Page 154 of Bitter When He Begs

I grin. “Only for you, Sunshine.”

He snorts, still looking flustered, and I can’t help but smirk at the sight of him so flustered just from a damn movie date.

“C’mon,” I say, nodding toward the truck bed. “Get on the bed. I’m starting the movie.”

He eyes me for a second like he’s still trying to process the fact that I did this for him before he finally moves, climbing into the back of the truck and settling against the pillows.

And as I hit play on the projector, slide in beside him, and pull a blanket over both of us, I can’t help but think—

Yeah.

Totally fucking worth it.

The sky’s in that in-between shade of dark—almost black, but not quite. Stars scattered like they got lazy and gave up forming constellations halfway through. There’s no traffic out here, justthe soft flicker of the old projector throwingCasablancaup against the scorched side of the abandoned theater wall.

Sage is curled up beside me, propped on one elbow in the bed of my truck. He smells like mint, cinnamon, and popcorn, and he’s so fucking into this movie, it’s kind of criminal how cute he looks. One hand’s buried in a tub of snacks, the other tugging the blanket tighter around his waist as he watches the screen like the fate of the world depends on whether or not Ilsa boards that damn plane.

Me?

I couldn’t give less of a shit about the movie.

All I see is him.

The way his mouth moves as he whispers the lines he knows by heart. The way his eyes flicker with emotion even though he’s seen this a hundred times. The way he bites his lip when something hits too close.

I’m not watchingCasablanca. I’m watching Sage.

“You’re not even paying attention,” he mutters without looking at me.

I smirk. “I am. I’m just watching the best part.”

He turns to me, unimpressed. “Don’t try and flirt your way out of ignoring Humphrey Bogart.”

“I mean it.” I lean in, brushing his hair back from his forehead, letting my fingers linger. “Why would I watch them fall in love when I can watch you instead?”

That earns me a stare. The kind that’s supposed to be annoyed but can't hide the smile trying to break free. His ears go red, the way they always do when he’s trying not to blush, and I grin like I just scored a touchdown in the last ten seconds of the game.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, eyes flicking back to the screen, but his voice is quieter. Softer. I think he likes it when I say shit like that more than he wants to admit.

I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then just under his ear.

“You’re ruining a cinematic masterpiece,” he says, but he doesn’t stop me. His voice is breathier now, the words less strict, less him trying to be above it all.

“Pretty sure Bogart would understand,” I murmur, my lips brushing his cheek. “Some moments are just… more important.”

I kiss him full this time. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that says“I want to remember the taste of you when the stars are gone.”

His fingers tighten in my shirt, and for a second, he kisses me back with this soft, desperate kind of urgency that destroys me.

But then, of course, he pulls back and starts babbling. “You know, this movie won Best Picture in 1944, but most people don’t know that the production was total chaos. They barely had a finished script, and the actors didn’t know the ending until they filmed it. Imagine being so iconic by accident—”

“I love you.”

I don’t say it loudly. I don’t need to.

He stops mid-sentence like his brain blue-screened. I can feel his breath on my lips, feel the way his body goes still like he doesn’t trust what he just heard.

And for the first time in my entire reckless, messed-up life, I don’t panic. I don’t backpedal or crack a joke or try to soften the edges.