“Not even trying to hide it at this point,” he says, a soft grin lifting his features, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of something playful the hint of a dimple, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

Then his voice lowers slightly, more thoughtful now.

“Alex told me the other night that he wants ‘a mommy too,’” he admits with an affectionate shake of his head. “Apparently that means me and you need to uh, coordinate.”

You snort genuinely unable to help yourself laughter bubbling out.

“Jade told me almost the exact same thing,” you confess, still smiling as you glance toward your daughter, who is currently spinning in dizzy circles while Alex chases her with uncontainable laughter. “She’s been suggesting I talk to ‘Alex’s daddy’ all week.”

Carlos laughs at that really laughs not the polite nod and smile you’d grown used to during pickup, but a real, open sound that feels easy and warm and genuine.

And suddenly, the ice that’s sat quietly between you both all these afternoons cracks, wide open effortless. For a long moment, neither of you rush to chase the kids.

You just stand there, side by side, watching them, the noise around you fading just a little as something softer settles in.

Carlos tilts his head toward you, his voice quiet but carrying a fond note you hadn’t expected. “They’ve basically decided we’re one big family already, huh?”

You turn to look at him properly really see him this time and feel a warmth bloom in your chest you can’t quite explain. “Yep,” you say softly, meeting his gaze with a smile that feels different now. “Jade’s already drawing pictures of the four of us.”

Carlos’s expression softens even more at that, his lips curving into a smile that reaches his eyes real and unguarded. “Alex did the same,” he admits, voice warm with affection. “Stick figures and all me, him, Jade and you.”

There’s a pause not awkward, but easy, almost comfortable. A breath you both seem to take at the same time. And then, almost in sync, you both laugh again, shaking your heads as if to say these kids.

“Parenting war stories?” you offer playfully, raising a teasing brow.

Carlos leans against the wall next to you, folding his arms loosely, that smile still lingering as he nods.

“Oh, I bet we could swap plenty,” he says, his voice relaxed now almost conspiratorial. “Bedtime battles? Selective hearing? Dinosaur phases?”

You grin, leaning in slightly. “Oh yeah. Jade’s obsessed with space and unicorns. Yesterday she drew a unicorn in a spacesuit. I think she’s creating her own genre.”

Carlos chuckles, his hand brushing absently over his beard. “Sounds familiar. Alex is deep in a dinosaur and pirates phase. My living room looks like a shipwrecked Jurassic Park.”

You both laugh again, this time without hesitation, your shoulders brushing briefly as you lean back against the cubbies side by side.

“Honestly?” Carlos says after a beat, tilting his head toward you again, voice a little softer, a little more sincere. “They sound like a perfect match.”

Your gaze drifts back toward the kids now sitting quietly together on the carpet, building a crooked block tower as if their mischievous scheming never existed.

“They really do,” you murmur, feeling something settle deep in your chest an unexpected but welcome warmth.

Carlos catches your gaze again, his smile softer this time, and there’s a playful glint in his eye as he adds, “Guess it’s only a matter of time before they start demanding playdates outside of daycare together.”

You arch a brow, matching his playful tone perfectly. “Oh, I think that’s already part of their master plan.”

For the first time since all those polite nods across the daycare hallway began, there’s no hoodie shadowing his face, no hesitation behind his smile just easy connection.

And for the first time… you realize you’re hoping maybe you’re both ready to stop resisting their plan.

⸻

By the end of the week, you barely have time to step inside the daycare before Jade barrels straight into you, breathless with excitement, her little fingers already wrapping tightly around yours as she tugs insistently.

“Mommy, can we please go to the park today? With Alex and his daddy? Please please please?”

Her words tumble out fast, each “please” higher pitched than the last, her eyes bright with hope and just the faintest glimmer of mischief like she knows exactly how to wear you down.

Beside her, Alex is nodding furiously, bouncing on the balls of his feet, cheeks flushed, practically vibrating with anticipation.

And before you can even answer before you can finish registering just how coordinated their plea is you glance up.

Carlos is already there.

Leaning casually against the cubbies, one hand tucked into his pocket, his backpack slung over a shoulder in that effortlessly relaxed way he always seems to carry himself. But his expression is different now soft, amused, the faintest glint of affection behind the curve of his smile as he watches Jade and Alex launch their tag team campaign.

“They’re persistent,” he says, voice low and warm, a quiet laugh curling around the words.

Then just a beat softer, just for you. “We could take them together. Maybe grab ice cream after?” His gaze lingers on yours now, gentle but open. “No pressure, just a supervised playdate they’ve clearly been planning for weeks.”

The kids are practically holding their breath now, waiting for your answer.

You glance back at Carlos and catch that look playful but patient, easy but genuine and you feel yourself smile without even thinking.

“Sure,” you say, warmth blooming in your chest. “Why fight their master plan at this point?”

⸻

The park is bathed in soft golden afternoon light when you arrive that perfect late day glow that makes everything feel gentle, almost cinematic.

Jade and Alex hit the ground running, hand in hand, shrieking with joy as they race toward the playground like they own it, already deciding what game comes first.

You and Carlos trail behind at a slower, quieter pace, falling into step beside each other easily, almost instinctively.

It feels oddly comfortable.

The conversation between you flows naturally, punctuated by easy silences that feel far from awkward as your eyes follow the kids darting from swings to slide, climbing and tumbling, already so perfectly in sync.

You steal glances at Carlos as he watches Alex the way his expression softens, his gaze steady and patient. The way he seems completely present. No stress, no rush, just here.

At one point, Jade comes running back, breathless and laughing, hair flying around her face, her sneaker laces dragging dangerously. Before you can bend down, Carlos is already moving, crouching smoothly in front of her.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says gently, and it makes your heart catch that small tenderness, the ease with which he says it, as though Jade is just as much under his care as Alex is.

His fingers work quickly, confidently, tying her laces the same way you imagine he’s tied Alex’s hundreds of times before. And Jade stands perfectly still, grinning, like she knows exactly how lucky she is in this moment too.

You watch them that warmth in your chest expanding further than you expected and when Jade beams and darts off again, Carlos stands slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans as he turns toward you.

“Guess I’m on shoe duty today,” he teases, glancing sidelong at you with a playful twinkle in his eyes.

“Deal,” you reply, grinning. “Then I’m on ice cream cleanup.”

⸻

Which, of course, turns out to be entirely true.

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting side by side on a sun warmed park bench, watching as Jade and Alex enthusiastically devour their ice cream cones the sticky aftermath already obvious and inevitable.

Alex ends up with a perfect smear of chocolate right across one cheek.

Without hesitation, you lean in, napkin in hand, gently wiping it away as he giggles, squirming but leaning into your touch all the same.

When you glance up, you catch Carlos watching you a small, real smile tugging at his lips, softer than before.

Something about the way he looks at you in that moment makes your stomach flutter unexpectedly.

“These two,” he says with a gentle shake of his head, still watching them as they whisper conspiratorially between bites, “I swear they’re already planning their next move.”

You laugh, leaning back on the bench, feeling the sunlight warm your face and shoulders.

“Think they’re out here drafting a contract for us next?” you joke, half-meaning it, half not but amused all the same.

Carlos chuckles, tapping his finger against his chin as if actually considering the idea.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he murmurs, eyes flickering toward you again.“They’ve been more organized about this than most adults I know.”

The conversation drifts easily after that, full of soft laughter and stories about bedtime battles, favorite playgrounds, picky eating phases. The kind of simple, everyday details that somehow feel personal when shared here, like this in this slow, quiet moment together.

And when it’s finally time to head home, Jade and Alex come bounding back, breathless and giddy, their hands immediately finding each other’s again as they look up at you both with hopeful eyes.

“Can we do this again soon?” Jade asks, her voice bright, already pulling Alex close as if she knows exactly how she wants this story to continue.

Before you can answer, Carlos catches your gaze. Not quite a question, but something close a silent check in. You nod softly, warmth rising to your cheeks, and he returns the nod with that same quiet ease that has felt so natural from the very beginning.

