The Last Inning

Marco sat on their balcony, palm resting on the wrought-iron table, nursing a whiskey he'd promised himself he wouldn't pour tonight. Below, the city hummed with Friday energy, but up here, the air between them had grown suffocatingly still.

"You're doing it again," Elena said from the doorway, her silhouette outlined in the warm glow of the apartment. "That thing where you retreat into your head and leave me out here alone."

Marco swirled his glass. "I'm not retreating. I'm thinking. There's a difference."

"Is there?" She stepped forward, and even in the dim light, he could see the exhaustion etched around her eyes. "Because it feels an awful lot like last spring, when your mother was sick, and the winter before that, when you lost your job. You shut down, Marco. You go completely bull-headed, acting like you're the only one allowed to feel anything profound."

He set the glass down harder than intended. "So now I'm defective for processing things differently?"

"No. You're defective for refusing to let me in. For seven years, I've watched you treat every emotional conversation like a baseball game where someone has to win and someone has to lose."

The metaphor landed with sickening precision. Marco remembered his father's voice from childhood: *Walk it off, kid. Real men don't let things rattle them. Don't show them you're hurt.* All those afternoons in the Little League dugout, learning to armor himself before the world could wound him. Elena was right—he'd been playing defense his entire life, and somehow she'd become the opposing team.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words emerging rusty and unfamiliar. "I don't mean to—" He stopped, searching for something honest, something that didn't feel rehearsed. "I don't know how to be what you need. My father taught me that feelings were... spinach. Something you force down because it's good for you, but you don't actually have to enjoy it."

Elena's expression softened. She crossed to the table, and when she reached for his hand, Marco didn't pull away. Her palm was warm against his, her fingers lacing through his with practiced familiarity.

"Then unlearn it," she said quietly. "Start now. Right here. Tell me something true, something you've never said."

Marco looked at their joined hands, the city beyond their balcony, the seven years of carefully guarded moments between them. Outside, a siren wailed, someone laughed, the world kept moving.

"I'm terrified," he whispered, "that one day you'll realize I'm not worth the work."

Elena squeezed his hand. "That's the first thing you've said all night that makes me want to stay."