Page 133 of Bitter When He Begs

I frown. “Like what?”

“Like I’m damaged. Or—” he swallows hard, “—like I’m not worth saving or sticking around for.”

My hand stills in his hair. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

He moves back and looks at me, his eyes red-rimmed and lashes wet. “What?”

“I’m not here for the touchdowns and the hoodies and the stupid grin you give me when you’re trying to get laid,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m here for you, Luca. The messy parts. The hard parts. Therealparts.”

His breath catches.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” I add, brushing his hair off his forehead. “I just need you to be honest. I just need you to let me see you.”

He leans into me like I’m the only anchor in a storm he’s still trying to navigate. “It’s just so fucking loud in my head sometimes.”

“I know.” My voice cracks a little. “But I’m not going anywhere. Even when it’s loud.Especiallywhen it’s loud.”

He exhales, and this time it’s a little less jagged. A little more solid. “You really mean that?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

I press another kiss to his cheek. “And you shouldn’t have to pretend you’re fine just to keep people around.”

His arms wrap tighter around me, and for the first time tonight, I feel him really breathe. Like he’s been underwater and finally broke the surface. “I wanted to call you. I did. But I was scared that if I said it out loud, it’d become real. That you’d look at me different.”

“I do look at you differently now,” I murmur and his whole body goes still.

I press my forehead to his. “I look at you like you’re strong. Like you’re fighting every day even when it hurts. Like you’re the guy who never lets anyone see the cracks, but I get to. And I’ll never use those cracks to break you, Luca.”

His hand curls around the back of my neck like he needs the connection more than breath. “I don’t deserve you.”

I huff, half a laugh, half a sob. “Well, tough shit. You’ve got me.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, and something in him finally lets go. I feel it, the smallest flicker of relief. He’s still hurting, still raw and reeling. But he’s not alone. Not tonight.

Eventually, he speaks again. “You make it easier just by being here. You don’t even have to say anything and it’s easier.”

“I don’t always know what to say,” I admit softly. “But I’ll always be here.”

His head lifts just enough for me to see his eyes, and it damn near guts me. They’re glassy, bloodshot, but present. Not lost. Not empty. Just tired in the way only someone who’s been fighting their demons for years can be.

Then he kisses me again, and I kiss him back but with zero heat. It’s a kiss that saysI’m hereandI’m not giving upeven if he hasn’t figured out how to believe that for himself yet. It’s soft and slow and a little messy because his mouth is trembling and mine is wet with tears I didn’t notice had fallen again.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine and breathes me in. “I’m scared, baby,” he says.

I nod, pressing my lips to his temple. “Me too.”

He swallows thickly. “What if it happens again?”

“Then you’ll tell me,” I say. “And I’ll hold you through it again. And again. As many times as it takes.”

He buries his face in my neck, and I feel the way he exhales this time—it’s not calm, not peaceful. But it’s less jagged and panicked.

Like maybe he believes me.

“You deserve better than a fucking addict,” he whispers against my skin.

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