“Yeah,” he says, directing it mostly to the kids but letting his eyes linger on yours just a heartbeat longer. “I think we can do that.”

⸻

The little neighborhood pizza place is packed tonight the kind of cozy chaos that feels welcoming rather than overwhelming. Booths filled with families, the warm scent of melted cheese and garlic bread in the air, kids’ laughter and clattering plates creating an easy, lived in soundtrack.

But Jade and Alex don’t seem to notice any of it.

They slide straight into their favorite corner booth as if they’ve been coming here together for years, their small hands already reaching for the pile of crayons tucked into the condiment caddy.

Before you’ve even opened a menu, the table is scattered with crayons, napkins shoved aside, menus left mostly untouched. The kids are deep in whispered conversation, heads bent close together as they color furiously on a single sheet of paper giggling, plotting, completely immersed in whatever masterpiece they’re creating.

Across from them, you and Carlos settle in relaxed this time. Less like two strangers thrown together by circumstance, more like something familiar.

Like this is exactly where the four of you belong.

Carlos tilts his head toward you, one arm draped casually over the back of the booth, that familiar soft smile playing at his lips.

“So,” he says, a low chuckle threading through his voice, “do they always plan their lives with this much intensity?”

You laugh softly, leaning forward a little, elbows on the table as you glance toward the two conspirators.

“Oh, this is nothing,” you say, grinning. “You should see Jade at bedtime, full negotiation tactics. Five more minutes of story time turns into twenty. And if she really wants something? Forget it. She’s relentless.”

Carlos laughs quietly, shaking his head in mock awe. “She and Alex are a dangerous pair,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling with amusement as he watches them. “She’s got strategy. He’s got charm. I’m starting to think we never had a chance.”

It’s a light, easy exchange but underneath it there’s something softer, a quiet fondness as the two of you watch your children coloring side by side, their heads nearly touching.

The pizza arrives in a blur of plates and friendly noise, but neither Jade nor Alex so much as glances at it at first.

They’re far too focused on the final touches of whatever plan they’ve been concocting in crayon.

You sip your water, stealing a glance at Carlos who’s watching the scene unfold with that same gentle patience you’ve come to recognize. A warmth in his eyes you hadn’t fully seen before, but which feels entirely genuine now.

And then, after several intense minutes of whispered debate and final scribbles, Jade sits up straight, beaming with pride. “Ta-da!” she announces, her voice bright and triumphant as she slides the paper carefully into the center of the table.

Alex immediately leans in, helping her smooth the edges, his grin wide and full of excitement. You lean forward and look down and your heart squeezes before you can even process why.

The drawing is simple and messy and perfect in that unmistakable childlike way. Four stick figures holding hands, drawn under a wide, colorful rainbow. A big, bright red heart surrounds all of them. And at the top, written in crooked, colorful letters: “Our Family.”

You recognize them instantly. One figure labeled “Jade,” another “Alex,” and two taller figures, side by side, labeled simply “Mommy” and “Carlos.”

It’s so sweetly innocent and so achingly hopeful.

Alex points at the picture eagerly, turning toward Carlos with a huge grin.

“Now we’re all together!” he announces proudly, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

You glance across the table at Carlos and catch the look on his face.

That quiet smile again soft, real but now filled with something deeper than simple amusement. His expression gentles as he exhales slowly, shaking his head fondly, eyes lingering on the picture before flicking back to you.

And then, voice low but full of warmth, he says, “Guess we have to follow the plan, huh?”

His tone is teasing, light but underneath, there’s sincerity there. A quiet acknowledgment of what’s slowly, gently building between you. You meet his gaze and can’t help the way your own smile blooms natural, effortless, inevitable.

“Looks like we’re outnumbered,” you reply, laughing softly as you gesture toward the two kids still sitting there, practically glowing with pride at their creation.

Jade lets out a cheer and Alex quickly follows suit, finally turning their attention back to the now cooling pizza, digging in with giddy energy their mission, as far as they’re concerned, a complete success.

For a while, you and Carlos just sit quietly, the crayon drawing still sitting between you on the table, bright and bold and full of hope.

Neither of you rush to fill the space.

Neither of you need to.

Somehow it feels exactly right.

⸻

It’s late afternoon again, but this time it’s different.

The sun is beginning to dip, streaking the sky in soft pink and gold, the kind of glow that makes everything feel warm and a little slower like even the day itself is lingering.

You and Carlos sit side by side on an old park bench, shoulders nearly brushing but not quite, your gazes fixed on Jade and Alex as they take turns pushing each other on the swings.

Their laughter rings out, clear and bright, punctuated by delighted shrieks as they swing higher and higher, and for a moment you let yourself just breathe soaking in this simple, perfect scene.

There have been a handful of these little “family dates” by now. Trips to the zoo, where Alex and Jade clutched matching maps and insisted on leading the way. An afternoon at the science museum where Carlos had lifted Jade onto his shoulders so she could “touch the stars” in the planetarium. Messy craft afternoons sprawled on Carlos’s living room floor, the four of you covered in glitter and glue, laughing as much as the kids.

Each one, easier than the last. Each one blurring the line between casual playdates and something that feels like a rhythm. Natural. Warm. Right.

Today, neither of you rush to fill the silence as you watch the kids. The quiet between you feels different now not awkward, not hesitant but soft. Comfortable. Like a shared understanding is slowly settling into place, even if it hasn’t been spoken aloud.

You can feel it, a gentle shift. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just a knowing.

Carlos leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his fingers loosely interlaced as he watches the kids. But then he tilts his head toward you, his voice softer than usual, low but threaded with that same familiar warmth and hint of humor.

“You know,” he begins, his tone casual but the weight behind the words unmistakable, “Maybe next time, it’s just us. A grown up date for a change?”

The way he says it isn’t pushy. No expectation, no awkwardness. Just honest, hopeful but gentle. His gaze meets yours then, fully now, steady and open in a way that catches you slightly off guard but settles you all the same.

And in that exact moment, you realize you don’t need to hesitate.

You feel it too not just in his words, but in the way this whole thing has unfolded so effortlessly, how right it feels to simply say yes. A warmth blooms quietly in your chest as you smile, soft and sure, your answer immediate.

“As long as we tell Jade and Alex it was their idea,” you say, the words slipping out with a lightness you didn’t even have to think about.

Carlos lets out a real laugh at that low, warm, genuine the kind that rumbles just a little as he leans back on the bench, running a hand through his hair with a shake of his head.

“They’d probably take credit for it anyway,” he says, grinning, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks at you again.

And this time, there’s no distance left in that gaze.

No hesitation.

Just connection.

You let yourself settle into that silence again both of you sitting there, side by side, perfectly content as the evening deepens around you.

Neither of you rushing. Neither of you needing to explain what’s happening.

Jade’s laughter rings out as Alex pushes her higher, their voices rising and falling in joyful tandem.

And they have no idea no idea that their little plan is working exactly as they’d hoped.

But sitting here now, in this soft, golden light, you realize something quietly, completely.

It’s not really their plan anymore.

It’s yours too.

⸻

Soon enough, you’re sitting in Yankee Stadium’s family section, but this time, it feels different.

Not just as a spectator. Not just as someone tagging along for a fun day out.

But as his people. As part of something that somehow snuck up on you without you fully realizing it, until now.

The afternoon sun gleams off the stadium seats and casts everything in that warm, golden hue that makes summer baseball feel almost timeless. The familiar hum of the crowd vendors calling out for hot dogs and cold beer, the crack of a bat somewhere on the field, fans murmuring in anticipation wraps around you like a soft soundtrack.

And beside you, Jade and Alex are practically vibrating with excitement.

Jade is fully decked out in her miniature pinstriped Yankees jersey, “RODÓN 55” stitched proudly across the back, her hair tied neatly in a ponytail, navy ribbon woven carefully through it. She clutches a tiny baseball glove like she’s ready to catch a foul ball at any moment, her cheeks decorated with face paint stripes in navy and white.

Next to her, Alex has his Yankees cap turned backward, matching glove, his face painted to match Jade’s as he stands on the seat for a better view.

