#yankeesbaseball

⸻

The restaurant glows with low golden light and polished glass. You smooth your dress for the third time before you and Max even reach the doorway.

His hand settles at your lower back. "You okay?"

You force a smile. "Yeah."

His eyes linger for one extra second, then he guides you inside.

Don't be weird tonight. Don't be clingy or awkward or too much.

Max moves through the room with that steady ease he carries everywhere. People naturally gravitate toward him and because you're with him, their attention turns to you too.

Aaron approaches first with that easy captain like warmth. Samantha is kind enough to loosen your shoulders. Gerrit arrives mid-story, Amy gives you a soft, knowing smile and for a while it's okay. More than okay.

Then Carlos shows up loud as always, clapping Max on the shoulder. "He brought someone smart enough to make him interesting."

You laugh and Max glances down at you with a small smile.

⸻

But dinner stretches on. Max gets pulled into conversations at the other end of the table, and you're left with Samantha, who's kind but keeps trying to draw you into a story about an event you didn't attend.

You smile. You nod. You do all the right things.

But you can feel yourself slipping.

It starts small, your fingers tap against your glass, you catch yourself and make them stop. They start again almost immediately against your thigh, a rhythm you can't control, like your body knows something your brain won't admit that you don't belong in this room.

Across the room, Max is laughing at something someone said. He looks completely at ease, the way he always does in public. Like this is easy for him, like he's not counting the minutes or wondering if people are tired of him or—

Then he glances over at you.

Just once. But it's enough to make you look away, suddenly aware of how small you're trying to make yourself, how hard you're gripping the edge of the table.

He shouldn't have to do that. Shouldn't have to check on you like you're something that might break.

A few minutes later, he's back at your side.

"You doing okay?" His voice is quiet.

You hate how badly you want to say no. You hate that he can tell.

Instead, you nod. "Yeah. I'm fine."

His gaze drops to your hand but he doesn't call you on it. He just sees it, sees you.

Then someone calls his name.

He hesitates. You can see it, that split second where he's deciding between staying and going.

Don't make him stay. Don't be the reason he has to leave.

You summon another smile and tilt your head toward the group. "Go."

He doesn't move right away.

"Go," you say again, lighter this time, like you're not slowly unraveling. "I'm fine."

He studies you for a second, then brushes his thumb against your back before stepping away.

And immediately, even with him still in the same room, you miss him so badly it physically hurts.

⸻

This is exactly what you don't want to be. Someone he has to manage. Someone who makes him annoyed, even if he won't say it. How long before he gets tired of having to check on you? Of leaving conversations early? Of pretending it doesn't bother him?

Because it has to bother him, you're bothering him. That's what this is.

You stare down at the table and blink hard.

You're deeply embarrassed. Not just by your own skin, your own brain but by the fact that Max is over there being perfectly fine, perfectly normal, and you're sitting here unraveling. He's so easy with this and you can't even manage one dinner.

⸻

A few minutes later, he's back.

Not checking on you this time. Just naturally drifting back to your side like he can't help it, settling into the chair beside you with a hand on your knee. He's still listening to whoever's talking across the table, still present but his attention is partly yours now. The small comfort of him being close enough to touch.

You realize then that you can't ask him to leave out loud. Not with Carlos watching, not with Samantha two seats over. Not with the whole table potentially hearing you admit that you can't do this.

That's when you notice his phone on the table, tucked beside your water glass.

It's stupid. It's so stupid.

But you glance over at him. He's distracted, nodding at something Aaron said. Carefully, quietly, you pick up his phone, unlock it and open the notes app.

Your thumb hovers for a second.

Then you type:

please please can we leave

You stare at it, your heart pounding. It feels like admitting something out loud even though no one can hear.

You swallow and add:

i'm trying so hard not to be weird

You almost delete that line. Instead, you add one more:

also can we get food on the way home

You slide it back toward him on the table, your hands shaking slightly.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then Max glances down. His eyes find the phone, find the screen. You watch his face as he reads first line, second, third. His expression doesn't change but his hand tightens slightly on your knee.

He reads it again.

