Page 99 of Bitter When He Begs

I huff, taking a long drink. “And?”

Julian smirks. “And we never would’ve guessed you’d go for the nerd.”

I grin, unbothered by their bullshit. “Yeah? Well, the nerd is hot as fuck.”

Eli snorts. “We’re not arguing that. We just didn’t think nerds were your type, Devereaux.”

I roll my shoulders, stretching out the ache in my muscles. “And what the fuck is my type?”

“Not someone who actually uses their brain,” Julian deadpans.

I flip him off without looking. “You’re just pissed he’s smarter than you.”

Julian snorts. “Smarter than you, too.”

“Yeah, but at least I get to fuck him.”

Eli howls with laughter as Julian makes a disgusted noise, shoving my shoulder. “You are so fucking foul.”

I just grin, taking another long sip of water. Yeah, they can give me shit all they want. But at the end of the day, Sage is mine.

Sage

It’sweirdhowasingle night can change the way the world feels when I walk through it. Like something heavy that used to press into my chest has started to lift; not all the way, not enough to make me forget the weight of it entirely, but enough that I notice the difference.

I’m still me, still twitchy and a little too observant for my own good, still clenching my jaw when too many people look too long—but I’m wearing his shirt today, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.

It’s not even a jersey. It’s one of his Blackthorne U shirts, a little worn, soft from being washed a hundred times, and it fits me in a way that makes it clear it wasn’t made for me, but I don’t give a shit. I want people to see it.

I want them to put two and two together and realize they don’t get to talk about me like I’m some fucking rumor. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. After last night, after falling asleep inLuca’s bed, warm and quiet and safe, I don’t have the energy to care about their stares.

I’ve already caught a few people turning their heads when I walked into class earlier, a couple of whispers behind notebooks, and some barely-suppressed laughter near the vending machines, but none of it touches me the way it did before.

Now, I’ve got a coffee in one hand and my laptop open in front of me, half a page deep into storyboarding my short film for class. The free period gives me just enough time to get started on it before tonight, and I’m locked in—earbuds in, eyes scanning the frame layout, fingers tapping steadily across the keyboard.

It’s nice to be focused. It’s even nicer not to feel hunted.

I’m in the far corner of the media building lounge, propped against the window ledge with my legs pulled up under me. I must look more comfortable than usual because no one’s come to ask for help yet, which is a small miracle considering I’ve basically been turned into a free academic resource on this campus. I’m halfway into the second scene breakdown when someone steps into my line of vision.

I look up, and my stomach dips just a little.

Nate.

He’s wearing that black hoodie again, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair tied back neatly. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes scanning the room for a second like he’s looking for an excuse not to be here. Then he sees me looking and walks over.

My fingers still on the keyboard, and I take out one earbud.

He doesn’t say anything when he drops onto the chair beside me. It creaks under his weight, and the silence stretches too long between us. Normally, Nate doesn’t need silence. He’s all noise—all commentary, sarcasm, and sharp opinions that come out like blades.

But right now, he’s silent, and that’s worse. It’s awkward in a way that isn’t natural for us. We’ve fought before—snappedand shoved and cursed each other out—but this silence feels like standing in the ruins of something.

I wait him out.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there, fidgeting slightly, picking at the label of his water bottle… and then he finally exhales.

“I was a dick,” he mutters, still not looking at me.

I blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”