His eyes are wide, bright, locked onto the field as if this whole game exists just for him.

And there, in the middle of it all is Carlos.

Standing tall on the mound, poised, calm, completely in his element.

But different too. That quiet man from daycare pick ups is still there beneath the cap, but here he’s something more confident, sharp, focused commanding the stadium effortlessly.

And yet even in this environment, even under all this attention. Between pitches, his gaze flickers toward your section. Just brief glances, small and subtle but you feel every one of them. The way his eyes linger for a beat longer when they catch yours, how his shoulders seem to relax just slightly in those moments.

It makes your chest ache in the best way. You smile before you even realize you are, a warmth flooding through you that feels right. Like this is exactly where you were meant to end up all of you.

And then suddenly “Go Daddy Carlos!!” Jade shrieks, cupping her small hands around her mouth, her voice cutting through the hum of the crowd.

Nearby fans chuckle, turning with indulgent smiles as she beams with pride.

Alex immediately joins in, scrambling up to stand on the seat next to you, waving his foam finger back and forth wildly.

“Strike him out!” he yells at the top of his lungs, pure joy radiating from every inch of him.

You glance sideways at them, heart swelling so full you’re not sure it could take any more. They belong here. You all do.

In the middle of the third inning, just before Carlos takes the mound again, he lingers for a moment near the dugout. And then he glances your way.

This time, it’s deliberate.

He lifts his cap in a small, private tip not the broad, performative gesture meant for cameras or crowds but a quiet nod, just for you and the kids. His eyes find yours and hold there for a beat longer than necessary, saying everything neither of you has spoken out loud yet.

Alex notices first, tugging excitedly at your sleeve as his whole face lights up. “He saw us, Mommy! He waved at us!” he says breathlessly, his grin infectious.

And then softer, almost shy but completely certain, “We made a family, Mommy.” His simple, perfect words hit you right in the chest, warm and bittersweet and beautiful all at once. You lean down and kiss the top of his head gently, feeling your throat tighten but smiling through it, holding the moment close.

“Yeah, baby,” you whisper. “You really did.”

⸻

When the final out is called a Yankees win, of course the stadium erupts in cheers, but your little world feels quiet and full, as if everything has already been decided long before the scoreboard locked in that victory.

As the crowd begins to empty, you gather your crew, letting the kids bounce and chatter excitedly as you make your way slowly toward the exit.

Jade skips beside you, her oversized jersey practically reaching her knees, clutching a souvenir baseball tightly in her small hands.

Alex walks proudly on Carlos’s other side, his tiny hand curled easily into Carlos’s larger one trustingly, naturally like this has always been the way it should be.

Carlos glances over at you as you navigate the concourse, his expression soft warm, unguarded a look that needs no words.

Because there’s nothing that needs to be said now.

Everything is understood.

⸻

Later that night, the subway car rocks gently as you all make your way home, the day’s excitement finally catching up to everyone.

Jade is curled against your side, her tiny “RODÓN 55” jersey rumpled, her hair askew, fast asleep with a smudge of face paint still clinging to one cheek.

Across from you, Alex is slumped against Carlos’s shoulder, his foam finger clutched loosely in one hand even in sleep, head tipped comfortably onto Carlos’s chest.

Carlos shifts just slightly, his arm wrapping protectively around Alex as he dozes, and he glances up at you with that same soft smile you’ve come to know the one that makes your chest ache in that warm, quiet way.

And there you all sit the four of you together. Peaceful. Content.

Exactly where you’re meant to be.

A family.

⸻

MASTERLIST

#absolutely a must read!#carlos rodon #new york yankees #fic rec

12 notes · View notes

thelunarbar · 9 days ago

Text

off limits

summary: you’re giancarlo stanton’s younger sister, and though anthony volpe promised to keep his distance and “look out for you,” he’s finding it harder and harder to resist crossing that line.

word count: 9.5k words

a/n: he did well last night, really proud of him!

⸻

The season had made you a familiar fixture always there in the stands, perched a few rows back but impossible to miss, your voice among the loudest when the moment called for it. You became part of the scenery at team dinners too, tucked into a corner seat but laughing along with their stories, hovering near the edges of clubhouse celebrations.

Everyone knew exactly who you were: Giancarlo’s little sibling. And Giancarlo made damn sure they remembered.“My teammates are off-limits.”

He’d deliver that warning with an easy smile, but no one mistook it for a joke not really. He repeated it so often that it practically became a running gag among the team, something they’d mimic in the dugout or laugh about at dinner. But when he said it, he meant every word. And for a while, you stopped thinking about it too.

Until recently.

Because somewhere along the way, something between you and Anthony Volpe, shifted.

He’d always teased you lighthearted digs about your overenthusiastic cheers or sarcastic remarks about how you kept better stats than the scoreboard but lately, the teasing felt different.

His jokes lingered, like he was savoring your reaction more than he used to. His smiles, once quick and playful, softened around the edges, touched with something gentler. And his eyes, those glances you used to laugh off now felt loaded, deliberate. When you caught him watching you across a crowded room, you felt it a spark, a weight, something almost magnetic that left your pulse racing and your stomach flipping.

The smallest things betrayed him too.

Like that night after an extra inning game, when the wind had picked up unexpectedly, sharp and cold under the stadium lights. Before you could even rub your arms for warmth, Anthony was there, wordless but sure, peeling off his hoodie and tossing it toward you.

“Wear this,” he said, casual as anything, already turning back to pack his things, but you caught the faint flush coloring his cheeks when you tugged it over your head, the sleeves swallowing your hands.

And then there was last week’s team dinner loud, crowded, filled with the usual noise and people. Giancarlo was seated far down the table, deep in conversation, laughing easily. You were mid-conversation when a coffee cup slid into place in front of you.

Your exact order. Perfect. From the tiny café you always stopped at on your way to the stadium.

Anthony stood behind the cup, leaning casually on the back of a chair, that same sly grin tugging at his lips. “Wrong order,” he quipped, shrugging as if it was nothing. But his gaze didn’t quite match the easy tone, it was almost too careful, too knowing.

You smiled anyway, fingers curling around the warm cup. Not a wrong order at all. He knew exactly what you liked.

Giancarlo didn’t catch any of it, too wrapped up in his own conversation, too busy making sure you were included without realizing just how closely someone else was watching you.

But you noticed.

And so did Anthony.

Every glance that lingered longer than it should, every brush of fingers when he handed you your jacket or passed you a bottle of water in the dugout, every time he found his way to your side at team dinners or celebrations it was there.

Something was happening, subtle but undeniable.

Neither of you had said a word. No grand confessions, no crossed lines not yet.

But you felt it.

And so did he.

That line your brother had drawn so boldly, the one everyone on the team joked about, repeated like a rule carved in stone?

Anthony wasn’t crossing it.

Not yet.

But step by careful step, he was drifting closer.

Dangerously close.

⸻

The team afterparty hummed around you the low thrum of music weaving through laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of cheers as highlights from the game played on muted screens above the bar. Energy pulsed through the room, but none of it really touched your table.

Giancarlo was across the room, thoroughly occupied surrounded by teammates, fans, reporters, all vying for his attention, his laughter rising above the din as he held court effortlessly.

Which left you and Anthony alone.

At first, it felt like nothing. The familiar banter you’d slipped into so easily over the past few months.

He teased you about your drink something fruity, with far too much garnish leaning in close, voice pitched just low enough to make you roll your eyes but smile anyway. You fired back instantly, tossing a dry comment over your shoulder that made him laugh, that easy, boyish grin lighting up his face.

But then, it didn’t feel easy anymore. Because he didn’t pull away.

His shoulder stayed there pressed lightly but steadily against yours even as you kept talking, the conversation dipping in and out of comfortable topics but never truly distracted from the quiet tension blooming between you.

When he reached for a napkin, his fingers brushed yours a fleeting touch, deliberate, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

And his eyes. God, those eyes.

