Page 93 of Bitter When He Begs

He finally looks at me, wary. “You say that now.”

“I’m saying it because of now,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I’ve known you for months, Sage. Not once did you throw that name around. You’ve never acted entitled, you pay for your own food, your own gear, you hustle like hell at school… None of this changes anything for me.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for weeks. “I just didn’t want it to be what people saw first. My name’s not what got me here. I worked for it. Even if the money could’ve made it easier, I didn’t want easy. I wanted mine. I wanted to build something that wasn’t just handed to me.”

“You did,” I say quietly. “Youare.”

He gives me this look—half disbelieving, half grateful—and it punches something low in my chest.

I reach over and steal one of his fries. “Still can’t believe you’re loaded, though. I mean, you dress like an underpaid T.A.”

He lets out a snort-laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” I grin, nudging him. “You’re telling me you’ve got generational wealth and you still wear that hoodie with the bleach stain on it?”

He flicks a fry at me. “It’s vintage. And comfy. And fuck you.”

“You’re lucky I’m into poor-little-rich-boy types.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, picking up a pillow and burying his face in it, but I catch the smile on his face before he hides it.

“Besides,” I say, my voice lowering, teasing now, “I already knew you were a rich bitch. You’re in Sigma Rho Alpha and order your lattes with oat milk and attitude.”

He flicks another fry at me. “Shut up.”

I grin and take another bite, chewing thoughtfully before nudging his thigh with my knee. “Sounds like you had an interesting childhood.”

Sage smirks slightly. “Yeah. But not as interesting as growing up as a sports prodigy, I’m sure.”

I hide the way my heart drops and snort. “Oh, yeah. Super interesting. Just me and a ball and way too much pressure to be perfect.”

He studies me for a second, something unreadable in his expression, but he doesn’t press. I know he’s going to circle back to that sometime, and I know I won’t be fucking ready.

We eat in silence for a while, the tension between us easing more and more with every passing minute. By the time we finish, Sage looks comfortable—relaxed in a way I don’t think he’s let himself be all day.

I like it.

I like him.

And that’s a problem because I don’t dothis. I don’t let people in, and I don’t let myself care. But with Sage… it’s different. I can’t help but care.

I push the thought aside as I toss our wrappers into the bin next to my bed, stretching my arms over my head with a groan, and Sage glances toward the door.

“I should shower,” he says quietly.

“You’re not leaving.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “I’m sticky from crying and this fucking day, Luca. I need to shower.”

I push up, snagging the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head. “C’mon, then.”

He blinks. “Wait, you mean together?”

I raise a brow. “I’ve already had my tongue halfway down your throat and my fingers strumming your prostate. Pretty sure we’re past shy now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sage groans, hiding his face in his hands. “You are the worst.”

I lean in, dragging my mouth over the shell of his ear. “And you’re blushing again, baby.”