Page 92 of Bitter When He Begs

He groans and climbs out, mumbling something about “toxic masculinity” and “cavemen,” but he still follows me inside, still lets me lead him up the stairs to my room, and that’s the part that matters.

He toes off his shoes by the door while I drop the food on my desk and flick on the overhead light. I swear, just seeing him here in my space again, does something to my chest I don’t know how to explain.

He sinks down onto the bed but hesitates for a second before settling in, sitting cross-legged near my pillows, his fingers idly picking at the edge of the container. I sit down next to him, leaning back against the headboard as I unwrap one of my burgers.

I take a bite, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He’s still thinking too much. So, I decide to pull him out of his own head the only way I know how. I swallow my food before asking, “So tell me about your family.”

Sage blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

I shrug. “Your family. What are they like?”

He hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip before sighing. “I mean… it’s just me and my dad, mostly.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What about your mom?”

He shrugs again, but there’s something tight in the way his shoulders move. “She left when I was a kid.”

I frown, my grip tightening around my burger. “That sucks.”

Sage huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. It’s whatever.”

It’s not, but I don’t push. Instead, I ask, “And your dad?”

Sage actually smiles a little, nudging a fry through his ketchup. “He’s… busy. But he’s a good guy. He works in the film industry, so I spent a lot of time on movie sets growing up. Guess that’s why I got into film in the first place.”

I nod, filing that information away. I already knew Sage was a film nerd, but hearing him actually talk about it, hearing the small amount of fondness in his voice when he mentions it—it makes something in my chest tighten in a way I don’t quite understand.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. I don’t rush him. I just take another bite of my burger and pretend I’m not watching him try to work something out behind those pretty brown eyes.

“I haven’t exactly been… upfront about everything,” he says after a beat, still not looking at me.

I set my burger down. “Okay?”

He swallows. “You know how I said my dad works in film?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well… he’s not, like, a lighting guy or a set designer or anything.” He scratches the back of his neck, his face going a little red. “He’s one of the biggest producers in the country.Name’s attached to half the Oscar-bait shit that comes out of Hollywood every year.”

I blink. “Wait, your dad isthatBlackwell?”

Sage flinches a little like the name burned coming out of my mouth. “Yeah. Aspen Blackwell. My grandfather’s name is Robert J. Blackwell.”

Holy shit.

I lean back to process that.

I only know the name because my dad forced me to study business here. Robert J. Blackwell—as in, the guy who owns half the art museums and most of the private islands off the Amalfi coast. The guy whose name is attached to at least ten different stadiums worldwide. The guy my fucking dad aspires to be.

Sage nods like he’s reading my thoughts. “Yeah. That one.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” he mutters again. “I usually don’t tell people. Because the second I do, they either treat me like I’m some heir to a fortune they want a piece of, or they assume I’m just some spoiled rich kid playing at being normal.”

“You’re not.”