They kept finding you, returning again and again, soft and unreadable but burning with something you couldn’t pretend not to notice anymore. Every glance felt heavier, like he was searching for permission he hadn’t asked for, waiting for a sign he couldn’t name.

You should have leaned away. Should have laughed it off. Should have said something.

But instead, you stayed.

When you finally rose, reaching for your jacket draped over the back of your chair, he moved first. Silent, certain. He caught the fabric before you could slip your arms in, lifting it with a kind of ease that felt practiced but somehow entirely intimate.

And then he stepped closer close enough that you could feel the brush of air as he helped you into the sleeves, close enough that the warmth of his chest almost met your back.

His fingers grazed your bare skin as he settled the jacket across your shoulders.

That simple, unremarkable touch froze him.

It froze both of you.

His hand lingered just a breath too long at your shoulder, his fingers curling lightly at the edge of the fabric, as if even he hadn’t anticipated how that tiny moment would feel.

Neither of you moved.

The noise of the bar seemed to fall away, everything else slipping into the background until there was only this the heat of his hand, the press of his shoulder, the way his breath faltered almost imperceptibly near your ear.

The air between you felt thinner now, sharp and charged, humming with something unspoken something neither of you had dared name but that was suddenly impossible to ignore.

Then you spoke soft but steady, your voice cutting straight through the tension like a clean break.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that if you’re gonna keep pretending nothing’s happening.”

The words hit him hard.

His throat worked as he swallowed, gaze locking onto yours with a kind of raw vulnerability that felt new no grin, no quick witted comeback this time. Just him. Bare, conflicted, caught.

And when he finally spoke, his voice came rough, lower than usual, almost hoarse from the effort of restraint.

“I promised I wouldn’t” His jaw tightened, his eyes searching yours like he needed you to understand just how much that promise cost him. “But you’re making it impossible.”

That admission quiet, but devastating landed between you like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything.

Then his face dipped closer, almost without thinking.His gaze flickered to your mouth, his breath warming the air between you, his hand still resting lightly on your shoulder so close now that you could feel the tremor in him, the hesitation and hunger and hesitation again, all tangled together.

So close.

Close enough that your heart stuttered in your chest, your lips parting as instinct began to take over.

But at the last second with a sharp breath that almost sounded like a curse he froze.

His hand dropped away as if burned, and he stepped back too fast, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it.

“It’s not right,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice breaking a little on the words. “It’s not right.”

The space he put between you felt both sudden and vast.

You stood there, jacket only half on, your pulse thrumming loud in your ears, your chest tight, your whole body humming from the proximity and sudden distance.

He’d taken a step back. But the look in his eyes made something clear.

Whatever this was this quiet pull, this slow build it had just crossed a line neither of you could pretend didn’t exist anymore.

And neither of you would be able to go back to before.

⸻

The change was immediate sharp, deliberate, and impossible not to notice.

In the days after the almost kiss, Anthony pulled back completely.

Gone were the teasing texts that used to arrive at random hours, filled with sarcasm and half flirtations you’d grown to expect. Gone were the playful digs from across the room, the little inside jokes he used to slip into conversation just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

And when you passed by the dugout during pregame warmups the same route you’d walked a hundred times before there was no casual glance in your direction, no sly comment murmured low just for you to hear.

Where he used to flash you that easy, crooked grin and toss out some remark to make you smirk, now he kept his head down, hat pulled low, eyes locked on anything that wasn’t you.

It wasn’t just distance it was absence. Colder than silence. And you felt it everywhere.

At team dinners, where he once seemed to naturally find a seat nearby, leaning in with soft comments only meant for you he now sat across the table, buried in conversation with anyone else, never once letting his gaze wander in your direction.

At the stadium, even when you tried to play it cool, tossing a lighthearted “Good luck today, Volpe,” as he passed by all you got was a polite nod. No grin. No spark. Just distance.

As if he’d flipped a switch, locking you out completely, determined to pretend none of it had ever happened.

And still, no one else seemed to notice at least, not at first.

Your brother, though, started to pick up on something. It wasn’t suspicion, not exactly. More a vague curiosity, laced with amusement.

One afternoon, after another rough outing for Anthony an uncharacteristically sloppy game where he’d looked off from the first pitch. Giancarlo slung an arm around your shoulders as you walked alongside him toward the clubhouse.

His tone was light, casual, almost teasing. But it still made your chest tighten. “What’s up with Volpe lately?” he mused aloud, glancing over his shoulder at Anthony trudging behind the group, head down, shoulders taut with frustration. “Kid looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Maybe he needs a break.”

He chuckled at his own comment, nudging your side playfully as if trying to draw you into the joke. You forced a laugh quick and brittle but your stomach twisted sharply, because you knew exactly what was wrong.

You could see it written all over Anthony’s face too, in the tight set of his jaw, the exhaustion he couldn’t quite hide, the way he carried himself like he was shouldering a weight no one else could see.

And even though he wasn’t looking at you anymore wasn’t speaking to you, barely even acknowledging your presence you felt the tether between you more keenly than ever.

Because you both knew exactly why he hadn’t slept. Exactly why he couldn’t seem to find his rhythm. Exactly what he was trying and failing to suppress.

That almost-kiss hadn’t just crossed a line. It had left you both stranded on the other side, pretending you could go back when neither of you really wanted to.

⸻

Elsewhere, in the muted quiet of the clubhouse, Anthony sat slouched on a bench, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed low as if he could somehow will the noise in his mind to stop.

His gear bag sat untouched at his feet, cleats still caked with dirt from the field, gloves hanging from the strap but forgotten. The usual postgame chatter buzzed faintly around him the shuffle of equipment bags, low laughter, the sound of a nearby shower turning on. but none of it touched him.

He felt miles away.

A familiar presence settled beside him, the bench creaking softly as Judge dropped into the seat next to him. There was no announcement, no fanfare just a subtle nudge of his shoulder bumping Anthony’s in quiet camaraderie.

“You good, man?” Judge asked after a moment, his voice easy but edged with curiosity. He didn’t look directly at Anthony at first, giving him space, but he’d noticed. Everyone had noticed something, but Judge, he noticed everything.

The distraction. The tension in Anthony’s shoulders that hadn’t been there before. The way he’d seemed scattered these past few games, his spark dulled.

Anthony let out a heavy breath, fingers dragging through his hair before he rubbed both hands over his face, palms rough against his skin.

“I can’t focus,” he admitted finally, his voice low almost a confession, more to himself than to Judge. “I told him I’d stay away, but it’s driving me crazy.”

The honesty surprised even him.

Judge finally turned, his expression unreadable at first, but then one eyebrow arched slowly. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to, but that knowing look spoke volumes.

He was connecting the dots.

Even if no one else had fully figured it out yet, Judge had. Or was damn close.

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Judge had always had this calm about him, a steadiness that made it easy for guys to sit next to him and not speak and still somehow feel understood.

Anthony sat there, chewing the inside of his cheek, his thoughts spiraling.

Because it wasn’t just distraction anymore.

It was you.

That look on your face that night the way you’d stood your ground, eyes unflinching and open, calling him out with a quiet confidence that left no room for pretense. The way you hadn’t flinched when he almost crossed the line and didn’t flinch when he backed away either.

That moment echoed louder than any crowd. More distracting than any pitcher on the mound.

It was in his head during batting practice, when he should’ve been locked in but found himself thinking of the brush of your shoulder. It was there when he couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling, replaying the near kiss again and again until he didn’t know what tortured him more stopping himself or wanting not to.

He was unraveling.

And as much as he tried to hide it behind routine and focus and pregame rituals, it was slipping. Judge could see it. And soon, everyone would.

Anthony dropped his head again, staring at the scuffed floor beneath his cleats, hands clasped tight between his knees.

“Yeah,” he muttered finally, but the word fell flat, empty of conviction.

Judge let out a quiet chuckle warm, but edged with something like sympathy and clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Whatever it is,” he said simply, “you’re not gonna be able to fake your way through it, man.”

Anthony didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because deep down, he already knew that was true.

