Page 37 of Bitter When He Begs

His lips press together, like he’s debating on how to tell me this. “It’s fake as fuck.”

I frown, waiting for him to elaborate, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like… like he’s pretending all the time. Like there’s a different person underneath that he doesn’t want anyone to see, someone not like the student government pres he pretends to be. And I don’t like it.”

I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “Well, yeah. Everyone’s got shit, Nate.”

“Yeah, but not like this.” Nate shakes his head. “It’s off, Sage. I don’t know how to explain it. Gives me heavy Bundy vibes.”

I study him for a second, then I shrug. “Alright. Noted. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Nate nods, looking satisfied. Then he smirks again, all teasing. “So, back to you and Damien—”

I groan, pushing past him toward the stairs. “I hate you.”

He laughs, following close behind. “No, you love me.”

And maybe I do.

Because Nate is the only one who isn’t playing fucking games with me.

Some days, I feel like I’m a walking fucking cheat sheet for half the students on campus.

I can’t walk through the quad without someone stopping me, asking if I’ve read over their paper yet, if I can help them review for an exam, or if I remember the exact way a professor explained something three weeks ago.

The worst part is, I do remember. Every fucking word. Every fucking detail.

I have a photographic memory, and apparently, that means I’m everyone’s personal fucking search engine.

“Sage, what was the lecture on last week?”

“Sage, do you remember the settings for the ARRI Alexa from the workshop?”

“Sage, can you read over my script?”

“Sage, you’re so smart, can you just help me with this one thing?”

Sage, Sage, fucking Sage.

I grit my teeth and help anyway, because I can’t say no. It’s not that I mind helping. I actually like it—most of the time. But it’s like people don’t realize I have my own classes, my own work, and my own shit to deal with.

They just assume I’ll say yes, and I always fucking do, because apparently, I don’t know how to say no without feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet.

Which is why I’m sitting outside the film department now, my laptop open, trying to work on my own project while some sophomore from my cinematography class hovers nearby, waiting for me to fix his fucking footage.

Nate, who’s been watching this shit for weeks, is not having it. He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms out like he’s getting comfortable, before turning to the guy with a deadpan expression.

“Hey, genius,” he says, voice flat. “Take a fucking hint and leave.”

The guy blinks. “Huh?”

“Sage is busy,” Nate continues, slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly dumb person. “He’s not your personal TA. Get your shit together and figure it out yourself.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Nate—”

“No, fuck that,” Nate snaps, looking at me now. “You know you don’t have to put up with this shit, right?”

I exhale slowly, closing my laptop, because fuck, he’s right. I’m exhausted, my head is killing me, and I still have a million other things to do today. I glance up at the guy, forcing a tight smile. “I’ll look at it later, alright?”

He hesitates, but when Nate glares at him, he nods quickly and scurries off. I drop my head against the back of the chair, groaning. “I hate you.”

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