The Seventh Inning

The orange sat on my desk like a grenade, its dimpled skin catching the fluorescent lights of the open-plan office. Three days it had been there, a gift from Marcus, my colleague-turned-something-more during a late-night strategy session last week. "For Vitamin C," he'd said, but his eyes had held something else.

Now I watched him across the floor, his head bent over his monitor, typing furiously. Was he working on the Morrison account, or was he spying on my emails? The question had been gnawing at me since Thursday, when I noticed my drafts folder had been accessed at 3 AM. Marcus was the only one with my password—I'd given it to him during that chaotic weekend when we'd both been drowning in the Q3 reports.

"Lunch?"

I jumped. Marcus stood by my desk, casual in his shirtsleeves, the orange between his palms like a stress ball. "Your favorite food truck is outside."

I followed him to the elevator, my heart doing that stupid flutter it always did around him. Outside, the July sun glared off the glass buildings. We ate in silence, sitting on a bench while workers streamed past.

"You've been distant," he said, not looking at me.

"Have I?"

"Accessing your files." He finally met my gaze. "I needed the projection you'd embedded in the deck. The client meeting ran long."

"Why didn't you ask?"

He shrugged, peeling the orange now, its citrus scent sharp between us. "You were on calls. I figured I'd put it back before you noticed."

The relief was immediate, followed quickly by something else—disappointment? That he hadn't been spying because he cared about me, but because he needed a file for work?

His company outing was that weekend—box seats at the baseball stadium. "Come with me," he said. "As friends, if that's what you want."

The baseball game was a blur of hot dogs, beer, and the satisfying crack of bats. In the seventh inning, Marcus handed me a segment of orange he'd brought. "Friends don't let friends skip Vitamin C," he said, his shoulder brushing mine as he leaned forward to watch the pitch.

The spy in me—who'd been watching him for weeks, cataloging his movements, his smiles, his lingering looks—finally understood. Sometimes you don't need surveillance. You just need to show up, sit in the box seats, and accept the damn orange.

The baseball game ended in a tie. We stayed until the lights dimmed, orange peel on our fingers, the space between our shoulders no longer quite so wide.