Page 116 of Bitter When He Begs

Midterm results dropped today, and I crushed it. Nate didn’t even bother to check—he already knows he aced it.

My bag digs into my shoulder, my head aches from too much fluorescent light and not enough sugar, and all I want is to crawl into Luca’s bed, bury my face in his hoodie, and pretend I don’t have a single brain cell left to fry.

We’re halfway across the quad—not even ten steps from the coffee cart I was going to drag Nate to—when it happens.

They move like a pack—tight formation, high ponytails, glossed lips, and matching smug expressions. There’s six ofthem, all glittery Blackthorne cheer uniforms and gleaming white sneakers, stopping right in front of us like they’ve rehearsed this. Which, let’s be honest, they probably have.

And the one in front, their self-declared queen bee, doesn’t even pretend to hide her disdain.

“Oh,” she says, eyes scanning me like I’m something that got tracked in on her designer sneakers. “Sothisis what Luca’s been slumming it with?”

Nate stiffens beside me, already bristling, but I beat him to it with a slow, exaggerated smile that I hope reads more amused than pissed. Because I’m not doing this today. Not when I’ve survived locker room politics, Luca’s unholy temper, and literal death glares from his fans since the first day he started looking at me like I was the only one in the room.

This? This is child’s play.

“Really?” I say. “This is how we’re starting?”

She smirks and I can practically smell the vanilla body spray and insecurity radiating off her. “I mean, look at you,” she says, waving a manicured hand like I’m some questionable fashion choice. “You’re not even his type.”

I let out a breath that’s more of a laugh than anything. “Right. Because he’s famously into emotionally bankrupt blondes with zero personality.”

One of the girls behind her gasps, but she recovers fast, stepping in with a sneer. “You think being a bitch makes you interesting?”

“No,” I say, sweetly, “but it does make this more fun.”

They all kind of shift at once like a gaggle of pigeons trying to decide if they want to peck or flee. There’s a pause; one of those weird moments where the air gets heavy, where everyone’s waiting to see if the insults are going to stay playful or if I’m about to burn the whole cheer pyramid to the ground.

Spoiler alert: I’m in the mood to burn.

Another one pipes up, brunette with fake lashes so long they might actually create drag in the wind. “He used to fuck half the squad, you know. Like, actually fuck. Not play house.”

I shrug. “And I’m sure you were great. Did he let you stay over? Or were you more of a backseat special?”

That lands hard. One of them laughs nervously, but covers it with a cough when Queen Bee turns her glare on her. “You’re disgusting,” she says when she turns back to me.

“And yet I’m the one he wakes up with,” I say, shrugging. “So riddle me this—if you’re all so unforgettable, why am I the one who got a key to his room?”

Nate makes a sound like he’s trying not to choke, but I don’t stop.

“Did any of you even make it past the living room at the Sin Bin?” I ask like I’m genuinely curious. “Did he ever take you upstairs, or did you get the thirty-minute tour in the back of the truck before being sent home without so much as a t-shirt?”

Nate lets out a low whistle beside me. “Jesus, dude.”

“No, I’m serious,” I say, turning back to them, grinning now, eyes bright with a kind of dangerous calm I haven’t let out in a while. “You think I don’t know he was a walking cautionary tale before me? Trust me. I’ve seen the caution, and I’ve lived the tale.”

Queen Bee’s jaw tightens, but I keep going.

“You wanna know the difference between the two of us?” I lean in slightly. “You got fucked; I get worshipped. You got a drunken grab in a dark hallway; I get held after. He cooks for me, wears the hoodie I sleep in, texts me good luck before every quiz even though he still forgets to do his own assignments.”

“That’s not—”

“I know his tells. I know when he’s spiraling. I know what calms him down. I know he listens to acoustic covers of punk songs when he’s sad, and that he still thinks no one’s noticed. Iknow where every one of his scars are and how they got there. I know what it means when he stares at the ceiling too long or skips a song halfway through. I know him.All of him. Not just the version he showed at parties.”

They’re all quiet now. Even Queen Bee.

“Luca doesn’t do intimacy lightly,” I say, softer this time, but still firm. “So the fact that you’re all still talking about something that happened months ago like it still matters? That’s embarrassing. And frankly, sad.”

Nate whistles again, but this time it’s lower, more impressed. “Damn.”

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