⸻

The afternoon sun was already low, stretching long shadows across the pavement, its fading warmth brushing your skin as you leaned against the brick wall just outside the clubhouse door.

You’d been standing there for what felt like forever, arms crossed tight, heart pounding not just with anger but something messier, knotted deep in your chest frustration, hurt want.

You weren’t going to tiptoe around this anymore. Not after days of cold shoulders, polite nods, and absolute silence. Not after he spent every game, every dinner, every passing glance acting like you didn’t exist like that night at the bar, that almost kiss, hadn’t happened at all.

So you waited.

And when Anthony finally emerged cap pulled low, glove slung casually over his shoulder but his steps slower than usual he saw you immediately.

His entire body hesitated, the easy rhythm of his walk faltering the second his gaze met yours.

But you didn’t give him a chance to speak first.

“If you’re going to pretend that night didn’t happen,” you said, voice low and steady but sharp at the edges, “then say it. Say it to my face. But don’t keep ignoring me like this.”

The words hung there between you, heavier than the air itself.

Anthony froze, caught mid-step.

His expression was carefully blank at first that infuriating mask he’d perfected on and off the field but then it cracked, just slightly. His shoulders sagged, his jaw tightening like he was physically holding back everything he wanted to say but had convinced himself he shouldn’t. And then, after a long, heavy pause, he dropped his glove to the bench beside the door, the thud of leather on wood sounding louder than it should have.

When he stepped closer, it was slow almost cautious but when he finally spoke, his voice was rough, frayed around the edges, as if he’d been carrying the words too long. “I can’t.” His gaze locked on yours, open now raw, vulnerable in a way that stole the breath from your lungs.

Another breath, shaky this time. “I’ve been thinking about you nonstop.”

That admission, it hit you harder than you expected. Because no amount of cold silences, no amount of distance could ever compete with that truth. Sudden. Raw. Honest in a way his silence never could be. And you moved before you could even think about it.

In a single heartbeat, you closed the distance between you.

His hand found your waist instantly, fingers curling tight like he’d been waiting weeks, maybe months for this exact moment, this exact touch.

Your fingers slid up his chest, fisting lightly in the front of his sweatshirt, grounding yourself even as the ground beneath you felt like it might give way.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t cautious it was fast, almost frantic, desperate in the way only two people who’d spent far too long pretending could be.

It was messy his lips parting against yours, breath hitching when you kissed him back like you meant it, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

No hesitation now. No rules. No promises hanging over his head.

Just this. Just you and him and everything that had been building for far too long.

But just as quickly, reality intruded.

A teammate’s voice rang out nearby casual, laughing sharp enough to shatter the fragile bubble around you.

Anthony broke the kiss instantly, stepping back fast but not fully letting go his fingers sliding down your wrist, his thumb brushing over your skin like he couldn’t quite sever the connection yet.

You both straightened, eyes darting toward the source of the voice, expressions hastily smoothed into neutrality as the teammate passed by without noticing a thing.

The moment was gone.

But the air still felt charged, your pulse still racing, your lips still tingling from the suddenness of it all.

Anthony let out a quiet sigh, almost regretful, as he finally dropped your hand but his gaze didn’t falter. He didn’t look away. His eyes stayed locked on you, softer now, completely unguarded, as though the mask he’d been wearing for days had finally fallen away for good.

You didn’t say another word. You simply turned and walked heart pounding so loud you could feel it in your throat, breath uneven, skin warm everywhere he’d touched you.

But you felt his gaze on your back burning into every step you took, following you even though his feet didn’t move. And when you couldn’t help yourself when you glanced over your shoulder at the very last second you caught him still watching you.

Exactly the way he had that night at the bar.

Only now, there was no more pretending.

⸻

It didn’t take long for you and Anthony to slip into a rhythm a secret rhythm, quiet but intoxicating, tender but edged with danger.

It was a careful dance, one that hummed just beneath the surface of everything smiles held a beat too long, glances that lingered when they shouldn’t, touches so subtle that no one watching would think twice but you both felt them. Every time.

Late at night, long after the games ended and your brother had crashed into bed, your phone would light up in the dark and it was always him.

Sometimes it was simple. “Can’t sleep. Thinking about tomorrow’s lineup and maybe you.”

Sometimes it was lighthearted. “What’s your go to walk up song? Asking for a friend 👀”

Sometimes it was teasing, like the night he finally called you out. “Why do I feel like you’re stealing my hoodie permanently? Not that I mind.”

The messages came steady, sometimes nonsense, sometimes surprisingly thoughtful like when he asked what your favorite postgame snack was or what seat you liked best in the stadium but always constant, and every time they made you smile, curling under your covers as if you could hide the flush that crept to your cheeks.

At games, he played it cool almost too cool at least when anyone else was watching.

But across the dugout, you caught him.

His gaze finding yours in quiet moments, a spark igniting between you both with nothing but a look. Quick smiles that felt almost too intimate to be shared in such a public place. Little inside jokes passed silently, cryptic comments no one else could possibly decode.

And when your brother’s back was turned, Anthony would let his shoulder brush yours as you passed near the dugout rail a fleeting, casual touch that sent your pulse racing.

Or he’d position himself beside you during pregame warmups, leaning just close enough that you felt the warmth of his arm near yours, his presence a quiet gravity pulling you in.

He never crossed the line outright not in front of anyone else. But it was there, always there the awareness, the tension, the unspoken promise.

Every inch of him ached to close the space between you but he kept himself carefully, maddeningly restrained standing too close, glancing too long, brushing too lightly.

And you matched him move for move.

Like a game you both were playing only this time, the stakes felt impossibly high.

Because while no one else seemed to notice the quiet current between you, you both knew exactly what you were doing.

And exactly how dangerous it was becoming.

⸻

The best moments were the stolen ones.

The ones that didn’t belong to anyone else just you and him.

One morning, long before the stadium filled with players, staff, or noise, your phone lit up before dawn with a simple text from Anthony. “Come to batting practice early. No one’s here. Just you and me.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You slipped into the empty ballpark as the first light crept over the stands, the whole place steeped in a rare hush vast, quiet, but humming with potential, as if the park itself could sense the secret you two were carrying.

And there he was.

Anthony stood alone on the field, framed by the soft glow of the early morning sun, bat resting casually in his hand, cap pulled low over his messy hair but the grin he wore, that soft, genuine grin, he didn’t bother hiding. Not for you.

“You’re late,” he teased gently as you stepped onto the dirt, tossing a ball into the air and catching it one handed casual, easy, but his eyes lit up the second you appeared.

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “You invited me at six a.m., Volpe.”

But you felt it that quiet gravity between you and the way he looked at you right then made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The stadium was yours. No noise. No fans. No teammates watching. Just you and Anthony, alone on the field where he was most at home and now, somehow, so were you.

Without saying much else, he beckoned you forward, passing you the bat, his fingers grazing yours in a way that sent warmth all the way up your arms. “Let me show you something,” he murmured, stepping behind you.

He was close too close, but you didn’t pull away.

His hands reached for yours, gently adjusting your grip on the handle, thumbs brushing over your knuckles, calloused fingers guiding yours into place.

“Here,” he said softly, lowering his voice as if even the empty stadium might overhear. “Loosen your grip a little. You’re too tense.”

His breath was warm at your ear, his chest close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

His fingers trailed down your forearms as he adjusted your stance, leaning in just enough to let his presence fully surround you.

“Relax,” he whispered again, softer this time not just about your hands but about everything.

“Just you and me out here.”

That moment stretched long and slow suspended in quiet, in warmth, in something tender that neither of you dared put into words.

And when you finally turned your head just slightly to glance at him over your shoulder, his eyes were already waiting for yours soft, unreadable but open, completely present.

The whole stadium around you felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once.

A world too big to contain this secret and yet somehow, in that instant, it felt like the world belonged to just the two of you.

⸻

Even his teammates started to notice something different, but not the truth.

In the dugout, in the weight room, during batting practice, they picked up on the change. Anthony still showed up every day, still hustled, still put in the work, but there was an edge to him that felt softer now, less guarded.