Then he leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"Yeah?"

It's not a question about whether you're sure. It's a question about whether you really want to go, and if you do, does it matter why.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He nods back, picks up his phone, and stands.

"Come on," he says quietly.

That's it, no announcement, no explanation, no performance of normalcy.

He just reaches down and offers you his hand.

That's it no confusion, teasing, or questions. Just a simple, immediate offer.

Your throat tightens.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I know we just got here, and I know this matters—"

"Hey." His voice gets even gentler. "You don't have to do that."

"I don't want to make you leave because I'm being weird."

"You're not being weird."

You let out a small breath. "Max."

"You wanna go," he says again, calm and certain. "So we're going."

You shake your head, embarrassed. "I feel stupid."

His expression changes just enough for you to see something firmer underneath. Not frustration with you. With the fact that you're determined to blame yourself.

"You don't need to sit here miserable so nobody thinks you're inconvenient." He shifts closer. "Least of all me."

His hand cups the side of your jaw, thumb brushing under your cheekbone.

"You didn't ruin anything," he says quietly. "Okay?"

You blink quickly and nod.

He stands, keeps one hand at your back, and handles everything so smoothly.

He leans toward Aaron and says something low and brief. Aaron gives Max a simple nod. Samantha gives you a kind smile. Gerrit lifts a hand. Amy mouths, "Goodnight."

Carlos notices immediately because of course he does. He looks at your face for half a second and seems to think better of his comment. "See you tomorrow."

Max nods. "Yeah."

That's all. Just Max's hand steady at your lower back as he guides you out.

⸻

Outside, the sidewalk is quiet. Not silent there are still cars, footsteps, the city at night but compared to the restaurant, it feels like stepping underwater.

You inhale deeply for the first time all night.

Max's hand slides from your back into yours. Neither of you says anything.

The car is even quieter, dim dashboard lights. The familiar smell of his cologne and leather and the mint gum in the console. No eyes on you, no expectations.

Max gets in, starts the engine, then looks over at you instead of pulling away.

"Better?" he asks.

You nod. "A little."

He waits. That's the thing about him, he waits in a way that never feels like pressure.

You let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

His hand lands on your knee. "No."

You give a tired laugh. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I do." His thumb strokes once over your knee. "And no."

You finally glance up.

He looks exactly like he always does calm, steady but it hits differently now.

"I just..." You look back down. "I don't know why I get like that. Everyone was nice. I just kept thinking I should be better at it."

"At what?"

"Being there with you. Not making things harder."

His jaw shifts slightly.

"You weren't making anything harder."

"It feels like I was." The words come faster. "I don't want to be someone you have to manage in every room. I don't want you leaving things early because I can't just be normal."

He goes very still.

Then he leans back and looks at you with the kind of focus that makes it impossible to hide.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asks. "Managing you?"

You wish you could pull the words back.

"No. Not exactly. I just mean—"

"I know what you mean."

There's no anger in his voice.

He lifts your joined hands and presses his mouth to your knuckles, then lets them fall between you.

"I pay attention to you because I love you," he says. "Not because there's something wrong with you that I'm trying to fix."

Your throat closes.

"You think I don't feel like that too?" He says it quietly, like he's telling you a secret. "Stuck in rooms. Watching people laugh at things and not knowing what to say. Wanting to leave."

You look up at him.

"I just know how to hide it better," he continues. "But I'm not out there being easy. I'm counting minutes the same way you are. The only difference is—" He brushes his thumb under your cheekbone. "I'd rather do the hard parts with you than the easy parts with anyone else."

Your face burns but not with shame. With the overwhelming ache of being misunderstood in a way that suddenly makes sense.

He studies you for a second, then his expression softens.

"Also," he says, "the note was very cute."

A startled laugh escapes you.

You cover your face. "Oh my god."

"There's the laugh."

"Please don't."

"The 'please please' was persuasive."

You groan softly, and he just laughs.

"I'm serious, I'm deleting myself from existence."

"No, you're not." He catches your wrist and lowers your hand gently. "You're coming with me to get food."

That makes you laugh again, weaker but real.

