Page 130 of Bitter When He Begs

Sage

Ican’tsitstill.

There’s a pit clawed out in my chest, and I’ve been pacing the length of Luca’s room like if I move fast enough, I can outrun it.

My steps are silent, but my thoughts aren’t. My mind’s been a fucking scream tunnel for hours. Every time I stop, I start chewing at the skin around my nails again, nerves frayed so thin it feels like I’m being picked apart cell by cell.

I’m trying not to check my phone again even though I already know there’s nothing there. No new messages. No missed calls, just the last few texts I sent.

“Hey, you okay?” followed by, “Please let me know when you get back. I’m here.”

Read: never.

It’s been hours since the game. I watched it from my laptop with my stomach in knots the whole time, and when the final whistle blew and Blackthorne lost by one fucking touchdown, Ifelt it like a gut punch—and not just because I’ve started caring about football.

I pace harder. I don’t know if I’m angry or terrified or both, but I know I’m not leaving. Not until I see him. The lock clicks just as I’m about to wear a hole in the floor.

I spin fast enough to trip on my own feet, and then Luca walks in looking like hell. Still in his travel clothes, his hair’s a mess, and eyes shadowed and hollow. He’s not looking at me, not really, he just closes the door behind him with a dull thud and sets his bag down like it weighs more than he does.

I rush toward him, slamming into his chest with enough force that he stumbles back a step. My arms lock around him, my face pressing into his chest, breathing him in, feeling him.

He’s here.

He’s okay.

Except, something is off.

I can feel it in the way he holds himself, in the way his arms come around me a second too late. His grip is loose and hesitant and his whole body’s tight. I pull back enough to touch his face, thumbs brushing his jaw, and searching his expression.

His skin’s clammy, and his blue eyes are dull and empty in a way that guts me.

“Luca,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “What happened?”

His fingers twitch on my waist, then he tries for a smile. A weak, half-cocked thing that doesn’t even reach his eyes. “Rough night, Sunshine,” he says, his voice frayed. “That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” I counter, my gut twisting. “You didn’t answer any of my texts.”

He exhales through his nose, looking away. “I know. I didn’t have my phone.”

Then he steps out of my arms and walks past me like I’m not standing there coming apart at the seams. Like I didn’t just spend hours spiraling while he disappeared.

“Luca,” I say, louder this time.

He stops but doesn’t turn or speak. And that’s what makes me move. I grab his wrist and step in front of him, forcing him to look at me. “Talk to me,” I beg. “Please, baby.”

He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. “Sage, I can’t.” His voice is low, but I hear every ounce of frustration, every ounce of pain buried beneath it.

I inhale slowly, my throat tight. “Why not?”

His mouth opens, then shuts, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me and doesn’t trust himself to. He swallows hard. “I just… I can’t right now.”

It stings more than I want to admit, but I don’t push because I know him. I know how hard this is for him, how much he hates being vulnerable, how much he hates feeling weak.

So instead of demanding answers, instead of pushing when he’s clearly about to shatter, I take a step back.

I nod, even though it kills me, and I say, “Okay.”

His brows pull together slightly like he was expecting a fight. I force a small, sad smile. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say quietly. “But can I at least stay?”

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