He’d seemed distracted at times zoning out during meetings, tapping his bat absentmindedly during warm ups, but also oddly happy.

“Volpe’s smiling too much these days,” one of the guys called out during BP, loud enough for everyone to hear but playful enough to draw a round of laughs.

“Must be that new pregame routine of his,” another chimed in, wagging his eyebrows exaggeratedly as he tossed a ball back toward the mound.

More teasing followed, a ripple of good natured ribbing that Anthony mostly shrugged off, flashing that crooked grin of his without giving anything away.

But you, you bit back your own smile every time you overheard it.

Because they didn’t know.

They didn’t know that his “new routine” had nothing to do with pregame rituals or superstition and everything to do with the quiet texts he sent you before first pitch.

That the reason he seemed distracted wasn’t because he’d lost focus, but because his thoughts kept drifting to you to stolen moments under stadium lights and whispered jokes when no one else was listening.

They didn’t know that he had started carving out tiny windows of time that belonged only to the two of you leaning in just a little too close near the dugout rail, brushing your fingers as he passed a water bottle, letting a smirk creep across his face every time your paths crossed when no one else was watching.

No one knew. Not your brother. Not the coaching staff. Not the teammates who kept making cracks about his mysterious smile.

Only you and Anthony understood the truth of it.

That these hidden moments fleeting, delicate, precious had quietly become the best part of both your days.

The thrill of keeping it just between you, the quiet electricity that hummed every time your eyes met across the field, every time your hands grazed for just a little too long, that was yours alone.

And every time they teased him for smiling too much, you stole a glance at him and found him already looking at you.

Smiling for real.

⸻

It was late, almost midnight and you were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, half scrolling aimlessly through your phone, half-watching a game rerun you didn’t even care about. The familiar sounds of the broadcast hummed in the background, blending into white noise as you tried and failed to focus on anything but the knot of feelings that had taken up permanent residence in your chest lately.

From the kitchen, you could hear your brother moving around fridge door opening, glass clinking, cabinets shutting a little too loud like they always did when he was tired.

Just as you glanced toward him, your phone lit up on the coffee table screen bright in the dim room.

A message from Anthony.

And not just any message.

“You left your hoodie here, guess that means you’re coming back soon? 😏”

Your heart stopped. A cold shock of panic shot straight through you, followed immediately by heat that flush of adrenaline that came when the line you were walking suddenly felt too thin, too dangerous.

Your breath hitched as Giancarlo reached for his water bottle on the table, casual and unbothered, but his gaze dropped for just a second, flickering down toward your phone screen, still lit and glowing with Anthony’s name and that infuriatingly teasing text.

Your stomach twisted.

Did he see? Had he read it?

For a split second the world seemed to slow, every sound sharp and clear, the soft click of the fridge door swinging shut, the faint murmur of commentary from the TV, the slight scuff of Giancarlo’s sock against the hardwood as he shifted his weight.

But then, nothing.

Not a single comment. Not a raised eyebrow. Not even a glance your way as he straightened, water bottle in hand, and wandered back toward the fridge like he hadn’t seen a thing.

Totally oblivious, or so it seemed.

You exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath and snatched your phone off the table in one swift motion, locking the screen almost too fast, as if that might erase the evidence entirely.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you pulled up the message, thumbs flying as you tapped out a quick reply to Anthony, pulse still thudding loud in your chest.

“Too risky. Don’t text so late!”

Even as you hit send, you felt it a rush of exhilaration mixed with panic.

The thrill of the secret you were keeping balanced delicately against the danger of exposure.

You hugged your knees to your chest, blanket pulled tighter as you stared down at your phone, waiting for his next reply your brother just steps away, completely unaware.

Or at least, you hoped so.

But in the pit of your stomach, you couldn’t help but wonder:

Had Giancarlo really missed it? Or had he seen more than he let on?

The question hung there, heavy and unspoken, as your phone buzzed again in your hands.

⸻

The next day at the stadium felt different.

Heavier somehow, like the air itself was thinner, stretched taut, fragile, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

You felt it the moment you stepped onto the concourse a subtle, invisible weight that made every glance, every step, feel loaded.

You and Anthony kept it professional carefully professional around the team, moving through routines like nothing had changed. But it had changed.

Every time your paths crossed, every brush of proximity, the charged glances you shared felt sharper now more cautious, more deliberate, as if you both knew you were skating dangerously close to discovery.

But that heat, that quiet thrill that lived in the space between you it was still there. Stronger than ever.

And then, your cap.

That morning, in a rush to leave, you’d spotted it sitting on the arm of your couch, soft, familiar, worn in all the right places, the faintest trace of his scent still clinging to the fabric.

His cap.

Anthony had tossed it there without thinking a few nights earlier, one of those easy moments you two had fallen into, and without hesitation, you’d grabbed it on your way out the door, tugging it down over your head before you even realized what you were doing.

And you wore it to the game.

You didn’t think much of it until you made your way down toward the dugout and Giancarlo caught sight of you, standing just off to the side.

His laugh was light, casual, utterly clueless as he reached out, fingers brushing the brim of the cap, tugging it gently. “Why are you wearing that old thing? It’s not even your size,” he teased, completely unaware of the way your stomach dropped at his words.

Your heart thudded loud in your chest loud enough that you swore he could hear it, but you forced a breezy laugh anyway, shaking your head like it was nothing.

“Just grabbed the first one I saw,” you lied easily, though your throat felt tight as you spoke.

And then, instinctively, your gaze flicked sideways.

Anthony was standing nearby, half listening to a teammate, glove resting loosely in his hands, but his head turned, almost as if pulled by gravity itself.

His eyes found yours.

Just a split second but it was enough.

You saw it in his gaze. Recognition. Heat. A glimmer of something that felt almost like regret not that you were wearing his cap, but that you two couldn’t acknowledge it.

That simple, silent look said everything.

This line you were both dancing along? It was thinner than ever now.

So thin that you could almost feel it fraying beneath your feet fragile, tenuous, stretched too far.

And neither of you could pretend otherwise anymore.

Even if no one else saw it yet.

You both knew.

And that made it even harder to breathe.

⸻

The night felt almost normal, almost safe.

The stadium lights had dimmed but their glow still lingered, casting long shadows across the quiet walkways. The crowd noise had faded into a distant hum and the sharp crack of cleats against concrete echoed as players trickled out of the clubhouse one by one. Some stopped to laugh with lingering fans or chat about postgame plans; others hurried past, already lost in their own world.

You stood off to the side, leaning casually against the wall, trying to look relaxed, but your heart was anything but.

Then Anthony appeared.

One of the last to emerge, still in uniform, cap pulled low but his eyes, the moment they landed on you, softened completely.

That smile he gave you.

It would’ve been enough to give everything away right then and there if anyone had been paying attention.

But Giancarlo wasn’t nearby yet, still caught up somewhere inside. So you let yourself smile back, allowing that flicker of warmth to pass between you brief but powerful, in this quiet moment after the crowd had thinned.

Anthony didn’t hesitate.

He approached without breaking stride, standing far too close, closer than he should have and as naturally as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he reached out.

His fingers brushed across your cheek, lingering as they tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Small. Simple. But intimate.

The kind of gesture that could only mean one thing undeniable, impossible to explain away.

Your breath caught in your throat at the tenderness of it, and for a heartbeat the world around you felt suspended.

And then, your brother’s voice.

Sharp, low, cutting through the air like a blade. “You promised, Volpe.”

The words landed heavy, and the warmth between you and Anthony evaporated instantly, replaced by tension that coiled tight in your chest.

Giancarlo was standing just a few feet away now, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face was unreadable, perfectly calm but his eyes his eyes burned.

You froze, your pulse hammering, breath lodged somewhere deep in your chest.

Anthony froze too, for a heartbeat but then, to your surprise, he didn’t drop his hand. His fingers remained against your skin for one final moment, deliberate, defiant. And then he did something that made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason, he stepped forward.

