Page 172 of Bitter When He Begs

I don’t smile. I just reach across the center console and grab his hoodie, tugging him close until our foreheads bump.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I whisper.

His lips curl. “Not a chance.”

We climb out, and I break into a run without thinking, throwing my arms around my dad before I can process the fact that we haven’t hugged in nearly a year because of his schedule. He holds me tight, the kind of hug only dads give—the one that saysI missed you but I know you’re okayall at once.

When we pull back, my dad’s eyes land on Luca.

“So,” he says, his voice calm and measured, “you’re the one my son’s been pretending not to gush about for the last few months.”

Luca steps forward and extends a hand. “Luca Devereaux. Nice to finally meet you, sir.”

My dad eyes him for a beat before shaking. “Call me Aspen. ‘Sir’ makes me sound like I’m about to offer you a job or kill you.”

Luca grins. “Understood.”

They let go, and there’s a second of silence, that awkward pocket where everything could go either way, and then my dad claps a hand on Luca’s shoulder.

“You play a hell of a game. And that pass in the last quarter against Southwick? Flawless.”

Luca blinks. “You watched?”

“I’m a producer,” my dad says, cool and offhand. “I do my research.”

They start talking. About football. About film. And I just stand there, stunned, while they fall into some easy, mutual respect I didn’t expect to come this quickly. Luca’s shoulders drop, my dad’s guard lowers, and I realize something kind of huge.

I’m not the glue here.

They’re doing it on their own.

As we walk back to the truck, my dad slings an arm around my shoulders. “He’s good for you,” he says quietly.

I blink. “What?”

“Luca. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you used to get when you talked about movies. Like the world could catch fire and you’d still have something worth staying for.”

My throat gets tight, but I nod. “Yeah. He’s… everything.”

My dad glances at Luca, who’s already climbed into the driver’s seat and is humming some song while tapping the steering wheel like he doesn’t know he just rewrote the entire definition of home for me.

“Then I’m glad you have him,” my dad says, opening the back passenger door. “I can stop worrying so much now.”

Later, after we’ve dropped my dad at his hotel, Luca reaches across and laces our fingers together. The cab is dark and quiet, the hum of the highway beneath us the only sound.

“You were right,” I whisper.

“About what?”

“My dad.”

Luca looks over. “You were right, too.”

I smile, small and private. “You like him?”

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