Bodacious

The field lights are still on when you get there, casting everything in that soft, almost hazy glow that makes the whole place feel a little unreal.

You weren’t expecting him to still be here this late, but then again, when Ernie’s stuck in his head, he lingers, You’ve learned that much about him. 

He’s out near the dugout, bat resting against his shoulder, not even swinging it. Just standing there, staring out at the empty field like he’s replaying something over and over.

“Hey,” you call, your voice echoing faintly.

He turns immediately. The second he sees you, something in his expression shifts, tight to relieved in a blink.

“Hey sweetheart,” he says back, softer.

You walk over, leaning against the railing. “You gonna tell me why you’re still here?”

He exhales, glancing down at the dirt. “Just needed a minute.”

“You’ve had, like… two hours”

That earns you the smallest huff of a laugh.

There’s a pause, then he looks back up at you, something tentative in his eyes. “Go with me?”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

He jerks his head toward the field. “Out there. Just wanna walk it.”

You glance out at the empty diamond, then back at him. He’s not joking. He actually looks a little nervous asking.

So you tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Only if you hold my hand.”

You expect him to roll his eyes, maybe tease you.

Instead, he says, “Okay,” way too fast, already reaching for you like he didn’t even need a second to consider it.

Your hand barely meets his before his fingers lace through yours, grip warm and steady and just a little tight.

“you agreed to that really quickly,” you point out

“Yeah” he shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It didn't seem like a bad idea.”

You let him pull you along, hopping the low railing and stepping onto the field with him. The dirt crunches softly under your shoes, the grass cool and slightly damp as you cut across the edge.

For a minute, it’s quiet. Just the two of you walking, your hands swinging slightly between you.

“You had a bad game?” you ask gently.

He makes a face. “I’ve had better games.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He squeezes your hand, like he caught that. “Yeah. I did.”

You nod, not making a big deal out of it. “Happens but you’ll have a better game tomorrow”

“Yeah, but it’s-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you’re still here thinking about it.”

He glances at you, then down at your hands. His thumb starts brushing over your knuckles.

“I just hate feeling like I left something out there,” he admits. “Like I should’ve done more.”

You slow your steps a little. “You can’t fix it tonight.”

“I know.”

“But you can not be out here alone stuck in your head.”

He exhales, shoulders easing just a little. “Yeah,that’s why I asked you.”

You give his hand a small squeeze. “Good.”

You end up near the pitcher’s mound, stopping there without really planning to. The field feels even bigger from the center, the stands stretching out empty around you.

Ernie looks out for a second, then back at you.

“Thanks for coming,” he starts, and then softer, almost like he’s admitting it to himself, “If there was ever anybody meant for me, it’s you.”

For a second, everything else fades,the lights, the field, the empty stands.

It’s just him.

“Ernie…” you breathe, your voice gentler now, your fingers tightening around his.

He looks like he almost wants to take it back, like he said too much all at once. His shoulders shift, a little unsure, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“I just” he starts, then stops, shaking his head with a quiet, nervous laugh. “You show up for me. Even when I don’t really say what I need.”

Your heart pulls at that.

You step closer without thinking, closing the small space between you until your joined hands are pressed lightly between your bodies.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” you tell him softly. “You just have to be you.”

His gaze flickers up to yours, something warm and a little overwhelmed settling in his expression.

“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “That’s kinda the point.”

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, slow and reassuring, mirroring what he’d been doing to you the whole walk out here.

“You’re allowed to have bad games,” you add gently. “It doesn’t change anything.”

He exhales, and this time it sounds like something loosening, like he’s finally letting himself believe that.

“Yeah,” he says. “Feels different when you say it.”

You smile a little, soft. “Good. I’ll keep saying it, then.”

That earns you a real smile,small, but steady.

He shifts closer, not rushing it, just enough that your shoulders touch. His hand doesn’t loosen, if anything, his grip softens in a way that feels more intentional, more certain.

“You know I meant it, right?” he says after a moment. “What I said.”

You tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “I know.”

“And?” he nudges gently, a hint of that familiar warmth creeping back in.

You huff a quiet laugh, but it’s fond, your forehead dipping just slightly toward his.

“And if there was ever anybody meant for me,” you say softly, “it’s you too.”

That does it.

Something in him settles completely, like the last bit of tension finally lets go. His thumb brushes over your hand again, slower now, almost absentminded.

“Good,” he says softly.

You stay like that for a moment, standing in the middle of the field, hands laced together, the quiet wrapping around you in a way that feels less lonely now.

Then you nudge him lightly.“C’mon. You’ve had enough dramatic sad staring at the field for one night.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re probably right”

But he doesn’t let go when you start walking back.