Squaring his shoulders, Anthony turned fully to face your brother, planting his feet like he was stepping up to the plate, like he was preparing for whatever pitch was coming next. His voice was quiet but sure, steady in a way that surprised even you. “I meant that promise, when I made it,” he said, no excuses, no hesitation. “But I care about her. I can’t pretend anymore.”

The honesty in his tone was like a second crack of a bat sharp, decisive, impossible to ignore. The weight of that admission hung heavy between the three of you.

Giancarlo’s gaze snapped to you then, sharp and expectant daring you, almost, to speak. Daring you to confirm what you both knew he’d just seen.

Your heart thundered, but you met his stare head on. No more tiptoeing. No more lying by omission. “This isn’t just a fling,” you said, voice clear, firm despite the adrenaline surging through you. “We’re serious.”

The silence that followed felt thick enough to drown in.

Giancarlo’s jaw worked, tension pulling at the muscles there as his gaze flicked from Anthony to you and back again like he was searching for the right words, like he was deciding what to do next.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

The only sounds were the soft rustle of a discarded cup blowing across the concrete, the faint echo of a distant laugh, and the steady beat of your own racing pulse.

But even as your brother stood there, struggling with whatever was going through his head, neither you nor Anthony flinched.

Because the truth was finally laid bare raw, real, undeniable.

No more hiding.

No more pretending.

You felt Anthony shift just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours in a quiet show of solidarity and this time, there was no one left to hide it from.

And whatever Giancarlo’s next words would be, it didn’t matter.

Not really.

Because the line you and Anthony had danced along for so long? It was gone now.

Crossed.

Completely.

⸻

The days after that night felt heavier than you could have imagined.

Everything had shifted and there was no going back.

At home, your brother’s usual energy was gone. No playful teasing over breakfast, no sarcastic jabs from across the couch, no casual chatter about the game or the team. Instead, there were long silences, awkward pauses that stretched too far, and when he did speak, it was half hearted small talk polite, restrained, distant.

At first, you tried to fill the quiet with normalcy asking about lineups, making dinner, turning on music like it would somehow pull things back to how they used to be.

But you couldn’t pretend forever.

No matter how loud you made the music or how casual you tried to sound, the weight of everything unsaid sat thick between you.

And at the stadium, it was no better.

Anthony, for his part, respected the space your brother so clearly demanded. Too much space.

He kept his distance physically, emotionally, completely.

There were no playful texts at midnight. No subtle smiles exchanged during batting practice. No stolen glances from across the dugout rail when your brother wasn’t looking.

If anything, he worked harder to seem indifferent and it almost worked.

But you could still see it.

Even from across the field, you noticed the slump in his shoulders when he walked off after a long inning. The way he seemed quieter around his teammates, less animated, less present. The smiles he still gave them they didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

And every time he passed Giancarlo in the clubhouse or on the field, your chest ached at the way he lowered his gaze, kept his hands busy, acted like they didn’t even know each other.

It was like your brother’s silence had carved out a chasm between them and you felt caught right in the middle of it.

But the hardest part was the way Anthony never once made you feel guilty for it. He didn’t text you to complain. He didn’t ask you to explain or apologize or bridge the gap. He just gave you space too.

And that, somehow, hurt the most.

Because even though you knew why he was pulling back even though you understood he was trying to respect the line your brother was still holding onto the absence of him felt sharp and hollow all at once.

You missed him.

You missed the quiet texts that used to light up your phone late at night.

You missed the inside jokes, the soft smiles exchanged across a crowded dugout, the gentle brush of his shoulder as you passed.

You missed the way his gaze used to find you, even when he was surrounded by people, as if you were the only one who mattered.

But now, now he kept his eyes on the ground, his distance measured and deliberate.

And every time you watched him walk past carrying himself like he was shouldering a weight only the two of you understood you felt it too.

A quiet heartbreak.

His.

Yours.

And the ache that settled deep in your chest told you that this distance this silence between all three of you couldn’t last much longer.

Something had to give. Because you couldn’t keep missing him like this. Not when he was still right there.

⸻

One evening, after another long day one where the silence between you and Giancarlo felt heavier than the air itself you couldn’t take it anymore.

The ache in your chest, the way the house felt too quiet even when he was sitting just a few feet away it was unbearable. You’d reached your limit.

You found him in the kitchen, standing exactly where you knew he’d be leaning back against the counter, phone in hand, scrolling absently.

But you could tell. You could tell he wasn’t really reading anything.

He was pretending waiting for you to speak first, giving you space but also daring you to break it.

Your heart pounded as you crossed the threshold, words heavy on your tongue, but you kept your voice even when you finally asked. “Are you really not going to talk to me about this?”

Your tone was quiet, careful not angry, but raw, aching with all the emotions you’d tried so hard to bottle up these past few days.

Giancarlo didn’t look up right away. His thumb swiped across the screen, slow and deliberate, as though whatever was on his phone suddenly mattered more than this conversation.

But then, without meeting your gaze, he muttered under his breath. “What do you want me to say?”

His voice was tight. Guarded. “You know how I feel about this.”

And he did. You both did.

But that didn’t make this silence between you any easier to bear.

You took a deep breath and stepped closer, closing the physical distance even if the emotional one still felt impossible to cross.

“I know you feel protective,” you said carefully, willing him to hear you not just listen, but really hear. “I know you think you’re looking out for me.”

Your throat tightened.

But then you said it the thing you’d been holding back, the truth that mattered most right now. “But you trust Anthony more than anyone else on that team, doesn’t that count for something?”

The words hung there, fragile and exposed. That finally made him look up. His eyes met yours and for the first time in days, you saw it. The crack in his armor. His expression softened, just slightly. The hurt was still there written all over his face, tightening his jaw, shadowing his gaze, but underneath it was something else too. An understanding he couldn’t quite deny. A bond with Anthony that he hadn’t really wanted to test, but couldn’t ignore.

“That’s exactly why this is hard,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher, almost broken. “Because I do trust him,” he added quietly, shaking his head.

“And I never wanted this to get complicated.”

You nodded slowly, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. “It already is complicated,” you whispered. “But it’s real.”

That last word landed softly between you, but it felt heavier than anything else you’d said.

Real.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the faint clatter of his fingers drumming absently against the countertop as he processed everything.

Then almost reluctantly, almost like it hurt to say it he let out a sigh.

“I just need some time,” he said finally, his voice gentler now, softer around the edges.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

It wasn’t acceptance, either.

But it wasn’t rejection.

It was something.

A beginning.

And as you turned to leave the room your pulse still racing, your breath still uneven the knot that had settled tight in your chest these past few days eased, just slightly.

Because for the first time since that night outside the clubhouse, it felt like there was a path forward.

Narrow and uncertain, maybe.

But there.

And you knew deep down that Anthony would be waiting on the other side.

⸻

It didn’t happen all at once.

Your brother’s walls the ones you’d felt so sharply in the days after everything came to light didn’t crumble overnight. But little by little, you felt them start to shift.

At first, the changes were almost imperceptible.

He stopped finding excuses to leave the room when Anthony appeared at postgame gatherings. Where he used to drift away suddenly “needing” to check in with a coach or call someone back or grab another drink now he stayed, planted firmly at his spot, present if not exactly engaged.

Then it was the way his conversations stopped ending abruptly whenever Anthony approached. Those awkward pauses that used to hang in the air when Anthony dared step into a circle where Giancarlo was standing?

They slowly evaporated.

Giancarlo didn’t go out of his way to include Anthony, but he didn’t shut him out anymore either.

And sometimes more often than you expected you caught him watching the two of you.

Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching.

Quietly, thoughtfully, arms crossed but shoulders no longer rigid, his gaze not harsh but inquisitive as if he was trying to piece together exactly what had changed between you two and why it mattered so much.

As if he was trying to understand not just the obvious truth that something was happening, but the deeper truth underneath it. That this wasn’t fleeting. That this wasn’t a game.

That this thing between you and Anthony mattered.