And just like that, the worst part of the night is over.

⸻

The drive-thru is lit too bright, but you're tucked back in your seat, shoes kicked off, one knee bent toward the console, Max's hand on your thigh. The restaurant feels like another lifetime.

He orders without making you do the talking not because he thinks you can't. Just because he knows you're still coming back to yourself.

By the time you're parked with a warm paper bag between you, the whole world has shrunk into something manageable.

Wrappers. French fries. Max reaching over to hand you sauce without asking.

"This is better," you admit quietly.

He glances over. "Yeah?"

You nod. "Much."

You eat in comfortable silence. You steal one of his fries even though you have your own, and he lets you. When you reach for another, he holds the carton just out of reach.

You narrow your eyes. "Really?"

His mouth twitches. "Thought you said you wanted your own."

You stare at him until he laughs and hands them over anyway.

There it is, that easy normalness you'd thought you lost.

After a while, you say, "Thank you."

He looks at you like there should be nothing to thank him for.

Still, he says, "Always."

The word lands soft and heavy.

You swallow. "I mean it."

"I know." He reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. "You never have to stay somewhere that makes you feel like you're crawling out of your skin just because you think I expect you to."

You lean into his hand before you can stop yourself.

He smiles, small and fond. "And for the record, I like taking you home. I'd rather be here with you in my car than stuck in that dining room for another two hours."

You snort. "You're lying."

"I'm maybe exaggerating a little," he admits. "But not by much."

You laugh, shaking your head.

Then you look out the windshield at the city lights blurring softly and say the thing still sitting under everything.

"I really was trying not to be weird."

His expression softens immediately.

"I know."

He knows. He knew all night, probably from the second you walked in. He knew when your fingers started tapping. When your smile got tighter. When you kept saying you were fine in that carefully casual voice. And he didn't make you feel dramatic for it. He never does.

Max reaches for the drink in your cupholder, takes a sip, then says, "Next time, you don't even have to write it down."

You smile a little. "No?"

He shakes his head. "You can text me from across the table. Kick me under the chair. Give me a look. Whatever you want."

"A look?"

He demonstrates a comically miserable expression for half a second.

You laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.

"Okay, not that look," he says, laughing too. "But something close."

You wipe under one eye, grinning. "You're so annoying."

"Mm." He reaches over and squeezes your knee. "And yet."

"And yet," you echo.

⸻

By the time he drives you home, the night has softened around the edges.

Inside everything is quieter, shoes by the door, lights kept low. The familiar ease of his place wrapping around you. He takes the nearly empty food bag, tosses it out, then comes back to find you standing in the kitchen, worn out now that you're fully safe.

His face changes immediately.

He opens his arms without a word.

You go into them just as quietly.

His hand slides up your back, then down again in one long, grounding pass. Your cheek presses to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," you mumble into his shirt one last time.

He leans his cheek against the top of your head. "No."

You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sigh. "You really hate that apology."

"I hate that you think you owe it."

His hand settles at the back of your neck, thumb brushing there lightly.

"You asking me to take you home will never be something I hold against you," he says quietly.

Your throat tightens.

"Ever?"

He tips your face up to look at you. "Ever. I'm serious."

You nod. "I know."

He studies you for another second, then presses a kiss to your forehead first, then another to your lips.

When he pulls back, he says, "Comfy clothes?"

You smile faintly. "Please please."

His grin is immediate. "There she is."

You groan and shove lightly at his chest, and he just laughs, catches your hand, and kisses your knuckles before leading you toward the bedroom.

⸻

Later, when you're changed and curled up together in bed, Max picks up his phone from the nightstand.

"What are you doing?" you ask sleepily.

He doesn't answer right away.

Instead he types something, sets the phone down, and turns the screen toward you.

The note is still there.

please please can we leave i'm trying so hard not to be weird also can we get food on the way home

And under all of it, in his handwriting, he's added one last line.

always.

You stare at it until your vision blurs a little.

Then you look at him.

Max just reaches over, brushes his fingers along your jaw, and kisses you once more like there's nowhere else he would rather be.

There never was.

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