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His flashlight turns on, slicing through the pitch-black in the room. There’s a moment where the only noise is the rain hammering on the roof. “Beg?”
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up and lifting my chin with confidence I don’t have. “Beg.”
“You wouldn't have to make me beg,” he says. “I'd already be on my knees for you.”
I choke on thin air and stare at him, but those disastrously dark eyes are focused on me, and they are dead serious.
“What did you just say?”
“I would be on my knees for you.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay, so that wasn’t just in my head. Good. Good.” And then I flop back down and stare at the ceiling wide-eyed because I have no idea what to do next. Or say next.
“Hannah,” Savage says.
I can’t look at him because I might melt into a puddle.
“Hannah, look at me.”
Guess it’s puddle time. I turn my head, trying not to embarrass myself by hyperventilating.
His Adam’s apple bobs, his gaze drops to my lips, and his brows draw inward. “Any man who doesn’t get on his knees for you isn’t worthy of your time or energy.”
I can’t talk.
“You deserve to be treated like a princess,” he continues. “Like a queen.”
“But not by you,” I manage, croaking it out.
“Not by me.”
My chest squeezes, and I break eye contact with him. “Of course. Because that would be ridiculous. Why would you want me?”
“Hannah.”
“No, no, it’s totally fine. I’m used to this kind of thing. Every guy I’ve wanted has always seen me as a friend or not a woman, I guess. There’s no future with me, ever.”
“Hannah.”
“Because I can’t have kids.”
Savage’s silence is deafening this time.
Why did you tell him that? He really didn’t need to know. It’s not relevant.
“Most of the guys I meet,” I say, because I never talk about this with anybody, not even my friends, so, of course, I’ll discuss this with my not-so-secret crush who won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole and thinks I’m pathetic. I clear my throat. “Most of the guys I meet either want sex, or if they don’t, if they maybe think they could have a relationship with me, they drop me the minute they find out kids aren’t in my future. So, trust me when I say, I get it. I get why you wouldn’t want to?—”
“Stop.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hot tears stinging them.
“Hannah, don’t cry.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have told you that. That was—Forget I said anything, okay?”
He shifts on the bed. “Open your eyes.”
I open them, and I hate that I lose my breath.