You noticed it in other small ways too. The way Giancarlo no longer teased you about the hoodie you kept “forgetting” to return. The way he didn’t say a word when Anthony handed you a coffee before you’d even asked for one, like it was simply understood now. The way his glances toward Anthony softened, little by little, the hard edge of disapproval giving way to something more patient.

It wasn’t acceptance. Not yet. But it was, curiosity. Openness.

A quiet shift from refusal to reflection.

And though it was slow, painfully slow some days you felt it.

Every time he stayed just a little longer in a conversation. Every time his silence felt less like judgment and more like observation. Every time his eyes followed the way Anthony smiled at you like he couldn’t help it and instead of shutting down, Giancarlo simply, let it happen.

Brick by brick, that wall between them between all of you was starting to come down.

Not all at once.

But enough to give you hope.

Enough to know that even if this path was going to be long and messy.

You weren’t walking it alone anymore.

⸻

Then came the moment that finally tipped the scales.

A family barbecue casual, low key, the kind of gathering your brother had organized countless times before.

In the past, he’d invited teammates without a second thought, welcoming them easily into the mix of relatives, kids running barefoot through the grass, and music drifting lazily from a speaker set on the back porch.

But this time, this time felt different.

The guest list had been noticeably small. No teammates on the official invite. Just family.

A clear, deliberate choice.

And yet, Anthony showed up anyway.

Not with any grand gesture, no dramatic declaration or awkward attempts at charm. Just, quiet presence.

He arrived carrying a small tray of perfectly arranged desserts “store-bought,” he admitted with a sheepish grin as he handed them over and then immediately rolled up his sleeves and pitched in.

No hesitation. No expectation.

He carried tables without being asked. Cracked jokes with your younger cousins as they chased each other around the yard, easily winning them over within minutes. When your uncle needed an extra pair of hands setting up chairs, Anthony was there.

And when your brother got pulled aside caught in a long conversation with an old friend, Anthony didn’t wait.

He stepped in at the grill, flipping burgers with practiced ease, the smoke curling around him as if he’d always belonged there.

But what struck you most, what made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected, was how he stayed near you.

Not in a way that drew attention. Not possessive, not performative.

Just steady. Grounding. Present in all the small ways that spoke volumes.

When he noticed your drink was empty, he refilled it without a word.

When the sun dipped low and the breeze picked up, he quietly draped a sweatshirt over your shoulders his sweatshirt, soft and familiar.

His hands brushed yours only briefly but meaningfully when you passed him a plate. And every time you caught his gaze from across the yard, that smile warm, unguarded, meant only for you was there.

And your brother noticed.

You could feel it the way Giancarlo’s gaze tracked Anthony’s quiet movements throughout the afternoon, how he watched without intervening, how his usual sharp commentary stayed silent.

But the real shift came at the end of the night.

When the last of the guests had gone, paper plates discarded, the grill cooling, and the yard littered with half empty cups and stray lawn games Anthony didn’t leave.

He rolled up his sleeves again and started cleaning.

Without being asked. Without fanfare.

Side by side with your brother.

The two of them worked in comfortable, easy silence Anthony folding chairs, Giancarlo stacking plates no tension, no edge.

And that silence, it was different.

It wasn’t avoidance this time. It wasn’t awkward.

It was ease.

A quiet understanding had settled between them, unspoken but unmistakable. A slow acceptance that couldn’t have come from words alone but had been earned in small, thoughtful gestures over the course of a single afternoon.

And as you stood back, watching them clear the last of the dishes together, a warmth bloomed in your chest, tentative but real.

Because in that moment no speeches, no drama it felt like something had finally shifted for good.

The wall that had stood so firmly between them, was finally starting to fall all the way down.

⸻

Later that evening, as the last plates were cleared and the cool night air drifted gently through the open door, Anthony slipped on his jacket, draping it casually over his shoulder.

He gave you a small smile, soft and tired but real and turned toward the door, ready to head out.

But just before he could step outside, your brother’s voice cut through the quiet. “Volpe.”

That one word flat, low, deliberate froze both of you in place. The tone wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It carried a weight that made your pulse spike instantly, your breath catch.

Anthony paused, glancing back, tension tightening briefly across his shoulders as he turned to face Giancarlo fully.

Your brother didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t smile. He didn’t crack one of his usual half teasing, half serious jokes.

When he spoke, every word was measured. Heavy. Earnest.

“If you hurt them” he said, voice steady but edged with quiet steel, “you’re done. You know that, right?”

The room felt suspended for a heartbeat like time itself was holding its breath.

Anthony didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop his gaze. Didn’t fumble for words.

He met Giancarlo’s stare head-on, standing his ground not in defiance, but in something quieter and stronger, respect.

“I know,” he said simply.

A beat.

And then, softer truer than anything he could have said he added. “I won’t.”

No bravado. No promises he couldn’t keep.

Just certainty.

Giancarlo held his gaze for another long moment his arms crossed, jaw tight as if testing those words for cracks.

But he must have found none.

Because after that brief, loaded silence, he gave a single nod.

Small.

But significant.

A quiet acknowledgment that didn’t need elaboration.

And just like that, the tension that had wrapped around all three of you for weeks finally, finally eased.

You felt it instantly like an invisible knot loosening in your chest, letting you breathe freely for the first time in what felt like forever.

Anthony turned back to you then, catching your gaze across the room, but this time it was different.

This time, his eyes didn’t flick away. This time, he didn’t hold back.

There was nothing cautious or hidden in his expression anymore no subtlety, no secrecy.

Just honesty.

Warm, open, and yours.

No more hiding. No more pretending.

And as he held your gaze, your lips curved into a quiet, relieved smile because you knew that from this moment on, you could finally stop walking the tightrope between love and loyalty.

This was your new beginning.

⸻

The tunnel felt different now.

Where there had once been stolen glances, cautious steps, and careful distance, now there was ease quiet, simple, but unmistakable.

The steady thrum of pregame energy echoed faintly ahead: cleats tapping on concrete, the distant pop of a ball hitting a glove, low chatter and the occasional burst of laughter. But in this stretch of corridor, it felt like time had slowed for just a moment, like this space belonged to the two of you alone.

Anthony’s fingers were laced tightly with yours, his grip warm, grounding not tentative or fleeting, but sure.

And you didn’t let go. Neither did he.

This wasn’t a secret anymore. No more hiding. No more pretending to be casual or careful or “just friends.”

Now, every glance shared between you was deliberate, every brush of his thumb over your knuckles tender and open, every step side by side saying exactly what words didn’t need to.

It felt right.

The two of you moved easily together, shoulders brushing now and then, your laughter softer but unguarded when he leaned a little closer just to say something under his breath that only you would hear.

As you neared the dugout entrance, you caught sight of your brother standing off to the side.

Arms crossed. Watching.

But this time, no scowl. No hard glare. No tension crackling beneath his quiet observation.

Instead, he shook his head slowly, that faint, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth small but genuine.

A silent acknowledgment. Acceptance, in his own way.

Anthony noticed too, of course he did. He always noticed.

And just as you reached the dugout steps, he dipped his head slightly, leaning in until his breath was warm at your ear, his voice low but threaded with amusement and affection.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now” he murmured, that signature grin creeping onto his face, “even if your brother’s watching.”

The way he said it, equal parts cocky and affectionate made your heart flutter, heat blooming in your chest as your laughter slipped out before you could stop it.

And when you laughed, he squeezed your hand just a little tighter, his fingers curling around yours like a promise.

Ahead, the crowd waited loud and expectant. The team waited already moving into position, gloves in hand. The game waited about to begin, like it always did.

But here, in this moment, it was just the two of you.

Exactly where you belonged.

Anthony turned to glance at you once more before they stepped out onto the field, that warmth still shining quietly in his gaze the kind that made your pulse race and your heart settle all at once.

And as you finally stepped up toward the dugout, hand in hand, you felt it clearly.

This was no longer a secret or a risk or something you had to tiptoe around.

This was real and it was yours.

⸻

MASTERLIST

#op you never miss!#love love love this!#anthony volpe #new york yankees #fic rec #also love that pic of him vv much

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