Page 134 of Bitter When He Begs

I nudge his chin up until he’s looking at me. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve, Luca. That’s my choice, and I choose you.”

His eyes flicker with something—relief, maybe. Or guilt. Or both. I don’t know. But I kiss his forehead and tuck him into my chest and let him fall asleep with my arms around him and my shirt twisted in his fingers.

And when his breathing finally evens out, when I know he’s slipped under, I don’t move.

I just stay and let my tears silently fall.

Because he almost relapsed.

Because the storm got too loud.

Because his father doesn’t see him.

Because the world asked for too much, and he didn’t have enough left to give.

And because I love him.

I won’t say it tonight. He doesn’t need it like that, not right now. But it’s there in every breath I take, in the way I hold him like he’s something worth fighting for.

Because he is.

And I’ll never let him forget that.

Luca

ThefirstthingIregister is heat.

Not the lazy morning kind, not the kind that drifts in through cracked blinds and warms your back—it’s the full-body kind. Skin to skin. Legs tangled. Arms locked around me so tight I almost can’t move.

Not that I want to. Not when it’s him. Not when Sage’s head is tucked beneath my chin, his breath ghosting over my chest, one of his legs hooked between mine like he’s been trying to fuse us together in our sleep.

And hell, I don’t hate it.

My arm’s numb, resting low on his back, fingers under the hem of my shirt that he’s wearing.

I stare at the ceiling for a long minute, my heart beating a little too steady, a little too soft for how it usually starts each day. And maybe it’s because of last night—because I said too much, because I cracked myself open and handed over every piece of the shit I’ve never talked about out loud.

Maybe it’s because I came home from slipping off the edge, and instead of pulling back, Sage pulled me in.

He stayed.

That’s the part that undoes me.

He stayed.

After everything I told him. After the call from my dad, after hearing how close I came to fucking everything up, he stayed. Wrapped me up like I was still worth something. Kissed the poison out of my head. Called me strong like it wasn’t a lie. Like he believed it.

I believed it too.

For the first time in a long fucking time, I didn’t feel like a walking fuck-up waiting to relapse. I felt seen. I felt held. I felt… his.

That realization sits heavy in my chest now, but it doesn’t hurt. It settles like warmth, like gravity. I know it. I’ve known it for a while.

I’m in love with him.

Somewhere between the insults and the peppermint candies, between the hoodie sleeves he hides his hands in, and the way he always looks like he wants to fight when he’s flustered—he got me.

Entirely. Silently. Without even trying.