Page 87 of Bitter When He Begs

Something about the quiet way he says it—without defensiveness, without mockery—makes me pause. “You mean that?”

“Yeah, I’ll tone it down until you’re comfortable, okay?”

I swallow hard, nodding slowly, my heart stupidly flipping in my chest. “I just need time,” I murmur. “Time to adjust. Time to figure out how to live in this… version of things.”

Luca nods once, then gently presses a kiss to the top of my head before stepping back and slipping his hands into his pockets like it kills him not to touch me. “Take your time,” he says, eyes holding mine. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The fact that he even cares enough to say that?

Yeah.

I’m fucking doomed.

Sage

Thehallway’stooloud.

Everything feels like it’s moving just a second ahead of me, like I’m walking through a dream I didn’t ask to be in, still hungover on too little sleep and too many feelings.

My shoulder aches from carrying my bag, my head’s pounding from caffeine withdrawal, and I swear, the second someone bumps into me one more time without apologizing, I’m going to lose it.

But that’s not what really has me walking like I’ve got a weight dragging from my chest. It’s the fact that I know Nate’s waiting for me. Not in the casual “I’ll see you in the quad later” way. But in the “I’ve been biting my tongue for weeks and I’m done” kind of way.

I spot him leaning against the stone planter just outside the media building, arms crossed, hair tied back, a black hoodie pulled tight over his lean frame, and that deadpan expression that tells me he’s not in the mood for my usual deflection.

Nate Carter doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. He just has to look at you the way he’s looking at me right now—disappointed, guarded, and like he already knows every word I’m going to say before I say it.

I try to walk past him. It’s dumb. I know it is. But my fight-or-flight reflex is halfway down the block already, and pretending I don’t see him feels easier than facing the fallout I know is coming.

“Sage.”

I freeze. My spine straightens like I’ve been yanked upright by a string, and I slowly turn around, my stomach sinking like there’s lead in it.

Nate pushes off the stone ledge, stalking toward me in long strides, the set of his jaw tight. I clear my throat and try to speak first, to steer the direction of the conversation before it can implode. “Hey, I was gonna text you la—”

“You lied to me,” he cuts in, voice quiet but sharp enough to draw blood.

I blink, caught off guard by how blunt he is, how fast he got straight to the vein. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, shaking his head like I’ve already disappointed him by trying. “Don’t insult both of us by pretending you didn’t. I saw you leave with him at the party. I saw the way he looked at you all day. And now…” He trails off, scoffing as he gestures to the campus around us like it’s complicit in whatever crime I’ve committed. “Now you’re on his Instagram and his caption practically screaming‘mine.’”

My cheeks burn, and I instinctively pull the hoodie tighter around me, suddenly feeling like everyone is watching, even if they aren’t. “It wasn’t planned,” I say softly, not sure what else to say.

“That’s not the point,” he replies. “You told me nothing was going on. You told me it was just him being a fucking bully, andyou’re handling it. You let me think I was overreacting when I saw the way he looked at you. And you know what? I could’ve let all that go. I would’ve let it go if you just came to me and told me the truth.”

“I didn’t know what it was, Nate,” I snap, the words spilling out harder than I intend them to. “I didn’t know how to explain something I didn’t understand yet. And you… you already hated him.”

“Because he was treating you like shit, Sage.” Nate steps in closer now, and I feel the heat of his anger rolling off him. “Because I watched you come home more than once looking fucked up and trying to pretend everything was fine. Because I’ve known you my whole goddamn life, and you don’t hide like that unless someone’s messing with your head.”

I feel that in my gut. The way only Nate can cut me open with facts wrapped in emotion. He doesn’t do this often, doesn’t get like this with me unless I’ve really, truly messed up. And the worst part is—he’s not wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I should’ve told you. I just… I didn’t want to ruin things.”

“With who?” Nate demands. “With him or with me?”

I open my mouth, then close it again, unable to find the right answer. Both. The truth is both.

Nate laughs bitterly, stepping back like my silence was confirmation. “That’s what I thought.”